I was on my third trip up the dock for another load of gear when I noticed the red plastic “For Sale” sign neatly lashed to a pulpit with waxed marline. The sign read: 38-foot trawler, ready for world cruising, fully equipped, Must sell immediately, best offer by May 1.
That skipper hadn’t been around the dock in a few weekends, which was unusual. I knew him, this fellow we’ll call Hal, but in the boating way rather than socially.
There’s a difference, you see, between having a dockmate and having a friend. A friend is someone you call to meet for dinner. A dockmate is, in many ways, a closer relationship.
When Hal needed someone to crawl into his forepeak to hold the wrench for a cleat being installed, he’d stroll down and ask me if I had a moment. He secured my tender cover in the rain after a surprise gale blew some snaps off. At the end of a day on our boats, we’d pop a brew in a cockpit. In many ways, a dockmate is a more intimate relationship than a spouse (inviting your spouse to hold a wrench is a test of marital bliss).
I knew that Hal’s wife had died several years before. He’d sold his business, and his grown kids didn’t care for boating. A casual cruiser for years, he had thrown himself into preparing his 38-footer for a world cruise.
This fitting out had been a process, and I’d left my share of blood and sweat in it. Knowing that I was “in the business,” he’d sometimes ask my opinion about products. He religiously bought all the new cruising books. His collection of charts grew steadily, and his boat became a floating showpiece for the newest of anchors.
I was appreciative of his wariness of electronics. And though he had good black boxes, he had also taken a celestial navigation course and practiced regularly with his sextant to stay current. He selected his gear thoughtfully, and maintained his boat in Bristol fashion with glossy varnish and sparkling topsides. I envied him the freedom (and the wherewithal) to pack up and head for faraway shores.
By dusk, my gear had found its way back into lockers, and I had stopped to rest when Hal appeared at my rail.
I offered him a cold beer. He climbed aboard, appearing tired and worn. I fetched his beer and asked about the “For Sale” sign. I could hear the pain in his voice as he explained why he was selling his beloved boat.
He’d had an ache in his side and seen his doctor. A battery of tests had been conclusive. Hal had one of those 17-letter words that we call “The Big C.” The doctor was a friend, so he’d been honest. Hal had maybe a year on the outside, not much fun at the end.
We sat in silence as the cumulus overhead turned pink and then scarlet. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Hal broke the silence. “You know,” he said, “there’s an old saying that applies here: ‘Every man is placed on earth condemned to die, time and place of execution unknown.’ The only difference between us is that I know when I’ll die.”
So, the boat was for sale and the dream was shattered. His situation brought home to me how fleeting our existence really is.
Hal had spent months and then years making sure he had the right anchor, when he could have been out field-testing his old anchor in the Marquesas. He’d spent a fortune on cruising books when he could have been riding on the long swells under a warm trade wind. If you’re one of the many other Hals in the marinas across the country, take heed. The clock is ticking, and the time to go is now. Don’t wait until it’s too late.
And if world cruising isn’t your goal, take heed anyway. Don’t let your life slip through your hands. Remember last week when the weather was so flawless and you thought briefly about taking the boat out after work, but chose to plop down and watch television instead? That day is gone, and you missed your chance. Next time, seize the day.
There’s a bit of an epilogue to my story about Hal. I saw him the next weekend. He’d shown his boat to some potential buyers, he told me as we stretched out on his bridge.
“I have a suggestion,” I said.
He cocked his eyebrow.
“Go anyway,” I said. “Hell, you’ve got six months at least. The boat’s been ready for a year. All you have to do is put on some provisions and drop your docklines. How far you get is your choice. You can reach French Polynesia easily, New Zealand if you don’t dawdle in the islands. Why not?”
Hal worried. What if he got sick?
There are doctors everywhere.
What would happen to the boat?
It would get sold wherever it was.
What about, what about… He was full of reasons he couldn’t go, and I was sad that his dream could slip away so quickly.
We shook hands that night, which we’d never done, and I had an odd sense of finality.
A few weeks have gone by now, and this morning, I noticed the “For Sale” sign is gone. A couple of empty grocery store boxes were on his dock. I don’t know what this means, but I certainly can hope.
I’ll let you know what happens but, in the meantime, carpe diem.
This article originally appeared in the April 2026 issue of Passagemaker magazine.
