Pretending To Be Sailors

The Laura Lynn, being left alone. Lovely, no?

Deb and I have a lovely sailboat. We really do. And occasionally we motor her out onto the Long Island Sound to prove to our audience (there is always an audience) and ourselves that we really are sailors. If that sounds a little paranoid, it’s because you don’t own a sailboat yet.

These cloth-driven gizmos are a handful. It takes some coordination just to get onto the things without the need for a 911 call, and I happen to be losing my youthful coordination faster than I’m losing hair on my topsides. A stubbed toe is practically mandatory, and at this point I’d rather stub an entire leg, which Deb has done (see photo), than fall off the boat trying to board if someone is watching. But that’s the testosterone talking. There is no better entertainment on the water than watching somebody else pretending to have mastered the art of sailing while I’m catching some rays at the mooring. I may look like I’m relaxing, but the binocs are always standing by.

Not quite so lovely

I’ve seen men who have most certainly crushed the empires of fellow titans of industry, stumbling around on their knobby old knees, lunging like special ed students (I’m old enough to get to use the reference) for their pick-up sticks. I’ve listened to trophy wives cut these captains down to size when the gals have finally had it UP TO HERE with the Captain Bligh routine. Sailboats will reduce your average Ghengis Khan to a simpering Mr. Rogers in a matter of moments, given the right wind conditions.

Listen, I'm trying to relax here!

The thing about trying to sail is there is so much to do before you’re actually sailing, and so many things that can prevent you from psyching yourself into doing those things, that the far more expedient course of action is to load up two large glasses of chardonnay and walk down to the dock to admire your boat’s lines from shore. It’s a major accomplishment just to launch the dinghy in order to enjoy said vintage from your own cockpit.

Then there’s the engine and sail prep. Jesus H., whatever happened to place key in ignition, twist and go? Here’s what happened, Mario. You left that scenario far away on land. But you can still smell it, can’t you? Over the reek of low tide and bilge rot.

No, a whole other set of circumstances comes into play out there on the water. Now you check the oil (when was the last time you checked the oil on the Chevy?) and the belt tension (both of them), and the fuel filter (for sediment and water) and the coolant level. And your lovely wife, who doesn’t know 10W-40 from extra virgin on land, makes sure you didn’t leave a step out. She’s the one who remembers things now. Did you open the engine seacock, Ahab?

Then, even though on land you’re a rational creature, you cross your fingers in earnest because you need all the help you can get. Because presently you could blow up and sink, or hit something hard and sink, or have a system failure and sink, or just sink right there where you are for no apparent reason, snifter in hand, in seas shallow enough that the salvage costs might just be manageable, given the proper insurance policy.

It’s your call.

Maybe we should just let her be.