Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 17

An Embarrassment of Boats—and their Glorious “Hats”

Halfway through the summer, I realized: we have too many boats to properly enjoy them all. But each has a particular specialty, which makes it hard to imagine giving up any one of them. Here’s a look back at how we divided our time on the water this year, as well as a fanciful view of the many different “hats” our various water craft might be wearing.

Wingfoiling

This new challenge continues to be our first choice on any afternoon that had more than 9 knots of breeze. It provides a workout, time on the water, and the perfect excuse to go for the occasional swim—all within a five minute drive of our home offices. What could be better? Watch the 360 video

Wingfoiling hat: Zhik helmet

Powerboat Pierre

Our Nauset 27 has been getting more time and attention than he really deserves, because he’s the other new kid on the block. He’s proved quite versatile, switching from wingfoil launch platform to family commuter to sunset dining location without complaint. (We also spent way too much time fighting off seagulls with spinners, ribbons and strings, and a hawk-shaped kite that claims the airspace above the boat.)

Pierre’s hat: A faded full-brimmed cotton number, perhaps with lots of fishing lures stuck in the brim. Also, I’m picturing a droopy white untrimmed moustache (40 is pretty old in powerboat years).

Evening Sails on Matsya

Our most beautiful boat has been more dormant this year than usual. (See wingfoiling, above.) Matsya’s at her best in lighter air than our classic summer afternoon seabreeze, and on the rare afternoons with not enough wind for wingfoiling we sometimes chose to catch up on work instead (or just sit on the porch). But even though we’re not exercising her enough, it’s comforting to know that her mooring is the best place to keep her swelled up and happy. She’s been around since 1938, so I’m sure she’s taking the long view on all of our other distractions. I can practically hear her saying: “You’ll eventually get tired of those crazy foiling things and that stinkpot, and come back to my timeless charms.”

Matsya’s hat: a big floppy white bonnet (perhaps inspired by her boom tent!)

One Design Racing

Except for a few fun Snipe regattas and one Shields race, the summer was very quiet on the racing front. We are looking forward to more model boat racing, as well as winter Snipe adventures in Florida!

Hats: for the parking lot, a wide-brimmed sun-repeller. For sailing, a Zhik cap. (And thanks to Matias Capizzano for the great photo)

Paddleboards

We’ve been doing far less morning standup paddling than usual this year (to save our shoulders for wingfoiling), but we did have several great paddles in Maine. And even when the water gets too cold for foiling, we will continue to explore our local waterways right through the winter.

Paddling hat: Hammer Nutrition cap!

Katrina

Paul and I were honored to take Katrina for two cruises this summer. What a pleasure to enjoy all the hard work my parents did to make her the perfect couple’s boat. Katrina doesn’t require hats, since she’s got a full sun canopy over the cockpit. But if she were to choose one, I think it would be: a classy straw number with a bright “Katrina blue” ribbon circling the brim.

Hauling season is already underway, so we’re working hard to fit in as much on-the-water time before the water gets too chilly. An embarrassment of boating riches? Absolutely. And too much of a good thing can be WONDERFUL!

Got a summer memory to share? Add it to the comments below, or send me an email. I read every one, with gratitude.

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Five Surprising Reasons to Buy My Next Book

Next week, I finally get to hold a copy of my fifth book and first work of non-fiction, 100 Years of Gold Stars. Unlike my previous books, I will not be the first person to crack open its spine. I’m incredibly proud—and also quite nervous. Is this how a parent feels, sending a kid off to college?

I’ve already explained that writing this book consumed an unexpected number of fiction brain cells. Now I want to give you five reasons why a non-Star sailor (heck, even a non-sailor) should order up a copy.  

1. Personalized History

I love historical fiction because it provides an insider’s perspective into world events. Thanks to 100 years of firsthand reports, this non-fiction coffee table book accomplishes the same thing. The best example; World War II started during the 1939 Star Worlds, which took place in Kiel, Germany. Many sailors were unable to sail the final days because they’d been recalled to their home countries, but as regatta reporter Elizabeth Miller puts it,

Even the call to arms could not interrupt the [Worlds]. Several goodbyes had been said earlier by men who stepped out of Star boats into battleships. [Meanwhile], in Kiel Harbor lie twenty Star boats from eight nations, which now have a sterling significance—they fly the same flag, the world over, of international sportsmanship.

2. Regatta Time Capsules

The Star Class has done an incredible job of archiving, documenting, and preserving its history. There is a report on the website from every single Worlds; years later, they offer great perspective on what really makes for a memorable regatta (HINT: it’s not just the racing). 

3. Primary Sources

Interviews with most of the living champions dug out several stories that haven’t been heard before (outside the regatta bar). When I fact-checked against regatta reports, though, a few of those memories were overly optimistic—a friendly reminder that while there’s no substitute for primary sources, it’s also important to verify. 

4. Hundreds of pictures

Even this wordsmith has to admit that the visuals are what make this book really stand out. Thanks to the designers, the layout makes it possible for each reader to take as deep or as shallow a dive into each chapter as time and interest allow. 

5. You already like my writing

Though I tried to let the regatta winners tell their stories themselves, I have to admit that my own voice still shines through. So if you like this blog, you will also like this book’s personalized and positive approach.

How to Order

Seeing my first work of non-fiction out in the world may not be quite as nerve-wracking as sending a kid off to college… but it’s definitely a strange combination of pride and stomach-churning nerves. So even if you’re not a Star sailor (or any other kind), order your copy today. In addition to an entertaining and educational read, you’ll be helping to support the Star Class Legacy Foundation—which might just make it possible for an under-30 sailor to attend a future Worlds.  

Thanks for reading, and please subscribe if you haven’t already! Also feel free to share your thoughts about books, history, Star sailing, or whatever else this post sparks. I read every comment and email, with gratitude.

Read The Gold Star of Writing Projects

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Wingfoil Video: Make Like a Harbor Butterfly

For the first time in many summers, I’ve been taking full advantage of our fantastic location and its dependable seabreeze. Paul and I are lucky enough to have a flat-water, traffic-free sailing area that’s only a short drive from our house. It’s become our favorite afternoon escape, anytime there’s wind (and not too many pressing deadlines). 

You can’t see it, but there’s a 360-degree video camera mounted on the end of the wing. Screengrab courtesy PaulCroninStudiosHarbor buzz

Last December, I wrote a post about 6 Lessons I’d learned from my first month of wingfoiling that concluded, “Maybe, by the time September glistens again, you’ll even see me out buzzing around the harbor, in complete control.” Though I’m too spooked about high speed powerboater blindness to do any serious harbor-buzzing, I have graduated to a smaller board—and I can speed it up, slow it down, and alter course as needed, all without coming off the foil. Though I haven’t yet had another Breakthrough Day, I’m enjoying the endless learning, increased confidence, and fitness gains from our daily sessions.

Getting up on starboard tack is always easier for me. Screengrab courtesy PaulCroninStudiosTake a ride with me

A few weeks ago (while still on my old board, a 6’4″ Armstrong FG), I felt sure enough of my foiling ability to strap Paul’s 360° camera to the wing. Scroll down for a 40-second clip from that day that shows the transition from slogging to foiling, another learner, dodging a bit of boat traffic, and how wake-free and butterfly-fast it feels… even after your husband blows by like you’re standing still.

What’s Next

The next step up the learning curve is the foil-jibe, and as usual Paul is a few steps ahead. We’re going to keep sailing until the water temps drop too much (around mid-November). So if you see a couple of harbor-buzzing yellow butterflies, you’ll know who it is… and please don’t expect me to wave. 

Got a new skill, or a random question about wingfoiling? Add it to the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude.

What I’m ridingArmstrong FG Wing SUP Foilboard (5’5″ long)Armstrong A+ System Carving Freeride Foil Package CF2400 V2Ozone Wasp V2 Wing 5m (8-12 knots)Ozone Wasp V2 Wing 4m (12-16 knots)Ozone Wasp V2 Wing 3m (16+ knots)

For more great videos (including details about our gear and getting started wingfoiling), visit PaulCroninStudios.

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Saltwater and Blueberries: August in Maine, Then and Now

Several years ago I wrote about Trusting My Coastal Senses and the effects of climate change on the west side of Narragansett Bay. Today, I want to share a few more observations from the west coast of another lifetime favorite, Maine’s Penobscot Bay. 

Then: August in the 1970s

A highlight of childhood summers was our annual family cruise from Woods Hole to Maine. For two weeks or more we would sail Katrina Down East and anchor in a different favorite harbor each night. It was a welcome escape from southern New England’s midsummer heat and humidity, and also a chance to connect with my dad’s father and stepmother, who spent summers at a rustic camp not too far from Penobscot Bay.

As soon as we sailed out of the Cape Cod Canal, the water temperature would drop about ten degrees—and swimming would become a badge of youthful exuberance rather than a daily adult refreshment. By the time we reached Penobscot Bay, the water was too shockingly cold even for me and my siblings. That kept air temperatures low as well, even on sunny days; our usual wardrobe included wool sweaters and socks—especially once afternoon light faded away behind the Camden hills. 

When we went ashore to visit my grandparents, we picked blueberries by the gallon—because they were always at their peak in early August. We’d carry our bounty back to the boat, where it would sweeten our breakfast cereal. And there would always be enough to make a blueberry buckle, my mother’s signature coffee cake. Lighting the oven to bake that treat warmed up the entire cabin, which was especially welcome on rainy days. 

Now: 21st Century August 

My siblings and I inherited our grandparents’ hillside camp, so Paul and I have been able to continue the tradition of an August escape to Maine. Though our shore-based vacation this year was quite different from childhood coastal cruising (and… we’re now shockingly close to my grandparents’ age), this summer cemented some very unscientific observations about the new normal of August in Maine. 

First of all, the drought we’ve experienced in Southern New England is also dominating Maine’s summer weather. With almost no rain, wells were running dry and potable water was hard to come by. Unfortunately, that forced us to buy gallon jugs of drinking water… which means climate change is making it harder to avoid this one small attempt at minimizing our own carbon footprint. 

Based on childhood memories, I’d packed a duffle bag of fleece and wool. But thanks to a three-day heat advisory—a first up there, for me—my default attire instead consisted of bathing suits and bare feet. Also, that cozy cabin-warming oven went unused; we even minimized our stove-top cooking.  

We’d brought along plenty of water toys, so each day we drove down to the west coast of Penobscot Bay and cooled off with either a paddle or wingfoil session, followed by a refreshing swim. The water was quite pleasant rather than gasp-inducing; more like all those childhood dunkings south of Cape Cod. Even after the heat advisory ended, we continued to swim every day—despite cloud cover that kept air temperatures comfortably moderate. All that water time made for a lovely vacation, of course, but it was a drastic change from what I used to consider “normal” at 44 degrees North. 

Onshore, there was yet another indicator of seasonal shifts: peak blueberry season is now in mid-July. (Like the butterfish, those hardy bushes are doing their best to adapt.) We’d heard reports of ripe blueberries on July Fourth this year; sure enough, by the time we arrived in early August, it was a lengthy search to track down enough of the tiny sweeteners for the next morning’s breakfast. Each day the pickings became slimmer, and by the time we headed home the season was—instead of peaking—definitely over. 

Some Actual Science

Thanks again to friend and “doctor of fish” John Manderson, I can link these local, short-term observations to much larger changes. “Recently, the Gulf of Maine has experienced one of the fastest rates of warming of any ocean ecosystem,” this 2021 study says. The area now has “summer-like conditions starting about a month sooner and ending a month later than the historical record.” This is only expected to continue, so maybe today’s kids will also remember much chillier childhood swims? (As they are picking blueberries in June…)

What We Can Do

I like to end on a positive note…. and I continue to believe that attempts to minimize our own carbon footprint can help slow the changes we see around us. As John Manderson put it, back in 2016: “There is hope in action by all of us, more so than in the glacial movements of those in power, who are unfortunately much slower than the rate of melt of the Greenland ice sheet.” 

Did you have a summer adventure that reminded you of (or contrasted with) a childhood memory? Share it in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude. 

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Boat Gawking Bonanza: Three Classic Sightings in One Foggy Harbor

One of the best reasons to paddle around our local harbor on a summer weekend is the chance to boat gawk. Dutch Harbor is a favorite overnight destination from Newport, and over the years I’ve drifted by schooners, classic race yachts, and even boats that I’ve had the chance to write about. I always pause alongside the most beautiful ones—and sometimes enjoy a nice chat if there’s another early riser lounging in the cockpit. 

But when I left the dock just after sunrise a few Sundays ago, the odds of spotting anything familiar—or anything at all—seemed quite slim. Overnight fog had cat-footed across the Bay, reducing visibility to less than 50 feet and softening every rocky crevice with its damp wooly filter. So instead of heading out to blindly circumnavigate Dutch Island, I paddled north and kept the shoreline just within view to starboard. The privacy of my own gray-edged bubble reminded me of foggy childhood cruises aboard Katrina, when nothing was certain except her compass and its steady white lines. That Sunday morning, I had to rely on my own internal compass—while trusting my ears to pick up any passing motorboat traffic. (Fortunately, no one else was moving yet.) 

Bolero has always been a head-turner. Photo courtesy Phlotilla/Sightings

When it was time to turn around, retracing my steps along the same barely visible shoreline seemed way too dull. Instead I decided to take a more direct route back across the silent and invisible harbor, counting my paddle strokes on each side of the board to maintain a steady course—and adding five extra strokes on the starboard side, just to be certain that the ebb wouldn’t wash me out into the Bay. A decade of paddling across this same stretch of water has honed that internal compass, and though the first moored boat seemed to take forever to appear out of the fog, I eventually found myself right where I expected to be: at the northwest corner of the large mooring field. A navigational victory!

But just to port was a completely unexpected profile: the hazy outline of an anchored black yawl that I quickly recognized as Bolero. Originally built in 1949, she was restored in 2010 and has been a welcome summer sighting ever since. No one was stirring yet on deck, so I quietly paddled by her tiny transom unnoticed. All too soon her classic lines and glistening varnish had been erased once again by a fresh swirl of fog, captured only in my memory.

Now that I was safely within the mooring field, I altered course twenty degrees to starboard to head for Matsya, my morning paddle’s finish line. And that’s the only reason I had my second sighting, just off the starboard bow, of Hound. This Aage Nielsen design was built in 1970, the same year as Katrina, but thanks to a significant update she is still winning races—including a class victory in the 2022 Bermuda Race. 

I had just researched this boat a few days before I paddled by it. Photo courtesy Phlotilla/Sightings

Why do I know so much about Hound? Two days before catching my foggy glimpse of her sweet lines and that well-varnished cabin trunk, I’d been digging into her history (and that refit) for a future Seahorse story. Now here she was, in the “flesh”—thanks to one impulsive decision, to cross the harbor instead of paddling back along the shoreline!

After a respectful pause—to admire Hound, to consider two amazing turns of chance, and to appreciate the small world of boats—I picked my way south through the foggy mooring field and tied up to Matsya, where I dove in for a lovely cooling swim. So it wasn’t until I headed into the dock again that I had my third and final classic sighting: Swamp Yankee, a Block Island 40 that we raced against in the 1970s, back when Katrina and Hound and I were all just kids.

She too looked well cared for, and at first I thought her cockpit was also empty—until I spotted one very young crew member, standing watch in his jammies, protected from damp swirling mist by a low dodger. Though he didn’t see me, I’m absolutely certain that he was making some memories of his own that will be treasured for many years to come. 

Swamp Yankee is making childhood special for yet another generation. Photo courtesy Oliver Moore

Thanks to three surprise sightings on a very foggy Sunday morning, my boat sighting bank is once again well stocked. So here’s to classic yachts, their people both tall and small, and their inspiring stories—and, of course, to the honor and challenge of writing about them.

PS Thanks for taking the time to read my weekly posts. Want more about books, boats, or something else altogether? Share your thoughts in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude.

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High Summer Reflection for 2022

It’s high time for my four-year appreciation of High Summer.

In 2018, I wrote that I was still working toward making all those crazy February dreams come true. The three goals I’d originally stated in the summer of 2014 were:

Take advantage of living so close to the ocean.Balance the demands of work with the seasonal potential for play.Spend as much time on the water as possible without letting too many things slide.

This year, I can already place a check mark next to all three bullet points.

Family sailing is the absolute best.

Most mornings start off with a standup paddle around the harbor at the end of our street, followed by a refreshing swim. After work we head back out to the harbor, either to go wingfoiling or Matsya sailing depending on the breeze strength. A few weeks ago, we finished it all off with a simple dinner grilled onboard Pierre, which we ate in the cockpit while watching the sunset. Three water adventures in one day—now that’s High Summer!

No matter where you live, I hope you’re able to enjoy this wonderful season of warm air, cool water, and a more relaxed pace. We’ve all learned a lot about ourselves and our personal priorities since the Before Times of 2018, but one thing hasn’t changed: we will definitely need a lot of great summer memories to get us through next winter. So let’s do our best to create them right now. 

PS Thanks for taking the time to read these weekly posts. Want more about books, boats, or something else altogether? Share your thoughts in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude.

Other posts about summer

Diving into Summer, and Everything Else Too

High Summer, 2018 Style

Saying No to Summer Go Cups

High Summer: Making Those February Dreams Come True

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Breakthrough Days Make all the Slogging Worthwhile

Whenever we learn something new, the curve of progress rarely climbs steadily upward. When I last wrote about wingfoiling—a fresh challenge that Paul and I took on rather late in the season last year—I was uncertain how my tottering learning curve would handle a long winter break. So when we started up again in mid-May, I was very pleased to discover that those ten or so October-November sessions (plus four hours in February, squeezed in after a Florida winter regatta) had somehow stuck with me.

Boards and wings just waiting for another breakthroughGoing airborne

When the weather shut down last fall, I’d just had my first few rides—each for only a few seconds, but an important taste of the joyous freedom that quickly became my goal. There’s a huge sensory difference between slogging and slapping across the water’s surface and lifting out to skim silently above it; most noticeably, there’s no noisy wake. 

When the water and air warmed up enough in the spring to start the new season, I was hungry for that next chance to fly… but also a bit timid about falling into sub-60 degree water. As temperatures climbed, I was able to try new foot positions and refine my winging skills—while taking the inevitable splashdown of both body and board after each short “hop.” But I still spent most of our hour-long sessions slogging along at water level, wondering what I was doing wrong.

And then a few weeks ago, on a random weekday afternoon, I had what I’m still calling my “breakthrough day.” The breeze was perfect, about 12-15 knots and steady. The water was flat, and traffic distractions were minimal. Suddenly, without any conscious change—I was flying. And I stayed flying, for long enough that I had to steer around a lobster pot—with success! What a rush. Even the eventual crash landing was a hoot—partly because the water had warmed up from bone-chilling to refreshing.

How this helped my writing

A few days after my wingfoiling breakthrough, I woke up with a fresh and clear idea about what would happen next in the story I’m working on—and quickly wrote a new scene that ties together two seemingly unrelated threads. After weeks of slogging through details on this next book, wondering if I was getting anywhere, I had a breakthrough day of writing. Coincidence? I think not. Because it’s easy to see in hindsight how the physical breakthrough of wingfoiling helped open my mind enough to have an imaginatory breakthrough as well. 

Keep slogging

Both mentally and physically, it’s important to keep at it on the days when we don’t seem to be making much progress—because all that effort is what eventually makes the rare breakthrough days happen. So every time I go wingfoiling, I’m going to try to extend the length of my airborne runs, adding distance by the foot and yard… until I can string together an entire run and only need to descend back to water level to change directions. I’m also going to keep slogging away on the next scene of the next book, word by word, because it’s the only way to get to the point where I can write “The END”—and share it with all of you, at last.

How about you—any summer breakthroughs? Share them in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude.

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The Unique Joys of (Regatta) Travel

I spent last week in San Diego for the Snipe Nationals—and was reminded once again of the unique joys of both travel and one design racing. It’s always hard leaving home, especially during High Summer, so I thought I’d take the time to explain why this trip was especially worthwhile (despite our mediocre results).

Matias Capizzano captured both the atmosphere and the racing. Click on the photo for much, much more.Only three ingredients 

Nearly three decades ago, I identified three requirements for regatta fun in an article entitled Why Sail a Snipe. They continue to be: “Competitive racing, fun parties, and something unpredictable, which prevents the nagging sensation that you’ve just been to a repeat of your favorite movie.” There is always plenty of tough competition in San Diego. And despite a lengthy tow to and from the race course, consistent sea breezes meant we got in two races and were back onshore in time for the evening’s party. As for that something unpredictable? Well, these days I leave that to the younger sailors… 

Shoreside details

Though rigging and registration are pretty universal at Snipe regattas around the world, the backdrop—boat and crew logistics, housing and breakfast and boat parts, even that pesky three-hour time zone change—make any “away” regatta a distinct experience. In Point Loma, both shopping and dining are easy. For boat equipment, Sailing Supply (only a short walk from San Diego Yacht Club) is one of the few places left in the country where you can still find a variety of parts for both one designs and big boats—and get custom rigging made to order. I forgot to pack sunscreen, but the local drugstore (only three blocks from the harbor) carried my preferred brand, Blue Lizard. And there were so many dining options, the biggest challenge was choosing what to eat on the few nights when there wasn’t a regatta dinner. (Reach out if you want to hear more about my favorite spots.)

Boat park conversations

The best part of the week happened both before and after sailing, when there was enough time to catch up with friends I hadn’t seen in several years—and make a few new ones as well. We veterans reminisced about shared regatta highlights—though we were often a little hazy on the details. I also took the opportunity to chat with several juniors, and all of them are jazzed about the high-level, friendly, and affordable competition they’ve found in the Snipe Class. They weren’t yet born in 1995, but what I wrote then is still true: “The Snipe class is where college sailors go to die and world champions come to relax. The combination is anything but dull.”

Best perspective

Casual interactions like this, with people who share my interest in Snipe sailing but otherwise represent a wide range of ages and home bases, are what I missed most throughout the travel-free days of the past two years. It’s all too easy to let ourselves be sliced and diced into “us” and “them,” using age or geography or other differences as silos, when really we are all after the same damn thing: the pursuit of happiness, however we happen to define that. For me, it’s the unique joys of traveling to Snipe regattas—and, of course, the fresh perspective I bring back home with me, just in time for the rest of High Summer. 

Got a special joy to share…

Even if it doesn’t involve one design sailing or travel? Add it to the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude. 

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Another Lesson from a Great Book Discussion

Whenever I’m invited to join a discussion about one of my books, I really try hard to say yes—because it’s the best way to see my own creations from the end-user’s point of view. A literary focus group!

So when the Cottage Park Yacht Club book club in Boston announced they were reading Ferry to Cooperation Island, I braved Boston’s famous rush hour and showed up in person for their evening discussion. Last fall, I’d given one of the members a copy of FERRY as a thank you for letting me stay at her house; several months later, that gift ended up giving back to me in spades. For over an hour, I got to listen in while readers chatted about my characters—as if they were real people, folks who might one day bring a boat alongside the Cottage Park Yacht Club docks.

Because each book group is different and every reader brings a unique perspective, I always learn something new from these chats that will help with the next book. With my own group, it was how a myriad of characters could inspire a new cocktail. At Seven Sailing Association, I learned that my own regrets about the Olympics had probably sparked the excellent sense of smell that I gave a main character in Game of Sails. And Newport’s own Literary Lasses provided me with five gifts, including a sign that still hangs proudly within view of my desk.

Gathered in front of the fireplace at Cottage Park Yacht Club, my most important lesson was about Joe—who has, quite unexpectedly, worked his way into FERRY’s sequel. “Of course he has, he’s the soul of the island,” one reader said—in a tone that implied, well, DUH. Then another member reminded me about the “papers” Joe had left behind… and all of a sudden, I couldn’t wait to figure out: what treasures lie within that forgotten stash?

As I plod my way through the next book and focus on what happens next, it’s so hard and yet so valuable to pause for a look back; to listen in on what my readers remember best from the last one. Plot matters, of course, but people matter more—whether they are the characters inside my head, or the ones who gathered around a favorite yacht club fireplace on a spring evening to discuss my imaginary island. 

Thanks CPYC book club for your insights and perspectives. I’ll keep you posted on the next one! 

If you know of a book club looking for the next great read, please consider Ferry to Cooperation Island. Click to read the first chapter; if you’ve already read the book, here are 10 discussion questions. And if you’re in driving range, I might even drop by!

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My Best Summer Joy for 2022: A Stable “Platform”

One of the most important buzz words in book promotion is “platform.” Publishing expert Jane Friedman defines platform as the “ability to sell books because of who you are or who you can reach.” In today’s world of decreasing publicity budgets and increasing competition, it really matters how many people will be listening when an author announces their own book’s publication—perhaps even more than what they’ve actually written, since none of us will read a story we don’t know about. 

I was thinking about a different aspect of “platform” during my most recent on-the-water yoga session, because it took place in a new “studio.” For the past ten summers, I’ve tied my paddleboard astern of Matsya for an hour of SUP yoga, which was quite lovely—despite the occasional unplanned swim. This year, I’ve migrated to Pierre’s flat cockpit area, which is much wider than a yoga mat—or any SUP. As I stretch and bend and try to find the stillness between movement and breath, my “platform” is a whole lot more stable—and also more private, thanks to Pierre’s high side decks.

(This area is also big enough to carry our many water toys to distant harbors, but that’s a story for another day.) 

Once that big cockpit was cleared of spring improvement projects, I realized it would make a great yoga “studio.”

On that bright morning, as I smiled up at the blue sky and admired the shimmering harbor around me, I thought about how trusting our platform can completely change our “posture” (another word that can have many different meanings, depending on context). In Pierre’s cockpit, I’m able to balance on one leg—something I could never do on my 30-inch-wide paddleboard. I can also close my eyes and tune out the world, because I’m hidden from curious onlookers; no one will judge my awkward asanas, or stop by with a friendly but poorly timed greeting.

In yoga just as in life, a stable platform encourages me to take more risks; to try new postures, in all meanings of the word. And that’s why this year, my new yoga studio onboard Pierre is at the top of a lengthy summer joy list.

Also, I note that this most recent change of perspective provided the spark for yet another blog post.

How about you—what’s your summer joy in 2022? Share it in the comments below, or send me an email. I read every single one written by a live human, with gratitude. 

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