When I was a boy, my father bought a 1965 Pearson Commander. The boat was a good choice for our large family. All eight children could fit inside her huge cockpit. She was also a safe and stable craft. This was important, since not one of us had ever set foot on a sailboat before.
Obviously, we would need some Divine help out there on the water. My father called her Providence, seeking God’s grace and protection.
My older brother, Stephen, took to sailing right away. He taught himself seamanship and piloting. Before long he was single-handing on long passages into the Atlantic.
Somehow Providence became Stephen’s boat. He nursed and cared for her. As the oldest son, it seemed as if there was nothing Stephen couldn't do or fix when he put his mind to it.
Providence was our beloved family boat. She endured our clumsy misadventures. She always brought us home.
The years went by. All the kids grew up and moved away. When we came to visit, Providence was there for us. She gave us many years of joy.
Then came the time when Stephen got sick. It was a particularly virulent and inoperable brain tumor. Stephen fought a long and noble struggle with dignity and determination. He died, age 34, leaving a lovely wife and a little boy.
Providence sat mostly idle for years, receiving little use and less attention. The neglect took its toll. She also grew sick.
I moved back near home, and somehow Providence became my boat. Slowly I caught the sailing bug. By then, the boat was in tough shape. The deck was mushy, the mast was cracked, sails shot, engine balky-–the list went on and on. She needed a total restoration, but I didn’t know anything about boat repair. I had neither the time nor the skills to make her right. Providence would have to go.
For two years I tried to sell her. I would have given her away for a pittance. There were no takers. I could barely stand to show her. I felt ashamed of her state. I had let her down.
She never let me down. I started sailing Providence every chance I could. A line might snap or block explode, but she held together. She soldiered on.
I drove her hard in any weather. The wind would howl and I would howl right back. I was reckless. I was exorcizing my demons.
In the meantime, I shopped for my new boat. I thought I should have something bigger, more modern. I prowled the boatyards, searched the classifieds, crawled around dozens of boats. It soon became clear that every boat has its qualities and foibles, each one a compromise. You just have to go with the boat that feels right.
Where was the boat that would capture me, that would speak to me? None of them ever did. The newer boats had no elegance, they held no charm. They lacked grace.
I finally gave up trying to sell Providence and decided to donate her as a tax write-off. Eventually a company agreed to take her. The papers were signed and she was no longer mine. Perhaps they would find her a good home.
Now I couldn’t put off buying a new boat any longer. It was time to settle on that 30 footer I had been looking at. There was no perfect boat for me.
Then I saw an ad for a "beloved family boat." She was another 1965 Pearson Commander. The boat was located up in Rhode Island, but I had been planning a trip to visit my sister in Massachusetts. I decided to stop by for a look, mostly out of curiosity. It was probably just another project boat.
I spotted her in the boatyard right away. She had been beautifully maintained over the years and sported new sails, furler, winches, etc. This boat had been cherished.
The owner came down, a pleasant young doctor. Their family had owned the boat for decades. We climbed aboard and got to talking. It turned out that he occasionally worked with my sister at a hospital in Providence. I just chalked it up to coincidence. Then things began to get spooky.
While Providence was hull # 199, this boat was hull # 200 -- the next boat off the line. They had been built, side by side, all those years before. They were twin sisters.
I knew right then she would be mine. The deal was struck and I brought her home and started lavishing attention on her.
Although I had donated Providence months before, the company had been unable to sell her. They agreed to give her back to me. I mournfully stripped her for parts and had her buried. I’ll always feel guilty.
One by one, parts of Providence are making their way onto my new boat. The two boats are becoming one.
Her name is Grace. She feels like an old friend. She has that same familiar, easy motion. She keeps me safe. She comforts me.
I’ve been teaching Stephen's boy to sail. Already he steers with a steady hand on the tiller, just like his Dad, quiet and confident.
I hope to teach him the simple lessons I've learned about sailing, as his father would have done.
As for life's lessons, I’m not sure what I can teach him. Except that perhaps some things are meant to be, and if life ever gives you a second chance at happiness, don't let it pass you by.
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