By 1960 I am sure that many people in the Midwest had been on some kind of boat – at least a row boat for fishing, a paddle boat at a lakeside park, or a sightseeing vessel making the rounds in a protected harbor. Lots of kids had certainly taken a ride by then in a little boat at the county fair or a city amusement park, clanging its bell as it sloshed its way around and around in a circle for a five minute ride. But at ten years old the world of boats was about to be rewritten for me as I was introduced to a boat powered only by the wind.
The fact is that a truly life altering event came about in my life that year – all due to a particular sailboat named The Rendezvous. Stored in my grandmother’s garage this boat was purchased by my dad, mostly as a scientific experiment along with a slim volume called The A-B-C’s of Boat Sailing as his only guide. First moored in Jackson Harbor in Chicago, it broke loose from its mooring and was rescued just before crashing on the breakwater.
Next, he tried hauling the 18 foot sloop over endless city streets from the south side to launch it for an occasional Saturday sail – sometimes spending more time in the car than on the boat. It hadn’t been near the water in years when my dad finally convinced my mother that buying a summer cottage on an inland lake was his only hope of ever really getting to sail this boat.
After weekends spent looking at quaint little summer homes, prodding the bottom of the lake at the end of each pier with a long bamboo pole, which sometimes sank an extra three feet in muck, my folks agreed on a cottage with a sandy beach at Diamond Lake. Closing the deal in the fall, we only got to work on winterizing our new place in Michigan – our first taste of cottage ownership. It was the following spring that brought the place to life.
Although the tiny house came stuffed with oversized furniture we still brought an extra boatload of
belongings to the lake from Chicago, packing what didn’t fit in the station wagon into The Rendezvous
that rolled proudly along behind us.
Staying for the entire summer with my mom and my brother and sister was the most unbelievable part of that June exodus from the city for me. The weekend commute for my dad became his pattern, just like every other dad on our shore.
Marveling at the sparkling lake in our front yard I did hear some big city chuckles about our new ten party phone line and the long walk up the hill to the 20 mailboxes at our Rural Route 3 address. But I knew this was heaven on earth.
Turning on the well’s water pump, airing out the bedding and applying Lysol to every flat surface that my mother could find came first, before the big project waiting in the garage – getting the wooden sailboat ready for weekend sailing adventures with my dad.
I clearly remember the scrubbing and scraping and sanding that seemed endless as my brother and I worked to finish the dreaded weekly list left by my dad, before he arrived each Friday night. Once he took over there were exotic smelly solvents used for the clean up after painting and the intriguing bubbling reaction of paint and varnish remover as it ate up old finishes down to the bare wood. At last my brother was assigned to paint the bottom of the boat while my dad applied the final coat of varnish.
All of these tedious steps postponed the launching of The Rendezvous until well after the Fourth of July, which my new lake friends informed me was way too late in the season to bother putting in a boat.
Even at this early age I was ready to devote myself to whatever work was needed on this project. I knew that keeping The Rendezvous afloat was my best guarantee of being back at the lake for every summer to come.
And you know, I still feel that a wooden sailboat really is superior to the modern day fiberglass variety in spite of all the extra work involved, because once it was finally launched, The Rendezvous seemed to take you right back to the olden days of sailing. First it had to reside in a sling to let the wood soak up with water, to swell its dusty cracks shut to be seaworthy again. Then its old bones would creak as the wind bent her mast and pulled at her fittings in a sudden puff of wind. And the soft cotton sails made those luxurious flapping sounds until they were secured after the boat changed direction.
The first really magical ride that I can still recall vividly on The Rendezvous happened one night that August. By then I know I had been on board many times - watching it being rigged, hiding out in the musty storage space under the bow as we drifted in a dead calm, or bracing one hand in the water to make a wake of my own as we dipped toward the waves on a gusty day. But that one night, when the moon was full and the stiff breeze was warm, I had the sailing experience of a lifetime.
There were five grownups and me on board when we started out, with just a flashlight to shine on the sails to announce our presence if another boat came too close. Then our ghost ship sailed silently in and out of the shadows, back and forth along the east end of the lake – landing periodically to pick up and drop off neighbors who were taking their turns on this adventure.
I managed to stay on board the entire time. Trusting the black and inky lake as it swirled by, I went searching for a place that none of the newcomers would want as a seat, just to make sure I would not be displaced when we docked.
I climbed fearlessly out onto the bow and flattened myself to the deck to allow the jib sail to cross over and back above me when we tacked. Clutching the short brass mooring post, centered in my triangular space, I lay spread eagle so that my toes could brace against the wire stays on either side that held the mast in place.
I watched for each of the little living room windows, softly lit on the shore, between the drenching waves as they sometimes washed over me. The grownups on board were all just too absorbed in their own wonderment to notice the precariously balanced young girl leading the way.
Optional (additional) last paragraph -
Looking back I am grateful that the beginning of my love affair with sailing started when I was too young to be concerned that anything so wonderful might not last a lifetime. That would have been a wasted concern indeed, because it has. Lasted, that is.
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