This Side Up

A house visit just offshore

John Howell
Posted 5/26/15

The wind was out of the northeast Thursday morning. It was a bright but cool day. It was the kind of day you could hoist a sail and, without tacking, make a run for Newport, or if you really wanted …

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This Side Up

A house visit just offshore

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The wind was out of the northeast Thursday morning. It was a bright but cool day. It was the kind of day you could hoist a sail and, without tacking, make a run for Newport, or if you really wanted to make a day of it, Block Island. Of course, that’s as long as the wind stayed from the north.

So, I wasn’t that surprised to see the jib unfurled on the Capella Star, the 26-foot Columbia I wrote about in this column last week. “That surprised” are the operative words, because Captain Freddy told me he needed to paint his son’s house in Cumberland and planned to stay on a mooring offshore from Conimicut for at least the next month.

I figured the captain had a change of plans, or perhaps, after sitting on a mooring for several days, wanderlust set in and he decided the paint could wait.

Soon after Freddy first appeared in these parts eight or nine years ago – it was a different sailboat then, but it was by boat – I learned he was willing to help with yard work. He welcomed the few extra bucks. It was hardly steady work, and Freddy was interested in something more dependable.

Having heard from him how he painted his boat, although I wouldn’t have chosen Rustoleum for a fiberglass boat, I asked if he’d ever painted houses.

“Oh yes,” he said with such sincerity that it was possible to believe he had spent his life painting houses. We worked out an hourly rate and I armed him with a pair of scrappers, sand paper and the necessary painting equipment, including a ladder and drop cloth.

I stressed the importance of preparation.

“Be sure to scrape and sand before you even open the can,” I said. He looked at me as if I was instructing him on how to brush his teeth.

“Well, I just wanted to be sure,” I added sheepishly.

The painting assignment seemed to be working. In the first week he had worked his way around most of the ground floor. The preparation was adequate and the painting was good.

“What about the second story?” I inquired. “When are you going to get started on that?”

“I don’t do heights,” he answered emphatically, “don’t like ladders.”

As there was still more to do on the first floor, I let it go. At least the job was started and I could tackle the second story.

The following day, the wind was out of the northeast. There was never a goodbye, and seeing I’d paid him, I guess Freddy decided he couldn’t pass up a favorable wind. He didn’t return until the following summer.

So when I saw the jib full and the Columbia doing two or three knots, I figured it would be another year before I learned the rest of the story.

But no, Freddy came back Sunday. I rowed out that afternoon to hear his report.

Apart from the bow of the boat that he customized, giving it more of a classic look, Freddy has added a set of fiberglass stairs, salvaged from a boatyard dumpster, to the stern. It made for easy boarding.

“Welcome to my house,” he said with a wave of his hand.

A sleeping bag was stretched on the starboard berth with a pillow at the aft end. It’s neat and orderly. I sat at a table on the port side of the cabin.

Freddy was puffing a cigarette and the smoke set me coughing.

“Got the best thing for that,” he said lifting a hatch to retrieve a gallon of orange juice.

It’s cool, although Freddy doesn’t have any refrigeration.

“Just got it, best thing. You know scurvy? The British would eat limes, vitamin C. That’s why they’d call ’em limeys.”

The juice helped. Freddy put out his cigarette. That helped even more.

He pointed out his renovations.

A solar panel keeps the battery charged, and off of that he powers his cordless drill, a radio and a handheld TV. He lifts a panel to reveal a tiny stove. A few canned vegetables and a couple of loaves of bread were on the shelves lining the cabin; their sliding Plexiglas doors have been appropriated for the companionway panels.

A picture of Jesus was taped to one side of the bulwark separating the fore and aft cabins. On the other side was a picture of Freddy’s grandson.

“Let me get the book,” he says, ducking into the forward cabin. He returns with a plastic envelope and pulls out an inch-thick sheath of typewritten pages. Some are yellowed and wrinkled from being wet.

It’s the story of the Cygnus, a 20-foot boat Freddy sailed from Rhode Island to Florida with no experience and using blue tarps for sails. That’s all he could afford. Freddy said it took him nine months to write the book in longhand. Somehow he found someone to type it. Now he’s giving me his only copy.

“Every word of it is true … it’s what happened,” he says. “Don’t let it leave the house.”

I promised to take care of it, knowing the first thing I’d do is make a copy so the captain has two.

He points out the name of the book, “The blessed voyage,” and tells me a couple of stories where people miraculously show up to help guide him through treacherous waters, provide him with needed supplies and even bless his trip.

“You know the name of my next book?”

I confess I don’t, although I expect it will have spiritual overtones.

Freddy surprises me.

“The one dollar yacht,” he says.

“You know this is a Columbia Yacht,” he says, emphasizing the word yacht, “and I paid a buck for it.” He grins at his good fortune.

Freddy’s back to paint his son’s house. I don’t inquire whether he’s overcome his fear of heights, or how long he expects the job will take. I know better.

For now I’ve got my reading, and I know if there’s a fair wind, Freddy will be on another adventure.

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  • mthompsondc

    Delightful tale!

    Saturday, May 30, 2015 Report this