Going Aloft by Rick Klepfer
Has there ever been a prospective sailboat purchaser who has looked at the towering mast on the vessel they have just been smitten with, thought about the need to climb it at some point and decided to forget sailboats and reconsider powerboats? I doubt it. Sailboats are seductive, and buyers are unduly charmed by their sweet lines, the details of their fittings and the cleverly fitted accommodation spaces below decks. There may be expanses of flawlessly varnished teak, rich fabrics in a complementary shade or arrays of mesmerizing electronics that entice them to overlook the harsher realities of sailboat ownership. A sailboat is perhaps the most graceful of forms to ever follow a function. I fall into that lot of sailors who push any thoughts of future maintenance to the back of their mind when boat shopping. I want all those attributes that make sailing an endeavor that satisfies my every sense and on every level. The snug berths that cradle you as your mother once did. The smell of teak and fresh varnish. The kerosene cooker frying your morning eggs and bacon on a crisp fall morning. The challenges of piloting your
sweet craft along the margins of the Bay, where the intertwining of saltwater, shore and intertidal wildlife intersect to fashion a scene of intricate complexity and beauty. All these things, and more, combine to conjure up thoughts of both comfort and modest adventure. But the day will come when you must ascend to the very top of that formidable stick. Perhaps the masthead light has winked out, a halyard could have twisted itself around a masthead fitting, or maybe an osprey has started construction on a 45
