E. B. White once wrote:
“Men who ache all over for tightness and compactness in their lives often find relief for their pain in the cabin of a 30-foot sailboat at anchor in a sheltered cove. Here, the sprawling panoply of the home is compressed in orderly miniature and liquid delirium, suspended between the bottom of the sea and the top of the sky, ready to move on in the morning by the miracle of canvas and the witchcraft of rope. It is small wonder that men hold boats in the secret place of their mind, almost from the cradle to the grave.”
I grew up with this poetic imagery, which my father enjoyed as much as he loved sailing. Somehow, the scale of the ocean and the power of nature put our lives in humble perspective and allowed our cares to dissipate. I find nothing more relaxing than the gentle lap of harbor ripples kissing the hull of our boat, at anchor in a peaceful cove after a day of navigation and discovery.
My parents were enthusiastic Maine cruisers on their 30-foot sloop, and my father started a tradition of playing the sun to sleep each night in whatever harbor they were anchored. He was an accomplished trumpeter and kept a special, somewhat seaworthy trumpet aboard. As a prelude to sunset—and the cocktails that followed—he would play a little jazz number that would eventually morph into “Taps” just as the sun started to meet the horizon.
We will always remember him silhouetted against the dusky sky, playing across the harbor. Over the years, we’ve met more than a few cruisers who remember my dad playing the sun to sleep.
For his funeral almost ten years ago, I found a talented trumpeter from the Boston Symphony Orchestra who moonlighted as a launch driver at the yacht club my parents belonged to on the North Shore. We held a final gathering there after my father’s funeral, where we played him to sleep one last time. The young trumpeter played perfectly.
Sail on, Dad, and let that final note linger.