I haven’t thrown up since I was 5. Seriously. I can recall vividly standing in the center of our kitchen, slightly to the left of the mess I had just deposited near the oven, and through my tears, dramatically declaring to the world that I would NEVER, and I mean NEVER, throw up again. Of course, I believe this was the same year that I also declared to the world that I would be a famous ballerina. Oh well. So, when Don invited me to go sailing, something I had never done before, it’s not that I was opposed to the idea, it’s just that sailing represented a threat to my perfect puke-free record. But heck, love makes us do crazy things.
Now, just FYI, water and I do not have the best of histories. It has tried to drown me, twice. Once in a neighbor’s swimming pool, and once at the North Shore of Oahu. But still, I didn’t want to knock sailing until I tried it. Plus, if I were going to have another near-death experience, I’d rather have it near Don.
I don’t really remember how “learn to sail with Don” became “learn to race with Don”. Perhaps it was when he started using the words “winning”. I figure, in the larger scheme of things, it’s not really important. Unless in the larger scheme of things, I drown. Don registered us for the Viento Fiesta Regatta, and he made a point of telling me that this wasn’t about winning, it was about having fun. We planned several outings so that I could put some sailing time in before the race, but apparently this whole sailing thing is dependent upon the wind showing up. And apparently, the wind is one flaky friend.
Plan B. Show Cynthia videos of Hobie races. As he put in the video, he reminded me that, for us, this wasn’t about winning. As the action started, all I saw were people screaming at each other and being flung into the ocean, or onto the sails. Boats falling over. More screaming. I swear I saw blood. And a huge dorsal fin. Their outfits were cool, though.
Plan C. Draw sketches on cocktail napkins of basic sailing techniques and racing theory. Throw in some tidbits about clouds. And reiterate that this is not about winning. No pressure. We’re just going to have fun. Now, I speak 3 languages, but Hobie isn’t one of them. Don starts rattling off terminology that makes him sound like he’s giving a Pentagon briefing. Downhaul, tack, jib, jibe, backing the jib, main sheet, cleat, heave to, broad reach, cleating, lufting, lauching, tramp, trapping out, ACA, ABCAC, ABCA, windward leeward port starboard, aft, fore, nip tuck, stop drop and roll. knickknack paddy whack….( I think I fainted at this point)
Huh?
Plan D. Get to Lake Comanche early Friday to try and get some practice in. (Ha! Practice? How about a first sail?) We did finally get on the water at about 6:30 pm. As we pushed off from shore, Don kissed me and said, “Now sweetheart, remember, this is not about winning. No pressure. Just fun. OK?” “OK”, I smiled. Almost immediately, the boat took off like a rocket (or whatever analogous object flies across a lake). There seemed to be a lot of wind, and as my face was getting power washed, Don screams from out on the wire, “Does it feel like we’re hauling ass?” I screamed back “YES!”. To which Don replied with an almost maniacal cackle “That’s because we ARE hauling ass!” Just as I was feeling like I could relax my grip on the foot straps, Don’s trap handle breaks and he nearly falls into the lake. “Aaack!” I scream. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! No more hauling ass! Ass hauling bad!” Most women worry about their man leaving them. Not me. I have to worry about my man getting forcibly ejected from my side by weak and possibly vengeful sailing apparatus.
He smiles at me, and I see that his mouth is bleeding from trap handle shrapnel.
“Your mouth is bleeding!” I shriek.
“It ith?” he says, lisping through the blood. “Ith nothing.”
“Don, we need to have a plan for what I do if you fall off the boat.”
“Oh, ith thimple,” he replies. “Juthst crawl to the other thide of the boat, grab the righting line, jump into the water, and pull the boat over, but make thure you don’t pull it on top of yourthelf.”
“WHAT? That’s not a plan, that’s a friggin’ Fear Factor episode! And what’s a righting line?”
We ended up agreeing on MY plan: Don doesn’t ever fall off the boat. Thimple.
That night, as I sat with the Fleet around a roaring campfire, I pondered what tomorrow would bring. Would there be any wind? Would we have fun? Would I come to regret not having a living will? I looked up, and straight above our heads was the Big Dipper. I took this to be a great omen, since that is the one constellation that has guided sailors at night for thousands of years. Come sunrise, it would be all about A-C-A, but until then, Mr. Big Dipper would be my trusty azimuth for the T-P-T course. (Tent-Portapotty-Tent)
Race day.
As I emerged from our tent in full wetsuit/life jacket/trap harness regalia, I was psyched! I was ready! I had no idea what I was doing! Wooo hoooo! My getup was damn, cool, though. I felt like Jacquette Cousteau. I imagined I looked like a stone fox, even though I think I knew somewhere deep down inside that my look was a lot closer to harbor seal.
I waddled over to the skipper’s meeting, where I tried to blend in by crossing my arms and nodding a lot. Dave Atwater made his hundredth sales pitch for raffle tickets. Buy raffle tickets? At last, a sailing skill I could excel at!
As soon as the skipper’s meeting was over, Don and I got out on the water. Right away, I was frustrated by the fact that tacking and jibbing seemed to be the exact same thing. After about an hour of racing, I finally picked up on what I considered to be the difference between the two. I proudly pointed this out to Don. “When I tack, I always tighten the jib all the way, and when I jibe I leave it a bit looser.” Don said “That’s right.” He seemed encouraged by this. So I asked, “Then why not just call a jibe, a loose tack?” Don laughed. He no longer seemed encouraged. “And while we’re on the subject, why have a jib and a spinnaker when you could just have a jib and a big jib? Oh, and why on earth is the spool of rope called a sheet? You’re just making it harder on yourselves. I mean honestly. You’re looking down at this metal spool thing with rope wound around it, and the best word you can think of is SHEET? There isn’t anything about that apparatus that vaguely resembles a sheet!”
Don laughed again, as if to say, “Was it really my idea to bring her here?”.
I guess the sailing world is just not ready to jettison any of its jargon.
We did 3 races, I think. To be honest, I really couldn’t tell the starts from the finishes. To me, the regatta looked more like a beautiful school of Butterfly fish swimming to and fro through the coral beds. But I had a blast. I wasn’t the least bit seasick, and I especially enjoyed being able to share in something Don loves so much. My strategy was simple. I just made sure that the jib followed the little red flag thingie hanging from the “dolphin striker”. As it turns out, Sunday was a wash, literally. We awoke at about 5 am to pouring rain, and it never stopped. The race was called, and as the Fleet huddled together under a few makeshift tarps near Dave’s RV, an amazing thing happened. We got first place plaques! I have to admit, this was really really cool. Don took my hand as we ran through the rain back to the shelter of our tent, and he said to me, “You know that stuff I said about this not being about winning? I lied.”
Things I learned from my first Hobie Regatta:
A small water bottle makes perfect round bruises on your knee. A Powerbar makes linear bruises.
Urine can travel uphill inside a wetsuit.
Trap handles are not invincible.
If you hit your forehead on the mast, it hurts.
You can race and not break a nail. (But you can’t brag about this because intact fingernails hold absolutely no cache in the world of sailboat racing.)
Horns are optional.
If it feels like you’re hauling ass, then you are actually hauling ass.
When the Commodore says “tack now”, you tack.
To the folks at the Dramamine Corporation,“Non-Drowsy formula” is actually a relative term. They mean “compared to a wildebeest shot with a tranquilizer dart, you will seem really alert.”
Stringing a makeshift clothesline between two trees is a very effective way to dry your gear. Unless it rains.
No matter how small the holes are in your bug netting, there is ALWAYS a species of bug smaller.
Screaming while racing only serves to give the water another orifice in which to blast.
Lots of Hobie racers own dogs. Big dogs. Sometimes more than one. And they bring them to the Regattas, which is probably why no one brought their cat.
An air mattress is a lot more effective when it’s filled with air.
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