While many sailors are said to be superstitious, I never had any qualms about casting off lines on a Friday or hanging a large stalk of Jamaican bananas from the mizzen. Nor did I see any cause for concern heading out on “The Ides of March” for a quick daysail aboard my Dyer dinghy.
After a dozen years of sailing in the tropics, I had just finished my first winter up north again on Long Island, New York, in what felt like forever. Except for a few hours in an antique iceboat on Long Island’s frozen eastern Great South Bay, I hadn’t been sailing in months. Then came a sunny, sparkling clear day with a brisk northwesterly breeze, following
