Retired U.S. Navy Captain Robert P. Beebe has spent most of his 58 years in, on, under and around the water. He should, therefore, be reasonably used to the behavior of any craft subject to the vagaries of wind and wave. Yet, there in the galley of his own oceangoing motor-boat Passagemaker, Captain Beebe sat stunned and unbelieving. The reason: six plates, stacked neatly on a counter near the galley stove, had suddenly leaped off their shelf and cascaded onto the deck, clattering and shattering all over the place.
It was a sight at which most sailors would merely have shrugged. Aboard virtually any boat smaller than the late R.M.S. Queen Mary, anything that can come unhitched eventually will. Plates, pans, tools, gear, people are all fair game if they are not strapped securely in place. The wrong wave from the wrong quarter and hey, watch it! Why, even the rawest lubber knows that.
Yet there was Bob Beebe, 50 years a sailor, staring in amazement at the pile of plates strewn on his galley deck. And while it may come as a shock to anybody who has ever tried to sip hot coffee in a beam sea, he had good reason to stare. Sturdy, high-sided, salty and tough, his 50-foot Passagemaker had taken him across two oceans nonstop, flirted with hurricanes, bulled headlong into full gales, ridden easily over rolling swells, and in 50,000 miles of cruising had almost never broken a dish under way.
The trouble with the present circumstances was that she was not under way. At the moment of Captain Beebe's shocked surprise, she was hanging on a mooring in the anchorage of the Balboa Yacht Club with all her seagoing defenses down and at the mercy of every souped-up sportsfisherman who cared to roar past her at 10 knots over the courteous limit. So just forget that pile of crockery on the deck, Cap'n Bob. It was a freak happening, one that can't be repeated if only you and Passagemaker stay at sea where you both belong.
So what is she, this rugged but stylish craft that can do things no other boat of her general size and shape could dream of? Is she an express cruiser? Oh, no, no. A sailboat? An auxiliary? No, though she carries both sail and power. A motor sailer then? Oh, dear, no. She is, as her name not only implies but states most explicitly, a vessel designed to make passages.
Captain Beebe's boat can chug happily along for 3,200 miles without a stop and without a groan from her single huge Ford diesel. Single, you say? Yes, why carry two engines when the weight of a second could be converted into extra fuel, far more useful when you're halfway across an ocean? The thing is to make sure your single engine is reliable. Passagemaker's big Ford will get her across any ocean as smoothly as the old Super Chief riding the rails of the Santa Fe as long as it keeps running. And if it doesn't—well, there are Passagemaker's unique auxiliary sails to get you home. The term "auxiliary" is used advisedly, for on this boat the sails, not the engine, provide the extra, emergency power.
On the wind Passagemaker carries a normal working ketch rig: jib, main and mizzen. Downwind she flies two triangular foresails wung out to port and starboard with two more triangular sails on the mizzen, somewhat like huge storm trysails clewed to the struts of her flopperstoppers.
Her what? Her flopperstoppers. That's what the fishermen of the Pacific call the gadgets that play the most important role of all aboard Passagemaker. They consist of two clumsy-looking chunks of metal, about two feet across and two feet long, shaped vaguely like stingrays. These steel "fish" swim along under the water on either side of the boat on the end of steel cables held in place by outriggers stayed to a sturdy mizzen mast. Because they tend to hold their course evenly well below the surface where the waves have no effect, any effort on the part of Passagemaker to pull them up or down as she tries to roll is promptly discouraged.
Beebe's flopperstoppers, his unique sails, his single reliable diesel and the stern seamanship he has built into his Passagemaker are all practical expressions of a new wistful trend in yachting—the yearning of the amateur to own a boat on which he can truly rely as those who make their living by the sea rely on their working craft. This trend has led to a whole new class of motor yachts patterned on the ocean fisherman's rugged trawler.
Less wistful yachtsmen today are often sent to sea by more wistful wives. You can see them every year at the boat show in Manhattan's Coliseum. There he stands on the flying bridge of the latest chrome and mahogany marvel, knuckles white on the wheel, gazing off into the Columbus Circle exit. And below she goggles at the plush carpeting, the nifty full-sized refrigerator, the huge, luxurious staterooms, the hot-water faucets. "Why, it's just like an adorable little house," says she. Next summer, in a great fog of internal combustion fumes, they roar out at flank speed for the breakwater and the open sea. Then it comes, the first long ocean swell that turns the adorable little home into a Luna Park crazy house and the maritime marvel into a torture chamber. If she ever makes it back to shore, she will spend the following weekend tied up at the marina and likely stay there the rest of the summer. Come fall, there will be a natty "for sale" sign on her tuna tower. It is, perhaps, the most significant fact of Passagemaker that when Captain Beebe talked of selling, it was Mrs. Beebe who demurred.