I’m not sure default is the word I am looking for to describe our sailing education/experience so far. As we mean to sail successfully, we have done so, no real expertise on our part. We haven’t capsized or had to row home. But we have almost slammed into countless boats as we cruise back to the loading dock. We have held white-knuckled onto lines while the boat tips forty-five degrees. And we have slept inside at a slip, afraid to disembark due to a gaggle of harbor seals lounging in our path to the bathroom. We have also romantically sailed into thick fog, emerging into a regatta of angry sloops in full spinnaker regalia—-ciao!
I could mean sailing by “jerryrigging.” I looked this up in the dictionary:
1. Nautical. a temporary rig to replace a permanent rig that has been
disabled, lost overboard, etc.
2. any makeshift arrangement of machinery or the like.
Of course I meant the second definition, but my goodness, the first definition sounds like a nightmare, albeit an assured possibility for us! I fear this really is what I mean, since we mistakenly assemble and hoist, tie and toss. We have hoisted unknowingly the wrong type of sail, have hauled the boat improperly on the trailer, and have ventured out with a non-working motor ( a motor is essential to sailors like us who can’t sail back to port).
We do not have one proper knot on the ship. I intend to learn some, but I can’t find my Klutz Book of Knots I bought our children 20 years ago; I thought it might be my speed. Years ago I took a sailing class through Park and Recreation. The teacher was a sailing sarge, screaming at us from ashore, as we fluttered willy-nilly in the harbor. I stuck the class out for a few weeks, almost learning some knots, but couldn’t return after receiving a particularly humiliating tirade from Sarge when it was my turn at the helm.
Our boat’s name is Sea Sharp, alluding to my husband, the musician. I fear others suspect we are Sea Dull, but we hope they are too busy mulling over the name’s meaning to really pay attention to what we are doing.
When you name a boat you are supposed to christen it to not offend the sea god/gods. Champagne is required but we used red wine. We used good red wine because we like it, and we didn’t want to offend said gods with cheap stuff. The wine stained the fiberglass because we didn’t want to break a bottle and make a mess. The wine splashed on and past the all important-to-christen bow. We managed to save a glassful for each of us to toast the christening. We recited a poem my husband plucked off the internet, and I hope this satisfies the god/gods who receive a lot of internet play if you look for them.
Sea Sharp’s mast is one tall mother. I’m afraid to look up that high. Getting the mast up is the most frightening step for us. We aren’t even in the water at this point; the boat is still on the trailer attached to the car, out in the parking lot at the launching area. The mast is an awkward lance of old. My husband watched a Youtube video about a funky apparatus that safely pulls the mast into place. It works great but is a rather huge embarrassment in action. It’s an upside-down v-shaped wooden thingamabob that my husband cleverly copied. It’s wearing discarded black socks on the ends of the two sticks to keep it from scratching the boat. I think those socks say it all. But then again, it works like a charm. I’m old enough now that embarrassment doesn’t happen too often. In reality, I’m too scared to be embarrassed.
I looked up the word, half-assed. I thought this might describe our approach. But the dictionary of slang says this is objectionable (clearly not in our case). It means ineffectual, yet our approach does work. Maybe this is due to nature being kind to us, or we’ve been incredibly lucky, or our time will come. I fear we are fools, but so far, sailing appears to be foolproof.
I could be too cocky, using the word, default. It means inaction, and we do try. It also means that it reverts back to some preselected setting on a computer. Our setting must be on “Stay upright,” otherwise known to me as “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” That slogan dates me, but I have gleaned so much comfort from it on the water, thank you, Wham-O.
Recently, my poor husband committed a magnificently mortifying feat. We arrived in Monterey Bay after 5 hours on the road, radiator trouble that lead to engine failure, a stop at Casa de Diesel with a kindly tow truck, and two hours’ horror, waiting and rummaging among all the junk sold at Casa de Fruta, Casa de Wine, and Casa de Garlic. Finally pulling into Monterey, we gleefully set up the boat in a record hour and a half and obtained our slip number from the Harbor Master’s Office that lorded over the boat launch. Mast up, motor in place, rudder ready, my husband towed the boat around to the left of other not-quite-ready-to-launch boats, toward the actual launch ramp. I was running down to the ramp to guide him down verbally.
KA-BAMMMM! My head snapped to the left, and I screamed. Sea Sharp was nose up off the trailer at a 45 degree angle to the ground. The mast had caught on the street lamp pole, and the boat was suspended in mid air, stern still on the trailer. All other boat folks, not to mention multitudes of tourists gathered. Great. My husband calmly slunk out of the car, sized up the situation, slid back in, reversed (boat lowered back onto the trailer), and drove toward the boat ramp, around the lamp post. Meanwhile, I was shaking hysterically, thinking the boat was falling off the trailer, envisioning a huge bill for a crane to lift it up off the parking lot, not to mention a city bill for the lamp post.
Miraculously, the harbor master never ran out of his office, and a number of sailing folks approached me with similar stories. I was bombarded with their calm and chuckles as they reminisced on the times they had hit a lamp post or a tree at a boat launch. Of course, by this time, our glee was nonexistent, and we just wanted to flee home with our tails between our legs. But no, we persevered the coming weekend as the folks who almost dumped a boat on the ramp.
We actually have four sailboats. Our newest is yellow, only because it was on sale. The owner’s wife needed him to jettison it out of their garage, pronto. The yellow color is bright and unfortunate; it might attract too much attention. We’ve thought of naming it after ourselves, Bumblers or Bumble B&E. But this might attract more attention or greater expectations to bumble. This boat is adorable, a West Wight Potter, a veritable cork bobbing in the ocean — or bay, since we are too afraid to venture out of the bay into the ocean. I pushed for a smaller boat with a smaller mast, one we could put up without a contraption. Smaller is not easier to sail. It feels the waves and the wind more. You have to move around to counterbalance each other or each turn. It’s a constant shifting of weight and bodies side to side, completely nerve-wracking. Reaching for a water bottle can be harrowing. However, by default again, we’ve had a lot of fun in this boat so far. It reminds me that we must name it soon to not offend aforementioned god/gods.
My husband and I are approaching retirement. I’d like to be a confident sailor by then. However, this requires “time on the water.” This means successes and failures through experience. I hope I have the stamina.
I must say that sailing gives us a lot of latent laughs. Sometimes I want to give up, maybe don a motor boat, but the quiet of sailing is just too lovely. Floating atop water caresses the soul, gauging the breeze tickles the mind to unwind, and zipping though ripples brings smiles to our pride. Here’s hoping sailing by default continues to work its magic and mold us into seasoned salts.
