My New Cruising Boat

Hearing the words "You'll need to cancel your schedule for the next four to six months" was quite sobering.
Little did I know that I was actually facing nine months of treatments
for lymphoma. Since graduating from college 30 years ago, I'd been on a
nonstop whirlwind ride of racing, television commentary, and, during
the last 10 years, cruising. I never considered stopping. But I was
feeling bad. I had difficulty walking. Once started, the early chemo
treatments had a brutal impact. The days of lying on my couch stretched
into weeks and months. It was frustrating not to be able to focus my
eyes to read or to watch television. Visualization of sailing became my
companion.

My head was filled with images of racing, waves, and boats of all
kinds. I was amazed how many races I could resurrect from years past.
After a few months, my health started to improve. I could stand up
straight. It was an encouraging feeling. It dawned on me that I should
spend more time on the water taking in the sights, enjoying
friendships, and being at one with nature.

My emerging sailing plan called for a slower pace than what I'm used
to, but it seemed like a worthy goal. The concept gave me a renewed
priority on getting well. Overcoming a serious illness is hard work.
There are endless doctor's appointments, debilitating treatments, and,
worst of all, setbacks. It seemed like there was always one step
backward after every two steps forward. It's hard to function when your
blood counts are low. The whole exercise becomes a mental tug-of-war.
It reminds me of many races.

It's easy to give in. To help fight the disease, I thought about
pounding into the wind during hard ocean races. At the time, you can't
wait for the race to end, but eventually you cross the finish line.

The incentive to go cruising kept me going. After four months, things
were looking up. I spent one week in Maine sailing on the beautiful
J-class yacht Endeavour. It
was a magical time. And, as it turned out, a teaser for the future.
Three weeks later, I found myself back in the hospital with a rapidly
growing tumor. The prescribed treatments would take another four to
five months!

I desperately needed to look ahead so I could get past this hardship.
By now, my mind was made up to acquire a cruising boat. I recruited a
friend, Dick D'Amato, to become a partner in the enterprise.

My criteria were that the boat should be easy for two to sail, have
room to sleep a family of five, and be organized, nice below, and
comfortable for two couples. Most important, it had to sail well. It
had to be nimble in the light winds of summer and capable of handling a
strong blow while you're doing an offshore passage.

The boat had to be big enough to accommodate our planned crew but small
enough to anchor in remote gunkholes. A shoal draft seemed like a
priority. Why not use the innovations learned from the America's Cup? A
bulb or wing keel was the solution there. After much thought, 40 feet
seemed like the right length. But which boat? There are many good ones
in the marketplace, both new and used.

I've struggled with faulty equipment on bareboat charters, and I've
persevered through owning a wooden schooner. This time the word "new"
sounded attractive. We decided to look for a new boat.

By the time a decision was near, my health woes kept me completely
occupied. Over a 100-day stretch, I visited the hospital 73 times,
including a 23-day stay following a stem-cell transplant. During this
time, I spent endless hours thinking of sailing in the Caribbean,
Maine, and other places.

At this writing, I'm happy to report that my health has improved and
that Dick and I are the proud owners of a new Sabre 402. My time on the
water will seem a little more special after the problems of the past
year.

___________________________________

In the summer of 2004, Gary reported that his most recent scans showed
him to be cancer-free. Though the aftermath of the treatments made for
a slow recovery, he says he looks forward to being on the water often
through the fall.