An Anchor that Never Drags | Love Letter to a Sailboat by Chelle Heart

[passagesfromtheheart]

Hi, I am not sure if this will ever been seen/read here, but I still wanted to share. My hopes are that others, out there, will understand the kind of deep connection a human can share with her sailboat. This is, specifically, a letter I wrote to my childhood sailboat -- a boat I've been searching for the past six years. In that time, I have found two sisterships -- the second one only a few weeks or so ago (only 15 of these boats were imported to the U.S. from Sweden, by the way). Actually, there is a strong possibility that this boat could be my childhood sailboat; I am still working on finding out as of this writing. Here is my letter to my beloved Valhalla, a 1976 Peter Norlin designed Shipman Accent 26.

An Anchor that Never Drags | Love Letter to a Sailboat by Chelle Heart

I've been collecting my thoughts, my feelings, about you. I have to do this because they — my thoughts and feelings — are swimming deep within the fathoms of both my heart and mind, as well as all the places found in between.

Some might say it's time to give up the ghost; that I'm obsessing over you, and that I need to let you go. Actually, someone did, literally, tell me that once — that I need to let go of you. That even if in the quite off-chance I did find you, things between us could never, ever be the same. That we could never recreate the life we had together, so long ago, and that it would be extremely foolhardy of me to even believe such things were even possible.

Honestly, perhaps that well-intentioned person might just be right. But, still...I cannot shake the feeling that you are still out there, and that you're waiting for me to find you. Just like when, in Anna Sewell's best-selling book, Black Beauty, her unforgettable character — a horse called Black Beauty, after years of separation, abuse, neglect, and heartbreak — reunites with his forever-person, Joe Green. Only this time, you are Black Beauty and I am Joe. If I were to whistle to you as Joe had done to Black Beauty, would you hear my call, as Black Beauty had heard Joe's call?

Can you hear me calling to you, now?

Or rather is it me hearing your impassioned plea to not give up my search for you?

It hasn't been easy, my attempts at finding, reuniting with you. The journey to do so has been joyful at times, confusing at others, but moreover, as a whole, it's simply been heartbreaking. This search has been going on..let me see...yes, almost six years, now.

There have been many others who've come into my life since we were last together. While they did fill some part of my heart with happiness, the ache of those others not being you always lingered somewhere deep within. I would try to ignore those feelings — the sorrow and pain. I'd chide myself for holding onto the hope of finding you. And I knew that some might call it all childish notions, or magical thinking and whatnot. Those who'd say, or think, such things are probably the same kind who'd believe dreams never come true. That wishful thinking is just that...wishful thinking.

But I have always known otherwise, because in truth, my life has always unfolded in all sorts of magical ways. In ways which surpass mere coinincidence. In fact, I don't believe in coincidence. I do believe in Destiny. And I believe that there is a rhyme and a reason to why things happen, even if those things which come to pass are painful and make no sense. In time, making sense of such transpirings eventually reveals itself, and the lessons we learn from such occurrences are likely lessons we will not soon forget.

You came into my life at a time when I was likely the most wide-eyed, dreamy little girl any girl could ever be. And while I wasn't aware of it at the time, I came to find later in my life — much, much later, really — that the simple, almost carefree life that I shared with you shaped the meaning of something in life which proves almost mythical — like the lost city of Atlantis — in finding. What I'm talking about, here, is finding peace. Not just to a world immersed in what feels like never-ending chaos — but to the sole individual. Peace is, after all, a unique experience for each of us.

The first time I saw you, since the last time I saw you, was five years ago. I'll be honest, I wasn't sure it was really you, but even if only your twin, and though located literally half-way across the country, I was armed — tooth and nail — to do whatever it took to fight for you, to be with you. My hopes flew higher than the wings of Pegasus ever could, and I was as certain about things working out with you as much as I'm certain that, under the right circumstances, milk turns to butter. But just like butter, as if you were such, you slipped away through my grasp, and our reunion, it appeared, would not come to fruition.

But that does not mean I ever gave up hope. Or that the story ends.

About you.

Or finding you.

Or being with you once again.

So that's why, when only one month ago, when I happened to be driving along Madeline Island, located within Lake Superior, and then ventured into the town of La Pointe, seeing you, there, unexpectedly, set me off like a firecracker ready for the Fourth Of July. I could not simply believe my eyes at the sight of you — right there!!!

"Stop the truck!!!!" I exclaimed to the First Mate who was driving at the time.

I quickly caught his incredulous glance my way — his face clearly looking at me as if I were some crazed, delusional person sitting beside him.

I gestured with my arm — waving wildly and repeatedly, in a backwards windmill, as best I could, while sitting in the passenger seat next to him.

"Back up the truck!!!" I yelled this time. "Back up the truck!!!!" I repeated, even louder, the second time around in utter desperation.

The First Mate was completely oblivious as to the reasons for my out-of-the-blue outburst, what it was that I was so frantic about.

Then, before I knew what I was even doing, I found myself jumping out of the truck, running as fast as my sea legs could take me, back to where you sat poised — clearly out of your element in a most unexpected place — behind a dive bar. You looked forlorn, likely forgotten, with the wildness of your ways out on the water long since abandoned, now floating upon a sea comprised of galvanized steel. Your topsides and brightwork were dull; your bottom paint a faded denim blue. Your spars lay aside you, out of place, separated from where they were designed to be.

Yet despite all of that, I could see the real you — the way you shined with your buoyant personality, your wit. The manner in which your courage radiated beyond the confines of all the dust, the dirt, and plethora of marks from a life long-lived. I could see the love — the life — that you still had to give.

But this time, again, you were still not mine to be had. You belong to another. Though I have speculated as much as I can, through the research and efforts I've made as to whom this 'other' is in your life, my efforts have fallen short.

With eyes filled with tears as I looked upon you, I tried to console myself, thinking rational thoughts like perhaps your current steward is just in the process of breathing new life into you — even if things didn't appear as such to me. A coin is always two-sided — there are always two sides to a story — both perspectives must be heard or seen. Validated.

And, as I always say, it's best not to judge. Ever. So as I find myself, without meaning ill intentions, passing at least a bit of judgment, or rather at least making assumptions about your situation, I know better than to do so, and so I must let things rest. For your sake and for mine. At least for now.

Who knows what the future shall bring? Nothing is ever etched in stone where such matters are concerned. Here's what I do know, now:

You are a sailboat. I am a human. Both of us were born from humans born from God. And the bond we share — that we have — it will never be broken. It only grows stronger, whether it be in body, in spirit. Or both.

I also know that wherever you may be in this physical world, ultimately, that's not what's most important. What's most important is that you will always, without question, be found within my heart and that will never change. I can always find you there. Your presence, within my heart, is an anchor that will never drag, no matter how tumultuous the sea of life becomes.

[bruce]

Sweet story Chelle, I hope you find her. Do you have a hull number for Valhalla?

In your search for a new boat you've mentioned some concern over learning to sail a gaff rig. It's clear you've had several sloops, I doubt you'll have any issues with a gaffer. Many have found Bill Welch's book, The Competitive Cat ..., useful for learning to sail a catboat. Some on racing, but it is primarily about sailing a catboat well.
https://www.amazon.com/Competitive-Racing-Small-Gaff-Rigged-Catboats/dp/1419683829

[passagesfromtheheart]

Thank you so much, Bruce! Actually, yes, I do have a HIN -- I also have the paperwork (in electronic form) from Larsen Marine, in the Chicago area, the brokerage where my dad traded the boat in for another boat (an Ericson 27). I even have the name of the person who became the next steward of Valhalla, an employee of Larsen Marine, but that name came up as a dead-end when I tried researching it.

As there were only 15 of these boats imported into the U.S. and only to one dealership (located on Lake Minnetonka, MN), it is very possible that the boat that I saw on Madeline Island could possibly be my boat. But until I can connect with the current owner, which, I have a name for that as well, but have not had luck getting in touch with that person, I could try to match HINs to see.

Thank you so much for letting me know about that book -- I am definitely adding it to my library! :-)