Critic, Cruiser, Writer

It was one of those gloomy, gray days in late October in New York City when the wind comes hard from the north and lets you know that winter won’t be far behind. In Manhattan, on crowded Broadway, a man fastened the top button on his coat and leaned into the wind. “It was blowing out and it was cold,” he would write of that day in 1885. “The air was raw. People had red noses and rubbed their hands.” He passed a shop window in which a highly polished ice skate revolved slowly on a cord and sent a shiver up his spine. The inspiration was sudden: “I must get out of this and I must get out in a hurry.”

The man’s name was Charles Philip Kunhardt. He was of average height for his time, 5' 6". He had blue eyes, brown hair, and a sturdy physique. Two years earlier, Kunhardt had left his job as yachting editor of Forest and Stream magazine, a decision that now gave him the freedom to escape New York’s winter. An image of “Florida waters” washed into Kunhardt’s imagination.

The question was, how would he get there? He considered and rejected several possibilities including train, bicycle, or even canoe. But because Kunhardt was a renowned yachting journalist, the real answer was as obvious as it was preposterous. Despite the lateness of the season, he would buy a small sailboat, outfit it, and cast off, a waterborne “snowbird” long before the term would enter the language.

It must have seemed like a great idea at the time. If he could depart before December, Kunhardt reasoned, he’d dodge the blizzards to come. He’d go alone, too. Despite his public persona, he was by nature an introvert and a lifelong bachelor. His closest colleagues didn’t even know where he lived. Of singlehanding, he would write: “You learn to commune with your own thoughts and unravel your own mind.”