The Story of Blow & Stink - May & June 07

[This was originally published as a two part column in May & June 07]

Stinkpots and Blowboats - A Little Perspective Part I

I think the rivalry between those who prefer power to those who prefer sail probably dates back to the very first time someone stuck a motor on the back of a boat with the hope of making it go faster. Imagine a traditional sailor, aptly named Blow, sitting in his cockpit watching a his dock neighbor, aptly named Stink, drill holes in the transom, attach a motor mount, then hoist a Honda onto it and lock it in. Blow, the sailor, asks, “Now why would you want to go and do something like that?” Stink, the proud owner of the newly designed motor boat says, “To make the boat go faster, of course!”

Blow smirks and offers Stink a beer because he’s pretty sure that with the rising cost of fuel, the poor soul won’t be able to afford his own beverages much longer. Stink accepts glady, for what boater turns down the offer of a free beer, then starts his motor and readies his boat to make way. Blow covers his ears and coughs as a cloud of exhaust drifts over him, then raises his beer and calls, “fair winds!” Stink smirks because he knows he doesn’t have to rely on the fickleness of mother nature to reach his destination.

And so Stink ventures out in his custom motor boat and true to his imaginings, he zips right past his old friends in their sail powered boats and soon has left them in the distance, mere dots on the horizon. He relishes the (apparent) wind blowing his hair back from his eyes, he loves the speed with which his little boat skims over the surface of the waves, and he loves the thrill of competition that comes from leaving everyone in his wake. And so he goes, merrily on his way. Until he notices the sun is sinking and glances at his watch. Uh oh, he’s been out for hours. He quickly checks his fuel tanks and realizes that if he turns around now, he might be able to make it back to the dock before he runs out of fuel. Whipping the boat in a quick U, he heads back to his slip and coasts in on fumes.

Blow is flaking his mainsail, sipping on a rum drink and listening to Jimmy Buffet when Stink pulls into the slip. Stepping onto the dock, Blow takes the dockline Stink tosses to him and casually whips it around the cleat in a perfect knot, then asks, “So how was your sail?” Stink quickly corrects him. “I had a great boat ride. Left everyone wallowing in my wake, not a single boat could catch me! It was amazing, Blow! Amazing! You should get a motor too! I know a guy!”

Blow ponders this for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, Stink, as much as I appreciate the offer, I’ll stick to my sails. I had a fine ‘boat ride’ myself this evening.”

“You went for a boat ride this evening too?” Blow asks, looking at the slow little boat sitting peacefully in its berth next to his.

“Well of course. Why else does one own a boat but to take her out and enjoy a peaceful sunset sail? I happened upon a flock of albatross heading for shore and one landed on my bow pulpet for a rest I presume. He was silhouetted perfectly against the setting sun. I tell you it was an amazing image,” Blow says, a far away look in his eyes. “Did you enjoy the sunset? It was the most beautiful I’ve seen in years.”

Stink stops for a moment and tries to recall if he noticed the sunset, but couldn’t bring an image to mind. On the way out, he was consumed with the thrill of his boat and on the way back, he was worried about making it back with the fuel he had left.

“I can’t say that I noticed, Blow, but there will be other sunsets. Tomorrow, in fact!” Stink said with a grin. “Thanks for the hand tying up. You have a great evening and I’ll see you again soon.”

“Not coming back tomorrow, Stink?”

“No, I’m going to put in some overtime tomorrow so I can buy more fuel for my motor and go out again next weekend. Aren’t you working tomorrow?”

“Oh no. I’m going out for a long sail tomorrow. A bunch of us are going to head for the islands and raft up for the rest of the weekend. Good company, good food, good music. I’ll head back in and go to work on Monday. But I’m sure we’ll see you out next weekend if you aren’t too busy. We’ll raise a glass to you though!”

Stinkpots and Blowboats - A Little Perspective Part II

Last month you were introduced to Stink and Blow. The tale closed with Stink working overtime to afford fuel for his motor and Blow headed off for a weekend on the water. Now we return to find both boaters ready to enjoy a weekend trip to their favorite island.

Blow stows the last of his provisions and checks the weather which looks clear. Glancing at the little power boat sitting idly in the slip beside his, he decides to leave a note for his friend, who won’t be departing until later. “I have the Rum, you bring the ice!” he writes, and leaves the note in Stink’s cockpit. After hoisting his main and slipping the docklines, he makes his way steadily out to sea, relishing the breeze, the sound of waves breaking against his bow, and the feel of his little boat sliding up and down the swells. It doesn’t get much better, Blow thinks to himself as he trims the main and his vessel surges ahead.

Some time later, Stink arrives at the marina and discovers the note left by his friend Blow. Grinning, he thinks to himself, “Of course I’ll bring the ice. If you’d taken it, it surely would have melted before you reach our destination!” He lets his motor warm up while stowing his gear, baits a hook to drag behind him and leaves the dock. He eases through the no-wake zone until reaching open water then pushes back the throttle. He mentally calculates where Blow should be by now and figures that at his present speed he ought to beat his friend to the island with time for a cocktail to spare. Just to be sure, he nudges the throttle a little more, then hears the scream of his reel, announcing a fish on the line. It doesn’t get much better, Stink thinks to himself as he reels his fish across the foam of his wake.

A small cloud formation on the horizon has now become a towering front looming over Blow. He eyes the cloud and the lightening flashing below it with some trepidation, but decides to tack toward the edge of the storm and hopefully bypass it with minimal trouble. All seems to be going according to plan until the wind shifts directions and he finds himself in the middle of the gale. He furls his jib, reefs his main and turns to weather, knowing he has to ride it out. Seeing blue skies ahead, he lets out a sigh of relief that is cut off by a sharp snap, then the horrible sound of tearing sailcloth. A shroud has pulled free of the deck and whipped around flaying his main sail neatly in two before twisting around the furled jib. Her sails useless the little boat continues to rise and plunge through the waves while Blow tries to steer for the edge of the storm.

Stink sees the storm ahead and skirts around it easily before returning to his course. As he leaves the storm behind, he glances at it over his stern and notices a boat drifting with the current. A quick scan with his binoculars and he realizes the disabled vessel is his friend Blow. Whipping his own boat around, he zooms over. Blow stands at the bow with a coiled line in his hand. Without a word, Stink turns into position and catches the line when Blow tosses it. Stink eyes the shredded sail and the slump of his friend’s shoulders, then turns back to the wheel.

The two boats and their owners slowly make their way back home. Just as they enter the harbor, Stink’s engine makes an awful racket and clatters to silence. Quickly untying, the two friends steer and rock their boats into open slips where they’re assisted by friends and strangers alike. When they’ve tied up their boats and stepped onto the dock, Blow extends his hand to Stink.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “I’m sorry about your engine trouble and I’ll do what I can to help you fix it.”
“Thank you, my friend. But the sun is nearly down and I suspect we’ll both be better served by starting fresh in the morning. Now I believe you mentioned something about rum?”
Blow grins and retrieves the bottle from his galley, along with a lounge chair, which he sets up on the dock facing west. Stink returns a moment later with a chair of his own and two cups of ice.

Sipping cold drinks and watching the sun set, the two men are silent for a time. Then Blow speaks. “You know, Stink, maybe all that matters right now is sitting here enjoying the sunset.”
“I think you might be right, Blow. Our boats are floating, the rum is good, and-Last month you were introduced to Stink and Blow. The tale closed with Stink working overtime to afford fuel for his motor and Blow headed off for a weekend on the water. Now we return to find both boaters ready to enjoy a weekend trip to their favorite island.

Blow stows the last of his provisions and checks the weather which looks clear. Glancing at the little power boat sitting idly in the slip beside his, he decides to leave a note for his friend, who won’t be departing until later. “I have the Rum, you bring the ice!” he writes, and leaves the note in Stink’s cockpit. After hoisting his main and slipping the docklines, he makes his way steadily out to sea, relishing the breeze, the sound of waves breaking against his bow, and the feel of his little boat sliding up and down the swells. It doesn’t get much better, Blow thinks to himself as he trims the main and his vessel surges ahead.

Some time later, Stink arrives at the marina and discovers the note left by his friend Blow. Grinning, he thinks to himself, “Of course I’ll bring the ice. If you’d taken it, it surely would have melted before you reach our destination!” He lets his motor warm up while stowing his gear, baits a hook to drag behind him and leaves the dock. He eases through the no-wake zone until reaching open water then pushes back the throttle. He mentally calculates where Blow should be by now and figures that at his present speed he ought to beat his friend to the island with time for a cocktail to spare. Just to be sure, he nudges the throttle a little more, then hears the scream of his reel, announcing a fish on the line. It doesn’t get much better, Stink thinks to himself as he reels his fish across the foam of his wake.

A small cloud formation on the horizon has now become a towering front looming over Blow. He eyes the cloud and the lightening flashing below it with some trepidation, but decides to tack toward the edge of the storm and hopefully bypass it with minimal trouble. All seems to be going according to plan until the wind shifts directions and he finds himself in the middle of the gale. He furls his jib, reefs his main and turns to weather, knowing he has to ride it out. Seeing blue skies ahead, he lets out a sigh of relief that is cut off by a sharp snap, then the horrible sound of tearing sailcloth. A shroud has pulled free of the deck and whipped around flaying his main sail neatly in two before twisting around the furled jib. Her sails useless the little boat continues to rise and plunge through the waves while Blow tries to steer for the edge of the storm.

Stink sees the storm ahead and skirts around it easily before returning to his course. As he leaves the storm behind, he glances at it over his stern and notices a boat drifting with the current. A quick scan with his binoculars and he realizes the disabled vessel is his friend Blow. Whipping his own boat around, he zooms over. Blow stands at the bow with a coiled line in his hand. Without a word, Stink turns into position and catches the line when Blow tosses it. Stink eyes the shredded sail and the slump of his friend’s shoulders, then turns back to the wheel.

The two boats and their owners slowly make their way to the island. Just as they enter the harbor, Stink’s engine makes an awful racket and clatters to silence. Quickly untying, the two friends steer and rock their boats into open slips where they’re assisted by friends and strangers alike. When they’ve tied up their boats and stepped onto the dock, Blow extends his hand to Stink.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “I’m sorry about your engine trouble and I’ll do what I can to help you fix it.”
“Thank you, my friend. But the sun is nearly down and I suspect we’ll both be better served by starting fresh in the morning. Now I believe you mentioned something about rum?”
Blow grins and retrieves the bottle from his galley, along with a lounge chair, which he sets up on the dock facing west. Stink returns a moment later with a chair of his own and two cups of ice.

Sipping cold drinks and watching the sun set, the two men are silent for a time. Then Blow speaks. “You know, Stink, maybe all that matters right now is sitting here enjoying the sunset.”
“I think you might be right, Blow. Our boats are floating, the rum is good, and-“ the rest of his thought is cut off as the sun dips below the horizon and a brilliant green flash lights the sky for a fraction of an instant. Blow and Stink raise their glasses to each other in silence and smile.