Sailing
I like sailing for some of the same reasons I like riding a bike—it’s you and a machine working together to get somewhere. You could become proficient at either, but long before that, it’s just fun, and there’s something to facing down the inevitable falling off or flipping over (or, in my case, heeling enough that the boat takes on water and starts to sink) and getting back up again.
Last weekend, C. and I came in second in a very informal race—not technically a regatta, I guess, because there were also three windsurfers involved. Each wave of boats (and the three windsurfers) had a staggered start, and we were one of the last, so there was a lot of killing time and trying not to crash into everyone else behind the line. The wind picked up before we got out on the water, and while it died down a bit before the race began, it was still choppy out there. More than once, the river splashed into my face. Mmm.
Most of our success was owed to C.’s skippering, though credit where credit is due: I did a great job handling the jib and, crucially, playing spotter, watching for other boats beneath our sail. I had never raced before and, as we were closely trailing the lead boat, I told C. that it was actually pretty funny—the apparent mismatch between the adrenaline I felt and the action, a low-speed chase at that point. I was holding the jib out as far as I could, just trying to catch more wind.
Back on the dock, there was a little celebration for first-place winners and some superlatives—best capsize, most times someone hit the committee boat. I had hoped we might get a trophy, but I was glad anyway. What I’ve liked most about sailing over the years is this little community of people to whom fucking up is as worthwhile as everything else.