Confession of a Sometime Sailor

Aug 23, 2022

I am what real sailors disparagingly refer to as a “fair weather sailor.” I love to wade down into the lake in front of our cabin and unclip my humble “sunfish” sailboat from where it lives, protected under a heavy canvas shelter the former owner of my camp made from PVC tubes and cloth clamped to the dock (to protect his lovely Adirondack boat). I like that it’s so accessible. All I have to do is unclip the 3 bungee cords that hold it in place, pull it out, set the mast in, hoist the sail, and I’m on my way. When I’m there for a string of days, and I know it won’t rain much, I’ll leave the mast up, the sail rolled around the mast, and tie it off on my own makeshift mooring—an old lobster float tethered to a small anchor, which makes it even easier to wade out, hop on and sail away.

But I’m only hopping on if conditions are perfect—a steady breeze without too many angry gusts coming from alternating directions, no big white caps—a manageable wind taking hold of that one, small sail, and my humble craft moving humbly along, pushing through the waves as if by magic.

But let the winds start to blow too hard, the waves swirl into frothy peaks and valleys, those closer together, dark, angry patches of waves racing across the lake’s surface (gusts half again or double the strength of the current wind), and I would rather stay on shore with a good book in my lap.

I have done it, trying to prove myself to my oldest son and wife—who both outwardly mock me for my wimpiness, and who both love “white knuckle” days more than any other, those days when you have to be ever-alert, one hand holding tight to the main sheet, the other clinging to the tiller, keeping a wary eye out for a potentially cap-sizing gust. I have told myself, “be brave, be a real sailor, get out there…,” and so I do occasionally go forth into the tempest. I work to let the boat heel out as far as possible, leaning all my weight in the opposite direction to keep her from going over. I remind myself that even if I do flip this small craft, it can easily be righted. My son tells me I need to capsize it on purpose a few times, to learn its limits. My wife asks, “what are you afraid of?” But even though I have survived all my daring outings unscathed (barely challenging at all if you ask my son or my wife), I know that when I’m out there, in the midst of it, trying to keep myself aright, paying constant attention to everything, I’m not really having “fun.”

But…when a nice 5-8 mph wind is blowing from the north, which on our small, Adirondack lake, our cabin close to the north end, means the waves will be barely-there indentations on the surface, I thoroughly enjoy the sensation of gliding along at a steady clip. I can even snug the main sheet into its cleat, lean back, pause for a drink of water, or look up at the passing clouds, the nearby peaks, a resident loon surfacing nearby…and let my mind wander.

It’s something like the difference I feel when riding my road or gravel bike on an eventless route, all manner of ideas running through my mind, versus hammering down a rocky trail on my mountain bike, utterly focused on every rock and root. I do, however, feel much more the master of my own fate on my mountain bike than when navigating a sailboat through storm-tossed seas. I can stop for a break or a drink whenever I like. I can go around the berm-jump if I don’t feel like going airborne—and after breaking some ribs a few year’s back, taking on some terrain I was clearly not qualified to ride, I do tend to take it slow and steady these days, remembering several long nights of not being able to lay flat on my back or breathe deeply or cough or laugh without jolts of remarkable pain shooting through me.

I didn’t buy my first sailboat until well into my middle age. A sailing friend recommended an O’Day Daysailer, and after an extensive Internet search, I found the perfect boat—a beautiful, olive-green specimen, circa 1973, that had only had its hull wet a handful of times. I drove out to Amish country, PA, and brought home my lovely craft. Another friend offered me a spot on his family dock in nearby Milford, and it was an easy motor out into the big bay—Charles Island, the mouth of the Housatonic River nearby, and on clear days Long Island looking as if you could reach out and touch it. With this boat, too, I pushed myself to enjoy those “snotty” days, as sailor’s call them, which seemed a requirement of true sailors. I even sailed it alone once on a particularly snotty day and tried to rig the furling jib thingy mid-sail—which led to several harrowing moments, the jib wrapping wildly around the front thwart, me standing on the bow cursing the wind, convinced the sea would swallow me whole.

My wife will sometimes remind me of another event on that boat, a trip out with just her, she laying on the bow, me at the helm, “pinching” into a strong, off-shore breeze, trying to keep the boat from heeling as much as possible, when the wind, as off-shore breezes are wont to do, started to change direction, the boat heeling farther and farther up, no matter how much I steered what should have been into the wind (but it was devilishly sneaking around to hit my sails flush on from the side). Then, leaning out to try to steady things, I accidentally let go of the main sheet, the mainsail cleated and locked in place, and had to make a dive down toward the water to retrieve it, the gunwales on that side of the boat beginning to push under until I snapped the sheets loose, and the boom swung hard out perpendicular to the boat, and we were suddenly level and barely moving, the sails flapping like crazy, and my wife hollering out “That was awesome! Why did you stop?!”

That day is often referenced when I try to get my wife to squeeze into my little sunfish and sail with me, far from the ocean on a tiny boat with its one small but capable sail. My daysailer has now been adopted by my eldest son, who keeps it moored in the Long Island Sound near his apartment and sails it in all winds and weather, sometimes with his mother, a more than willing passenger.

But for me, I have my little sunfish that only I can fit into comfortably. I write this without apology: I’m ok sailing on just those “fair weather” days I love so much. I utterly enjoy the feeling of the wind grabbing hold of my sail, that thrilling rush of motion without the accompanying roar of a motor. I imagine myself reaching out and grabbing hold of something invisible, or rather, something invisible reaching down and grabbing hold of me, lifting me into its not-too-strong hands, and taking me for a ride.

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Confession of a Sometime Sailor

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