Written by Kaci Cronkhite  Winter 1992  All rights reserved.

Nawiliwili Harbor,   Kaua’i, Hawai’i
Alaska was at its darkest, coldest decrescendo.  Perfect time to head to Hawaii.  I wanted to think about sailing and set a course  for my next ten years with a warm clear mind.

As fate had forseen, the friends who introduced me to sailing in Port Townsend had been struck and successfully weathered Hurricane Iniki on Kauai.   From Oahu, I called to check in with them and they invited me to come visit and help, as long as I could camp. Backpack loaded with food and tent, I hopped a flight to Lihue and walked to the marina. Palm trees were stripped, houses roofless, power poles and other debris still littered the island. Most people still didn't have water or electricity. Aboard their voyage ready boat they were stocked for two months.  When I arrived they were mired in Plan B, something to keep the fire stoked on much bigger plans. Plan B was a tangent indeed. A tack to the north of their previous course, an interisland interlude day sail from Kaua’i to Oahu.  They invited me along as crew.  I knew little more than I had in Washington, but they didn’t seem to care. I was little trouble to feed, had a stomach of steel and was handy with tools in emergencies.  It was a short trip and one they could do with their eyes closed.

The chilly morning of my first ocean sail began at 0400.  I throbbed with enthusiasm and could hardly sleep,

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Written by Kaci Cronkhite  March 2012  All rights reserved.

"So you serious about doing an ocean passage," asked my buddy Bruce as he walked up to C Dock in Ala Wai where the boat I was varnishing was moored.

"You bet," I said. "But I know how to cook, Bruce. Sort of. You wouldn't want me for a cook. Would you teach me how to navigate, use the weather fax, sail in the ocean?"

"Sure," he said with the impish grin I'd come to love in this Kamaina guy who'd been one of my first friends in Hawaii. "I need crew that will work!"

A few weeks later, we were headed out of the channel and west into the cooling sun in a 40 foot Gulf Star whose almost unpronouncable name meant sweetheart. In an hour the sun would set and we'd still be in the lee of Oahu. This part of the journey I'd sailed a couple of times already. Twice at night the year before and a half dozen times as crew for the man who owned one of the boats in my care. I knew this part was a pretty easy cruise in the lee of the island. No big waves. No big wind. As we passed close to Ko Olina, wisely tucked in the last of our shelter, the two guys who'd signed on as crew drunk their last beers for awhile (or so I thought) making grand claims about the surf, the women or the fish they'd caught along these shores. 

"Hang on boys (I'll call them #1 and #2)," I whispered. The channel in the islands could be rough and we were just entering the zone. That beer was likely going to reappear if the channel was anything like my other trips. Bruce just smiled at them and listened.

Between 30 and 40 people, both men and women, gathered to hear the talk as part of their weekly Coffee Klatch series. Graciously welcoming as I arrived, a dozen came to tell me they knew my grandfather, my grandma, my dad or my mom.... usually starting the conversation with "You remind me of ___".

During the hour long presentation, the audience's mention of these ancestors who had such profound impact on my life somehow brought their presence into the room.  It was as if those long dead, my grandparents and dad, were in the room, a life force still living. Through stories, phrases, specific words and certainly as evidence in my adventurous life like theirs, they live on. It's an inheritance more powerful than DNA. It's inheritance, or in my case, inHERitance.  

The group listened, fully engaged, laughing when I hoped they would and asking excellent questions until we ended punctually at 10.  Nearly a third of the group came up to thank me, to take pictures together, to inquire about the book or to tell me they connected with some of the stories. Their hugs and smiles conjured memories back fifty years.

Saturated with gratitude, every sense pulsed with the beat of my heart. Past was fully present. While the talk inspired them to reconnect to memories of their lives, travel and family it was clear that our shared memory made today... also connected us to each other. 

These profound connections and the sober awareness while it's happening is just like the owners I've met through my search for PAX truth.  Today, Finding PAX was a presentation. By the end of the year, it will be a book. 

This new venture is not just to focus attention to the latest greatest new genre (video) and does NOT sell ads. Instead, it's a call to sanity, a throw back or a throw forward, depending on where you stand, to authentic people presenting authentic "know-how" to boaters world-wide and online.  Sure, they use video, but they also love books, magazines and writing. And yes, there's a subscription fee ($29/year for unlimited access to tons of info!) but the mission is simple: inspiring the use of well-designed boats to connect with friends, family and the natural world. 

In addition to gorgeous, informative video about specific boats, boatbuilders and activities for families, there are topics on gear, maritime art, and blog topics written by 20 "expert" Guides.  I am honored to be included. As their token Okie (by birth) and one of the few who didn't grow up on the water and in boats, my perspective supports their mission by proving you don't have to be blueblood, or a New Englander, or fed sawdust since birth (no really, shipwrights are raised on it, LOL) to love, love, love wooden boats and get to write and talk about it. 

The focus of their website is about accessibility, about self-reliance, about beauty and the powerfully positive experience it is to be in a well-designed boat on the waters of the world.  Take a look!

Regarding my nomination, I am giddy with gratitude for the attention it brings to DECADES of work by Port Townsend marine trades and gigantically generous people who volunteer and businesses, Port leaders and Chamber volunteers who have always been vital to it's success.  Here's what I wrote to Fred Obee at the Port Townsend Leader when he emailed me with the news of my nomination.  I regret I couldn't be there in person to say it at the banquet, but I'd already booked a flight out before knowing anything at all about the banquet. 

 "The WBF Founders, the early Directors, Festival Coordinators and Volunteers are who should get this honor.  Their incredible vision, the generosity of Port Townsend people of all political persuasions, the skill contributed and committed to for decades in our marine trades, the cooperation and support of the Port of Port Townsend and the partnership with the City, the Leader, accommodations owners, neighbor businesses, PTPD, transportation, heck...even Goodman Sanitation! are why I fell in love with the Festival personally and why it was such an honor, such a dream job for ten years.  Certainly my international experience and passion for making the event richer in every way possible for people attending, my deep respect for the traditions of those who'd created before me and for the visitors was where my previous experience contributed most, but without the wooden boat owners year round contributions and without the local marine trades and Port keeping our town "authentic" we could never have accomplished the reputation in the world we have.  Through the festival a wooden boat found me and now, without the full-time job as director, I'm writing my first book called Finding PAX.  Pax is the 1936 Danish spidsgatter that came into my life on a windy day at Cupola House and I will be aboard her the entire Festival this year with owners from near 8 decades of her life.   Forever a fan of wooden boats, my passion and support continue for the Festival, Port Townsend's Port and marine trades and the impact this makes on people worldwide. Thank you so much for the honor.   Kaci Cronkhite"

Decades later, when they were dead and thousands of miles separated me from the places we shared, their voices, their stories, their humor, work ethic and values still feel close, ooze from my resume, sing through my careers, writing and conversations. 

Writing a book about a boat built in 1936 is one way to be sure to dig deep into history of our elders, to spend time with people whose decades of knowledge dwarf my own.  Half a world away, in Denmark, their stories lay down in emails day after day.  Today on break, going through boxes retrieved from the old ranch house attic, the synchronicity of life confronts me again in a dusty stack of newspapers.  Why did Grandpa save these in his box marked "JBC Personal"?  Dusty and brittle, the pages lay there unmarked and dated May 22, 1936. Oklahoma Cattleman, stockyard reports in another stack. No idea, yet. Placing them back in tupperware, still not able to throw them away, possibilities stored for a later, a second review, a muse.

Working on the Wooden Boat Festival was like living with grandparents, too. Decades of work and heart poured into a place and a dream that created an energy everyone could feel, still feels through generations.  Reflecting back, one of those times stands out today.  A panel of 1970s shipwrights, pioneers in their day and still passing skills to whomever will take the time to listen.

Listen.  Take the time to listen.

March 10, 2010

"Reeling Them In" a panel, featuring notable shipwrights Ernie Baird, Mike Aubin, Jim Peacock, Charlie Moore, Leif Knutsen and Dave Thompson, talking about the evolution of wooden boats and commercial fishing in 1970s Port Townsend will air on PTTV Channel 98 daily at 11:30 AM and 9:00 PM all week, March 22-27, 2010.

Kaci Cronkhite, Wooden Boat Festival director and Ernie Baird (founder of Baird Boatworks aka Haven Boatworks) organized this gathering for PT Library Community Read in the NWMC conference room March 16.

We motored east as the tide began to ebb. Flipped up the fenders, one at a time. Not cool to keep them trailing, like fingers skimming patterns in the sand. Dawn was warming black into blue and the monolith islands ahead looked like construction paper silhouettes.

Nervous, excited energy made my stomach queasy. The tide carried us right on course, so I hopped below to start the propane stove for tea. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, click. The flame burst into the darkness and the red light came on. All good. Back in the cockpit, wood smoke signaled the start of the day. Cocks crowed, answered, crowed again.