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It was one of those unreal moments. I was aboard KC’s dinghy and looking out to where my boat should be but it was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a fantastic floating bonfire.
I always knew that I could lose my boat, but I never pictured it would be so gruesome, so undeniably final. From bow to stern Shelly B. was engulfed in flames, lighting up the night sky like some twisted carnival ride. The rig had already come down, the house had burned away so that orange leaped unrequited from the cabin, sending a black plume of smoke into the heavens. There would be no valiant effort to save her, no struggle to the last. She would burn and burn and burn, and when the devil be done with her there would be nothing left. It was all happening in a surreal quiet.
Another dinghy raced up to the scene, an orange lit figure standing, holding the painter. “There goes a classic”, he exclaimed. It was Polar Bear Dave, who always knew what to say.
And it was so: My recently restored, beautiful, 1962 Carl Alberg designed Pearson Triton was being laid to rest.
Bernie motored up alongside. “Do you want to come stay on Momo?” he asked. I just nodded my head. There wasn’t really anything more to see.
I climbed aboard Momo to the sounds of sobbing and wailing, Lola, Michelle’s young daughter, was clutching her mother’s legs. In the night I could see streams of tears running down her face. She was hysterical and I realized this was probably more tramatizing for her than I. From the back deck of Momo we could see the spectacle from across the anchorage. The world had suddenly become very fragile. Someone’s home was burning, one just like hers.
“It’s okay Lola”, I say. “I’m here.” But I’m quiet and she could not hear me above her own sobbing. Lola’s first home had been a Pearson Triton.
Bernie and Michelle and I had met over happy hour at the Dock restaurant. We had bonded over our shared affinity for the Triton, also their first boat. Only that afternoon, previous to the sinking of Shelly B., they had stopped by with their two girls to check out my boat, compare notes, and say farewell before their departure for Mazatlan. Unknowingly, Michelle would take the last picture of me on my boat.
Michelle took Lola down below, leaving me to sprawl out on the deck, stunned. Bernie brought me a beer, which brought me out of that thoughtless state.
“Dave’s guitar is on board! $#@%!” I exclaimed. Polar Bear Dave had given me his spare guitar only a few days previous, and my first and very memorable guitar lesson.
Other gloomy cognitions surfaced, one after another, each highlighting another aspect of my complete and total loss. Every piece of property I owned but my dinghy and the clothes on my back, every self-defining possession gone – photos, writings, but worst of all, the dream. There was a wind picking up, the evening Coromuel, creating little wavelets upon the water and causing Momo to swing upon her anchor. How strange that the wind could blow tonight, as though tonight were any other night, and the world hadn’t paused for a moment. I felt remotely chilly, which brought another pang of sorrow – I had no more clothes to put on.
A congregation of friends had gathered on the back deck of Momo, Bernie, Ryan, Basil, and Andrew. My unfortunate companions could find few words but relavent questions.
“How do think it started?”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Do you have insurance?”
“No.”
“Did you have money aboard?”
“Yes, all of it.”
“Do you want another beer?”
“Yes.”
Word had gotten around that I was safely aboard Momo and several concerned folks had already stopped by in their dinghies to check on me. Mario and Tamara showed up and came aboard, I was glad for their company.
“@%&# man!! @%&#!!,” Mario exclaimed, giving me a hug. He also has a way with words. With Mario in our midst a somewhat lively chatter ensued. Mario had no difficulty in cutting right through the awkwardness of the situation, to tell of his first sighting of the fire – he thought it was their boat, Special Brew. But then he realized, it was Shelly B., and then…
And then I wasn’t listening anymore. Their lively conversation of first sightings and close calls continued and I wasn’t the focus of attention for a moment. But somewhere, somehow, something had broken. The chatter had ceased, all I could hear was my own sobbing.
Next day KC and Ryan of Boreas stopped by, bringing clothing, packs, and a pocket knife for me. KC had made a statement on the morning’s radio net which had succinctly summed up my sentiments without me having to say a word. KC is a good man. The two of them were going to work on the construction of a block house for a homeless Mexican family, they suggested I should come along. And so this is ironically how I would spend my next day – perhaps the family will let me come stay with them, I thought.
When we returned, I met with Don Mitchelle, president of Club Cruceros, who graciously offered the services of the club to raise funds for me. It is what the club is there for, he tells me. Donations had already started coming in.
In the early evening we migrated back to Marina La Paz, where we met up with the Port Townsend crew. Mine was one of three boats from Port Townsend in La Paz this season. There was Dan and Sonja of Lift, whose sea capers aboard their Rhodes I had caught wind of long before we met in San Diego the previous winter. And there was Brian.
“Why don’t you sail with me to the Marquesas?”, Brian asked me. He was single-handing Bongo, his vintage Danish built sloop. I had thought about this already.
“I’d love to”, I said. “But I don’t have a passport.”
“That’s OK”, he told me. “We’ll just tell ‘em you lost it.”
This however, was Brian’s idea of a joke. A few minutes later I was led down the dock with my eyes closed by Casey, one of the 4-Pack kids. When I was told to open my eyes, I was looking at a Carl Alberg designed Pearson Triton!
I stepped into the cockpit of a boat that was remarkably familiar. I knew this boat, she was Shelly’s sister-ship and I had anchored next to her. She had been abandoned years ago and lay permanently moored, she had been witness to the fire. I also knew that she needed lots of work.
“Well, what do you think? Do you want it?”
It was the voice of Polar Bear Dave. I was dumbfounded, as the question lingered there in the air. Later I learned that Dave had watched the fire late into the night and the silhouette behind it lit up in orange, the boat that would later come to be known as the Phoenix. He formulated a plan and the next day executed it. He, Jim of Ebeneezer, and Vic of Winsome Rose, negotiated a price for the boat that I was now examining. Then a small army of cruiser-folk descended upon the neglected vessel to clean off the thoroughly bird-pooped deck, organize the gear and clear out the interior. They then provisioned her with fresh fruit, toiletries, beer, and even condoms.
In my oogling of various parts of this hastily commissioned boat, it dawned on me that those same folks were crowding the dock, eagerly awaiting my response.
“Yeah, I want it”, I heard myself say, and cheers came from the dock, and touched off a party that would last late into the night, and also a frenzy that would take La Paz by storm. It would be an “old fashioned barn-raising”, as Dave put it, the new boat would rise from the ashes like a Phoenix.
The next week was a whirlwind, I rarely had a spare moment. I have to focus in looking back or it is just a blur. The following morning I made an announcement on the morning net of the events that had transpired the previous day. From that moment on, I was the unofficial PR guy for the Phoenix project. I made an appearance at the Club Cruceros coffee hour, where Don already had an emergency fund from the club to give me. A horde of people turned out and they brought clothing and crockery, Tupperware, charts, and donations – more stuff than I could carry. Everyone wanted to meet me, I had become an instant celebrity. How did it feel? Exhilarating and exciting, certainly a far cry from the crushing defeat of the previous day.
Back at the boat, the early formation of a work crew, that would show up every day for a week, had begun an evaluation of Phoenix to determine what would need to be done. There was a lot. Ryan was working on the water pump, Jim was fabricating new cockpit locker covers, Brian climbed the mast to evaluate the rig, Dan collected parts for the toilet. She would need a new rudder and tiller. Across the water a team of divers, Bernie KC, Milton and Ryan, were diving on the wreck to collect anything left of value. There wasn’t very much, but there was the rudder, which hangs on the Phoenix today. It may be Phoenix sailing now, but it is the spirit of Shelly B. that is steering, thanks to the talents of Jim and Moonhunter Bill, who turned out every day and worked like a fiend while his wife Mariam ran errands and brought us delicious lunches.
...continue to article page two.
...back to 48° North title page.
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The author’s Carl Alberg designed Pearson Triton, Shelly B in Ensanada, in January ‘07, before the fire.
Photo by Tom Sauerborn
Pulling the prop and rudder shaft. The “new” boat had no rudder, but would receive one from the Shelly B.
Photo by Michelle Elvy.
Tamara cleans up the interior of the “new” boat.
Photo by Michelle Elvy.
Phoenix ready for launch with new bottom and replaced rudder.
Photo by Michelle Elvy.
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