Winter Wren – Southern Pines, North Carolina
I, Bernie Harberts, did not use generative AI to write or illustrate this article. Spell check and grammar check, yes. AI, no.
I tackled the weight problem first.
The least a steeplechase jockey had to weigh was a bit less than 130 pounds.
130 pounds. I weighed 165.
That was to ride a maiden three year old thoroughbred, a horse that had never won a race. But that 130 pounds included the jockey’s saddle, pad, and helmet. So that meant the rider, even if he chose an ultra light saddle called the “Postage Stamp” might have to step on the scales weighing a few pounds less than 130 pounds.
I was in the grips of racing passion so I did what every jockey does. First I quit eating. Then I bought a rubber suit.
As my body began the slow process of digesting almost 40 pounds of itself, my mind took refuge in my sailing dream.
When things got too bad, toward the end of the week, when I had a race coming up and was silently suffering in my rubber suited sweating Hell, I snuck down to the Moore County Library. The library was housed in a slate covered brick building and as I walked in, I hoped no one would notice. I was making plastic creaking sounds, like I was wearing a diaper under my jeans. And when I sat too long, a puddle formed at my feet.
Such were the inconveniences of cutting weight.
Still, I braved leakage and eventually found a library book called “Pocket Cruisers for the Backyard Builder” by Dave Gerr.
As I flipped through the pages of dream boats Gerr swore you could build on a tight budget, I saw her.
Her name was Winter Wren. She was a perky little gaff rigger, 18 1/2 feet long with a four-side mainsail and bowsprit that made her look ready to shishkebab the world.
“Yes! Yes! That’s the one!” I practically snorted.
In that euphoric moment, I didn’t feel what can only be described as a belly full of acid eating its way out of my intestines. I’d learned all sorts of tricks to muffle its constant grumbling. I drank water ’til I felt like I’d swallowed the Atlantic. That drowned out the noise. And when I was caught away from a water fountain, sucking in my belly button worked.
But for one glorious moment the cavern under my rib cage felt smooth and silent and so I sent off for the plans.
Then I asked Mel what she had planned with her garage.
More from Garage Sail: Canada to the Bahamas.
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