IN THE Ditch
Several decades back, the founder and publisher of this magazine, Murray Davis, recruited me to do a stretch of a south-bound delivery trip from New England aboard his comfortable, if tubby, British-built motorsailer. It was a lumbering, top-heavy vessel with an appropriate name: Turtle. “Nope” was not among the possible answers to this request; he was my boss. But I was slightly terrified, and as it turned out, rightfully so.
The offshore leg from Newport, Rhode Island, to Norfolk, Virginia—as poor Turtle rolled from gunwale to gunwale, with the steady pacing of a metronome—was nothing short of heinous. Seasickness rose to epidemic proportions, rampaging through the crew like the coronavirus. I’d never been happier to see a fresher body of water than Mile 0 of the relatively…
