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This is the tale of a little boat of minimal demands that gave so much to so many. The beginning of its adventures started very differently than most of the boats she would come to know. Little would I understand at that moment how this chance encounter would affect the rest of my life and shape who I have become as an adult. I clearly recall a budding street artist’s best efforts, “F@%k You” clearly spray painted on its faded, once dark but now an oxidized minty green hull. A stout little boat rested precariously on its extensively rusted, home made steel trailer. The air in the tires had escaped probably before Expo Ernie had come and gone in our fair city. Thoughtfully someone had left the hatch open so that a decade’s worth of west coast precipitation could have its way with the oh so popular, burlap finished, cream, brown and green interior. The encounter left me stunned. Standing in the rain, only partially finished coaxing my overweight dog around the block, I stood still and simply observed, attempting to fully comprehend what was before me. The mast lay on the deck, the steel stay’s twisted in and around themselves like the roots of a storm victimized Stanley Park Douglas Fir. By the looks of it the battered and grey teak trim hadn’t seen varnish since the St. Roch was the RCMP’s vessel of choice. Yet through all of this, an ounce of potential somehow reared its ugly head and caught me right on the chin. Timing was as much to blame as anything. I had just arrived back from my first ever trip on a sailing vessel, a majestic four days with my girlfriend at the time and her aunt and uncle, the proud and enthusiastic owners of an exquisite 29’ sloop. We were piloted in and around the Gulf Island’s, through several pods of majestic Killer Wales, playful seals and well stocked marine pubs. I was in love the moment I stepped aboard. Growing up in Gibsons, most people had boats, in fact most people had three in various states of disrepair. I loved zooming along the water in runabouts, fishing for salmon, dropping crab and prawn pots, jigging for cod and, well basically I love boats! But this funny boat with a big, tall pole sticking out the middle of it with expensive looking bed sheets hanging off of it changed the game completely. Although I had no idea what I was doing I was conducting my sailing chores with vigor and enthusiasm, almost to the point of excess. Within an hour of being aboard and having motored no less than a half mile from the dock I was ready to cash in my chips and head for the blue water of the pacific. The skipper tactfully, but promptly brought me back to reality without damaging my sensitive “I can do anything” attitude of a twenty year old male. Over the next four days I learned the very basic skills of sailing, navigation, safety and the more personal art of “cruising” our wonderful coast. I returned to the mainland bent and determined to become a salty seaman, capable of piloting my vessel across the expanses of Georgia straight and beyond and I was prepared to part with the majority of my net worth to do so. I had $1000 burning a hole in my pocket from my college summer job and then by the will of some greater power I had stumbled into this boat, sitting no further than a block from my home. With a knock on the door, I nervously awaited for some threatening biker type to deliver the bad news that it wasn’t for sale. The owner turned out to be an incredibly friendly single mom, who’s ex had been keeping it in their driveway for the better part of a decade, mostly due to the fact it was emotionally easier than getting rid of it and the family memories it held. Considering I was 20 years old and trading up from a 10’ lake boat to a 21’ sailboat, I didn’t posses what I would call negotiating prowess. Rather than bait my shrewd opponent with a lowball offer I opted to blurt out awkwardly that I had a $1000 to spend and that I really, really wanted the boat. Not exactly a tactical Russian chess move, but it was all I could muster at the time. Anne smiled but indicated that some time ago her ex was thinking about listing it for $5000 or trading it for a project sports car. I had neither. She paused and just as I was about to turn and untie my dog from her basketball pole she said, “Ok, you seem like you will have lot’s of fun with it, why not.” Pardon me? Could this 30 year old fibreglass, old baggy sailed, ruined interiored, rusty trailered, flat tired, graffitied ray of sunshine be mine? For the bargain price of only four paychecks working at the local golf course? It seemed too good to be true. I returned in a flash from the local tire store with two new tires and a jack. 15 minutes later it was hooked up to my Ford Ranger and ready to be towed the half block to my parents. Just as I was ready to pull away, the garage door opened and Anne cried out, “wait.” Oh no. I was half thinking about making a run for it. I couldn’t be so close and have it all yanked away from me in an instant. “Yes” I replied. “I think I have some more stuff for you in the garage” she added. My heart started to beat again. Within moments the back of the truck was filled with cushions, charts, lifejackets, first aid supplies, plates, pots, pans and a 40 year old Chrylser outboard. I was the happiest man on earth as I coaxed my little pickup into towing something that had to be five times the recommended maximum tow weight. As I approached the final (and only) turn into my parent’s driveway I could see the look on my Dad’s face from 300 feet away. It was a mixture of “Get that damn thing out of here,” and “My wife isn’t gonna like this one bit.” I still firmly believe the only saving grace for me was the look on my face. I was trying my darndest to portray that – if the boat wasn’t staying, neither was I. Even though my bluff was fruitless, my Dad decided to let me keep it and even rolled up his sleeves and helped me fix it up. Within an hour or so we had removed all the graffiti, power washed the whole boat, washed the teak and erected the mast. Now it almost looked like $5000 worth of boat. The time that Dad and I spent polishing, sanding, staining, installing, planning and dreaming just added even more to the great times we shared. Within a week we were ready to launch at our destination of Horseshoe Bay, where we both worked. I was a seasonal ticket agent and he was the big boss and coincidentally they guy who hires said ticket agents. We brought along our most enthusiastic friends, and just as importantly the friends who had a truck big enough to tow it. As we waited for high tide to launch her, all the elbow grease and hard work had paid off. She looked like a million bucks under a sweltering August sun. We put the mast up, attached the oldest yet still functional engine in North America to the transom and launched her proudly into the waters of Howe Sound. To me it could have easily been the ceremonial launching of an arguably more grandeous ship like the Queen Mary or even the Titanic. Little would we know how appropriate an analogy it would almost become! We motored out with a crew of six, perhaps suited better to be an offensive line than the crew of a 21’ sailboat as no one was under 200 pounds and a few were closer to 300. No matter we all had some boating experience, and what luck, it was very windy out. We decided to motor around the corner and head into English Bay where it was even windier, maybe 25 knots or so – perfect! Ya right. The combined sailing experience of the six of us was the four days I had spent in the Gulf Island’s the week before. I guess that made me in charge. We managed to hoist the mainsail without a ton of difficulty and after hoisting the Genoa (then known only as the one in the blue bag) upside down we eventually had it all figured out and were leaned way over and flying along at a fair clip. As we sailed around the bay we had a few drinks and absorbed way to much sun. The tunes were cranked and I once again was the happiest man on earth. On several occasions a beautiful and fully reefed wooden sloop sailed by close enough to yell, “You have too much sail up !” I waved back obliviously and grinned ear to ear. You bet I did, must be some type of sailing compliment. The waves kept building and so did the wind. Pretty soon we were losing sight of other boats as we went through the peaks and valleys of waves. One of the crew members needed to use the head, so as I had never really used one myself I thought I better go down and figure it out before I showed him. As I opened the little hatch that contained the head I couldn’t help but notice it was full of water. WATER? Oh no! Well, let’s not panic maybe it is supposed to be there. Maybe not! Crap. |
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As we tacked over again to the other side I went back down below to check the same compartment. No water. Huh? I checked the other compartment on what was now the low side of the boat and, oh yes, there it was, tons of water. Without any hesitation I popped my head up and ordered us to head back to the boat ramp. If you could chart the position in the deepest water of English Bay, about as far from any point of land as possible, that is exactly where we were at that moment. We motored back as fast as our archaic little engine would push 1000 pounds of crew, 4000 pounds of boat and another several hundred gallons of sea water. When we finally returned to the boat launch we were burned to a crisp, completely dejected and utterly defeated. How could what had started out so good end up so bad?
The decision was made once we were safely tied up to the dock that the boat had to be towed out. As it turned out the hull had been holed where the boat had somehow impacted the trailer sometime in the past. The hole was about two to three inches wide and was letting in a copious amount of water. It was taking on to much water to leave her overnight and our guts were telling us if we left her she would have become Horseshoe Bay’s first unofficial, artificial reef. We finally got her rigging all disassembled, demasted and pulled her onto the trailer. My Dad and Uncle towed her up the hill and out of Horseshoe bay as I cleaned up all the leftovers and loaded up my truck for the drive back to Surrey. I popped into the local pub for a quick beer with a couple of the leftover crew members to discuss our misfortune. I drove home shortly there after a little upset, very sunburnt and even more exhausted. About 30 minutes into my drive home I spotted something large way up ahead on the shoulder of the highway. I was preparing to change lanes to give it some room when I noticed that the object appeared to be a faded mint green and have some kind off long pole lashed to the top off it. Now what? The weight of all the water in the boat had blown the trailer’s wheel bearings and my dad and uncle were waiting patiently for a large and expensive tow truck to come get them. I can clearly remember the exact look on my mother’s face when the dejected convoy turned the corner into our family’s cul-de-sac. To me it seemed like the entire neighbourhood had turned up to bear witness to my dad and his terrible misfortune, but the words that were uttered by both family and friends were not those of judgement or contempt, rather those of encouragement. The years ahead would be full of many lessons even some trying experiences, but mostly laughs shared with great friends and loved ones. It didn’t happen often, but every now and then those of us who are born and raised in this amazing province need a little reminder of just how lucky we are to be a part of all this. This reminder could take many shapes but most of the time it would simply be a guest from out of town or even a fellow BC’er that simply had never been out on our coastal waters. Seeing the look on someone’s face gazing up the majestic snow capped fjord of Howe Sound or the shrill of shear excitement as we hauled up a crab pot for a dinner feast, always made me recall that rainy day I stumbled onto that sad looking little boat all alone in some random driveway. My dog that inadvertently led me to that little boat has passed on, but I always chuckle when I think of how that chance encounter has brought so much fun and happiness and touched so many over the years. The time has come for me to move on to something a little more suitable as my sailing continues to progress, but I have passed on the mighty Ty-len-Al to a small group of my friends who will be out on her for many years to come. So if you see, a little green sloop with a yellow pop-top cruising Howe Sound and beyond, be sure to give it a wave and a smile because that is exactly what she will give you in return. ...back to 48° North title page.
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Arrival into spectacular Snug Cove, Bowen Island. A great barbecue spot.
The perfect activity when the wind decides not to cooperate. We named this monster "The General," shortly after catching him while jigging in West Bay, Gambier Island.
Even in the winter season, a quick decision to make a run from the office can yield some spectacular afternoon cruising.