Garcia gave me directions to Independent Boat Yard, near Red Hook, on the east side of the island. My boat was there. Gypsy. I'd never seen her before. I'd never even seen a boat like her before. I'd seen pictures in a book, and read testimonials on a web site, but hadn't seen one up close. Not in real life. And I was nervous. I'd signed papers for the second biggest investment of my life.

I'd sent a check for six weeks salary (and carried another with me). I was committing to a four-month adventure in a place I'd never been to, on a boat I'd never seen, and sailing-- something I hadn't done since I was a kid in Wisconsin. Yes, I'd spent nine summers on a fishing boat in Alaska, and a week bare boating in the Bahamas, but sailing a 37-foot 'yacht,' with two masts, four sails, and more gadgets than the space shuttle was a completely novel endeavor. Like I said, I was nervous.

We would meet at the boat. He told me where it was, and said he'd be there in a half hour. I caught a cab from the hotel, and wandered through the yard; confident I'd recognize her from the picture. And there she was-- near the front, ENTITLED painted in block letters across the stern.

She was propped up on braces in the sand-- "on the hard," the broker had described it. I circled her slowly, touching the sides. Her hull shimmered in the sun. She towered over me, the two masts draped in taut lines. Her stainless steel hardware glimmered like jewelry. She was perfect.

I climbed aboard and walked the decks. The woodwork looked freshly varnished. The fiberglass was clean and white. It had the feel of a well-kept vacation home, carefully boarded up for the winter. I sat on the hatch and surveyed the yard. My mood had improved considerably.

It has been a spectacular 36 hours in St. Thomas. I have a new boat and a new life. I am one day into what I already realize will be a life transforming experience. I know, that sounds melodramatic, but I honestly believe this is significant. A seismic shift in the crusted plates of personal experience. And if feels very good.

Today I came back to the boat and looked her over on my own. I pried open the sticky portals, and went meticulously through every drawer and compartment. The paperwork was signed and the funds transferred. There were handshakes at the brokers’ office, and the newly christened ‘Gypsy’ was mine.

I could not—I cannot—stop marveling at the perfection of her design. I understand, intellectually, that there are men who spend their lives sketching out graceful, durable boats, and filling them with careful details and finely crafted innovations. I know that they spend weeks laying fiberglass, and framing cabinets, and fitting every well-intentioned piece into every time-tested position. But I had never seen their work first hand. Or if I have, I’ve never been so awed by the logic of it all. There is nothing extraneous on a 37 foot Shannon ketch. There is no frill. But the sheer precision of her purpose, carried out in every detail, is calming—like a good piece of art. A Rodin sculpture. Functional beauty.

I fiddle with wood fittings, precisely carved to fit neatly in notches or hand-hewn recesses. I tug on the thick steel hardware; understanding that the forces they can withstand are beyond anything I could survive. The boat is bulletproof—from top to bottom. If you were to go at it with a baseball bat, the bat would be worse for the encounter.

And the previous owner treated her like his queen. No necessity is lacking. No corners cut in outfitting her. From the Patagonia foul weather gear to the barely-used sideband radio still in its box, he spared no effort or expense to give her the best. And I feel privileged to carry on his passion.