Evanston: commodore
Evanston: commodore
GANNET arrived yesterday afternoon, having flown south at fifty knots. I expect to go faster in her than in any other boat I’ve owned--Moore 24s plane at ten to twenty knots in strong following wind and are said to be a joy to steer in such conditions--but not that fast.
My initial impressions were that she is even prettier than I expected and that her interior is bigger than I expected. I might well be the only person ever to think that of a Moore 24; and bigger in volume, not headroom. I had not expected standing headroom, or even crouching, but I don’t even quite have sitting. More slouching. And dozens of through deck bolts are going to require cap nuts or my head will definitely be bloody and intermittently bowed.
While the boat had a few surprises, including that the companionway hatch can’t be locked, an oddly complicated problem to which I think I conceived a solution today, it is difficult to imagine circumstances in which I would not have gone ahead with the deal.
So a check was signed and the mis-labeled GANNET is now the second boat in my fleet. Fourth counting inflatable dinghies.
I had expected that the former owner and I would rig the boat, but that did not happen; and so the boat yard will have to raise the mast and launch the little sloop this coming week.
Initially I was almost overwhelmed by all the problems that must be solved seemingly all at once. Primary among these is that I have not one, but two small old outboards that I don’t understand or know how to operate; and at present no owner’s manuals.
When overwhelmed, I have learned just to do one thing, something, and then do another.
Carol and I drove north to look over GANNET today, which is sunny and warmer, and I have a better understanding of the boat. But no boat mast down in a boat yard is actually a boat. She is a bird with a broken wing, or, less romantically, a disassembled machine. And so although GANNET is mine, I don’t quite feel it; and probably won’t until she is in the water, in her slip; or even better under sail, cutting through fresh water, her small tiller in my hands.
Monday, May 9, 2011