The first liar doesn’t have a chance

The Kathi II built by Jim Kling sailing in the Alenuihaha Channel

by Christine Kling

We’ve had some shake ups with our schedule here at Write on the Water what with Mike deciding to take a break from blogging for the summer (anybody want to place a bet that he can stay away that long?) and with me deciding that I would like to have an opportunity to tell old sea stories. So, John Urban was kind enough to agree to do his bi-weekly blog on Tuesdays now, and I’ll be stepping back in time on Wednesdays. John’s fans, and I know he has many (including me) will find him here at WOW next week on Tuesday and then every other Tuesday after that.

As most of you know, I write fiction. That’s my main thing, if you will. But I wanted to try my hand at writing some memoir pieces about the many sailing adventures I’ve had in my life. Jim Kling, RIP, my husband of 21 years, used to say that when sailors get together “The first liar doesn’t have a chance.” For those of us who have been sailing and cruising over the last forty years like I have, you will “get it” that sailing stories, like good wine, need to be aged in order to be properly, shall we say, emphasized? Please note I did not say exaggerated. Heaven forbid. Tristan Jones, RIP, would know exactly what I mean.

These stories will not appear in chronological order and the photos I have to go with them are in very bad shape, but hopefully some of this will make sense.

In the spring of 1975, I decided I wanted to be the first woman to sail around the world singlehanded. I’d just turned 21 years old and my favorite book in the world was Robin Lee Graham’s Dove. I dreamed of sailing wing and wing into exotic anchorages and writing stories about my experiences that would one day sell as my first published book. That my sailing experience consisted of sneaking my father’s Venture 21 out for day sails and a gig as a cook on a Baltic Trader motoring from La Paz, Baja up to Long Beach, CA did not bother me. I believed in the adage, ‘If there’s a will, there’s a way,’ and I decided to drop out of college and head to Hawaii looking for a boat going to the South Pacific. My plan was to spend a year getting the sea time and to learn celestial navigation along the way, then search for sponsors to help me buy a boat.

So that spring my roommate Linda and I flew to Maui and I brought my 10-speed bike as part of my baggage. We had plans to sleep on the beach, explore the islands and search for a boat that needed crew. Linda soon headed back to California, but I stayed on and I found a permanent place to sleep when I met Jack. He lived aboard a 25-foot lapstrake wooden Folkboat in Lahaina harbor that was med-moored to the seawall. Next to him was a catamaran and Jack assured me that the owner wouldn’t mind if I slept in the cat’s foreword netting. I knew that to find a crew spot, I had to be where the boats were, and I was thrilled to be off the beach.

In the village of Lahaina, I found a shop that was selling unbleached muslin shirts and drawstring pants to their then-hippy-clientele that had posted a help wanted ad. They needed a seamstress to to create their inventory. I was paid by the piece and the back room of that boutique became my own sweatshop as I sewed by day and hung out at the Pioneer Inn at night searching for a boat headed for the South Pacific in need of crew.

One day the owner of the boutique came into the back room and told me that she had a customer out front who wanted a pair of shorts made out of custom material that he would provide. I ventured out into the sales area like a mole blinking in the light. I met this tall bearded stranger with a rolled up bit of sailcloth who wanted me to make him a pair of shorts out of the Dacron from a used sail. As I measured his waist, and, ahem, inseam, and thighs, I asked him why on earth he wanted shorts made out of sailcloth. He said he and his friend were headed for the South Pacific.

“Really?” I said. “And when do you plan to leave?”

“As soon as you finish my shorts,” he said.

Over the next couple of days as I sewed his shorts and various other projects, I asked my friend Jack what he thought. I had seen the guy’s boat moored along the seawall, and I liked it. So did Jack, but as I explained, “You know, I have my reservations. How smart can he be if he wants shorts made out of sailcloth? The fabric doesn’t breathe and it’s going to chafe the bejesus out of his tender bits.” But determined as I was, I practiced my speech and when he returned to pick up those shorts, I made my pitch.

I said, “I’m looking for a boat going to the South Pacific. I want to get sailing experience and I want to learn celestial navigation. But I don’t want to be the cook or the captain’s girlfriend. I want to be one of the crew. I want to be treated as an equal. If we all cook and we all stand watches, I would really love to become part of your crew.”

Years later, Jim told me how cheeky he thought I was. I told him how dumb I thought he was to want shorts made out of Dacron. We were both right.

In two days, I quit my job, sold my bicycle, and rolled up my sleeping bag from the catamaran’s netting. I moved on board the Islander 44 named Kathi II (after his daughter) with crew member Mark, we departed from Lahaina and headed through the Alenuihaha Channel for a 36 hour sail to Hilo.

The Islander 44 is a Bill Lapworth design, long and narrow, and she heels over ’til the winches have rooster tails of water shooting into the air. That channel can be rough, and the twelve foot seas we had that night were no exception. I remember telling Jim and Mark that I just loved the fresh air so much I would prefer to sleep in the cockpit that night, when in fact I was afraid to go below for fear I would puke.

Little did I know that was just a warm up. After a crazy stay in Hilo where we declared war on the US Coast Guard (that’s another story), we had a 17-day passage — all dead to weather — to arrive at Nuku Hiva in the Marquesas.

Fair winds!

Christine

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