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Let me take you somewhere different, somewhere far away. It’s 1960. I’m as young as my grandchildren are now and my father, who loves boats, has taken me to a marina in New Jersey where an ancient Crosby catboat is tied to a pier. She’s fallen into disrepair, gaps in her boards, paint peeling. It’s shivering winter and the ice around her cracks as we step aboard.  Going below, there’s a foot of water in her bilge, covered with a scrim of ice. Not a good sign in a wooden boat. My father hammers through the ice with the butt of an icepick.  Rolling up his sleeve, he plunges his arm into the frigid water, probing for rot with the pick.  He’s been visiting this tattered old gem before, always finding water, never finding rot. It’s a puzzle. Buying almost-wrecks is something he can afford. Fixing them up with his two sons comes next. Only then can we go sailing.

United statesNew jerseyRalph wileyLarry brownCape codCoast guardஒன்றுபட்டது மாநிலங்களில்புதியது ஜெர்சிரால்ப் விலேலாரி பழுப்புகேப் காட்கடற்கரை காவலர்