After having been glued to the screen by the excellent TV coverage and great commentary by our old friend Gary Jobson, I am sorry that I didn’t make the pilgrimage to San Francisco to see the America’s Cup competition firsthand. Like many old- time sailors, I was weary of the Louis Vuitton hype, with one exception. I am a proponent of multihulls, both power and sail, and have often expressed myself in the past to America’s Cup and other sailors that development of the sport was being hindered by sailing fundamentalists that believe that God created boats to have but one hull. That said, I do still own a monohull.
Mom hadn’t been seen or heard from in hours. From the helm of our family’s 31-foot sloop, Ragtime, a glance down the companionway into the saloon revealed something close to a natural disaster. Boat cushions, charts and weekend gear were strewn about, and Mom was likely buried somewhere underneath. The protected waters of Niantic Bay were a welcomed sight for Dad and me as we rounded the buoy off Millstone Point, cranked up the old Iron Genny and dropped sail—which was probably reefed a touch more than pride allows me to admit.