A MAN YOU WON’T MEET EVERY DAY
ut of respect for advancing years and the diminishing time I can set aside for scraping, caulking and painting, I sold my last wooden boat a while ago. Now, I sail a carefully chosen American bermudan cutter constructed out of GRP. She ticks every box for Roz and me, but we still yearn for the spiritual experience of living in an artefact carved from the forest, powered by hemp and flax grown in the fields and fastened by metals mined in the deep places of the earth. These things are tangible, but what we miss most of all is the less definable human element of traditional seafaring. When I sit down to write this column, I often start by thinking about a particular boat, then find my mind wandering to the people who bring her