IT all started over supper one night, though honestly, I can’t remember which supper, or which night. A few hundred miles southeast of Newport, Rhode Island, aboard the Swan 57 Flyer – underway on a 3,100-nautical-mile passage to Brittany, France — our multinational crew of five was a focused bunch. At the moment, the focus was on food.
This is of course what happens when you’re motorsailing with the iron jib chugging away. Begrudgingly, we’d grown accustomed to the ceaseless grumble of the Perkins 386, in the way die-hard campers function while mosquitoes buzz about their heads. Our trip, for the record, was a delivery job with a defined beginning, middle and end, not an open-ended cruise.
“Delicious!” proclaimed Swiss sailor Manfred Arnold.
“Tasty!” agreed Capt. Rick Martell.
“Perhaps the…