I couldn’t believe it. The words that had just come out of my dad’s mouth, they made no sense. Could it be? Did he just say…
“What’s not to like?”
He did! And he wasn’t talking about an Old-fashioned Apple Pandowdy or a Summer Berry Grunt (both desserts, I swear). No, he was talking about my new boyfriend. The entirely sugarless, crumbleless, fruit and berryless French-Canadian guy that I had picked up on my sailing travels.
“What’s not to like?” I couldn’t have been more amazed (and happy) if the truck we were driving in had abruptly morphed into a sparkly eyed pegasus brandishing the sword of Gryffindor.
Marc and I had met several months before in Florida, both fledgling crew members begging the yachting industry to puke some adventure on us. Which it did, unfortunately it just wasn’t the kind of puke we were hoping for… After a few bad experiences, including an epic battle with Attila the Hun (see previous post), we had had enough.
So I took my prize (aka my wonderful Marc!) and spirited him away to Vancouver Island to do battle with my family instead.
It didn’t turn out to be much of a fight (they probably liked him more than they liked me). My dad even let us stay on his sailboat. A 60 year old, wooden thing with a string of christmas lights on the inside and an insulating layer of otter crap on the outside.
I adored that boat but it is not the object of this particular love story. No. The real object is…
(Insert epic introduction music here)
Every time we had to leave the comforts of our twinkly christmas boat and navigate the otter’s community toilet (otherwise known as: the dock), we passed it. The prettiest little sailboat we had ever laid our eyes on. A Gulf 32 pilothouse.
Pretty soon I think we could have matched Gollum in the obsession department. Whenever we passed the Gulf we felt compelled to stop, shivering on the often icy dock, just to gawk longingly at it.
We tried to get the owner’s contact info from the marina manager but I think he must have heard Marc mutter “yes, yes, my precious” under his breath because he didn’t seem too keen on giving it to us. Finally we just left a note with our number on the Gulf’s window.
Aside from lusting over the neighbouring boats, we spent our days doing other important things – like cuddling in bed until noon. And watching Battlestar.
We had access to a jeep, so when we were feeling particularly adventurous, we would take it out 4x4ing on the old logging roads. This was made more exciting by the jeep’s tendency to break down every ten miles or so.
New years eve. The dawn of 2015. Coincidentally, we made the decision that night that would shape the coming year. Our yacht industry dreams were dead with no hope of resuscitation. But our sailing desire was alive and kicking harder than a pissed off ostrich That’s 2000 lbs per square inch! (note to remember: avoid irritated ostriches…)
Anyways, it was decided. We were going to get our own sailboat. And not just any sailboat. No matter where we had to go, we were going to get a Gulf 32.
And we did! Click Below for the Next Post!
And be sure to check out my previous post! Click Below