From This I Learned to Sail

[Our Readers Write]

	It sure looks simple seen from afar, but that first time out there in open water can be quite the challenge.

By Mark Major

For the greater part of my life I had no interest in sailing. My first experience was as a child with my godfather off Cape Cod on a sunfish that overturned, and after swimming to shore I decided that was all I cared to pursue of that activity. Later I'd serve six years in the Navy, five of which were aboard two ships, the second of which nearly sunk. I had my fill of the sea.

I left the Navy and worked for a theme park in Florida. Then in 1989 it came to me: a dream, since forgotten, that compelled me to sail. I went to the library to borrow Hand, Reef, and Steer by Richard Henderson, and studied it. A month later I rode my bicycle to my company's recreation area where I rented a 14-foot Capri for $1 to try out my new theories. I parked my bicycle and made way to the dock. Then, in the grass, I found a crumpled dollar bill. After trading that dollar for my destiny, I crisscrossed the lake for four hours, falling in love.

Obsessed with my new hobby I sailed all the lakes of the resorts, started a log, shopped for boats; dreaming of building one, sailing around the world. Eventually I saw the insanity of owning a boat, for what I was sailing was virtually free and satisfying. In time, as do all my passions, this one faded; reality crept into my dreams, casting them to the shadows. I had misplaced my log and sailed less, and eventually even sailing was all but forgotten.

	The day the author found his pride and joy; or perhaps she found him.

Years later when we moved, I found my log, and though only a couple of pages were full, I was stirred. Coincidentally, one day short of 10 years since my last log entry I was driving a country road, when in the weeds I saw a sailboat for sale. This vision sparked life into what had gone dormant over the years. I didn’t research, I didn’t shop; much in the manner I arrived at sailing, she came to me. Only after my wife Leslie gave her blessing, I rescued my 1986 Hunter 23 from a man with too many boats. She was suffering from neglect, but after minor repair and cleaning we launched Lesismor in the Gulf of Mexico.

Like her namesake, Lesismor is a patient craft, forgiving my ineptitude, gently teaching me this ancient art. Together we have sailed the Florida Gulf from Pensacola to the Dry Tortugas. However, we  didn't make it that far overnight; it was a tumultuous, often calamitous wake, as the following story illustrates:

Inaugural Voyage    From the purchase of Lesismor in September 1999, days were spent cleaning and nights dreaming her for our first sail. A month later at the midnight high tide, we launched her at Nick’s Park in Port Richey. My dream was to make Key West, enjoy “Fantasy Fest” for a couple of nights, and return. If I could plot a course at that time I’d have realized this would entail 600 miles of sailing. That wouldn’t have made much difference since I had no idea how far I could sail in a day, for I’d never sailed this boat, in open water, ever.

	Losing your temper with your first mate is not a recommended method to get her to share your passion and can later on lead to mutiny on board.

I figured I’d give it a shot and see how far we could get. I intended to motor out of the channel into the open Gulf for anchorage, using the channel markers to guide us. Underway in the dark, not far from where we started, some alarm went off. I discovered I had a depth sounder. I left steering to my bride as I went forward with the flashlight to get a better look to where we were headed. This was the first time her hand graced a tiller, so when I would point and yell for her to steer, she’d point the tiller in that direction, steering us opposite of my desire. Following instructions were shouted and pointed vehemently, so she steered accordingly, flustered and confused. Finally she had the rudder tiller hard to starboard, motor tiller hard to port, when we ran aground.

Disgusted, I relieved her, reversing the outboard that wasn’t locked down, almost launching it from its mount. I managed to get us free of the spoil to return to the dock from which we launched. Then I did the only smart thing that first time out; tied up for the night. All of this must have been most entertaining for the closing patrons of a waterfront Hooters, 50 yards away.

After a fitful night we were awakened by fishermen launching, and got underway. I saw my mistake from the night before; I didn’t know from which side of the markers to navigate, yet in daylight it became apparent. Motoring out we finally made the Gulf of Mexico, where for the first time I aired sails in a generous wind. I suppose it was a bit rough, but not knowing better we heeled as I got a feel for Lesismor.

	It certainly helps to know from which side of the markers to navigate, as the author soon learned.

Before long I didn’t have to refer to my clinometer to know our angle; Leslie indicated with a whimper at 10 degrees, a hoot at 15, a holler at 20; beyond that was screeching. Our first blue-water experience is where we parted ways regarding sailing; passion flourished, opposed. As I danced Lesismor clumsily across laughing crests, my wallflower clung rigid in the cabin, terrified. I resented Leslie’s fear, for I figured I had things well under control, and besides, I was having the time of my life! What was wrong with her?

Lesismor was responding well, but things didn’t seem right at all. I could have sworn that when headed south, latitude numbers should decrease on my new GPS. Rationalizing it was urgent that I calm my wife, (when it was my confusion that led me to feel a hint of the panic she was suffering), I tossed anchor and went below, leaving the sails luffing at 90 decibels. As we bobbed I consulted my charts and got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Accepting maybe I didn’t know what I was doing, therefore perhaps we were in a bit of peril, I pulled anchor and headed south, closer to shore, having just realized I was reading the compass backward. Of course I didn’t tell Leslie that we had been sailing north for our southerly destination, but simply kept silent and shared her uncertainty of where we would end.

	Sometimes regrouping and taking another look at the charts may be your best option—if nothing else to confirm that horrible suspicion that you don't have a clue of what your present location is.

It wasn’t long before the mutiny. Inside Anclote Key my crew saw markers and demanded we make way upriver. I surrendered, for if ignorant of everything else about being a sailor, my mutineer knew enough of the language. The suffering sailing inflicted upon her was unbearable beyond words; she used them all on me and was fishing for more. I took the bait and blasted back, but still she got her way. By now I had a feel for sailing this boat, so though the wind was from the mouth of the channel to which I delivered us, I figured I’d tack us in. From another sailboat came a greeting; “Captain,” (wow, I thought, my sailing must be pretty impressive for this guy to recognize me as a captain, for nobody had ever called me that before; I felt redeemed!). Then the ego deflating warning: “This channel narrows with spoils high on each side; I wouldn’t recommend tacking.” I slumped my sails, drifting toward warned shoals, in weekend traffic, having failed to put my motor in first. At this point, Barnacle, my “faithful” kitten, took to Leslie's lap.

We hummed upriver to a marina with a transient slip I was forced to tie up to. Leslie sprung to the safety of the dock, where she was greeted by compassionate natives; liveaboard women who strangely understood her plight. I sulked in the cabin, silence suddenly broken. “What the hell was that?” I thought, when an accelerated whizzing was followed with a soft thud. I climbed from the hatch to see what would make such a sound and found a pile of “rope” on my deck at the base of the mast. “How in the hell did she do that?” I thought, presuming my crew had done me in further. I walked tight circles around my mast, looking up, then down at this pile, then up, sputtering, muttering, flailing my arms, wanting to kick something other than myself.

My sudden ranting at this new calamity brought the attention of the rest of the “liveaboards,” curious as to what could be so catastrophic to bring about my spewing. “What’s the matter?” an innocent asked. In my “can’t you see, idiot” voice I exclaimed “That rope went up my mast and came back down!” The unfortunate witness then patiently asked, “Didn’t you have a knot in the bitter end?” in their “don’t talk to me in your ‘idiot voice,’ idiot."

More residents were returning home as this went on, and a small audience started to form, some with suggestions as to how to handle this, others from boats nearby just watching as they ate dinner. Eventually it was suggested I approach the “Grumpy Sailor;” he had a fish tape, if I dared to ask, but they wouldn’t for me. I was warned this was not a patient man, a peculiar salt who only existed at the marina for access to dirt that held his job so to earn enough to sail away.

	The author takes matter into his own hands when his mainsheet falls down his mast, learning in the process that the problem  was after all called his main halyard.

I carefully approached him, and with my loose grasp of sailing vernacular explained my “mainsheet” had fallen down my mast, and I needed help. He squinted at me like I was speaking a foreign language, then over his face mirrored the realization he was presented with a virtual novice. “You mean your main halyard,” he grumbled, turning away in disgust. Like a stray dog I followed, not knowing if he was offering help, but I was at his mercy. From his truck ashore, in a gesture appearing to be against his nature, he produced and thrust his fish tape toward me. I suppose he felt pity, or perhaps thought it entertaining to see what I’d do with it. I returned to Lesismor. He went to his distant slip to observe from the cockpit of his 38’ racing sloop 2bad, carressing his coozied domestic beer, probably only concerned for his fish tape.

I partially lowered my mast, climbed a manatee warning sign over the dock, and before the audience felt a bit like an endangered specie as I made repairs. The previously mentioned “idiot” offered a figure eight knot for my halyard bitter end; how clever, I thought. With rigging fixed I raised my mast, feeling quite accomplished. We were warmly accepted by most after that grand entrance. By most, I say, because when I returned the fish tape to the Grumpy Sailor with a heart felt “Thank you” it was obvious I wasn’t welcome. I suppose he wasn’t one to make friends, especially with someone he figured destined a casualty of Darwin’s theory. As for the rest at the Anclote Marina, we were welcomed and nurtured. My first “boat people” I’ll never forget. God Bless you and all whoever assist seafarers, fresh or salty. From you comes the hand I will gratefully lend as long as I’m afloat.

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