Although our dear Wino Country Safari has served us admirably for nearly three years, its four owners have a history which extends beyond the Safari’s reign, and spans two other vessels: the first a beautiful and elegant ship, and the second a wallowing barge, the result of an advanced case of Boat Fever. The story of the latter shall be saved for a later time, but today I find myself recalling the former, and the brilliant and jagged course it charted across our lives, until nature’s fury finally extinguished its meteoric flight.

Although I endeavour to rail against the dangers of Boat Fever at every opportunity, it should be said that it is not always a bad thing. Such was the case in spring of 2008, when Colonel Wiliamson, Commander Schuck, and Admiral Winters were enjoying apertifs at a fine Ballard establishment, recalling their recent adventures in southeast Asia. Suddenly, as the crab rangoon was being delivered, a singular thought, fully formed, snapped into existence inside their heads, as if placed there by divine insurgency: “We must buy a boat.” They glanced around and, observing the curious looks on each other’s faces, knew at a moment that they had all been given the same directive. However, what kind of boat? How large? Sail or power? What were they to do with the vessel once acquired? The thought offered no specifics on these subjects, simply repeating itself, flatly: they must buy a boat.

They had been sitting dumb for half a minute when the waitress, who had been awaiting instructions on what to do with the mass of cordial glasses they had accumulated, cleared her throat. They started and looked up at her. Without much knowing why, Colonel Williamson asked quietly: “Should we buy a sail boat, or a power boat?”

“Sail boat, definitively.”

That settled that. A sailboat. Who knew how to sail? Incredibly, although the trio were experts at practically everything: photography, business, aviation, fencing, spelunking, archeology, ballet, badminton, motorcycle racing, skiing, poetry, &etc., there somehow appeared a hole in their knowledge the very shape of the thing providence had instructed them to procure! However commander Schuck informed the group that his close friend Major Means was a competent sailor, with many adventures under his belt, and with his help the four would find no obstacle insurmountable in their quest to become true sailors. They contacted Yours Truly directly and we set out in search of a ship.

Some weeks later we sailed our newly acquired vessel from Liberty Bay through the Ballard Locks and onward towards its new home in Seattle’s Lake Union. Dubbed the Phoenix, it was a Thunderbird class sailing sloop, designed in Washington’s Gig Harbor, made of strong local wood, and built for speed on the high seas. While passing through the Fremont Cut, we spied our friend Chris Misdom on the south bank, painting the idyllic scene in stunning watercolor. We hailed him and Colonel Williamson collected him in the dinghy, giving us our first of many passengers, and one who would become a frequent and invaluable addition to our crew.

Above: Colonel Williamson and Major Means sailing the Phoenix

The following summer months are a blur, and at times blank out entirely. A few moments stand out, however, namely the Great Locks Pinball Escapade (a story Commander Schuck must relay, as I was not present), the Epic Midnight Run on July 4th 2008, and many valiant entries into the great Duck Dodge Race, where boats pass inches from each other at speed, and one’s nerve must be as sharp as a cutlass.

At the end of the summer we surveyed ourselves and our surroundings. The crew had taken to sailing as a fish to the sea, but our craft had taken hold of us, or perhaps we had lost control of it. We were sailors, it was true: tan and lithe, with calloused hands and bare feet; however those who started the summer with female companions had become bachelors, and those who were bachelors at the outset had somehow become even moreso. Many nights sailing had turned into mornings spent recovering from all manner of debauchery and sin, and we heard rumors of a wild boat that plied the waters of Lake Union, menacing kayakers and ducks and boats three times its size, and we could not be altogether sure that the Phoenix was not the object of such legends.

Furthermore the Phoenix was beginning to show signs of strain - its varnish cracked and peeling, the portholes leaking noticeably, and we found ourselves in no condition to mount the kind of restoration the boat deserved, and elected to rest and recuperate our bodies and souls over the winter and properly restore its glory come springtime.

Six months of rest proved beneficial to our constitutions, and the spring of 2010 found us largely recovered, and ready to navigate the waters of Seattle in a manner more befitting the gentlemanly sailors we aspired to be. We planned an excursion to Port Angeles, home of my friend Matt Remine, known far and wide for his good humor and hospitality, as well as his knowledge of boat repair, a skill which we planned to exploit to the fullest. A week before this excursion was to take place Commander Schuck, Colonel Williamson and I embarked on what was to be a simple run around Lake Union.

Above: Major Means at the tiller.

It was the 9th of May, and the clear sky belied a power that advanced steadily upon us from the North - a gale of strength rarely seen, save in the tempestuous southern oceans! It sprang upon us like a tiger, and we found ourselves racing across the lake at speed. We had no time to shorten sail, nor did the Phoenix seem to desire it, brazenly showing its keel to the frustrated wind. But nature will not be mocked, and momentarily we saw a gust hurtling over the surface of the water at our little craft. I had barely time to warn the crew before it caught us, and it slammed into our sails with the force of a locomotive, heeling the boat over at a precipitous angle.

Suddenly, with a tremendous “BANG!” our starboard shroud gave way. With a sickening screech of metal the mast was bent over like a paper clip and the whole contraption plunged into the water. We felt the boat right itself beneath us, the wind satisfied that we could mock it no further. We stood, uninjured, our mouths agape at the tragedy which had befallen us. The proud Phoenix had been dismasted.

With great difficulty we motored the crippled vessel to the south end of the lake and removed the mast, boom, and sails. We lashed them to the deck and returned to port, our tails betwixt our legs. We contacted Admiral Winters via telephone, who took the news as well as could be expected.

We remarked at the irony that our trip to restore the boat was scheduled not a week later, and in the same breath thanked Providence that we had not met the same fate en route to Port Angeles, in the dangerous waters of the Strait of Juan De Fuca.

Further forensics revealed that the Phoenix had a leak in her deck, near the starboard shroud, which had allowed rot to spread to its ribs, weakening them, allowing that mighty gust to finally rip them apart, sending the mast crashing downward. The rot had likely started years ago, and we, being relative neophytes, failed to recognize the cancer as it silently ate away at our ship. It was so extensive in fact, that we were surprised the shroud had held as long as it did, which makes me wonder if perhaps the Phoenix knew its days were numbered, and rather than limp along like an old hound, decided to give us one last fiery summer, scoring the surface of the lake with its keel as it seared itself in our memory.

Lacking the advanced skills required to repair the damage, and realizing that our aspirations of far-flung adventure were ill suited to such a wild vesel, we reluctantly decided to sell the Phoenix. Its buyer, a would-be sailor, had plans to repair her, but all who embark on such journeys find their resolve tested, and many are found lacking. We have not heard what became of the boat, and I imagine we likely never will. Still, on blustery spring days I often find myself gazing at the horizon, half expecting to see our ship resurrected, soaring across the lake and laughingly taunting the wind.