By Mark Major (click here if you missed part one of From This I Learned How to Sail.)
The foolishness of considering a 600-mile sail from Port Richey to Key West and back in a week, became as apparent as my lack of skill. An evening with newly found friends and a night’s sleep encouraged Leslie and I to spend the week instead at a marina in Tarpon Springs. We enjoyed a day of relaxation, and the next day I convinced Leslie to go out again, assuring her that we were just going to motor down river and back. My bride of 22 years, a bit tender from her first experience “under the sheets,” so to speak, would have panicked at the suggestion of actually sailing again.
Around the last bend to the open Gulf we found a 10-knot wind that triggered a Jekyl-to-Hyde transformation in me that stiffened her in dread. Out where she couldn’t swim to safety, I, now a pigheaded beast, thought it would be cathartic for her to take the tiller. At first I gently offered, but the froth around my mouth gave me away. Ignoring her objections, I went to raise the main, motoring downwind, barking “Watch out for that marker!” Leslie fell into my trap, grabbed the tiller, over steering. “Watch out for that boat!” came my next order with the sting of a whip.
She was trying to steer, unfamiliar with how a tiller worked, turning the outboard as well to avoid whatever it was I seemed to be panicking about that she couldn’t see since the sail and I blocked her view. The sail wouldn’t go up, so I screamed “Turn the boat!”. With that, she snapped back, “Which way?” She didn’t dare to do anything, including trying to interpret my vague instructions. My more urgent yell “Turn the damned boat!!” came from me wrapped in the sail, wrestling my battens from the rigging. I had lost control of myself and boat.
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Under the combined forces of wind, motor, and current, Leslie struggled with rudder and motor tiller, when I yelled “Steer them together!” Then, just as she did our first night out, she brought the motor and the rudder tillers together, negating any effect. Totally flabbergasted by
her lack of seamanship, I abandoned my sails, and dismissed her from the steering. More swearing at the boat and myself seemed to do the trick as the sail un-stuck itself and I was able to regain some composure. A smile and wave of greeting came from a passing “stink pot,” a term just learned from my marina neighbors in reference to motor boats.
With sails finally set, we were clear of the channel and sailed a bit. Leslie sat rigid, tensing with every pitch and shudder of the boat; with any heel she would produce a worried whimper, and any sudden move on my part would throw her into panic. This pigheaded beast, having learned nothing from the tiller drill, was still certain that Leslie, given more control, would feel more at ease. I was going to make her love sailing, like it or not.
She didn’t like the boat to heel, so I gave her the main sheet to slack when she felt insecure. Another mistake proven, for I was atop the cabin when a gust took the sail; she reacted to the sudden heel by slacking the sheet. Sails luffing, the boat righted and rolled the opposite direction, bruising me on the lifeline. Cussing, I hauled the slack sheet, retaliating with a more severe heel. In turn she slacked; then I’d haul. This battle of wills was getting to be a sick tug of war, so under truce we returned to the marina. Sailing, the way I was going about it, was becoming a wedge in our relationship. I would never admit that I didn’t know what I was doing. My lack of knowledge was one thing. What it did to my personality was another: I had become a beast Leslie couldn’t recognize.
Leslie didn’t kiss the dock once bounding ashore, but she again retreated to the company of the other sympathetic wives. They seemed to understand fully what she was going through; heads nodded toward other boats, quick glances indicating other gallant husbands, fellow sailors, who had been in similar situations in the past. If a verdict was to be drawn from that jury I would have been sentenced to keel hauling, as would other husband beasts.
It seemed the locals enjoyed the tales told by these wide-eyed novices. Even Grumpy Sailor listened in as we men gathered on the dock and I light heartedly told the story of how ridiculous the thought process of a woman must be to steer the rudder and motor opposite one another to turn a boat. They chuckled in what I interpreted as agreement, except Grumpy, who stoically stated, “Don’t raise or lower your sails downwind.”
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In the days to come, Leslie proved she would have made a good Navy recruiter. She had a sailor lined up to fill her billet every time I took a notion to practice my insanity, and I learned from them all as she remained safely, and sanely, ashore.
From those “recruits” who shared their knowledge with me, none will sail with me as “Old George” does to this day, in my heart. George, around 70, white hair, gleaming blue eyes, kind smile and disposition, I first sighted in a bosun chair aloft (I was later sworn to secrecy, for his wife would be most displeased if she had found out he was up there again, he explained with boyish grin). I regard George as my guardian angel, for he accompanied me one day and instilled in me true love and respect for a craft and the sea. George was a lifelong sailor having had his first sailing lesson at the age of six, from his grandfather. He seemed to want to pass that on to me.
George came to my boat early that morning. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?” was his eager greeting. Deliberately he boarded, as was every move he made the rest of the day. The wind was perfect as he challenged me with “care to ghost out?” in reference to getting underway without a motor. I declined, the concept having never occurred to me, and my skills embarrassingly inadequate.
Yet he did plant a seed. I can’t put my finger on exactly what he taught me, but I recall his suggestions to “pinch the wind” and asking “well, what do you think of sailing now?” when practicing his instruction gave us speed. I think what impressed me most was the way he moved. Everything he did was calculated, deliberate, sure, and efficient. He would ask me simple questions about what I was doing, teaching me thought patterns that I still use today. During those quiet times when sailing seemed near perfect he glowed, a picture of serenity that told me I was going to be all right.
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We had an exhilarating day of sailing for the seas were lively. We ghosted in, I with the gift of confidence George bestowed with patient generosity. George helped me secure my sails. “Do you have any sail gaskets? Bunji cords will rust, staining your sails” he explained as I reached for one of my two bunjis to lash my main to the boom. My expression displayed yet more ignorance; he didn’t press me to embarrass myself, but instead said “I think I have some spares on my boat. I’ll be right back.” Returning, he gave me what appeared to be numerous scraps of line, knotted with an eye, instructing me to “Secure your sail with these, using a ‘half-bow,’ and use plenty. You don’t want a blow out.”
Great! I hadn’t mastered a bowline and here he was instructing me to use half of one. Watching me fumble he patiently enlightened me through demonstration that a “half-bow” is simply as you would tie one’s shoes, only half a bow.
The following days were spent gaining skills while hosting others willing to come along and teach. The evenings were shared at the head of the dock, by a bonfire, along with sea stories, food, drink, and the making of music. I was enchanted by these folk’s romantic lifestyle, and their generous welcoming of us into their family. I felt I belonged.
The week came to an end, I reluctantly hauled the boat back onto the trailer, and home. Later I rented a slip at that marina, sailing every weekend. I would always look for George, but none knew where he had gone. I’ve used those sail gaskets since, but by nature they are easily lost. I have retired the last two for use inside my cabin, taking George on every sail. Each time I find one in hand I hear his question; “So what do you think of sailing now?”
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