I CAN REMEMBER

Boats are a mystery to me. Just as surely as they are made of wood and fiberglass and metal, inanimate parts held together with nails, epoxy and screws, so also they are inexplicably alive, coursing with their own spirit, an undeniable presence. They can be on the one hand exuberant, compliant, gentle, or on the other cranky and obstinate.

It is left to us to adapt to their personality, to accommodate their foibles and idiosyncrasies. Eventually, the adaptation complete, we have a new "normal."

"Oh, you don't have to hold your mouth this way and wave your left hand when you start your engine? Strange."

"You don't have a plastic washer on the forestay to keep the staysail from jamming? Weird."

But just as we conform to the ways of our boat, she gives back in equal measure. On the water, we are utterly dependent on her for survival. She in turn takes care of us, our sole protection against the elements.

It should come as no surprise that over the months and years, affection for our boat turns into something akin to, dare I say it? Love. Even the saltiest old crabs among us can go soft and weepy about our boats.

I have a sentimental streak that sometimes grows wide enough to lose the title 'streak,' especially when it comes to boats.

This morning Isabella's new owners came to get her. I wanted to be there to wave goodbye when she left, not 1800 miles away. I wanted to salute her, to raise a glass, to delight in her beauty, to sit one last time in that bowsprit seat, to run along the dock with balloons, something, anything.

What kind of person feels guilty for not being there to say goodbye to a boat? The answer is blowing in the New Mexico wind.

I only miss you every now and then

Like the soft breeze blowin' up from the Caribbean

Most Novembers I break down and cry

'Cause I can't remember if we said goodbye   --Steve Earle