Christian Pschorr's 2006 Hylas Rendezvous Speech

Those of you who know me are aware that I have traditionalist tendencies. I live on a 65 year-old Newfoundland wooden gaff-rigged fishing schooner with deadeyes and lanyards. I like hand-bearing compasses and paper charts, and I love to break out the sextant and shoot the stars.

I think it’s cause it’s always been the big picture stuff that gets me. The idea that we’re on a planet flying around a star that’s one of a billion stars in the galaxy that’s one of billions of galaxies in the universe. My mind has never stopped boggling over this. I’m fascinated by it. Only the most cynical of navigators could look at a plot of a celestial fix and not find himself in awe of the fact that he somehow determine the position of his boat on this earth using stars and planets flying around at unimaginable distances out in space.

Before I started living aboard and cruising with the family, I was a bit disappointed when I discovered that I was born a couple of hundred years too late, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. I thought that I should have lived when simple boats were built by simple men for simple purposes like fishing and transport—boats designed more by Mother Nature than anyone else—a time when all people were governed by the seasons as much as by government, when there was mystery all around, when the oceans were as unfathomable as the world was immense. That was the time for me.

About 8 years ago or so, we put our baby boys into a 29-foot sailboat. We had no engine, no GPS, no autopilot, no fridge, not much of anything but a bit of enthusiasm. Once we got out there, cruised around a bit, earned a few landfalls, found some coconut-tree-lined beaches, hung out in some friendly anchorages, met some fascinating folks and drank way too many painkillers, I began to realize just how great we’ve got it! Maybe this is the time for me. I realized that I wasn’t born late, but I had this kind of marooned feeling, the feeling we all get at times when you feel trapped by your surroundings—by borders, by groups, jobs and even by loved ones. Sure, you can jump into a motorboat and escape for an afternoon by powering straight into waves and wind without a second thought. You can hop in a plane and defy the force of gravity itself by flying off to the other side of the globe on vacation. Technology has enabled us to conquer the world and its elements, but it’s a hollow victory, because we sacrifice our connection with the world around us and with the sky beyond that.

But sailing is different. When you set sail, you harness the wind. You grab onto the coattails of Mother Nature herself, and a world of mystery and adventure awaits just over the horizon. Every sailor appreciates a safe harbor in a gale. Every sailor is affected by tides and currents, and therefore phases of the moon itself. Sailing connects us to one another. It connects me to you. It connects us to other people. It connects us to other nations and cultures. Ultimately, it connects us to the world around us and helps us understand our place in this universe.

While cruising, I began to learn this, and I discovered my place in this world—and it’s somewhere between a lobster and a grouper. (If you’ve ever been in the Bahamas and tried to spear a grouper with a mask and snorkel full of saltwater, you know what I’m talking about. It’s truly a humbling experience.)

Well, now that I know my place in the world, I like nothing more than spending a solitary night watch playing with all the great gadgets you find on a modern-day Hylas. (I used to say that navigation was the art of figuring out where you’ve been, but after using these new chart plotters, I might have to reconsider.) I feel very fortunate to be sailing a well-found ocean-worthy boat like a Hylas, and I feel most fortunate to be able to sail with all of you.

And to be true to my traditionalist tendencies, I want to encourage you not to forget the old ways, the values that evolved from thousands of years at sea into what we now call seamanship. Whatever we do, whatever technological advantages we might have, we can’t forget the 3 basic rules of safety—keep the water out, keep the people in, and don’t hit anything. Most importantly, when you find yourself a bit intimidated or even scared in your first gale, or something breaks down, something that you depend on, or you make a big mistake that’s going to cost you a pretty penny, don’t forget that you’re a sailor, you know your place, and you look at the world the way sailors do—through rose-colored glasses.

Thank you Jachneys, thank you Hylas, thanks to Queen Long, Thanks everybody!