ABSTRACT
Sailing was a much more serious sport for me. Marjorie also owned a cottage in Westport, Connecticut, that was directly on the beach of a bay called Compo Cove. The swimming was good at high tide, which came up nearly to the stone fireplace in front of the cottage. Next-door there was an old tide mill, a millpond, and a millrace. By getting our rowboat up the millrace, I could explore the millpond and its mysterious other outlet on Long Island Sound. One of our relatives gave my family a sail for a rowboat so, when I was a teenager, I carefully fitted out our flat-bottom rowboat with a step for a mast and with sideboards (essentially, these are lee boards that hang over the boat’s gunwhale to resist sideways slip while under way). My mother had learned to sail from her father, who learned on catboats in Newport Harbor, Rhode Island. Mother and I sailed happily in and out of Compo Cove, even on the occasion when a strong wind tipped the mast over and pulled out the homemade mast step, which
had been only nailed down. Later, I taught my brothers Gerald and David how to sail, and in recent years, Duncan, one of David’s sons, has become an expert on catamarans and has sailed in international competitions.
