Picture this: You're at the helm of a big ketch, loping gently through the blue waters of the West Indies. Your wife, sunbathing on the large foredeck cushion, looks great in her new yelow-and-black swimsuit. She's happy, and that makes you happy. And your young son, well, he's just seen his first sea turtle underwater and is trying to identify its pieces in a field guide. He sits in the cockpit beside you,
wrapped in a towel, shaded by the wide bimini.
You're feeling sort of lustful and fatherly at the same time. Magnanimous for sure. You have one hand on
the steering wheel, and you're aiming for a white ribbon of beach about three miles away, the evening's anchorage. The only thing that could improve this scene is a beverage, and damn! Next thing you know, the captain puts a cold one right between the four fingers and opposing thumb of your free hand.
All you have to do is squeeze.

Make a wish, dude, you're on a streak!

The Logan Express bus driver tossed our seven bags
onto the curb and left us inhaling his fumes. Our 12-year old son, Stephen, suggested we ran a "Smarte Carte," but being one of those stubborn, self-sufficient types who'd rather load himself like a packhorse than cave in to a porter or pay a buck fifty for a sissy cart, I shouldered two bags to a side, steadied myself, and shuddered forward. Like Dorothy spiraling toward Oz, I was ready for color and happy landing.

Working the Numbers
A year had passed since we sold Viva the Tartan 44 in which we cruised New England for six years. Day sailing the same course fot the hundred and first time was losing its appeal; we wanted to relive the excitement of making new ports. We also sought a complete (if temporary) respite from responsibility, which is what ultimately led us to forgo a bareboat charter in favor of a crewed one. Andra was rather insistent, reminding me that we've never gone anywhere when I haven't had to work on the boat. [Read on..]