Sea Change

by Maxwell Taylor Kennedy

  To help me figure out my best move, I decided to cut loose the Whaler, letting it ride the current through the cove so I could see whether smashed against the rocks. If the Whaler made it out of the cove, I would make a run with Valkyrien. If the Whaler were obliterated on the rocks, I would swim for the beach. It was one or the other.

  I would not get a fair idea of what might happen to Valkyrien after I cut her loose unless I first lowered the engine on the Whaler. With the engine up, the Whaler would be subject to wind more than current, but with the engine down, the lower unit would hold the Whaler a bit like Valkyrien’s rudder and keel.

  The Whaler bounced terribly in the wind and waves tethered to the Valkyrien like an angry bluefish. I thought of jumping into the ocean, swimming to the Whaler, and climbing in. But I doubted I could actually climb aboard. Not reaching the Whaler would be a terrible way to end this adventure, so I decided to try to pull her in close enough to Valkyrien and then jump from one boat to the other. Pushed by wind and waves and heavy with fuel, I could not pull the Whaler standing up. I pinned myself into the cockpit and, using my legs against the bulwarks, I gradually hauled the Whaler toward Valkyrien’s stern.

  The waves bouncing back from the beach struck us only a few seconds apart. First the wave would break over Valkyrien’s bow, then, running along her hull, it would lift Valkyrien out of the water, dipping the bow down and raising her stern up. When Valkyrien’s stern came up, the Whaler’s bow, just a few feet aft of Valkyrien, dove into the trough created by the leading edge of the wave—as though both boats were on opposite ends of a seesaw. At the same time, other swells rolling into the cove from the Pacific collided with the waves sent back from the beach, rendering the position of each boat unpredictable.

  With the Whaler as close as I could get her, I leaned over and picked up the knife I always kept in the cockpit; then, as the waves pushed the Whaler away from Valkyrien, I threw the knife into the Whaler. It bounced but stopped short of falling off the stern. Then I danced out to the end of the boomkin and made a sudden leap, landing and rolling bruised aboard the Whaler.

  I reached around and quickly flipped the metal locking bolt, pivoting the engine into the sea. I picked up the knife, crawled to the bow of the wildly bouncing Whaler, and pulled her in as close as I could to Valkyrien’s stern. With one clean swipe I sliced through the heavy towline, threw the knife back aboard Valkyrien, and leapt off the bow into the sea, barely grabbing hold of Valkyrien’s boomkin stay as I hit the water.

  As Valkyrien slid down off a wave, the stay dipped deep underwater, giving me a chance to firm my grip. The next wave lifted up Valkyrien’s stern—and me with it—and using that momentum I rolled myself back up onto the stay and then climbed atop the boomkin and slid quickly aboard, snapping to my feet to watch the Whaler.

  Pushed by the wind, the Whaler drifted quickly down to the rock promontory. Then, to my glad astonishment, it hovered a few feet from the rocks and eventually caught the river of water exiting the cove. The Whaler, lifted up and down by entering swells but pushed relentlessly into and over them, made its way to the entrance of the cove. I stared with all of my energy, as a tennis player leans in to help a ball fall inbounds, and watched with glad relief as the Whaler moved along. The little boat disappeared into the waves off the tiny point of land, safely in the ocean.

  I could not pull in the anchor chain, so I tied two fenders to it, with fifty feet of line, and got ready to release the chain. The fenders would float at the surface, marking the spot where the anchor and chain lay on the bottom. I figured that if I made it out I would try to come back sometime for the anchor and chain. If I did not, some curious and lucky fisherman would come across a windfall.

  I pulled the lock, and Valkyrien tore backwards like a kicking horse, freed. Chain, fenders, and line tore across the deck. The speed at which Valkyrien came loose surprised me. I watched, horrified, as we raced toward the rocks on the promontory. But just as the Whaler slowed when it neared the rocks, so did Valkyrien. Gradually we were lifted around the promontory, past the rocks at the edge of the cove, and finally, into the current that had been my enemy for so long.

  I tied makeshift sails to take advantage of the wind and rode the current at more than 5 knots back toward the fishing village. A few hours later a larger diesel-powered boat steamed by and towed me to the village, where a crowd gathered as we approached the beach. I had a smaller anchor for emergencies, and in the calm of the protected water off the village, I dropped it down, then dove in after it, to make sure it held, and swam ashore.

  When I walked up the beach the crowd approached me, asking if I were truly the American from the wooden boat. When I said yes, they wanted to know if it were true that I had killed my two crewmen? And did I plan to kill Pedro?

  Shortly after that, the police arrived. They had heard that a drug smuggler was signaling to his coconspirators onshore during the night, and that he had unloaded cash and illegal drugs in a small Boston Whaler, which he later abandoned. It took a while in my poor Spanish to convince them that I was not a killer or a drug dealer or a smuggler.

  I was merely an American who had lost his way.

  Epilogue

  Vicki flew down to Panama the next day and we spent a week unpacking Valkyrien and setting her up to be towed to the Canal. I hired local fishermen to tow her to a harbor of refuge, and on the highest tide pulled her up to the beach and carried the small anchor ashore, setting it hard in the sand beside some trees.

  Valkyrien settled into the mud just off the beach over the days that followed. I made friends with a remarkable hotelier, and Vicki and I spent our nights at his place. He hired men to watch over the Valkyrien and protect her from looters. Eventually, I sold her to an American who had crewed on her as a child.

  Vicki and I returned home.

  Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. It is my understanding that he spent a hell of a lot of time reflecting on his life, and then killed himself.

  I have met many people who quote Thoreau’s contention that “Most men live lives of quiet desperation.” I find this to be one of the most irritating quotations in American literature. It strikes me as insufferably condescending. The words of someone entitled, snobbish, and self-satisfied. I suppose I feel this way because it is so easy for me to slip into a snide and selfish place myself. But this doesn’t mean that I like that side of myself. I struggle against it with all my being. Still, some days I’m sure I don’t struggle hard enough.

  I read Sterling Hayden’s memoir in which he ridicules the yachtsmen (like me) who ply along the coasts, claiming to be sailors. Hayden sailed around the world with a misfit crew on a gigantic old schooner with no engine and no electronics. He is 100 percent right about the courage it takes to set out across open ocean. It is far beyond anything I attempted on this trip. Every risk I took was mitigated by the fact that during almost every leg of the voyage I could have simply swum ashore if things got really bad. I make no claims for extraordinary bravery. Doggedness and determination, maybe. Foolishness, for sure, and a good measure of self-sabotage.

  A friend told me that those nearest and dearest to me all agree: I am the person they would most want to be with in a life-threatening situation at sea—or frankly, anywhere. But my friends and family are also quick to point out that I am the one most likely to bring them into a life-threatening situation.

  Meanwhile, The Pearl Coalition is thriving—working with playwrights, authors, and student groups in the District of Columbia, spreading the word about the heroes of that extraordinary episode in American history. Soon, they will have a true Pearl sailing the waters along the Anacostia and Potomac Rivers. Valkyrien sits in a boatyard in Panama; her new owners have repaired the keel broken in the mud, and are painstakingly restoring her for sailing.

  I hope by now that it’s clear this book is not so much about the attempted salvage of a decrepit schooner as it is
one man’s attempt to come to terms with personal demons through the challenges of an ocean voyage. It is clear to me that abandoning the Valkyrien and accepting “failure” was a choice of life over death, the love of my family over the kind of love that can only be felt—and even then, only ethereally—in the rare exhibition of some kind of legendary, world-saving courage. Those are awful, cruel terms for love. They’re impossible to live up to. My life was and is more important than sailing a noble wreck against terrible odds to prove myself. The fact that I chose to end this voyage, in the end, was, perhaps, a victory.

  So many people have asked me why I sail. I cannot come up with a satisfactory answer. The truth is, I do not know. But no sailor has ever asked this question—they all understand. Sailing, I think, connects us in some way to our most basic selves. We know, when sailing in that great sea, that we are only dust, but we sense that when the wind fills our sails and we are surrounded by our nearest and dearest, there remains within us a fire that is lighted by wind and carries us all along.

  My children have grown remarkably used to the craziness that so often flows out of me. When I interrupt our family with some new idea, completely out of sync with what is going on in all our lives, they look at me and tell me how much they love me.

  Vicki has taught them how to save my life. Quiet smiles, sincere attempts to understand, an empathy that goes well beyond sympathetic nods, are gifts given to me freely and lovingly by my wife, my children, and my friends.

  My children are growing up, moving toward adulthood. Vicki and I remain in love, fully dedicated to each other. And they all still sail with me.

  Risk and danger heighten my sense of living. But I am no longer so attracted to a life of risk. The great thing for me about sailing is that when all of the other trappings of civilization are left behind, even for a night, the real reasons for choosing to live another day are revealed starkly amid the struggle and fear and pain. We are all in this together, and as long as we share the load, we will endure.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank my editor, Genevieve Morgan; Genevieve believed in the book from the beginning and stuck with me throughout the process, with helpful thoughts, ideas, and observations that helped me so much.

  I also wish to thank Richard Abate. Richard worked well beyond what anyone could ask of a friend or agent. His generosity, advice, and kindness were great encouragements on this endeavor. Thank you so much Richard. I want to thank, too, Nick Frenkel at 3Arts. Nick’s enthusiasm and goodness led me through the project; he gave freely of his time and insight, and inspired me. Kimberly Carver gave me encouragement and guidance throughout the process of writing. The three together—Richard, Nick, and Kimberly—carried me along.

  I also want to give a special thanks to Dean Lunt, my publisher at Islandport Press, and to the whole Islandport crew, including publicist Jennifer Hazard; Melissa Hayes, for copy editing; and the wonderful designer, Teresa Lagrange.

  Several people read early drafts of the book. Peter Alson worked very hard and was extremely effective; Matt Rigney went out of his way to make truly helpful suggestions; and Michael Morgan gave generously of his time.

  David Michaelis and Ted Widmer taught me to be a better writer, and I am so grateful to them.

  My greatest thanks, though, go out to the people of New England, and around this country, who love wooden boats. When I was a child, fiberglass threatened to take over a way of life, and a way of sailing that is completely unique and wholly different from sailing on any other material. The library of knowledge from the great carpenters, shipwrights, and sailmakers was quickly disappearing when I was a teenager. This group of dedicated women and men, including many in the Northwest, dedicated themselves to the preservation of this knowledge and this way of life; without their love of wooden boats, this book would never have been possible.

  So I thank the WoodenBoat School and the wooden boat yards up and down the coasts, but especially Crosby Yacht, the Brooklin Boat Yard, Gannon and Benjamin, Karl Anderson, and Roy Downs. The men and women at Crosby Yacht deserve special mention: Dick Egan, Greg Egan, Malcolm Crosby, Betsey Crosby Thompson, Brian Thompson, Cheryl Niemi, Mike Bigelow, Brian Varney, Bill Pasik, Liam Henry, Glen Barton, Heidi Leonard, Dave McCarthy, Margaret Defrancisco, and Matt McAulliffe. Steve White and Brian Larkin have taught me so much about sailing. And Barry Clifford stoked my imagination of storms at sea so many years ago. A most special thanks goes out to my old friend, Dirk Ziff, who came to love wooden boats in his twenties, and has been at very important times my most trusted friend and guide.

  My admiration and thanks go out to the boat boys who have sailed with me: Ethan Brown, Randy Bell, Bryan Idler, Peter Stobierski, Nathan Graf, Adam Hootnick, Paul Janka, Zach Bassett, Jade Bennett, Reed Horton, Peter Meyerdirk, Mike Belzer, and Jay Senter.

  I also thank the following: Sabrina Padwa, Sarah Nixon, Mlezko, Peter McLaughlin, Bob Pavone, Momo Suguwara, Doug Spooner, Marc Shmuger, Louise Hamagami, Fernando Mezquita, Gustavo Mesquita, Clara Bingham, Carol Ann and Moise Emquies, Jill Goldman and Jon Reiss, Wendy Riva, Charlie Lord, Avi Garbow, Natasha Ziff, Susan and Chris Graves, Jayma Cardosa, Chris Bartle, Kent Correll, Eddie Bureau, Henry Bloomstein, Mike Binder, Michael Stevens, and Bolla Semans.

  I also want to thank my friends who have sailed with me in wind, rain, and storm, and under starry nights: Evan Strauss, Joe Driscoll, Paul Ryan, Brando Quilici, Vio Barco, Michael Mailer, Pedro Mezquita, Amir Farman-Farmaian, Marsha Cohen, Zaab Sethna, Bobby Nixon, Michael Karnow, Lance Khazei, Max Loeb, Trevor Mullen, Karen Tenkhoff, Anthony Shriver, Richard Farley, Charlie Shaw, Josh Berger, Frank Smith, Rahul Sonnad, Jimmy and Monica Shay, Mike Wilcox, Mark Hyman, Peter Cazas, Jimmy and Wendy Abrams, Frank Gehry, John Gregg, Heather Gregg Earl, Scotty Dickson, and Richard Farley.

  I also wish to thank Andrew Sullivan, Liz Young, Brian Strange, Carla Sullivan, Keith Butler, Peter Kaplan, Doris and Ian La Frenais, Brad Blank, Joe Hakim, Richard Zuckerwar, Jeff Esther, George Molsbarger, and Ron Karlsberg. And thanks to Maria Popova and Walter Lippman for their inspiration and insight. I owe a debt to David Smith, Matthew Cutts, Dan Tangherlini, and all of the people at The Pearl Coalition for their hard work, dedication, and support for the Spirit of the Pearl.

  My brothers Joe and Chris Kennedy, John Fallon, Kevin Gaughan, and Jack Fallon taught me the fundamentals of sailing and the thrill of racing.

  The Glide has been sailed by a special crew for more than the past twenty years. These indispensable young people are more fun to sail with than any group of individuals in the world, and I am grateful to each of them for our many days on Nantucket Sound, including Grace Allen, Kiley Kennedy, Carly Hayden, Allie Kenny and Gracie Tenney, Doug Cruikshank, Kathleen Shriver, Conor Kennedy, Chrissy Kennedy, Sarah Kennedy, Clare Kennedy, and my warmhearted goddaughter, Kate Kennedy. Of course, my children Maxey, Summer, and Noah lead the lot of them.

  I would not be able to sail as I do without the loyal friends with whom I have sailed since I was a child, including Shannon Hayden, Courtney Clark, Margot Mehm, and Lauren Clark.

  The most special thanks go out to my close friend, David Lande, who has slogged through many journeys with me, and is the finest attorney I know.

  The people who sailed with me aboard Valkyrien deserve special praise. They demonstrated courage and a sense of fun that made the trip so much easier: Troy Campbell, Roger Freeman, Kevin Ward, Daniel Voll, Brian Tarr, Cris and Jonah Goodhart, Wes Hill, and, of course, Bob Nixon and Vicki.

  I will never be able to sufficiently thank Chelsea Gottfurcht, whose clear sense of the world helped me to understand how to see these things.

  I have a huge family, and want to thank in particular some who have shared many days on the water with me. The entire Shriver family brings so much laughter aboard with them, and Steve Smith, Spencer Strauss, Iliana Strauss, Patrick and Amy Kennedy, and Joe and Lauren Kennedy make every sail better. Matt and Kate Kenne
dy are my particularly loyal crew. I owe special gratitude to Ted Kennedy Jr. and Kiki Kennedy, for transferring the Glide to me.

  I am grateful for the love and support of my brothers and sisters, and especially for the time they spend sailing with me; I have a lot of them, and love them all: Courtney, Kerry, Joe, and Beth, Kathleen, Bobby and Cheryl, Vicki G., Chris and Sheila, and Douglas and Molly and Rory and Mark. No one could ask for a better family.

  Bonnie Strauss and Roger Gould and Ben Strauss gave me the greatest gift of my life, and I am forever grateful to them.

  I owe an endless debt of gratitude to my mother, who took me sailing every day of summer and taught me how to read the wind and the waves, and the special privilege it is to sail a wooden boat.

  Maxey, Summer, and Noah are the loves of my life. They bring me more joy than any person could ever hope for, and there is nothing I would rather do than spend an afternoon sailing with them. They are my best guides.

  My greatest thanks by far go to my wife Vicki. Vicki’s cool head and clear mind, her overarching calm and intuitive reasoning, and her astonishing capacity for compassion have given me the chance for a life fully lived. Sometimes Vicki’s laughter pours out of her like a fountain and her playful love of adventure overflows; all of us, Maxey, Summer, Noah, and I, are caught up, sharing her delight and her knowing the joy that is in all of us. Thank you, My Love.

  About the Author

  Maxwell Taylor Kennedy is a sailor, attorney, historian, and teacher. He is the author of Danger’s Hour: The Story of the USS Bunker Hill and the Kamikaze Pilot Who Crippled Her, and the best-selling compilation, Make Gentle the Life of this World: The Vision of Robert F. Kennedy. He lives with his family in California and Cape Cod.