The Path of the Wayfarer

Like most great sailing adventures, mine started off with a chance encounter with an old childhood friend. He was having an after-work happy hour drink with a colleague when I arrived, and it was clear it wasn’t their first. I was slightly embarrassed at being introduced as a sailor. Yes, I did sail in my youth, but it had been some time since I'd actually been in a boat. His mate was an avid sailor, so my friend just assumed, we’d all get along, since there is nothing more enjoyable than messing around in boats. I hadn’t been sailing in years and when I tried to explained this, it was brushed off as a minor detail, and ignored. His thinking being, once a sailor, always a sailor. Which had some merit, however, I’d pretty much forgotten everything about sailing, and I became quite lost when their discussion deepened around boats and sailing.

I hadn’t actually sailed since my parents yanked me off the Toronto Islands half way through seventh grade. And plunked me down in the dry concrete city, where there wasn’t any sail-able water for miles, and which had turned my life completely around. A sad story that I won’t bother the reader with at this time. The simple facts are, I was raised on the Toronto Islands, and my sailing pram was always beached no farther than a few houses away. It was one of those, I could sail, before I could walk type things. A place where my friends and I literally lived in boats. I was unprepared for the sudden move, which came outta the blue. And came with repercussions that still affect me today.

So, all this talk at the table forced buried memories to come flooding up. Filling me with a conflicting combination of happy, and sad memories. I had forgotten so much that I felt completely useless taking part in the conversation, so I basically sat on the outskirts listening. As the night wore on, my friend finally departed and I was left alone at the table with this interesting stranger. Who incidentally, I never saw again after that night. But to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for opening a door back into sailing. Once he learned I had lived on Algonquin Island, he immediately told me of a boat he kept over there. But regretfully he hadn’t had time to use, or check on it very often.

He knew that I frequently went back to visit, and asked if I would mind keeping an eye on it. And for my trouble, I could take it out once and a while. Obviously, he hadn't been listening, and his offer to sail it was tempting. I got the feeling that the boat was no longer attractive, or important enough for him to make the trip over. He called it a Wayfarer dingy, an English design. A class I knew vaguely, but had no experience with. Later, someone asked if it wasn't a CL 16, a close Canadian version, with a Wayfarer main. In retrospect, I haven't any idea which it was, and I began to have a nagging concern whether or not he actually owned the boat. The following weekend I made a trip to the Island to visit friends and to check the boat out.

I was horrified when I first saw her. She was sitting right side up with her stern submerged in the lagoon. Uncovered, and exposed, it was half full of rainwater, with a grungy looking mud settled all over the floorboards. Life jackets were floating, and the mast and boom were flung haphazardly about on the damp beach. The jib and main were stuffed in a bag, up under the deck in the bow. Thankfully they were still in good shape, and mercifully free of mold. The spinnaker was poking out, loosely stuffed under the deck; a hopeless mess. When I pulled it out it had been ripped or torn almost in half, covered in odd looking stains, and haphazardly stuffed back up under the deck. Like it had been used as a tarp or rag. It was totally ruined, and irreparable.

All the once beautiful bright work on the thwarts, fore-deck, and mast were chipped, bubbling and dusty. The tarnished old tent-cover laid blown off, or had been torn off, and left piled into a crumpled heap alongside the hull. Paddles, rudder and tiller, had been tossed in a tangled water filled pile, along with a homemade spinnaker pole. I had the horrible feeling that it had been in the ice all winter, and might even have ice damage. I assumed that the parks department had half heartily dragged her up onto the beach, and just left her there open to the elements.

Certainly, no boat lover would have left her in that condition. Her wooden battens were scattered everywhere, one even many meters away, like it had been used as a Frisbee. I opened her stern compartment bilge cocks and literally hand bailed her hull as best I could, then dragged her up the beach, free from boat wash. After borrowing a sponge and pail from a friend’s mother, I was able to get her completely dry. There was no sign of rot or ice damage, someone had once taken care of her. I was able to tip her slightly to inspect the outside hull for any damage or distortions. Although not a boat-wright, I knew enough to see she was still in fairly good shape. If she was in the ice, she hadn’t suffered much for it. The exterior was painted white with varnished decks and fore-deck; the interior was painted a dull but blinding light marine blue.

All exposed wood and veneers were once lovingly varnished, including the dagger-board, but now required hours of work. That whole afternoon was spent cleaning and drying her out. I was able to get her reasonably covered, without the boom as ridgepole. I wiped down her mast and boom and wrapped them in her rigging, then laid them along side her hull. I was able to find some ancient homemade chocks, and set the mast up off the ground on the chock ends. After airing the sails, I decided it better to take them home and clean them. I left my phone number, but nobody ever called.

When I got home, I was eager to call the owner and advise him of the boats dire situation. But it was a wrong number. He had written it himself, so I began to wonder about his authenticity or his sobriety. The whole event now seemed weird and suspicious. My friend now away on holiday, told me later that summer, he knew nothing about the boat, and that his coworker had left the business. Which left more questions than answers. I returned to the island, a week later, during the Wards Island Gala day long weekend and returned the sails. The boat was exactly how I had left it, except its mast and rigging were now installed. And recovered and tented properly. Although not a major undertaking, it must have taken a few hours. It looked as though somebody had wanted to sail it, but couldn’t without the sails. Or had an extra set. At least someone was now tending to it. I left my number again.

That weekend I decided to ask around about the boat, but nobody knew anything. All I was doing was bringing more attention to it than anything else. Because I felt its isolated location, at the end of the island, left it vulnerable, I stopped asking. As far as I was concerned, it was no way to treat a lady! After tucking the sails back under the fore-deck, I noticed two new life jackets had been added. In the middle of August, I was back on the Island, revisiting the boat. It was sitting exactly as I had left it, nothing had been disturbed. It appeared as though no one had been there since returning the sails, an no one had taken her out. I was glad to see it was still safe, but it needed a lot of work, and a secure location.

A parks department truck slowed to a stop across the lagoon and I could see the passenger's face looking my way before it slowly moved off, making me wonder if they were watching the little dingy. It was then I decided to sail her. I had been given permission by the mysterious owner, yet, I was unsure who actually owned it. I struggled all that week with my conscience because by now I was pretty sure he didn't own the boat, and I finally decided to take a chance and sail her. I took some food and water, enough for a quick day sail, and like clockwork the rain we’d been having all week cleared for the whole weekend. However, when I arrived it was obvious someone had been fussing with her. Everything had been moved around. And the tent covering was badly put back on. Like someone in a major rush, a novice, or perhaps kids had been investigating and poking around. Then, I noticed the keel marks in the sand. Someone had taken it out. Feeling a bit like a thief, I readied the boat for sailing. I admit I was nervous, not having sailed in years. It took some effort, as I pulled and shoved the boat into the quiet lagoon; leading her around by the painter.

Bare foot I stepped into the water and shoved off. Pulling up the main felt brash in a windless lagoon, but it slowly began moving, even with the smallest breeze. In one luffing tack, and some pulls on the rudder, I was ready to come about. It was a slow straight reach up the sandy channel leading to the bay. I was standing in the stern, keeping an eye on the low sandy bottom, as the boat began picking up speed, starting to catch the stronger winds of the bay. My heart leapt when it began to heel over as we entered the bay. Plowing forward with surprising speed; I was rusty, and unprepared for the quick acceleration, I almost capsized her. I instinctively loosened the main sheet, and brought it down wind a touch, quickly positioning my butt on the windward deck, while hoping nobody noticed the amateur sailor. I set the jib in the cam cleat and the boat took off like a racehorse, like it was just itching to go. Everything, sounds, sights and feel all started coming back to me. The trickling and lapping of water on the hull, the sounds of my childhood brought wonderful feelings back. My heart stayed in my throat for quite awhile until I began to relax and loosen up. I had forgotten even the rudimentary rules of the sea, so avoided any other sails and boats in the harbor. I was hooked and looking forward to teaching myself sailing all over again and perhaps even getting my own boat. Only another sailor could appreciate my state of mind at that moment.

I was in heaven and growing more confident by the minute. I boldly decided to see what she could really do. There was a strong wind blowing east to west in the middle of the harbor, so I slowed to luffing and waited for a ferry to pass my course. “Come about,” I heard myself call. Ducking under and letting out the main, I yanked up the centerboard and ran downwind like a bat outta hell. It was glorious and I wished for a spinnaker but wasn’t sure if I could even have gotten it up. I had never sailed anything like this; it was solid perfection. Only once, as a kid, was I able to crew in a 14-foot dingy, and was instantly reminded of the power and speed of those thoroughbreds.

This was somewhat the same, but more of a family orientated speed boat. Within minutes, I was coming about at the far west end of the harbor, beneath small landing airplanes. I had the weirdest feeling that the boat wanted to jibe, which kept me on my toes! I didn’t want any episodes on my first day back sailing. I was like a kid in a candy store, not knowing what I wanted next. It was then, I decided to circumnavigate the Island. Something I’d done as a kid with friends, and had always wanted to do again.

On the long tack back to the quiet waters of the Algonquin Island channel, a harbor police boat ran its sirens, and flashed its lights behind me. Where it had come from was a mystery. As I turned into the wind to find out what I did wrong, the long, sleek, antique run-about roared past me toward a high-end speed boat, adrift. I had been wondering why it was sitting there and had made another short tack, to avoid them. When I had settled down from my nerve wracking experience, I decided I’d had enough for one day. I sailed back down the channel, to the small beach. Memories of my childhood came roaring back and things I’d long forgotten about sailing were coming back to me. I was in seventh heaven.

A party of local kids and adults were swimming and playing all about the small sandy beach when I paddled back to shore. They surrounded the boat asking all kinds of questions. I asked the adults if they knew the owner of the boat, but they couldn't help me, other than to say that they had seen it last summer and it had appeared abandoned and derelict. There was an ancient, abandoned, half-sunk mooring tire at one end of the beach that I was able to moor to. I remembered the owner talking about using it. And without having to get wet, it allowed me to pull the boat close to shore. So that when I jumped off, the water was well below my knees. This spot would be fine for the night.

After an anxious night of preparations, I was again on an early ferry to the Islands. I was happy to see her resting quietly, swinging gently on her moorings. I can’t explain why, but I always though something bad was going to happen to her. The long old pulling rope attached to a tree, was like a bristle brush on my hands, but she came in easily to me. After piling everything aboard, I had a long paddle out to the bay, as there was no breeze. I sat in the lulls for half an hour or so, and began paddling along the bay front, my old Island home. Until a nice wind arose around ten, lightly filling the main, and moving us quickly along.

I sailed for the entrance of the eastern gap, a large wide shipping channel connecting the inner harbor with Lake Ontario. My plan was to sail around the Island in a full loop, over to the western gap. I was met at the entrance by a stiff breeze whipping down the gap towards me, rising up small whitecaps. It was a nasty series of tacks up to the open lake, full of boats, motor and sail, which I wasn’t expecting that early in the morning. It taxed me to my limit, and to make matters worse, halfway up I got a major scolding from an angry man piloting a large six meter, barrelling downwind from the lake. I still don’t know what I did wrong, if anything. But I could see he was directing his garbled harsh words at me. It almost put me off my sail for the day.

On my last tack, I cleared the long pier jutting out into the lake, and began getting really rough and confused water. The little boat handled it well, bouncing, but solid, it tossed spray easily away. I held the tack well past the marker, until I was far enough out to make a clean reach all the way to center island. I fell off, and had a jaunty wet reach all the way to center, watching my old Island sail by. The boat was extremely well designed, and seemed to want to sail herself. There were a few moments when she wanted to go over, but not from anything the boat did, it was me still working the kinks out of my rusty seamanship.

I pulled into the beach at center Island to eat my shore lunch. Two beautiful foreign exchange students clad only in small bikinis, came over to admire the boat. They seemed very comfortable in their skimpy attire, which I found a little intimidating. In their broken English, they seemed to have gotten it into their heads somehow that I had sailed over from the United States. No amount of explaining seemed to change their minds.

They were delighted to go for a sail, but demanded I stay close to shore. And were a little unsure if I was serious or not about wanting to take them back to the States with me. I could tell that one of them fancied me, but I liked the other one. The story of my life. They swam, and dove off the boat and really seemed comfortable on it, as we frolicked up and down in front of the busy beach.

Soon a life guard came rowing out and wanted the girls to sign some waiver that he wouldn’t be at fault, not being able to watch them, and his beach at the same time. They wouldn't allow me to go out from the beach, so with the damper put on the fun, I took them back. We made plans to meet later at a pub beside the Center Island ferry docks, over looking the harbor. I’ll never know if they showed because I never made it there myself. I ran into the doldrums later in the western channel, and had to paddle for almost an hour, until a kid I knew towed me the rest of the way with his small motorboat. I didn’t get back till almost dark. And it was dark when I had finally zipped up the tent covering.

Shortly after I left the girls, I sailed up to my old childhood school, that sat right on the shores of Lake Ontario, classrooms now converted to artists studios. I slid the boat up, and walked over to the old Island light house. It once sat haunted right on the shore line, but now sits away inland. It was locked, so I was unable to climb to the top, like we used to. The old Bluebell paddle ferry sat forlorn looking under some shade trees up the lagoon. I remembered exploring her rotting hull as a child. They eventually restored her, and put her back in service.

A stiff westerly had me hiking the bend at Hanlans Point. On an inland tack, I was anticipating the view at Nude Beach. Imagine my disappoint, when I saw two naked men standing on the shore. A quick turn on the tiller, thankfully, had me tacking seaward, putting and end to that unsightly vision. A good stiff breeze took me tacking along to the airport and the western gap. I thought it would be a cake walk back, but as soon as I turned into the mouth of the wide shipping lane, the wind totally dropped off. There was just heavy swells and no wind, no matter what I tried, the currents took me back. I paddled my way along the inside concrete seawall, sails down, and was barely able to counter the strong currents running against me in.

It was very hard work, and put a huge damper on my day, until I caught the attention of the younger brother of a boy I went to school with. When he tossed my line back to me, and waved goodbye at the other end of the channel, I was one thankful and relieved guy. I was able to catch some very queer breezes, among strange cats-paws, but eventually worked my way back to Algonquin. By nightfall, all my childhood skills were fully alive again, and by the time I paddled back down the quiet lagoon I was once again a sailor. Sailing was truly in my blood, it had just been dormant. I left the wonderful little boat just as I had found it, never to see it, or the owner again. Even after checking it well into the fall, and the following spring it was gone.