Farewell to the Shelly B

It was a night like so many in La Paz, Mexico-a gathering of people from all over, all sailors with different aspirations. This particular gathering was on a boat called Lift, a boat sailed by friends of mine out of Port Townsend. I hear they were making enchiladas. In the company was another friend of mine, Brian, also hailing out of Port Townsend. He and I were prepping our boats at the same time, hauled out at the same time. We'd sailed together occasionally. I even once raced with him on his boat, the Shelly B. She was a Pearson Triton, also one of the very oldest fiberglass boats around. She had similar lines in certain respects to Araby.

But Brian didn't feel Shelly was ready that year; he had started a rather grand reconstruction of his galley and cabin and she wasn't really where she needed to be, and the finances were low. So Brian went off to fish. Alaska, NW Washington, and even down to S California lining the wallet for the next year.

And he did it.

He set off in the Shelly B in August and braved the northern seas and made the sail down to Sausalito and then on down to Mexico. He did what so few with good intentions ever accomplish.

And La Paz is a grand place with a great community and good food. Many never make it any farther. It is a portal to the Sea of Cortez-you could spend a lifetime exploring the anchorages, and they can be as beautiful as any in the world.

And so it was he met up with Dan and Sonya on Lift. Life had left the year (or two?) before me and had lived in Sausalito for most of that time until sailing south with our fleet (Hubris, Laurabelle, Thistledown, Bamboo, and so on). I crewed on Lift for the passage from San Diego to Encenada before going home for Christmas, now over a year ago. After the winter season Dan and Sonja left Lift on the hard in San Carlos and moved back to Port Townsend to make some cash. Only last month have they returned to sail Baja again. And thus the reunion in La Paz and the meeting with Brian.

So.

Eating enchiladas on Lift in the marina with Dan and Sonja and God knows who else, everyone having a grand time I'm sure, as it gets late people make their way back to their boats.

As Brian goes to leave, he walks down the dock to where his dinghy is waiting to row him home. But a flicker must have caught his eye. Out in the harbor there is a blaze, a great roaring fire. He must have known, but disbelieved: that was his home, his heart, his life-that was Shelly B burning.

Shelly B

burned and sank that night.

Everything that was Brian's world drowned. With the quenching of the flames by the sea, how many dreams also lay extinguished? All right before him. Everything: money, cloths, photos, diaries, passport. . . who knows? Gone. I can't imagine the anguish of such a moment. . . what words: despair? Perhaps it would be different for all of us. But with a boat goes all hope of adventure, of a future so long pursued, so dearly bought.

And not just that, but the past too: What have I spend the last few years of my life for? Gone. All gone. Like that. With a spark, or a bad wire, or a candle. Who knows? I don't know. I don't know if Brian knows.

But remember, La Paz is no ordinary place with no ordinary community. Many must have seen the sinking of the Shelly B and all who didn't would hear about it. In La Paz in the morning there is a cruising net, a sort of radio broadcast with loads of information of all kinds and anyone can chip in with virtually anything on their mind.

And so it passed, I presume, that people bonded together to organize a collection of food and clothes and god only knows what (I don't have the details on any of this) for Brian. If this wasn't wonderful enough, somehow, someway, they actually came up with another boat for Brian-and not just any boat mind you-another Pearson Triton! A sister-ship to Shelly B.

What? How?-I have no idea. But I know La Paz and anything is possible. Another Triton! This really is almost too much to believe.

People are pulling together for Brian; they are lifting him up with what they have and can give. And doesn't this somehow soften the tragedy? Doesn't this rare act of humanity counter the cruel, cold indiscretion of the world? The worst of times followed by the best?

Maybe not.

Nothing will mend Brian's loss, but it is such a warming feeling to be at the end of such love and generosity. It motivates you to stand up, dust off, and carry on. It is like little else in the world.

So this is what I have heard. I have spun greatly upon the little info I received from Sonja. I could have things a bit off, but hopefully the gist is there.

I haven't heard from Brian. My best to you, mate. My heart is with you. And I hope anyone reading this will send this man your best wishes and your positive energy. It makes a difference.