Reprint: Cruising as a way of Life

Another of Phil Teece's articles in reprint. This one was first published in Small Boat Journal #68, 1989.

It is a calm summer evening just at sunset. In the stillness characteristic of this hour, among the wooded islands of the British Columbia coast, my little sloop Galadriel lies motionless on an inverted mirror-image of herself.
Her intended anchorage for the night, a sand-fringed lagoon on the lee side of a small densely treed isle, lies less than half a mile distant. If she had an engine, I might perhaps be tempted to ruin the magical quietude of this place with its jarring din.
Instead I step forward along her narrow side deck and unship the 10-foot sweep from its upright stowage position on one of the lower shrouds. Without hurry, I drop its long leather collar into place in the oarlock beside the cockpit. Then, standing with the tiller between my knees for control, I begin a slow, quiet oarstroke that moves the boat forward, gradually gathering a sedate knot-and-a-quarter speed in the direction of the cove. At this pace, it will take me perhaps half an hour to reach the spot on which I shall drop anchor. But why should I want to get there any faster?
Later, as my little ship lies peacefully in the gathering darkness of the lagoon, I go below for supper. While a can of stew warms up on the single-burner gimballed primus stove, I light the lamp. The tiny cabin glows warmly (and, in fact, actually warms up) in the mellow light of my bulkhead lamp. This small kerosene lamp is all that is needed to flood the compact space with a glory of light. Although supper is a primitive meal eaten from the billycan in which it was heated, it provides one luxury: Cleanup afterwards takes only about 20 seconds.
After the evening meal, I recline on my bunk with a good book. The ceiling is a scant few inches above my head, but I feel as comfortable as pampered royalty. The flickering orange glow that illuminates my page reflects dimly from painted wooden surfaces and casts deep shadows in the angles behind hull-frames and deckbeams. As I lie on the handsewn cushion of my bunk, my feet project forward almost into the open chainlocker in the forepeak. In fact, my living space is small enough so that, without moving from where I lie so comfortably, I can reach across to the galley counter to grasp my cup of coffee.
The style of cruising described above is unfamiliar to many yachtsmen of the 1980s. In recent years, I have encountered increasing numbers of people to whom a "small" boat is something of 27 to 30 feet in overall length, with a powerful engine, electrical wiring for lights and other elecronic gadgetry, and a built-in dinette and bar. To a surprising majority of the cruising fraternity whom I meet in various West Coast anchorages, my spartan 18-foot sloop is an object of dismay and even disapoval.
Yet, nearly two decades after her launching, Galadriel still represents my dream of the perfect boat for adventure. Her smallness and simplicity have become my way of life afloat. A shoa-draft design ny British naval architect Robert Tucker, she is a twin-keeled Caprice class sloop, a little over 18 feet in length and 1,600 pounds displacement. She sails well (a fact I learned fully when I finally gave up using and outboard motor), and she can be moved surprisingly easily by oarpower.
I enjoy depending on sail and oar. In more than one emergency situation, I have found that an outboard engine has failed to start; my long spruce sweep has never given that problem. The technique of rowing a vessel with a single long oar is onethat takes considerable practice. When the oarsman develops skill in balancing the turning-moment of the oarstroke against exactly the right counterpressure of the helm, he enjoys a great sense of physical satisfaction. There is a sort of pleasurable Zen of rowing with a sweep.
To be continued.