When the National Guard summoned my husband to a port town, I made him
promise not to buy a boat. For a litany of reasons the timing was poor: our
children are small, our budget too stretched - but mostly it was safety
concerns. I reminded Jason that just because he reads sailing magazines
and took that lesson two years ago didn’t mean he was ready to own a boat
on Lake Superior.
”Remember, Honey, how you took the boom in the face?” I reminded him. ”
And you chipped your front tooth and nearly fell in the water?” It wasn’t the
prospect of cosmetic dentistry that alarmed me; I didn’t want him to end up in
a Gordon Lightfoot song.
But before his duffel was unpacked, Jason was shopping. It began as an
innocent flirtation, a glance at the classifieds, a walk in the marina. Then it
escalated to full-fledged “boat porn”: a sordid affair involving brokers, phone
calls in the night and incessant web surfing. Jason was a man obsessed and I
wasn’t aware how deep he was in until he confessed to signing a purchase
agreement.
As to his broken promise, he pleaded a crime of passion. “It was such a good
deal, I didn’t have time to consult you, honey,” he pleaded, eyes averted. Uh-
huh.
Now I was angry. An angry woman alone with children under three, while her
husband is away sailing, should never, ever have naming rights. Yet from our
long-standing agreement, that is exactly what I had. Determined that every
harbormaster, every lift bridge operator, every salty dog would see the
wound from my hen-peck, the boat was to be dubbed The Benevolent Wife.
”What do you mean I don’t get to name her?” I asked incredulously. We had
an arrangement here, but apparently I was not aware of the fine print.
”Well you see, she’s a legend. It would be a crime to rename her,” Jason
implored as though he had any right to talk to me about crime.
Apparently our 27 year-old sloop had quite a hey day back with Captain Dick
Wisti at the tiller. She won nine of her 12 regattas. Finlandia, a Lindenberg
26, was twice an International champion, a magazine cover girl and the toast
of the Minnetonka Yacht Club.
A wistful crowd of old timers gathered at the clubhouse the day Jason
trailered their best girl away. Even I had to lay down my spite, and let this
mythical boat keep her storied moniker.
Sailors have long memories and what I didn’t realize was my compassion
would have big payoff. When Jason brought her home to Lake Superior,
dock walkers who had raced, crewed, and long-admired Finlandia stopped to
welcome her and us. Old sailors came around to inquire if this was THE
Finlandia, to reminisce and ultimately usher us to the front of the velvet rope
line and into their world.
Despite being her green stewards or maybe because of it, new friends have
been incredibly generous with their time, talent, and comradery. Because of
them we may even finish the season without incident, all our teeth intact.
Certainly, if Jason had purchased a different boat, we would have made
acquaintances. However, without Finlandia, I can’t imagine people shouting
invitations across open water and so readily adopting us into their fold.
Perhaps Finlandia is worthy of the legend. Somehow she’s managed to
charm me into something more of a benevolent wife.
