Wooden boats, indeed boats generally, do not, as a rule, inspire deep contemplation, unless it’s how the hell are we to fix the persistent drip in the inaccessible tuck, right up by the sternpost, or what now when the wheezy old Volvo MD1 coughs its last and you’ve ditched the cutlery along with the dishwater. The sea throws up the mundane, the dramatic: dismasting, pitchpoling, leaks, riding out a storm at a sea anchor, and everything in between. You may grasp the ways of a ship, perhaps, a deeper knowledge of yourself, maybe, but what have you learned of life itself?
Exotic destinations, all swaying palms and flaxen beaches, do little for me. Frankly, just as I find it hard to read sea literature, unless of the highest quality, I…
