It’s that time of year again. spring is here, the opening of Boating Day was a week or so ago, and I have the fever, boating fever.
It’s not that I own a boat. I don’t. About as close as I come to having a boat is a ship’s bell and two oars. I don’t even know anyone who owns a boat right now, or even someone who knows someone else who owns a boat. Basically, I am landlocked at high tide, boatless, without even a dinghy to my name.
And yet, I am still drawn to the boat show, like a fly to sh**. I guess it’s all the fond memories. Like the time that the Seafair Pirates tried to raffle off a boat we didn’t actually own. True, we didn’t have a clear title on it and it was used, and yes, we did promise those charities they would get the raffle proceeds but kept most of the money for ourselves, but our hearts were in the right place.
As we know, I am a sailing guy. I don’t care for power boats. Totally worthless in my book. There are two types of mariner in this world. Those who want to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible (power people) and those who enjoy the journey, not the destination, i.e., sailors. Don’t believe me? Ask around. I’ll wait.
Good. While I don’t own a boat, I dream of having a boat. Not in the biblical sense, mind you. I don’t even really want to own one, just borrow it on occasion. Very piratical, I know.
In Seattle, as in other parts of the world I’m sure, I can rent one. No, not one of those pathetic little dinghy-sized sailing jobs, the kind that tip over in a light breeze and baptize you with a brisk dowsing in cold water. I’m talking a real sailboat, one 24′ to 26′ in length.
That, my friends, is my idea of an adventure on the high seas. And with this sense of adventure, I signed up oh-so-many years ago for sailing lessons at the Seattle Sailing School. I had visited their booth at the boat show, my then future ex and I, and we simply couldn’t resist signing up for lessons.
It was too good of a deal to pass up, and with good reason. The lessons were during the slow season, which meant that our three training sessions would be in March, not the best weather in Seattle. I cast about for the required sailing gear, namely the same apparel the fisherman on the Gorton fishsticks package wears, the rubber dayglow yellow slicker, pants and hat. I felt like a complete dork, especially since it never actually rained during any of our lessons.
On the appointed Saturday we headed out to Shilshole. Before they ever hand over a boat to you, you need to go through sailing school first, learning about the wind, the sails, the equipment on the boat, how to handle the lines and mostly, learning to keep a weathered eye out for the boom so you don’t bloody up the rental.
After a full day of class, it was time to hit the open sea. Every ship needs a captain and knowing my mutinous nature, they weren’t about to let me take the boat out on my own with my crew, especially after just one class. We could end up in Zanzibar before I figured out I was pointed the wrong way.
The club gave us a skipper and we were his crew. Not a very glorious rank, given that he simply handed the boat over to us after we passed the breakwater.
I so loved our lessons. The future ex and I were naturals, as was Lollypop. I don’t think I’ve ever had a better time in a class. Who wouldn’t? There we were. Three best friends learning how to sail. I worked the wench with ease and the winch, too. With in no time I could tack like a pro, zigging and zagging across the Puget Sound like I was born with a set of sails on my back. It was heaven.
Each class was more fun than the previous one. And for some reason, the weather was always with us. It would rain just before and just after class, but never during the three hours we were sailing around Puget Sound.
Before I knew it, it was our last class. Once clear of the breakwater we were on our own. We took turns as skipper, barking out orders and sailing the boat wherever we wanted to go. We got in a lot of sailing time, the future ex and I. Lollypop was a no-show. I think he might have actually believed me when I said we were going to volunteer him for the man overboard drill.
That was our final, final by the way – the man overboard drill. Unannounced the instructor would throw a buoy overboard. We yelled “man overboard” and immediately began the maneuvers required to quickly bring us around so we ended up in irons (dead stop) next to the buoy. My attempt was flawless. The skipper told us to go around again. This time he threw the buoy out at a really weird angle to the wind, trying to throw me off. I called “man overboard” and we whipped the boat around on a course we had never practiced. In no time we were heading directly into the wind, coming to a dead stop right next to the buoy, so close that we didn’t even need the hook to retrieve it. We simply reached overboard and pulled the victim in.
And thus is the lure of the sea every spring in Seattle. It’s been years since I took lessons, but the sea calls to me, as does the thrill, nay the orgasm, that comes with feeling a boat heel over beneath your legs, dancing in the wind and with the tide, knowing that just for that moment you have mastered the elements. Even if you do look like you belong on a can of chowder.
In the Emerald City, looking for some fetching yellow pants,
– Robb