Why didn't I see it coming?

The Dramamine Diaries: Part Deux, The Poseidon Adventure

Ok, so for all of you experienced Hobie sailors out there (which would be everyone in the Fleet except me), from the title, you know where this story is going. Turtle.

But let’s back up a bit and start at the beginning. Back when I was right-side up. Before the tears. Before the screams. Before the small craft advisory.

And speaking of titles that give away the outcome, this latest installment of the Dramamine Diaries takes place at the ‘Wet and Wild’ Regatta. I have to admit, I thought that name was just a marketing ploy. Some cool catch phrase designed to drum up attendance. I never really thought it should be taken literally. I know differently now. (Which is why I wasn’t at the Shark Feed, thank you very much.) If the race committee is ever looking to refresh the name of this Regatta, here are some suggestions. ‘Bye Bye Boat’,‘Pitch Pole Parade’, and ‘Mast-be-Gone’.

Back before the Motion Picture Academy really had that whole ratings thing down, my dad took me to see ‘The Poseidon Adventure’. Today, it would be rated ‘DeTotyk’ for ‘Don’t even THINK of taking your kids’. I remember 2 things about the movie. The first is the unique sight of a full-figured Shelley Winters in an evening gown. Underwater. Swimming for her life. The second is running straight to the bathroom after the movie, flying into one of the stalls, locking the door, and grabbing on to the toilet paper dispenser for dear life because I thought the movie theater was going to capsize. I sat like that, frozen with fear, for a half hour. My poor dad had to ask a strange woman to go into the bathroom and pry my fingers off of the dispenser.

So, when Don said, “Honey, the WORST thing that can happen is the Hobie tips over. But it’s no big deal. We just flip it back over.”… I wasn’t comforted. Then he added, “Now, it CAN go all the way over, you know, upsidedown, but still, we can right it again.”

“We could capsize?” I shrieked. Don again tried to allay my fear, “WE won’t capsize. The BOAT will. It’s called ‘going turtle’.”

Turtle? Now THAT is a marketing ploy. A turtle is hardly something to fear. Aw, how cute. Look at the sweet little turtle. May as well call it ‘Going Puppy’ or ‘Going Bunny’ or ‘Going Fluffy Kitten’.

But then I thought, heck, so we capsize. If Shelly Winters can survive it, so can I. Wait. I think she actually died in the movie. Oh well. So, I packed my Dramamine, and headed east.

After donating one chunk of our paycheck to Arco, and another chunk to Raley’s, Don and I headed to Woodward Reservoir.

Don made sure we arrived early so we could get in some practice. In truth, it was so I could get in some practice. Don is an awesome sailor. This was only my second time on the Hobie, but I was feeling very confident after our first-place win at Lake Comanche. Me? Need practice? Practice shmactrice. Pffft. I’m nationally ranked. (Ahem.) Don really wanted me to learn how to trap out. I was reticent. For the past few months, Don had been telling me over and over again that trapping out is THE way to go. “It’s way more comfortable.”

As I zipped up my wetsuit, I said, “Just so I’m clear... You’re trying to convince me that hanging my ass 10 feet above open water, while going 20 mph, supported by nothing but a single wire, is more comfortable than staying ON the boat? Ha! Don, I really don’t want to donate my body to one of your swift water rescue drills. Really. I’m flattered you thought of me, but no thanks.”

“Ok, we’ll practice on dry land first” he said. “And the boat will be level.”

My blood sugar must have been low because this sounded like a good idea. And you know, it was a good idea. Until I tried it. I hooked in, and Don said, “Now, honey, hang your tush off the edge. No, more than that. More. Ok, good. Now, lean back and feel how you’re supported by the wire.”

I let go off my death grip on the trap handle, let my arms dangle at my sides, and to my amazement, the line didn’t snap in half and decapitate me. This was encouraging!

Don continued patiently coaching me, “Ok, now put your feet on the side of the hull, and get ready to push yourself into a standing position.”

I did everything right. I focused my chi. Visualized success. Aligned my shakras. And then I straightened my legs. I must have forgotten a shakra or something, because I promptly flew back behind the boat like a marionette in a wind tunnel. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I screamed, feeling all too much like a neoprene covered yo-yo.

“That could’ve gone better” Don said. This was his day off. If he wanted to spend time with hysterical civilians attached to a rope, he’d be at work right now.

So, the bad news was that I wouldn’t be trapping out anytime soon. I wasn’t too heartbroken, though. That harness feels like an iron diaper. C’mon, you know I’m right! But the good news is that I no longer have any lingering doubts about whether or not I should have tried out for Cirque Du Soleil.

Race day.

Right off the bat, this felt very different than that first morning at Lake Comanche. For one thing, the wind was blowing. As we sailed toward the starting point, Don shared his strategy with me. I love listening to how he preps and plans. About what course he’ll take at the start, how he’ll approach each mark, avoid the dead spots, find the secret spots, head towards this point or that point. He is so at home on the water. I envy that.

As soon as the first race started, we shot across the water like an errant bottle rocket. I should have known something was up when Don screamed, “Honey, I have to trap out, OK?” Have to? I can understand “want to”, but “have to”? Hmmm. As Don lifted one hull out of the water, I suddenly realized that this is how Hobies are SUPPOSED to sail. It was wild to feel the one hull come up out of the water. I held on to anything I could find. I wasn’t scared. Yet. Our tacks and gybs were smooth, and it seemed we were doing pretty well. Up ahead, we saw a boat go over as it rounded one of the marks. We soon passed the wreckage, and headed toward the upwind mark. As we approached, we witnessed two boats colliding as they vied for position rounding the mark. It was brutal.

I was relieved when we rounded the same mark without incident, and the next mark. I was crouched down on the upper right corner of the boat, when suddenly I felt it tip toward the left. I turned around to see where Don was, thinking, “That’s weird. I didn’t hear him say ‘prepare to tack’.” Don wasn’t anywhere to be seen. And then the boat continued to tip until I actually did see Don. In the water. That’s when the cold reality hit me that we were going over. I scrambled backwards like a crab toward the very tip of the right hull. The boat continued to pitch. “NO! NO! NO! NO!” I screamed. Don could see I was scared, and he said, “It’s OK honey. Just jump into the water. You’ll be fine. It’s OK.”

NO! NO! NO! NO!” I screamed again, and to my astonishment, this did not stop the boat from tipping all the way over. I was still screaming “NO!” as I jumped into the water, and somewhere in mid-air, I thought I heard Don say, “No, stay where you are.” Too late. I hit the water and went completely under. HELLO! I was awake now! I started to frantically tread water to keep myself afloat. “Wait a minute” I thought. “I don’t actually have to frantically tread water to keep myself afloat. I’m wearing a life jacket!” Duh. Sail much? But, by the time this all sank in (no pun intended), I had tired myself out. Don sprung into action, and started to command the recovery operation. Luckily, he is an expert at this. I tried to help him right the boat, but it felt like trying to pull a huge Marlin out of the sea. (I haven’t actually tried doing this, but I imagine it’s tough) Now Jeremy was alongside us in the safety boat. “You guys OK? You need help?”

Just as he asked that, the boat went turtle. I bobbed up and down in the water thinking, “Well, Don was right. I didn’t capsize. The boat did.” I really could not imagine how we were going to right it again. As it turns out, WE weren’t. Don and Jeremy righted it. I paddled over to the side thinking I’d just hoist myself back on board. Easy breezy. Piece of cake. Ugh. NOT. Suddenly, the hull seemed 20 feet high. I tried and tried, but would just grunt and slip back down into the water. How embarrassing. My transformation into Harbor Seal was now complete. For a few seconds, I thought we were going to have to tip the boat over again, strap me to the trampoline, and right it again. I really couldn’t think of any other way that I was going to get my big butt on boa….”BOOF!” Suddenly, Jeremy grabbed the back of my life jacket and plucked me out of the sea like the God Poseidon himself. “SPLAT!” I was back on the trampoline. Don steered us straight across the lake to the far bank where everyone had landed to take a break after the first heat. I have to say, marshy grassland has never felt so great under my feet. “Sqloosh, sqloosh, sqloosh” I walked up on to the bank, grabbed a bottle of water, and sat under the lone tree. My legs were shaking. Don traded stories with the rest of the fleet. I stayed under the tree.

As we got underway for the second heat, I was surprised by how scared I now was. I kept thinking, “Cynthia. The worst happened, and you’re fine.” But for whatever reason, I was now more scared than ever. I cried all the way through the second and third races. The boat was moving very fast (I found out later that we were doing something like 24mph), and every time a hull left the water, I was sure we were going over again. Anything but true level had me whimpering. I didn’t tell Don I was crying. I wanted him to have a shot at winning, and I knew if I said anything, he’d head straight back. I wanted to hang in there and gain experience.

We found out later that this was no ordinary day. We had just sailed through a small craft advisory. To say it was windy was an understatement. By the end of the day, 2 boats would never sail again, one mast was gone, one main sail now had a hole in it in the exact shape of the guy who flew straight through it as his boat flipped over, and at least one person needed stitches.

At dinner, several people who knew how little experience I had, told me I should feel proud that I made it through the day, that many sailors never experience winds that strong. I just laughed nervously and nibbled my BBQ’d tri-tip.

Later that night, I confessed to Don about my crying episode. He really wanted me to sail the next day, but not be scared. So he promised that he wouldn’t try to win. He’d just aim to finish. He wouldn’t trap out, either. I was quite touched by this. I’m lucky to have someone so patient in my corner. (Clearly I am in dire need of it.) Don kept his promise, and the next day was really fun. The water was still pretty fast, but there were no small craft advisories. Only one “big chicken girlfriend advisory”. ;-) I think kindness is its own reward, but I was still thrilled to death when we won 2^nd. Just for keeping me sane, Don deserved a medal that weekend. I’m glad it ended up being in the form of a sailing trophy!

Things I learned from my second regatta:

Sometimes, men lose their mast. It happens. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Screaming “No! No! No!” will not actually keep the boat from going over.

Jeremy can deadlift an impressive amount of weight. With one hand.

My life jacket is most effective if I actually remember I have it on.

If you forget to bring wood, it will be very tough to build a fire.

If you remember to bring charcoal, you can barter for some wood.

“Going turtle” is a term that can also be used to describe the speed at which some Hobie owners get their boat back on their trailer.

To date, there are no known incidents of a movie theater capsizing.