Early on in my offshore sailing career, I discovered something that has been driven home repeatedly in the ensuing years: At sea, many miles and days from the solid comforts of terra firma, a person’s true character is revealed. It’s not always pretty. On a small boat of defined length, the opportunity to take even a short walk to push the reset button is unavailable. It’s definitely rare, but I’ve certainly encountered my fair share of stifling bores, outright slobs and dangerous clowns. (No doubt, of course, that some of them would say the same of me.)
Why bring all this up? Because I was recently reminded that it makes me really appreciate one of my favorite dudes with whom to set sail, a Renaissance man of sorts from Seattle named Dave Logan.
Together, Logan and I have put a lot of water in our collective wake, well over 30,000 nautical miles. One of our earliest adventures was the 2005 Transpac from Los Angeles to Honolulu aboard our mutual friend Mark Schrader’s Cal 40, Dancing Bear. An incident at the very end, screaming past Diamond Head at double-digit boatspeed with the spinnaker up, sort of speaks to our respective temperaments.
As we bore down on the finish line, I started to panic at the tiller when we couldn’t douse the spinnaker. “Cut the sheet!” I screamed. That is when Logan casually climbed the forestay and tripped the sheet with his marlinspike, immediately defusing the situation. No damage, no worries. I could feel my face go red; my heartbeat immediately settled back into its usual rhythm. “Thanks bro,” was about all I could manage.
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But our major voyage was a 28,000-mile circumnavigation of North and South America via the Northwest Passage and Cape Horn on a 64-foot steel cutter called Ocean Watch. Logan served as the first mate/engineer, and we shared the same watch the entire journey, through calms, gales, ice, snow—the whole shooting match. Logan likes to cast himself as the silent, stoic type, and we were 18,000 miles and seven months into the trip when we rounded the Horn. Suddenly, standing on the foredeck with my pal, we were both overcome with emotion. “I didn’t think I was going to feel this way,” he blubbered.
“Me neither,” I sputtered.
It was my favorite moment of the best sailing day of my life.
This passage down memory river was triggered last March, when Logan showed up for a Florida family vacation, and I invited him for a sail aboard my Pearson 365, August West, on Sarasota Bay. Logan has always raised an eyebrow at my rather liberal-arts approach to mechanics and maintenance, and I could almost hear the gears in his brain grinding as he cast a critical glance around my deck as we were getting underway. “That backstay could really use tightening,” he said, among other observations, and I felt like a kindergartner getting scolded by his teacher. But, of course, he was right.
And then we went sailing. There was zippo breeze at the outset, and I feared we were in for a drifter. But a northerly filled in soon after, and I literally couldn’t get Logan off the wheel. As always, his pure joy being aboard a sailboat gurgling to weather was infectious. We might as well have been back off the coast of South America, cracking jokes, calling puffs, just enjoying the hell out of the entire situation. It was terrific.
It also reminded me, yet again, that when you go to sea, some of the shipmates you encounter may be some of the worst. But also true, and why you keep going back, is this: A few of the souls you meet along the way are some of the best.
