I was blessed to have been introduced to the wonderful world of boating on my father's first boat when I was four years old.
That boat went to her sepulcher there in the sea after a hurricane devastated the East Coast. When the storm hit, she broke her mooring and drifted aimlessly towards a nearby jetty whose jagged boulders gouged her hull time and time again. She disintegrated, and slipped into the sea crying out for help that would never come.
His second boat was usually in a heap of boating trouble. The first incident was a sandbar stranding. The second boating incident occurred when we nearly got rammed by a five hundred-foot freighter after our engine conked out.
A year later we lost engine power again while cruising to nearby fishing grounds. Adrift and dragging anchor, we soon hit a jetty and started to take on water. Miraculously, my father was able to repair the engine and then managed to beach the boat to save our necks.
You would think those three boating incidents, especially the latter two paired with near-death, would be enough to deter me from boating forever. Not so. Two years later I was boating in my first boat, a seventeen-foot runabout, which after three months of hard work, was stolen. Then there's the incredible tale of my deep-sea sailfish adventure in Acapulco. There's more, but we'll have to save it for White Sails.
Still, I fantasized about boating. So, not to be deterred from boating, my first power boat was a thirty-four-foot cabin cruiser that I named Mon Tresor. Two boats and fourteen years later I now own a forty-four foot yacht named Mon Tresor III. The reason for my boating persistence is what I affectionately call the "anchor gene," which I fortunately inherited my grandfather.