Then there was that planned expedition up the Penobscot, at least as far as Fort Point, with a visit to Fort Pownal. So it is each season. Somehow, the voyages not taken fill the mind more than the pleasant sails accomplished. Sailors, it has been said, get more fun out of their misfortunes than out of the trips that are flawless. They remember every misadventure with clarity and recall it on the slightest provocation.
Sailing is a little like newspapering in that respect.
The newspapers, too, are heavy on the bad news. Getting ready to haul out, in any case, is a melancholy task. It is slightly redeemed by the knowledge that the boat is secure when you wake in the night to hear a gale howling outside. No man aboard a boat is ever so completely reliable that he can be entirely confident he did everything shipshape and Bristol fashion. When the rain lashes the window and the tree branches thrash in the wind and the flagpole creaks of a night, from now on, the skipper can roll over and go back to sleep.