Bigger is Better?

 

Alright.  Now I have your attention. However, this article is not about what many (most?) of you were thinking, at least if you have my sense of humour.  This is not about THAT.

This is about boats.  Specifically small boats, and the power that can be tapped by messing around in small boats.  One of my favorite sailors, now deceased, was Frank Dye.  In his book, Ocean Crossing Wayfarer (initially published in 1977), Frank describes his ocean crossings in his 15ft. open cockpit sailboat, a Wayfarer-class design of Ian Proctor, a master small boat designer.  Frank’s ocean voyages took place back in the 1960s. Ocean crossings in a 15 ft. boat. Let that sink in. As in – over the ocean from England to Norway, Scotland to the Faroe Islands, and many more.  The man was a force of nature. Quiet and steady in demeanor, he planned his voyages meticulously with careful attention to the smallest detail, and made tremendous voyages in an age before GPS, all-weather gear, and EPIRB recovery beacons.  He was a silent stud.

But the power in Frank’s book and adventures is not just in the sheer audacity and challenge of navigating the open sea in a small boat. The power could be found in his descriptions of his journeys, the behavior of the small boat on the big waves, and the fisherman and people he met and with whom he often sailed.  Being in a small boat allowed him to be approachable by people, and see the water and his environment in a way that could not be possible in a larger vessel. Frank’s journeys were intimate, both with the forces of nature and with the people he encountered.

On a smaller scale, I have recently had a similar awakening.  My son and I take an annual camping/fishing trip to our local lake and campground.  While it is not on the scale of the North Atlantic, it is a modest little lake with lots of possibilities for exploration.  We look forward to the trip together every summer. In years past, we always have taken our 16-foot aluminum fishing boat, complete with outboard motor.  This year would be different.

This summer, my son decided he wanted to bring the kayaks instead of the motored fishing boat.  I was at first opposed. How would we fish? How would I haul the ice chest (and beer…..?) or have room to stretch out when the fishing was slow?  Nevertheless, he persisted and I relented. We took the two, one-person kayaks, and headed to the lake.

As this was my first time on a kayak for any length of time, my balance needed “adjusting”, as did my attitude towards this little, narrow, boat.   My son, being young and not encumbered with a stiff spine from years of holding strong opinions and the onset of arthritis, easily maneuvered his kayak in and out of small eddies and backwaters.  He came back to camp describing the wildlife, fish, and other kayakers, that he met while on the water. I was intrigued, but nevertheless reluctant. However, as sons will do he gradually he wore me down and my time on the water gradually increased.  At his insistence, I continued to take the tiny craft out on the water (bourbon flask instead of the trusty old ice chest), and slowly but surely the world he described now began to appear at my paddle-tips as well. It was fantastic.

There was something magical as we paddled near the shore around the nearly 10 miles of shoreline.  Herons, eagles, ducks, geese, and an occasional muskrat, graced our water-level view without being disturbed by our presence.  We paddled silently, easily, gently stroking the water with the thin blades of our paddles. Barely a ripple troubled the surface and any physical presence we may have made disappeared as soon as our little crafts skimmed onward, barely breaching the surface as we passed. When we came within view of other paddlers, a mere tip of our oar or nod of the head, was all that was exchanged.  No words or sounds. It was as though we paddlers had our own language, and our own acknowledgment of how fortunate we were to be able to escape the noise, clamor, and all-around busyness of the “real” world. My son and I would often trail our hands through the water after a powerful stroke and let the water glide through our fingertips.

At the end of our daily adventures, my mind would be as clear as the night sky, and the world was once again vast and full of mystery.  Without the noise of the boat motor, the clamoring of the lines at the dock and jostling for trailer position to pull the fishing boat in and out of the water, the water was once again a place of solitude and discovery.

Slow down, sip some Old No. 7, and glide through the water on a simple kayak with your son. Right now, I can’t think of anything more rewarding.

 

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