Cruising at Last is an adventure to experience

Cruising at Last by Elliott Merrick; published in 2003 by The Lyons Press in Guilford, Connecticut; 250 pages; hardcover; $22.95.

reviewed by Bethany Merrick Dunbar

When I think about sailing, I get a romantic notion of riding the wind and waves, searching for lost treasure — pieces of eight or dubloons or some such.

Cruising at Last makes me slow down, take a deep breath, and remember that the experience itself is the treasure.

I should admit my bias right here at the beginning. Elliott Merrick, who died in 1997, was my uncle. We shared more than the name. We shared a value system that demands as much time as possible spent outdoors, and we shared a passion for writing.

He was so much older than my father, Addison, that he was almost like a grandfather to me. But despite the age difference and the fact he lived in North Carolina, we also shared a few precious great times together. One of those was when I was about six years old. We had a sailing adventure in the thick fog that only confirmed for me the belief that my uncle was magic, a wizard of sorts. How else could he figure out where the heck we were supposed to go in that stuff and get us there safely without even seeming the slightest bit perturbed. We could see about two feet of cold gray water around the boat. Everything else in the world was just dense white fog.

The boat itself was like magic. Everything fit and worked. The little bunks were so cozy, and the kitchen (I should say galley) was incredibly efficient. My aunt Kay could make any meal in it. The rocking of the sea was like a physical lullaby, and the craft itself was beautiful. It was an extension of my uncle, who had built it himself.

This book was compiled after his death. "Bud" (the nickname everyone in the family called him) gave his daughter, my cousin Susan Merrick Hoover, the manuscript before he died. She was the driving force behind editing and publishing his last book.

The older generation in Craftsbury will remember Elliott Merrick for the ten years he lived there, part of it during the Great Depression. He taught at Craftsbury Academy and at the University of Vermont, and he wrote a book about living here, called Green Mountain Farm. He is the author of several books, including Northern Nurse, about my aunt Kay’s experience nursing in the wilds of Labrador where dog sled was the main form of transportation.

Readers who are familiar with Elliott Merrick’s writing will know that they can believe me — despite my bias — when I say that Cruising at Last is a book well worth reading. The rest of you should take a chance.

Mr. Merrick’s writing is simple and clear, amusing and evocative of the moment. Reading this book is the next best thing to cruising up the East Coast from Georgia to Maine and back. It’s based on his real experiences and includes a description of building his 20-foot sloop, the Sunrise.

This is how the book is dedicated:

A boat is not just a boat, you know. It is a winged Pegasus, or a Magic Carpet, taking you to new places, new friends, and new thoughts.

Millions of people would like to go cruising in their own sailboats. If my wife and I at sixty and seventy could do it, so can they. This book is for them.

Here is a description of sailing in Annapolis Harbor:

Three big tankers lay at anchor out in the bay, one half empty, the other two loaded. It seems to be a favorite place where they wait for a dock or a cargo in Baltimore. Something about tankers seen from a small boat is so monstrous, so uncompromisingly, unutterably ugly you’d have to rise early in the morning to even think up anything so hideous.

We galloped and surfed, leaping, pitching, surging, slowing between waves and gathering ourselves for another and another toboggan down the backs of hurrying combers. First the stern kicks up and the bow is depressed as we fly in a whirlwind of speed that sings; then the stern sinks and the bow rises as we slow in the trough. The sails are engines hurling us through the world, strong, light, so fragile and yet so successfully coping with nature’s savage forces they resemble a bird’s wings riding the gale; I kept jumping in my mind from birds to horses, our motion like riding some fleeting steed hour after hour, pursued and among the white horses of the sea. We cannot quite plane as we used to in some of the centerboarders we have owned. That is because of our keel, with its bulb on the bottom of the fin; also the weight of cruising gear. But we feel as though we are soaring faster than the speed of sound, and we take joy in the knowledge that our keel boat stands up to very strong winds in a way no racing centerboarder can possibly equal.

Mr. Merrick did a lot of writing about the natural world, but his love of human nature shines through here as well. A good share of the adventure of journeys like these is meeting other sailing and boat people.

After managing to get through two nasty thunderstorms in New York, not long after tacking by the Statue of Liberty, the Merricks found a spot to anchor. While warming up with a cup of tea, Mrs. Merrick noticed a boy in a little plastic-foam sailboat. His sail was ripped, and he had no oars. He was trying to paddle with his rudder but making little progress:

"We couldn’t let that go on, so I quickly buoyed the anchor, cranked the outboard, and went over to him in handy little Sunrise. ‘You want some help?’ I asked.

"‘Yes please.’

"I tied a line to his bow and he came aboard. He didn’t have a line of his own. His sail was torn clean in half from leach to luff. After taking it down, we motored back to our anchor.

"His name was Harold. But that’s all we could learn. We couldn’t get him to say anything except his name. He wouldn’t take a cup of tea or a cookie. He just sat on the stern deck clasping his knees, shivering occasionally, and looking a picture of misery."

The Merricks delivered Harold to another boat headed to shore.

"Just before stepping across, Harold surprised us by putting out his hand, giving us a big smile, and saying, ‘Thanks a lot.’

"As the harbor chop rocked me in my bunk that night, I was thinking that odd things occur when you’re cruising, living a sort of catch-as-catch-can life, never knowing what will happen next. It was a blessed relief for us, of course, to have made a safe passage through menacing New York City, but the event of the day was Harold...

"I decided New York City is big, but the return of Harold’s confidence was big, too. I wondered if he’d grow up to be a sailor, often scared, sometimes brave, always trying to be more of the latter."

A transformation occurs during the book as the Merricks become more knowledgeable and confident. They find they can worry less and enjoy the experience all the more.

"So what is it, this cruising racket?" Mr. Merrick writes in the last chapter of the book. "Just self-indulgence, just the luxury yachting has always implied? No sir! It is storms and calms, lonely beaches, rivers, harbors, clouds, the wind...

"Work, sweat, pain, exhaustion, strength, peace, and exhilaration go into it! Like love, it is dangerous, for you can get hurt in your innermost being — as when you fail yourself and flunk out. But — also like love — it’s ultimate ecstasy and joy in the world, the natural, unashamed, primitive, naked, lovely world."

These words were written some time ago — maybe 25 years ago. But they are possibly more relevant now than they were at the time of writing. Not everyone can have the experience of building a boat and sailing up and back on the East Coast for as long as it takes. But anyone can appreciate the feeling of freedom and opportunity such a journey would bring. In times when it’s harder and harder to step out of the rat race to actually have such a wonderful adventure, Cruising at Last offers the next best thing — a well-written description of how it all feels and the hope that it’s not out of reach.