What we’re talking about when we talk about the eternal search for a boat that could take us anywhere.

My friend Bob, a successful yacht broker, generally has an idea in mind of what someone’s next boat could be. He’s adept at finding a bigger or slightly newer model to replace your beloved boat, even if you’re not "in the market." Bob surprised me recently by saying that the average sailboat changes owners about every five years. He earns a tidy living off that fact, so it would seem to be fairly accurate. We sailors tend to be proud of our boats, customizing, constantly polishing, and all but fawning over them. It seems odd to me that we should so easily fall victim to the virus known as Two-Foot-itis. It’s a serious disease that afflicts boat owners, causing them to believe that their boat would be perfect, were it only two feet longer.

The effects are progressive, and in extreme cases, advance to the brink of madness or bankruptcy, at which point the victim trades in all his gear for the simplicity of a 22-foot daysailer, and the cycle begins anew. Looking around the dock I live on, I realize Bob may be right. Despite owners’ strong loyalties, many of the boats around me have recently been traded for larger models. Quite often, gossip on the docks centers around talk of someone buying a bigger boat. I have owned a Ranger 33, Casper, for more than four years now. Despite Bob’s turnover statistics, I may admire the newer, bigger boats that show up on the dock, but I have not been in the market to buy. I know my boat well, my girlfriend and I happily live aboard, and we love the way she sails. What more do we need?

This week, a friend with a 45-foot custom Gary Mull design named Kololia called me up, and instead of opening with his usual "When are we gonna raft up at the islands? Maybe next weekend?" he stunned me by saying "I’ve got to give up the boat and move inland. She’s going on the market, and I wanted to tell you first." I’ve admired the lines of that powerful warhorse since I first moved to the dock, but I never thought I could afford such a big boat, and further, couldn’t imagine her coming up for sale. I thanked him for telling me, and admitted that were the timing different, I’d be tempted to consider the offer. With regret, I told him it was too daunting a prospect to keep up two slip fees while the Ranger went on the market. He was understanding, and told me he was going to list her with a broker. The next day, I walked down to end of dock where Kololia lay. I hadn’t changed my mind, but I thought I’d share in a few consolation beers with my friend, who has strong emotional ties to the boat. I figured I’d wish him well, and maybe offer to act as delivery skipper when the boat sold. I knew I was in trouble when he greeted me from the cockpit with a cheerful, "My buddy Steve will give you the survey value for Casper." All of a sudden, with a reasonable offer in sight, my loyalty to my trusty Ranger started to slip.

The one place where bigger isn’t better. Any one care to guess how many gallons of bottom paint go on the hull of a 100-footer? Would you like an LPU job with that?

I felt the symptoms setting in, and that afternoon, I started to develop a pretty bad case of Two-Foot-itis. Since that day, I can’t say I’ve slept all that well. I lie awake at night, imagining myself driving to weather, reefed down and dodging spray, or dutifully oiling the teak decks, even baking my secret peach custard pie in the galley oven. Sure, I love Casper, but the wide teak decks and long waterline of Kololia could really take us anywhere. It’s been hard, in my feverish state, not to imagine the possibilities, which are suddenly truly possible.

The eerie thing is I remember feeling almost exactly like this when I bought Casper. At the brokerage where Bob works, I studied the boat for days. I became a boat-stalker, spending several afternoons needlessly rigging the spinnaker pole (while still in the slip), planning interior upgrades, reveling in the amount of headroom inside, and just standing on the dock, examining her every angle. I remember being so excited about buying the very boat I’m now going to abandon by selling. Before that, I felt a similar emotion when I first contemplated a derelict Columbia 26 we ended up living aboard for almost a year. How did this happen? I haven’t changed (much), and the Casper has slowly improved over last few years, with me learning a lot about her in the process. I guess it’s natural to want something bigger or better, especially for a liveaboard couple with intentions of serious coastal cruising and nowhere to stow my power tools or her high-heeled shoes (not that they need to be on board).

Still, up until this week, I’ve been very happy sailing the Ranger, and even fondly remember lazy afternoons tacking the old Columbia around in the harbor. The issue isn’t with the boats, although I am now a firm believer in the luxury of being able to stand up inside. (Also, both those boats were paid for, something I probably won’t be able to say about the new boat for quite a while.) I’ve always enjoyed living frugally and comfortably, and I’m hoping that rather than simply buying a bigger boat, I’m refining my definition of the right boat for my needs. It is an admittedly fine line.

Once cruising, the view from a big boat or a little boat is the same. The amount of time and money it takes to get there is another story.

My friend Captain Kyle is lucky enough to be completely immune to this debilitating disease. Unlike me, he doesn’t succumb to the fever, despite captaining boats larger and newer than his own and frequent exposure to Bob’s infectious ideas. Kyle sails more often than anyone else in the harbor, on his boat and others, by charter skippering, and sometimes giving Bob’s clients lessons aboard their new boats. He may turn his head to gawk at a larger boat occasionally, but it’s usually as he sails past on the way out of harbor for an hour or two. On returning, he lovingly washes his O’Day 22 in five minutes or so, and is finished putting the boat away long before a bigger boat would even be re-connected to shore power. Kyle probably spends less annually on deck hardware than he does on Tabasco sauce, and can even drop his mast for maintenance right in the slip. When asked about moving up in boat size, he gets uncharacteristically quiet, or changes the subject to the latest improvement on his boat, on which he’ll obviously be happy for years and years to come. In the end, satisfaction in boat ownership comes from finding the boat that fulfills your needs. We’ve decided to buy the Kololia, and I think it’s the right decision. She has the potential to take us where we want to go, and if those goals change, we can adjust down the line. In showing Casper to Steve, who’s been living on a 26-foot sailboat, I noticed his happiness upon discovering that he could stand upright in the Ranger without bumping his head. I didn’t say anything, but nodded, recognizing his broad smile as one of the first symptoms of Two-Foot-itis.