A seasoned boatwright and cruising sailor reveals her love affair with the tools of her trade, and the favorites she always keeps on hand.

I grew up watching my dad and grandpa use these tools,” Casey said, as he unpacked. “It was always my favorite place to be: in the shop, at their side. Even when I could hardly see over the workbench.” I was 19, working as a liveaboard deckhand on a schooner, and Casey had just arrived as the new captain. He had recently inherited those tools and had them shipped to him, cross-country, in a series of flat-rate boxes. Even though it was more than he would likely need in his new position, having them close by made him feel prepared for anything. I still remember looking over that collection of wrenches, sockets, pliers and hammers. Tools that generations had lovingly oiled, their carved initials darkened into the worn handles.

Tools are personal. For sailors, they are at our side, hour after hour, day after day, as we go about re-forming a tiny piece of the world into the shape of our dreams. They are in our hands in our most desperate moments, when emergency strikes and hearts skip a beat. They are in our stories, when we tell of our challenges, triumphs and adventures. Seeing an old tool can spark miles of memories, and transport us back to a time, a place or people long left behind. Peer closely into a tool bag and you can see a whole life story: where we’ve been (those stubby metric wrenches from my first motorcycle kit); who we are (the fiberglassing scissors for boatbuilding projects); and where our dreams and fears lie (the giant bolt cutters that I bought in anticipation of crossing oceans).

I can perfectly remember my first set of tools. It had initials carved into the handles too: I-K-E-A. It was one of those $7 orange tool kits the Swedish store sells: hammer, crescent wrench, pliers, screwdriver and Allen key (of course). My mom bought it for me, and it still makes me feel lucky to have the kind of mom who, when helping her daughter get ready for her first semester at college, threw a toolkit in the cart alongside the throw pillows, flat-packed birch desk and tea candles. Maybe even back then she sensed that her suburban, soft-palmed daughter would veer off into the world of docks, boats and calluses. Or maybe the toolkit itself was to blame, its “Fixa” name revealing its ambitions toward me all along.

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