If it had been up to me, our sailing adventures would have been limited to occasionally tootling around a state park lake in a sunfish – one of those cute, little ironing boards with a sail. Like he always does, Paul led me to bigger and better things.
The way Paul got hooked on bigger sailing is a perfect illustration of our different approaches to new experiences. If I had been met with 20 below temperatures, 50 below wind chill and blizzard conditions, my first ski trip would have been my last. Likewise, if my first camping trip had included driving rain and clouds of relentless mosquitoes, my tent would have been knocking on the door of the Goodwill Store first thing Monday morning. On the other hand, the highlights of Paul’s first real backpack trip were icy rain, sodden wool clothing (this was the pre-GoreTex and Polypro era), Powerbars for dinner and sharing a shelter with mice who scampered over his face while he was sleeping. On the drive home, however, he was planning his next big hike.
Anyway, Paul had his first major sailing experience one April when his friend Tom, aka Captain Blood, invited him and two other guys for a day of sailing on a Hobie Cat at Brookville Lake. If you’re a landlubber like I was, you might not know that there are two basic types of sailboats, mono-hulls and
catamarans, like the Hobie. Mono-hulls come in lots of sizes but they all are a variation on the rowboat with a mast and sails theme. Catamarans have two hulls with canvas stretched across them and, again, a mast
and sails. You sit inside a mono-hull and you stay dry; you sit on the canvas of a catamaran and you stay wet – it’s just that simple.
On this chilly April day, their sailing expedition started with the sound of breaking glass when somebody dropped the thermos of hot grog on the concrete boat ramp. Tom wanted everyone to learn to use the tiller so the boat capsized early on. (No, Paul wasn’t at the tiller but he could have been.) Tom, in a wetsuit, stayed reasonably warm unlike the other guys in their sweat shirts, corduroy pants and wool sweaters which stayed wet and cold all day, despite the stiff breeze. Only after they got home were they able to defrost themselves with Texas barbeque and about a quart of Polish vodka.
If that had been my first big sailing experience, I wouldn’t have had any further contact with a sailboat, not even in the bathtub. Paul, however, couldn’t wait to go sailing again. Next thing I knew, we had developed a group of friends with boats, Paul and his friend Chris bought a used Hobie together, and our family spent lots of wonderful weekend days with a crowd of adults and kids at Brookville Lake, picnicking, swimming and taking turns on each other's sailboats, often followed by pizza and lots of red wine back home.
When the boys were in late grade school or junior high, the big group sailing parties ended, so the four of us would go to Brookville ourselves. Our scariest sailing adventure happened late one afternoon when we were close to our docking point but not close enough. Thunderstorms with 50-mile-an-hour wind gusts
moved in very fast, and Paul struggled to get the boat to turn and head for shore. (Because of one of those perverse laws of Physics, you can’t just go straight in but have to do these zig-zaggy things called tacking. What IS it with Physics?) John’s shoe washed overboard and, in a moment of either inspiration or desperation, David threw his body across the boat, which re-balanced our weight and kept us from tipping over. Once we were pointed in the right direction with the full force of the wind in our sails, we hit the shore in record time, and I do mean “hit.” Luckily we landed fairly close to the marina and our car; unluckily, we landed in a huge patch of poison ivy. Well, you can’t have everything.
For our 25th anniversary, Paul and I went to the Bitter End Yacht Club, an island resort in the British Virgin Islands. The Bitter End is my idea of paradise – it overlooks a sparkly, Caribbean-blue bay, has charming
little thatch-roofed villas built into the hillside, offers wonderful food and service and has a romantic island ambience. The Bitter End also turned out to be Paul’s idea of paradise – the price of the room included use of every water toy imaginable from wind surfers to kayaks to little motorized Boston Whalers to more varieties of sailboat than you would think possible. Add that to world-class snorkeling and mountainside running trails and it’s no mystery why I often caught him dozing off over his mahi mahi and mango salsa at night, which did detract somewhat from the romantic island ambience.
Our first morning at the Bitter End, Paul hustled me through breakfast and cut me off after one mimosa so we could take a short sail before our 10:00 sailing class. For our maiden voyage, he picked a laser, the smallest mono-hull in the entire fleet, figuring the smaller the boat, the easier it would handle. Faulty logic. If you can visualize the two of us sitting in the kitchen sink, you get an idea of the laser which, we found out later, is actually a one-person racing boat. We took on water almost immediately and were maybe 40 yards off shore, still clearly in sight of the entire waterfront staff, when we capsized. Oh well.
After a few lessons on port and starboard, jibs and jibes, sheets and cleats and a bunch of other important
sailing stuff, Paul knew enough to captain Hobies, bigger mono-hulls and even the laser (by himself) while I picked up enough sailing lingo to fake my way through as his first mate. We spent lots of relaxed hours sailing around the inlets and coves in the Bitter End’s bay on that trip, and we learned a lot. For instance, if the navigator (me) says “The water below us is an odd color,” and “I haven’t seen any other boats go this way,” the captain should pay attention because the next thing he’s probably going to hear is, “SSSKKKKRRRRAAAAAPE,” which is the sound a sailboat makes when it is hung up on a reef.
We made a number of return trips to the Bitter End, and John joined us for several of them. Each time, we added to our sailing repertoire. I took a lesson so I could sail a little, one-person Hobie, but my first (and
only) solo voyage ended with the boat, its riggings, its sails and me so tangled up in one of the docks that the waterfront staff had to come and rescue me. Paul really got into racing and John joined him in the casual, end-of-the-day races organized by the staff. In real sailboat racing, there are lots of rules about crossing another boat’s path and yielding the right of way; but, at the Bitter End, people were on vacation and two racing rules were all anyone could handle. First, no matter what happens, heed the rule of FRA – Fiberglass Repair Avoidance. Second, it isn’t over until the cooler is empty.
Almost everything about Caribbean sailing is fun; what isn’t fun is docking the boat after you finish. There are mooring balls anchored throughout the harbor and the idea is to get close enough to a ball to pick up the
rope attached to it, and then hook the rope over the front of your boat. Sounds pretty straightforward, right. Well, as the division of labor shook out, Paul stayed in the boat and steered while I got to climb out on the front of the boat, let down the jib sail, stretch out on my stomach and use this harpoon thing to grab the mooring ball line. There is about one nanosecond when the positions of the boat and ball are just right for this maneuver to succeed; and, to top it off, the sail falls on top of you so you perform the entire operation smothered in the equivalent of a shower curtain.
One time, John and his sailing instructor watched from shore while Paul and I made four passes at the
mooring ball before finally securing our boat. At lunch, John couldn’t wait to tell us, “Melody said everything you did was wrong.” That was no surprise to us. I always thought the legend of the Flying Dutchman, the ghost ship that could never make port and was doomed to sail the ocean forever, was sad and poignant; but, after our experiences mooring a sailboat, I’d say the Dutchman’s crew was onto something.
After the warm water and reliable winds of the Caribbean, I got pickier
about sailing in Indiana. During the spring and fall, the wind was good but you often had a wet, cold ride. In the summer heat, the wetness felt good; but, when the winds died out, you spent the afternoon doing “Shake and Bake.” Many people, especially young, adventurous ones, put up with the Hobie’s wetness and other issues because, above all, a Hobie is FAST AND FUN. (I don’t ordinarily pair those two adjectives – in fact, FAST AND FUN is an oxymoron to someone like me who dislikes fast golf carts, fast skis, fast amusement park rides and, actually, fast anything.)
Anyway, I lost interest in sailing, the boys were busy with friends and school activities and eventually biking, golfing and gardening took the place of sailing for Paul. The Hobie has been in dry dock for a number of years now and won’t be out anytime soon unless it can find a new owner. If Paul wants to get back into sailing someday, I’ve decided to play the age card and hold out for a dry mono-hull with seat cushions and maybe a wet bar.
pre-Thanksgiving dinner (shrimp creole) with close friends to Turkey Day itself. I have a general list of things to do like getting flowers, ironing napkins and picking up the turkey. (That has to wait until my mom can walk into the butcher shop with me and hear the guys behind the counter call out, “Hi, girls.”) There’s a list of what to do each day between now and Thanksgiving - we’ll be picking out a dressing recipe Monday morning, if you want to offer your opinion. I have two grocery lists, one for this Friday and one for next Monday, both of which are works in progress. Finally, I’ve drawn up a list of things to put off until after Thanksgiving, like planning Christmas. 
this time of year, the holidays are toast. In case you’re wondering, my first pre-holiday disaster happened that same day, just before I entered Kroger’s, when I discovered that a BIC pen had blown up in my car spreading ink all over me, my cell phone and the car. Ink is surprisingly sticky and a little goes a long way. Naturally, the soap dispenser in the restroom was empty so I had to go up and down the grocery aisles looking like Mama Smurf. When I got to the check-out counter, a cashier took pity on me and offered me her bottle of hand sanitizer which did an outstanding job on my hands and face. They say bad things come in threes so I don’t know what’s next, but I’m definitely not driving Paul’s car this month. (If you’re wondering why, read my October post “Why Can’t We Be Friends.”)
what I am going to serve and, in fact, have no food in the house, plus I can’t find a bathroom. Lists keep my nightmare from becoming a reality. And, finally, after I check everything off my lists, I know I can relax with my family and friends which is the best and most important part of any holiday.
