The Rads: Darryl, Angie, Shanta, Gloria, Cygnet and Sinbad

By: R. Brintnall

First published in Latitudes & Attitudes, May 2005

For the record, I am not a cat person. I would not consider myself a cat hater, but I’m not particularly inclined to a pet that won’t come when called, regurgitates swallowed hair, and whose definition of being housebroken includes a diligent human to remove its waste.

Cygnet was my sister’s cat, a small striped tiger with a splotch of white on her chest and four white paws. She was a cruiser cat that always held an apathetic opinion of me that was fairly consistent with how I felt about her. However, after an extremely long life at sea and many passages in the Great Lakes and Caribbean, I have to admit this was one old tiger that definitely earned her stripes. She has passed now, but she spent almost 2 decades of her long life at sea, and was a stalwart sailor whose rich life log would be worthy of tribute whether feline, human, or any other kindred soul.

Cygnet began her live aboard career in the northern waters of Lake Michigan on a 45’ center cockpit Roberts Ketch, the Emerald Sea. She learned the ropes early and was not quite full grown when her skipper taught her well about the dangers of leaving the boat at will. As a young Cygnet prepared to make an unauthorized jump to the dock, Darryl, my seaworthy brother-in-law, gently pushed her over the side into the brisk waters of Northern Lake Michigan. The cat was not amused, and as Darryl reached over to rescue her she bit hard onto his finger, not letting go till on deck. But the lesson was well learned: for all her years at sea, Cygnet never required a pet net to keep her on board.

She sailed a few years on the Great Lakes, living aboard from May to October, then headed south with the family for the Bahamas. She adjusted well to the ins and outs of full time liveaboard cruising. On the aft deck a beautiful hardwood, baffled litter chest allowed her privacy and protection to do her business, but if the decks were wet she required one of her human underlings to carry her to it. She also had a rough weather box down below, though Cygnet was not one to stay below in high seas. Whether through instinct or experience, the old cat knew that the best place to ride out rough weather was in the cockpit, usually under a cushion, towel or life jacket. The large, comfortable cabin of the Emerald Sea offered Cygnet ample opportunity for her principal fair weather vocation, sleeping, which is where she and I had some initial conflicts.

I was a young man in those years and was the hired hand when the family took the boat on passages, helping them move from the Keys or Miami to Nassau and then Georgetown and back. It was the beginning of my own life-long love of sail and cruising, and I went every year I got the chance. The front vee was my cabin when I crewed, unfortunately it was also at the very top of Cygnets 30 acceptable places to sleep all day.

The trouble began as soon as I unrolled my bedroll. Cygnet bounded into the vee and gave me her abrupt and penetrating “meow,” the one that says, “I’m irritated and expect you to do something about it”. I ignored her and went to the head to prepare for bed. When I returned she was on my blanket. I got another “meow” as I went to move her. Cygnet never deemed me of sufficient rank to touch her without permission. Then she scampered off to report my actions to others more dedicated to her service.

I snuggled in my blankets and centered my carcass in the middle of the vee. But before I fell asleep she was back. She sniffed me and my blanket from head to toe, then stood by her own pillows and blankets crammed to port and gave me her irritated, and irritating, meow once again. I did nothing, and she repeated herself till I conceded and lumped over to starboard, hugging the leeward hull. That began our truce, I guess. She would share the front vee cabin as long as I didn’t hog it, and for her recompense she got to enjoy my warm bedroll as soon as I was up. Once berthing issues were settled we simply stayed out of each other’s way.

Another of the few times over the years that Cygnet went out of her way to interact with me was on a mid watch heading south in the Tongue of the Ocean, Bahamas. I love to sail at night, and this night was breathtaking. The moon was nearly full, and near the horizon it seemed you could reach over and draw your name in its pristine white powder. The stars were just as bright, the sea was lively, but nothing uncomfortable for the Emerald Sea, and I was enjoying the sounds of the sea with the night show above when an aging Cygnet joined me in the cockpit. She padded about and sniffed around as part of her usual inspection, then froze and stared aft. She then looked my way and gave me the “I’m irritated so do something,” meow. I gave her my “take your act to someone who cares” look, and she turned away to direct her comments into the shadows of the aft deck. 

It was, of course, somewhat disquieting to see an animal sensing something in the shadows that you do not. So I groaned and set the autopilot, then re-snapped my lifeline and took a light to inspect the aft deck. I didn’t stray too far from the cockpit, but shinned my light around everything pertinent. The lazarette cover was secure, the dingy was following peacefully enough in our wake, the outboard on the rail mount was fine, her majesty’s personal hardwood head looked fine, secured jerry cans were secure. I went back to the helm, put my light away, and “humphed” at the little old cat, deciding she was just being proactively annoying for a change.

Cygnet gave her cranky little meow once more to me and once more to the shadows aft, after which she gave up and returned disgustedly to one of her preferred sleeping areas down below, most likely my bedroll. The rest of my watch was uneventful and much more peaceful. Mid morning found me up again for watch, and I strolled the aft deck with my coffee enjoying the already warm morning sun of the Caribbean. I took a seat on the empress’s chest to finish my coffee. There behind me, against the stern rail, were two dead flying fish. Cygnet came on deck at that moment to bound atop her chest and stood next to me where I sat staring at the flying fish. She looked at me and let out one short “I told you so” meow then jumped down to enter her chest and so befoul the air that I had to finish my coffee elsewhere.

Cygnet had a third meow, and that was one of anxiety. It was a very rare vocalization for her as she was generally far too ornery to ever be anxious. I never heard her express fear in storms, or even facing the occasional dog, but for some reason she did not like seeing the Emerald Sea’s masts going under bridges. Her meow on those occasions wasn’t a fearful squeak, but a series of short blasts. Whether she had poor depth perception, didn’t trust the charts, or just picked up on some of her owner’s anxiety I don’t know. But even to her last days living ashore and riding in a car, she would blast away when she was chauffeured under a bridge. I suppose a pet can also have a pet peeve.

There were other cats sailing with the family over the years. And if there was a turning point in my respect for old Cygnet, it probably came from witnessing the great respect other felines always seemed to give her without question. Cygnet was not very big, and though sometimes quite vocal, never actually aggressive. Yet through some language or other sense only known to felines, all larger, younger, sillier cats I have seen her with all recognized and submitted to her esteemed rank. They all seemed to know that this old lady deserved their respect. They gave up their berths for her, unless she allowed them to keep her warm. They made way at the food dish. They didn’t try to play with her, didn’t try to fuss with her, didn’t try to mess with her. Among cats, she earned her due, and so I defer as well.

This old cat logged the thousands upon thousands of blue water miles that I am still trying to match in my life. She sailed in snow and tropical storms, fresh water and open ocean. She hissed at animals from manatees to coyotes, dorados, iguanas, flying fish, lobster, and dolphins. She held fast through many a rough passage, slept through thousands of easy ones, rode in dinghies more than cars, and even disappeared once for more than six months, being returned to her owners under dubious circumstances that only she knows. I can’t say that her opinion of me ever changed much over her two decade life, but I can say that there was at least one cat in mine that I will never forget and that earned my eternal respect.

Cygnet retired from living at sea and adjusted to house living not far from where Blackbeard once tried the same. Through her last days she had dutiful humans to care for her, and companion cats to give way at her majesty’s slightest glance. She enjoyed the electric blanket land living afforded her, and when the kitchen floor was wet from mopping, there was always someone to carry her across it.