Welcome to my first blog entry. It's raining off and on today, and the yard is a mess of soggy leaves and Christmas reindeer that refuse to get in the garage. It is a good day to sit in the kitchen and drink coffee.
This has become one of my favorite things to say on days like this. I am actually quoting a sea-faring sailboat maintenance man from Bellingham, Washington. It was March of 1988, Ron and I had flown up to Seattle and took a tiny plane to Bellingham, excited to begin a week's worth of sailing lessons in the San Juan Islands. Ron had won a sales contest for Allflex tags, and the prize was a trip wherever you wanted to go in the US. Most people would have opted for Hawaii, Florida or Arizona, but we wanted the adventure of learning to sail in the San Juans at the most difficult time of year the Strait had to offer. As our puddle-jumping plane hopped, bopped, skipped and skidded to a sliding halt in high winds and rain, I held my breath at the thought of living aboard a sailboat in this kind of weather for a week.
We wobbled off the plane, collected our luggage and made our way to the nearest pay phone to call the charter company. Ron dialed them up.
"Yer gonna go out in the 28' footer, aye?" chuckled the voice on the other end of the line. "Have you seen the weather? It's a good day to sit in the kitchen and drink coffee."
Undaunted, we gathered up our things, made our way to the curb, and were picked up and taken to the marina where our 28 footer was waiting with her real captain, Chris. He was young, friendly, and had a twinkle in his eye. He showed us to our boat, and we had a little get to know you conference. What did we want to get out of this week's worth of sailing? Ron, who had plenty of sailing experience, wanted to become more adept with ocean-kinda sailing and learn about how to handle a boat in currents and tides. I, on the other hand, wanted to learn how to maintain my heartbeat, blood pressure and voice volume while sailing under rough conditions. I also wanted to be able to stop the boat under any circumstance so Ron would have time to swim to the boat after he had fallen off. I wanted to sail- not scream- for the week. It was obvious that Chris was amused at my goals, and was more serious and understanding of Ron's more intellectual goals.
Chris had prepared the boat well, and once we got all the groceries stowed, the sleeping bags in berths and accounted for all the equipment (I made sure we had life preservers for everyone), off we went.
Chris told me motor out of the marina, while he and Ron readied the sails and the sheets. Wow ! I could do this! The marina of course was protected and calm, and the break in the rain was nice. As we reached the breakwater, I called
"Okay! Someone else can get back here and steer this thing now!"
"Hey ! Time for someone else to do this part!"
"HEY!"
Too late. The guys were just coming around the main sail and hopped in the cockpit. They smiled (both of them), and assured me I was doing just fine. As we came around the breakwater and made our heading the wind hit, and I could tell this was not going to be a little sail across the bay to the island about 4 miles away. It was going to be ugly, torturous, and terrifying. In 30 knot winds, with swells of 10 feet, we made our way across. Water flying everywhere, over the bow, into the cockpit, it blew so hard I could hardly keep the boat right. I was shaking with fear, crying and screaming as the two guys sat there on the high side, smiling and ready to enjoy a beer. After the fear, anger took over, and I yelled and hollered at them to get over here and take the wheel. They assured me that by reefing the sail the boat would sail much better.
"SO - REEF IT!" I commanded. I figured that since I was at the wheel, I got to be the captain. So they crawled up on deck and drew down the sail one notch.
"You're doing great!" grinned Ron.
"Wow what a sailor!" cheered Chris.
"You are both JERKS!"
They just smiled and looked ahead, "enjoying" the ride, reefing the mainsail two more times until it resembled the size of a twin size bed sheet
This went on and on for about an hour and a half as we crossed the bay. When we finally reached the shadow of the island, and things calmed down, Chris got up, stretched and said, "Okay, Connie, I can take it from here. Why don't you go help Ron with the sails and I will take the wheel for a while?"
I didn't. I felt like I would probably have to have the lesson in what to do if Ron fell (was pushed) off the boat right there and then. Without a word to either of them, I went below to change out of my entirely soaked clothes.
Mostly, I didn't want them to see me smile at myself in the little cabin mirror, proud that I had sailed across that bay with it's winds and rain, on a day better left to "sit in the kitchen and drink coffee."
This has become one of my favorite things to say on days like this. I am actually quoting a sea-faring sailboat maintenance man from Bellingham, Washington. It was March of 1988, Ron and I had flown up to Seattle and took a tiny plane to Bellingham, excited to begin a week's worth of sailing lessons in the San Juan Islands. Ron had won a sales contest for Allflex tags, and the prize was a trip wherever you wanted to go in the US. Most people would have opted for Hawaii, Florida or Arizona, but we wanted the adventure of learning to sail in the San Juans at the most difficult time of year the Strait had to offer. As our puddle-jumping plane hopped, bopped, skipped and skidded to a sliding halt in high winds and rain, I held my breath at the thought of living aboard a sailboat in this kind of weather for a week.
We wobbled off the plane, collected our luggage and made our way to the nearest pay phone to call the charter company. Ron dialed them up.
"Yer gonna go out in the 28' footer, aye?" chuckled the voice on the other end of the line. "Have you seen the weather? It's a good day to sit in the kitchen and drink coffee."
Undaunted, we gathered up our things, made our way to the curb, and were picked up and taken to the marina where our 28 footer was waiting with her real captain, Chris. He was young, friendly, and had a twinkle in his eye. He showed us to our boat, and we had a little get to know you conference. What did we want to get out of this week's worth of sailing? Ron, who had plenty of sailing experience, wanted to become more adept with ocean-kinda sailing and learn about how to handle a boat in currents and tides. I, on the other hand, wanted to learn how to maintain my heartbeat, blood pressure and voice volume while sailing under rough conditions. I also wanted to be able to stop the boat under any circumstance so Ron would have time to swim to the boat after he had fallen off. I wanted to sail- not scream- for the week. It was obvious that Chris was amused at my goals, and was more serious and understanding of Ron's more intellectual goals.
Chris had prepared the boat well, and once we got all the groceries stowed, the sleeping bags in berths and accounted for all the equipment (I made sure we had life preservers for everyone), off we went.
Chris told me motor out of the marina, while he and Ron readied the sails and the sheets. Wow ! I could do this! The marina of course was protected and calm, and the break in the rain was nice. As we reached the breakwater, I called
"Okay! Someone else can get back here and steer this thing now!"
"Hey ! Time for someone else to do this part!"
"HEY!"
Too late. The guys were just coming around the main sail and hopped in the cockpit. They smiled (both of them), and assured me I was doing just fine. As we came around the breakwater and made our heading the wind hit, and I could tell this was not going to be a little sail across the bay to the island about 4 miles away. It was going to be ugly, torturous, and terrifying. In 30 knot winds, with swells of 10 feet, we made our way across. Water flying everywhere, over the bow, into the cockpit, it blew so hard I could hardly keep the boat right. I was shaking with fear, crying and screaming as the two guys sat there on the high side, smiling and ready to enjoy a beer. After the fear, anger took over, and I yelled and hollered at them to get over here and take the wheel. They assured me that by reefing the sail the boat would sail much better.
"SO - REEF IT!" I commanded. I figured that since I was at the wheel, I got to be the captain. So they crawled up on deck and drew down the sail one notch.
"You're doing great!" grinned Ron.
"Wow what a sailor!" cheered Chris.
"You are both JERKS!"
They just smiled and looked ahead, "enjoying" the ride, reefing the mainsail two more times until it resembled the size of a twin size bed sheet
This went on and on for about an hour and a half as we crossed the bay. When we finally reached the shadow of the island, and things calmed down, Chris got up, stretched and said, "Okay, Connie, I can take it from here. Why don't you go help Ron with the sails and I will take the wheel for a while?"
I didn't. I felt like I would probably have to have the lesson in what to do if Ron fell (was pushed) off the boat right there and then. Without a word to either of them, I went below to change out of my entirely soaked clothes.
Mostly, I didn't want them to see me smile at myself in the little cabin mirror, proud that I had sailed across that bay with it's winds and rain, on a day better left to "sit in the kitchen and drink coffee."
