Securely tied to a pier in an all-but-dead historical port, she rested. My second home. My favorite home. Waves lapped gently at her hull. Sun glistened on her spray-soaked bow. Keona. For me, she was more than a boat. She was a refuge, a fortress, a cozy hideaway from all my problems, a dry haven in the incessant Seattle rain.
We named her Keona, Hawaiian for "God's gracious gift," a name far too sentimental for my tastes, but undeniably fitting to the circumstances of her arrival and departure. She came and went as suddenly as the Seattle sun that emerges from its cloudy curtain without warning, temporarily blinding unprepared drivers, only to steal away once more.
My dad had yearned for a boat since high school. He admits calling off his engagement to a woman who now lives a fulfilling life as a Safeway cashier in Hawaii because she prohibited him from fishing. His broken engagement opened the door for his courtship with my mother, who does allow him to pursue his slippery prize. While my pragmatic mother didn't see any logical reason for getting a "hole in the water that you throw money into," she soon realized that she was outnumbered, and we found ourselves immersed in the world of boating.
It began with a year of boat shopping, which is far more complicated than anyone would guess, but far less painful than buying a car. Boat salesmen generally prefer to ramble off a few boating adventures of their own (at least if they have any idea what they're selling) than try to coerce the customer into buying one of their models. We formed our own opinions about cabins and hulls and flybridges (the upstairs steering stations on some boats) and, after a cruise to the San Juans in a friend's 36' Tollycraft, we began to consider this local line of boats (which have held their value despite being discontinued in the late 1980s).
There she lay. Lodged between two wooden pilings with two inches to spare on either side, "001" (as she was called then) seemed vaguely familiar. I stepped into her cabin, and was immediately overwhelmed by the odor familiar to all motor boaters-- a mixture of gasoline and fiberglass. We tried everything to eliminate it, but gave up eventually. The smell infiltrated everything--our teas, our food, our clothing, my mind. It became a nostalgic, comforting perfume that transports me back across time, to my first cruise as a 12-year-old.
Most of the time spent aboard Keona was not actually spent cruising. It was spent tinkering around, cleaning her deck, polishing her metal, oiling her wood. Yet, these times spent at the dock were not "wasted" cruising time. She was witness to our lives. We had countless meals aboard her, read countless books and magazines, and had countless conversations, most of no particularly deep meaning. She shared the dozen little rituals that comprised our lives.
We were fair-weather cruisers. My mother adamantly refused to leave the dock unless it wasn't raining and the winds weren't above 10 knots. Her caution was partially due to her insistence on enjoying the ideal cruise (with abundant snacks, water, life jackets, and sunshine) and partially due to the little bump we had with the multi-million dollar yacht moored around the bend of our notoriously-windy channel. (The owner wasn't upset, and the mark was buffed out of the hull, but it lingered in our egos).
We had our share of interesting dockings. One time, when the wind was blowing particularly strong from the North (pushing us farther from our pier), we found ourselves traveling sideways down the channel. Thankfully, our 30' boat was small enough to pass safely through the maze of yachts. It was also large enough to be noticed by several worried boat owners who were waiting, boathook in hand, at the dock, hoping to salvage our docking and their boats.
As our docking improved, people began to panic less when they saw Keona, and even became friendly towards us. Countless plates of teriyaki salmon and rice made their way across the pier to Tramonto, a 32' sailboat whose charismatic owners seemed to be able to accomplish anything and everything they set out to do (from preparing poke--Hawaiian marinated fish--to repairing an engine). Later, they announced that they would be embarking on a voyage to the Marquesas (a decision that had been made in a bar), and after much research and preparation, Tramanto was sailing peacefully across the warm South Pacific seas.
Stepping aboard Keona, I entered a world inaccessible by television or internet or even books. Looking back at the city shrinking ever faster into the horizon, I squinted hard against the sun and wind, lulled to sleep by the spray and the sun and the rhythm of the waves as she danced on towards a new adventure, watching all boundaries disappear like the roads and houses and hustle of the terrestrial world. Freedom awaited her, beckoning her, beckoning me, to venture past the breakwater and into the sea.
I used to pretend that Keona could dance, gliding gracefully along the glassy surface only to leap over the wake of a passing ship, sending us airborne for a second, should we neglect to slow down. (This wore on the hull but was breathtaking nonetheless.)
She refused to follow plans. Spontaneous as the water itself, she was both delightful and unruly. One morning, en route to Whidbey Island, we found ourselves surrounded by harbor porpoises. It started as a small splash in the distance, hardly distinguishable in the chop, and evolved into several spontaneous fountains all around us. They were too fast for my camera. I missed the porpoise; all I caught was its exit, the smoke of its farewell fireworks as it returned to its watery world. Another time, as we were picking up a crab pot on our way back from Whidbey Island with some friends, our port engine reluctantly reversed, stuttered, and died. Luckily, we still had the starboard engine, and continued to limp back to Seattle at half our normal cruising speed. We reached a nearby port just as the sun was setting. Despite all the complications, the stress, the inevitable hassle that would arise from getting the port engine repaired, we celebrated our voyage with crab and salmon and wine.
We explored the myriad of local ports around the Puget Sound (which is not the Pacific Ocean, but an over-sized inlet that reaches into most of Western Washington). Upon landing, we would search out a bakery and cafe. After a latte and lunch, we would wander the limited streets of the quaint and sleepy towns, slipping into art galleries and boutiques. We would sample the ambience of a quieter life before returning to Keona and, later, to our usual urban routine.
Sometimes, I wish that she had never been sold. That I could still return to her, breathe in her smell, have one last dance, to feel the wind on my face and the hypnotic rays of the quiet Seattle sun. Yet, I know that even if college costs had not forced my parents to sell her, my experience would not be the same. Keona was a place of quiet freedom, of supervised exploration. She lingers, a collage of images, swirling ever quicker in the wake of time, ever bubbling through my thoughts, surfacing at times, and being submerged at others. Onward, I propel myself past my childhood, yet ever clinging to the rail, ever gazing at the shrinking marina of my past.
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