Finding the boat of your dreams begins like this.
The sun is setting as we drive near Annapolis toward the Bay Bridge and the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I’m talking to my girlfriend Ronni, who is to become my wife and sailing partner, telling her how much I love the idea of sailing; that by owning my own boat I can gain the knowledge and experience to become a real sailor.
She pauses for a moment and says, “Well then, why don’t you get one?” Boatyards and marinas surround us. We pull off Route 50 and find a marina office with the lights still on. I tell the broker what I’m looking for: a moderately sized, seaworthy craft with a full keel. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a file saying “This just came in. It hasn’t even been put up for sale yet.” I open the folder, and there she is. Her lines speak to me: a beautiful full sweeping keel with an overhang at the stern, proportions that just “look right,” the way I think a proper sailboat should look. I don’t realize I’m responding to the classic Carl Alberg design, the legendary Alberg 30. The room goes quiet. Ronni gives me that special look. There’s a soft voice inside my head saying “Yes.”
My experience is pretty thin, a few afternoons spent on a rented Sunfish or on someone else’s sloop. I find out just how thin the first time I take Rose Anne’s helm. All seems well as the surveyor and I make passage up the Little River north of Baltimore. Approaching the dock at close to full throttle I realize I have no idea how to stop. I’m thinking to myself, “Where’s the brake on this thing?” The surveyor’s eyes are getting wide. I hand him the tiller with the words, “Sorry, I don’t’ know how to do this.” In the last seconds he takes control, gently nudging the pilings as we come to a safe landing.
A few weeks later a friend and I take Rose Anne north up the Chesapeake Bay. Entering the C&D Canal, the engine starts to sputter. Night’s coming on. We barely make it to the dock at Schaefer’s Canal House. The battery has run down. The alternator’s not charging. The surveyor missed this little detail. My friend and I walk the streets of Chesapeake City at dusk, luckily finding an open auto parts store and a fresh battery to get us on our way. The battery has enough juice to get us to Philadelphia’s waterfront. I find a marina underneath the Ben Franklin Bridge, and the service manager takes me under his wing. His shop installs the first of what will be numerous upgrades for Rose Anne in the coming years: replacing the original gate valves with Marelon seacocks and, of course, installing a new alternator.
I work and live downtown. Rose Anne and I are under sail while my colleagues fight rush hour traffic. I slide pass large freighters, tugs, and racing J/boats while traffic inches along on the expressway. The Delaware River flows backward during some parts of the tide cycle. I’m under full 150 genoa and main, heeled over, rail in the water and yet motionless against the shore. On weekends Ronni and I take Rose Anne up river past commercial traffic and watch the skyline of Philadelphia disappear behind our stern. Late afternoon sun paints gold on the tops of the tall buildings. Ronni handles the tiller. We ghost along in a light wind.
Ronni and I get married. As the years go by, our family situation changes, providing us the chance to return with Rose Anne to the Chesapeake Bay. We find a place on the Sassafras River, a 660-square-foot log cabin that comes with a deep water mooring. We sail Rose Anne south on a moonless night, our daughters sleeping in the bunks below. They never stir, even with our loud conversation and maneuvers as we struggle to find the entrance to the C&D Canal. At dawn, we stop at Schaefer’s for breakfast, and what do you know, there’s my work buddy, the one who helped me pilot Rose Anne to Philly so many years ago. He’s pulled up to the gas dock with his powerboat. My daughters are amazed, not by the chance encounter but that someone would call a boat Cold Duck.
Ronni and I sail the Upper Bay and discover Chesapeake boating, the tall sloping banks of the Sassafras, gunkholing in the spring as geese leave, ospreys arrive, and the Bay comes alive. Fall evenings anchored in Worton Creek, we watch the last rays of the sun set the foliage colors on fire. First stars wink into view above our mast. Year follows year, and our appreciation of the Bay’s magic only deepens.
And yet, no matter how idyllic things might be, sailors will wonder what it’s like to break the routine, leave the comfort and security of the familiar, and head out to parts unknown. We dream new dreams and make new plans. We continue working on Rose Anne, adding roller furling and upgraded rigging for the passages to come. Finally, thinking we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, we cast off for waters south and the IntraCoastal Waterway.
I don’t know if there’s a better way to see the East Coast than sailing along her at five knots. Places that we’ve heard about from our cruising friends now become real: Norfolk Naval Yard, the Rock Pile, Charleston Harbor, Beaufort and Beaufort, the tidal grass lands of Georgia. We learn to set two anchors. Weather savvy and coastal navigation skills improve. We measure time in mile markers, bridges cleared, and sounds and rivers crossed.
Entering Florida, we celebrate, not realizing how far we still need to go. We reach Lake Okeechobee after a long drought and become the first deeper draft vessel to make the crossing in years. After seven weeks, we complete our journey, sailing up the West Coast of Florida into Tampa Bay. And throughout the journey Rose Anne amazes us with her seaworthiness, ease of handling and grace. She is our Talisman opening the door to these adventures. She is the magic carpet to our dreams.
We sail the West Coast and fall in love with its laid-back “Old Florida” lifestyle. We re-cross Okeechobee to Lake Worth and the Palm Beaches. One cloudy morning, I turn the key on the old iron jib, and a mournful sound rumbles up from below. The venerable Atomic 4 that has served us so well all these years has finally given up the ghost. A full repower is something Ronni and I don’t want to tackle on our own, so we contract with Rybovich Spencer to do the “heavy lifting.” Each day we work in the peak of Florida summer heat so intense by late afternoon that we can’t tell a wrench from a screwdriver. After six weeks we launch her with a brand new Yanmar diesel.
We leave for The Keys the following spring. Anchoring off Elliot Key for a week, we snorkel the warm waters of Biscayne Bay National Park, taking dinghy trips to the deserted Ranger Station. We sail up the coast to West Palm Beach Inlet for a layover and then cross the Gulf Stream in darkness; the lights of large freighters pass us in the Florida Straits. The swell kicks up and Rose Anne confirms again she’s a true blue water cruiser.
Pastel dawn breaks over Grand Bahama Island. We sight the rock jetty entrance to West End. For the next two months, we sail the Sea of Abaco, beachcombing deserted stretches of sand for treasure, stopping at local settlements for food and drink and the company of other cruisers. Rose Anne’s four-and-a half-foot draft is perfect for these shallow, crystal clear waters. We glide over fields of red starfish on the white sand below.
At some point, you realize that the world is bigger than the fictional boundaries that cover our maps. It’s bigger than the marks on our charts and the measurements we take in latitude and longitude. There’s something about the space we share with our loved ones and our vessel that hides a secret dimension where our hearts and minds and dreams live all bundled up together. That’s the space that Ronni and I have been lucky enough to share with Rose Anne.
And now it’s time to say goodbye.
We’re back on the Chesapeake Bay and age, health, and the stage of our life say it’s time. Time for Rose Anne to find her next partner in the journey. We’ll launch her for one last season, cruising the local waters we love so much. And then she’ll decide. She’ll find her next owner the way she found us. Maybe it will be another couple who’s starting to dream the way we did. Maybe a single hander who’s ready to pull up anchor for the territory ahead. It’s really not up to us anymore. She’ll find the one who’ll sail her where she needs go. ~Joe Haran
This story was first printed in the June 2015 SpinSheet. We touched base with the author this fall to see if he'd sold his boat. He responded: "A young couple just bought RoseAnne. They read about her in SpinSheet a few months ago and didn't realize it was the same boat that inspired their dream until they came to see her - I never put the boat name in the ad."
