FRIENDS & FOOD AFLOAT by Sandra Thoma
LIV ING THE GOOD LIFE IN THE SA N JUA N S
H
ello?” Roy answers his iPhone and sets it on the galley floor between our knees. The sweet Texas accents of our friends Scoot and Cookie came over the speaker: “Is the invitation to go sailing with y’all still open?” The Origo stove we’d cooked on for a decade sat in the cockpit next to the new-but-not-yet-installed Force 10 propane replacement. Our Catalina 36, Tranquility, lay in disarray with tools everywhere. “One sec,” I pushed the mute button and looked at my husband like a deer in headlights. “The boat is a mess.” My husband gave a half shrug. “It’s Cookie and Scoot.” I suffer from the “sailing problem”, and Roy suffers an “aviation addiction”. His affliction is so significant that he’s built his own airplane. Cookie and Scoot also built and fly a plane like ours. A few years ago, we flew our homebuilt airplanes to the Caribbean together. Cookie and Scoot guided us through the maze of Customs clearances, fueling procedures, and technical navigation over the open ocean. We’d become fast friends and travel companions, which is why I unmuted the iPhone, and we set a sailing date. Roy grinned from ear to ear. “Scoot and Cookie are coming!” I wondered where we’d put extra fenders, lines, a box of dry goods, and crab traps stuffed in the stern berth. And we’d need a menu. A week later, the new stove sparkled in the galley, the stern berth was made up, and the fridge held neatly stacked
48º NORTH
provisions. Cookie and Scoot merrily danced aboard on a perfect July day and we wasted no time getting underway. Cookie's buoyant head of auburn hair bounced this way and that as she watched Roy and I cast off lines. Scoot, with his calm blue eyes, watched me prepare to unfurl the sails in the wind shadow of Reef Island in West Sound. “We can haul lines,” he kneeled behind the starboard winch. “Absolutely,” Cookie grabbed the outhaul for the main. “Our Hunter was rigged a lot like your boat.” “I forgot you owned a sailboat.” “Put ‘em to work,” Roy laughed. “They’re younger and in better shape than we are.” Cookie and Scoot were both trim and athletic, in mid-summer shorts and T-shirts. Roy and I, in contrast, are both post-middle-age, with good food-and-beer bodies, covered in PNW long-sleeved shirts and jeans. Tranquility's bow fell away from the wind, and her shoulder settled in on a close reach. Roy pulled the engine shut-off. Cookie sighed, “I love the sound of water over the hull.” “Oh, yeah,” Scoot leaned back to admire the sails. Roy had the helm well in hand, so I slipped down to the galley to make lunch. I pulled out the griddle, turned on the new Force 10, and watched foam splash along the hull out the porthole window. I listened to Roy describe the islands. “That’s Jones off our beam, and ahead is Waldron. We’ll leave Waldron to starboard.” Cookie leaned over the rail. “The water is so blue-green.” I felt a burble of joy as as thick, buttery slices of bread turned
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AUGUST 2021
