Opua: sold?
Opua: sold?
7:30 p.m. on a soft and lovely evening.
I’ve just come below to write this. Music: Satie’s Gymnopedies is playing on the cockpit speakers.
A half hour ago, while sitting on deck sipping an after dinner Laphroaig, I saw a shadow pass HAWKE’s bow which resolved into an inflatable dinghy, with an outboard on the stern, being rowed by a slim girl, twenty years old more or less.
I called to her, “Are you rowing by choice or because you are out of fuel?”
She replied with a slight European accent, Dutch or Scandinavian I believe, nations who know no one is going to learn their language and so become fluent in English, “By choice. It is quieter.”
“Excellent,” I called to the granddaughter I never had.
I watched her continue on to a blue hulled boat anchored twice as far out as my mooring.
Some of us are admirable.
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A month from tonight I may not own THE HAWKE OF TUONELA or the best mooring in the world.
Unexpectedly a yacht broker appeared by dinghy this afternoon with a man who later made a written offer for HAWKE at my asking price. The closing date is February 24.
There are several possible stumbling points along the way, chief among them a survey which might reveal problems with THE HAWKE OF TUONELA that I could live with but others could not.
Beyond that is the buyer, a New Zealand citizen about fifty years old of Indian or Southeast Asian extraction, who has little sailing experience. For undisclosed reasons he wants to sail to a particular Indonesian island. From New Zealand this is not difficult for a good sailor. Four or five days north and the wind is behind you all the way. But there are a lot of things to run into.
I face no moral dilemma. Money is not my bottom line.
The broker advises me that the normal procedure is for a sea trial, followed by a survey. He suggested that I cancel my haul-out tomorrow, but I’m not going to. If I sell THE HAWKE OF TUONELA, she deserves to go with a clean bottom. If I don’t, I want her to have one.
What I will do is tell the prospective buyer that THE HAWKE OF TUONELA is a sailor’s boat. She is powerful. She is not a boat to learn on.
I expect that this man may disregard me. He has probably made his way as an outsider in a foreign society by will, intelligence and determination. I doubt he will recognize me as an even greater outsider who has no interest beyond telling him the truth.
Carol is due to fly back to the U.S. a month from today. I may be with her. Or I may own THE HAWKE OF TUONELA for many more years.
Some who have known me even for a long time have written about how disappointed I must be at the prospect of selling THE HAWKE OF TUONELA and leaving this place where I have found serenity. Not at all. I sometimes need rest; but I was designed to push on.
And now I’m going back on deck to listen to music and watch the dying of the light on these lovely hills. My evenings here may be numbered.
A correction: my evenings here are unquestionably numbered.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012