Good Old Boat Issue 142: Jan/Feb 2022
Winter Sailing Two friends’ seasonal ritual in a frozen boatyard sweetens the long Canadian winter.
BY ZORAN GLOZINIC
I t is mid-January, Quebec winter at its best. The day is sunny, the air crisp, and the sky a deep blue you just don’t see anywhere else. My old Saab starts without hesitation, despite the cold. Nordic genes are still running strong. Half an hour later we are at the yacht club, where all the boats are hauled up for the winter. Most are covered with tarps, but some are left bare to face the elements. I can never understand it—is it laziness? Lack of time? As I walk between sleeping boats, I feel sorry for the uncovered ones. They look very much like orphans to me. But my gloomy thoughts soon disperse, because there is Old Duck , my Vivacity 20, the very epitome of my freedom. Surrounded by bigger boats towering over
ends of the tarp tent are rolled up together and kept in place with plastic spring clamps. They hold the tarp tightly closed even during the strongest winter winds. I position a ladder next to the stern and tie it fast to the lower rudder fitting. I remove the spring clamps one by one, unroll the tarp ends, and re-clamp them open. Now I have easy access to the cockpit, up the ladder and over the stern. The strong wooden A-frame sits on the lazarette’s small deck, and it will take some yoga-inspired movements to navi- gate over it and into the cockpit. But that comes later; first, I climb back down with the end of a power cable that had been wrapped around the mainsheet horse and plug it into the electrical box a few feet
away. I put my ear next to the hull to see if I can hear the gentle rumbling of my electric heater fan in the main cabin. I can. Good. I walk to the harbor, where the vast expanse of the ice-covered lake shimmers in the sun. The distant shore and St. Lawrence Seaway are barely visible—no ships in sight. I walk for the next half an hour, enjoying the sun, deeply inhaling fresh winter air, and imagining white sails and the harbor full of masts. It will come soon, I know. We just need to hang on four more months. Finally, I return to Old Duck , climb aboard, and look around carefully under the tarp for any critters such as racoons who may have taken up residence (it happens frequently around here). All clear. I open up the
her with their deep-draft keels, she sits low on her trailer, her two bilge keels canted slightly outward. The tarp is clear of snow or ice and the lines holding it to the trailer frame are still taut. I walk all around her, making sure everything is OK. With the mast serving as a ridge pole, the tarp’s steep sides make a toboggan run for any snow, and small hills surround the boat on the ground. Both
boat and step below, where it’s already nice and warm. To keep it that way, I close the slider, replace the lower hatch board, and slide a piece of acrylic into the upper board’s space so I can look outside. I remove a water jug from my backpack and fill the kettle. I spend the next few minutes turning the hand crank
ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRITZ SEEGERS
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