Headed on port, headed on starboard, we were
tacking—I’m not making this up—through 180 degrees. The GPS turned into our tormentor. In tenth of a mile increments, it showed us sailing away from the finish line on either tack.
Ah, the beauty of sailing in the autumnal glory—oh, shut up
Savvy friends know enough to avoid the subject. Bring up sailing with me at the table on a night out and you can forget about news of the kids, titillating gossip about friends not present or political repartee. Given the slightest opening, of course, I’ll bring it up myself. Oh, I’ve seen the eyes glazing over, detected the surreptitious elbow jab that means, “Get ready for a snooze, he’s about to wax romantic about the beauty of sail.” But I can’t help it. I’m a walking, talking bumper sticker—I’d rather be sailing. If that’s not possible, I’d rather be telling someone how wonderful it is.
That said, I have to report an epiphany. It came to me in an autumn revelation that there are times when—this is hard—sailing is a godawful experience, when anyone with a shred of sense would rather be doing anything but sailing, not excluding enduring lawn maintenance, a dental procedure or an IRS audit.
My awakening came after I recruited a crew for the local fleet’s last race of the season. This was no small achievement at the end of September, when even sailors’ thoughts turn to squirreling away nuts or watching football games or performing some other ritual of preparation for the dark season. But I pulled it off with an emotional beauty-of-sail speech: This is the best time of the year for sailing. The winds are steady and strong. The air is crisp and dry. And the light—oh, the light! The autumn sun will illuminate the beauty of sail like you’ve never seen it. Not to mention illuminating the glory of nature—this is a coastwise race and the fall color will be spectacular. Plus the fridge is stocked with Heineken.
I didn’t overstate the case on purpose. I really believe this stuff. Reality, though, fell a little short of my scenario. Well, a lot short. Hint: We needed the GPS to find the starting line a quarter mile from the harbor entrance.
The race start proved to be our last contact with civilization for days. Actually, it was only hours—it just seemed longer. In a feeble breeze, we crept across the starting line in the company of the vague forms of several others boats, then found ourselves in a post-nuclear world in which we were the only survivors. Our lonely place was a circular space within a wall of fog, a monochromatic universe in which the gray of the sky was indistinguishable from the gray of the sea. This shouldn’t have been surprising, since they were both roughly 100 percent water and both roughly the same temperature, say about 45 degrees Fahrenheit.
On oily seas that betrayed no sign of the wind that toyed with our sails aloft, we reached through the gloom just fast enough to keep hope alive that we’d get this over with in a reasonable time. A good thing too—I could see that the crew, contemplating a day wasted out of the finite number we’re allowed on this mortal coil, was on the verge of despair.
The GPS found the mark seven miles up the shoreline, which was a mixed blessing. Had the instrument crashed or the satellites hiccuped, we would never have found it and could have dropped out of the race with honor and powered home lickety-split. As it was, we rounded the buoy smartly and sailed smack into the breath of a glacier. At least, that’s what it felt like to beat into the icy vapors.Then it started to rain.
Nevertheless, port tack offered hope. “Hey, we’re almost fetching the finish.” Then we were headed, but starboard tack looked pretty good. “Great news,” I told the crew. “We’re only 10 degrees off course. We should finish in just over an hour.” Then we were headed.
Maybe there really had been a nuclear explosion some place (just like the North Koreans to screw up our sailing). Something had knocked the normal wind-making apparatus off kilter. Or we were in a convergence zone, a wasteland where the breeze off the lake met a slowly building breeze off the land, resulting in chaotic wind and incalculable pain. Headed on port, headed on starboard, we were tacking—I’m not making this up—through 180 degrees. The GPS turned into our tormentor. In tenth of a mile increments, it showed us sailing away from the finish line on either tack.
I tried to keep this from the crew I had recruited to experience the glory of fall sailing, but word of our backward progress reached the denizens of the huddled, shivering mass on the rail and they grew restive.
Their murmuring became loud, the better for me to hear it, of course. “Wonder how the Badgers are doing against Michigan in the game on ESPN,” said Mark. “I’m wondering about something more important—what I could find at the Macy’s sale—but I guess I’ll never know,” the First Mate offered, throwing me a withering look. Richard and Erin shared with their mates how heartbroken their two Newfoundlands would be if their masters didn’t make it home for their Saturday afternoon walk. Bill volunteered that his son’s YMCA football game was about to start, and then with a look to the cockpit, added, “I hope it’s not too hot for him—it’s going to be mighty sunny inland.” Gordon and Paul, who had come aboard at the last minute because Gordon said he had a lot to do that day and instead of racing his smaller boat they’d sail with us “and get home early,” contemplated the cruelty perpetrated by the fickle finger of fate in silence.
I might have been numb, but only on the outside. To show that I had a heart, I announced, “I’m invoking the five-minute rule. If things don’t improve in that time, we’re dropping out of the race.”
As you can imagine, this was quite a tonic for the crew, who perked up and now took delight in GPS numbers counting down the wrong way and applauded when the wind headed us yet again.
As the five minutes were about to expire, someone made the fatal error of observing that this would be the first time in history that I’ve dropped out of a sailboat race. That did it. Some records are not made to be broken. We were in for the duration.
Later—much later—we were granted an improved wind angle and finally, still alone in our gray world, crept across the finish line.
No one took me up on the offer of an ice cold beer to celebrate.
Nor did anyone kiss the dock when we landed, but it probably crossed a few minds as they fled the boat for points inland.
Gordon, a true gentleman, reassured me as we shook clammy hands: “Just remember, a bad day of sailing is better than a good day of grass cutting.”
We both knew he was lying.
