August 1, 2011
I’m learning how to sail.
I know that’s an odd thing for the editor of a yachting newspaper to admit, but it’s true.
Despite growing up in Ft. Lauderdale, neither my family nor our friends had sailboats. I was a roller skating, kick-ball kind of kid. And in college, I was immersed in the fabulous world of journalism.
But since starting The Triton -- since falling in love with my husband, really -- I’ve been fascinated with sailing. It’s hard, yet it’s a breeze. It’s complex, yet really pretty basic. It’s exhilarating. (There’s no opposite to that; at least for me, so far, it’s exhilarating.)
The trouble is, if you are an adult in this town, there aren’t a lot of options on how to learn. I could take a community college course, but that gets me on the water one night a week. An adult learning course is a little better but still, not enough time on the water for me.
I want to leave work at 4 and jump in a little boat with my daughter and hit the water. Every afternoon. All summer. That option’s not available.
If I were 6 years old, I could take the week-long immersion course at the local yacht club. My daughter did that when she was six. And now, at the ripe old age of 9, she knows how to sail.
What about me?
Several friends in yachting have offered to teach me, but I need a boat. So David and I scoured boat listing web sites for a few weeks, finding lots of boats that would be perfect. But each time we got close to buying one, we found a better one, a little bigger, a little closer to home.
Next thing you know, we’re buying a 34-foot boat and making plans for cruising next summer.
Hold on a minute. I want to learn to sail in a little boat with one sail, maybe two, so I can understand just how you can possibly move a boat into the wind. I want to get over my fear that I’m going to capsize every time the boat starts to heel over. And yes, I want to feel the saltwater splash on my face.
Friends have told me “You can learn on a 30-footer just fine.” Maybe, but I want to start from the beginning. There’s something to the basics that I appreciate.
So David charmed John Muir and Kerry Gruson of Shake-a-Leg Miami to take me sailing. Gruson has a 22-foot sailboat specially rigged for her handicaps, and we set off into Key Biscayne on a beautiful summer Sunday. John handed me the mainsheet; Kerry manned the rudder.
It was no big deal. One minute we were standing on the dock; the next we were out on the water. Sailing. I’ve sailed before, but always as the passenger. Now I was, holding the mainsheet. I held on a little too tightly, convinced we were going to flip over, and after a while, my knuckles started to hurt.
We tacked and jibed (I now know the difference), my face got wet, and I loosened my grip. John even said I did a few things instinctually. I was learning to sail.
We went back three weekends in a row, subsequent times on a 31-foot Beneteau. I got to work the mainsheet again, but it was harder and I needed help. It was different than being in the little 22, just as I thought it would be, and I was more determined to get a little boat.
But perhaps the best part of my sailing adventure was getting to know Cameron, a 24-year-old young man with Asperger’s syndrome who captained the Beneteau on those sails. Cameron has passed all the courses and tests for his USCG captain’s license, and is now working to accumulate his sea time.
Those with Asperger’s don’t do well in social situations, but Cameron blossomed on the water, whether there were three of us onboard or eight. We met others at Shake-a-Leg, too. Amazing people who, despite their handicaps, don’t whine about what they didn’t get as a kid or what someone doesn’t provide, but instead go sailing.
David and I have put our sailboat-buying plans on hold to invest, instead, in this young man and his dream of being a captain. In addition to selfishly helping him accumulate some sea time (I know, rough job), David has reached out to our friends in the marine industry and they have all -- every single one we’ve asked -- agreed to help.
Cameron recently sailed the boat to Ft. Lauderdale where she has been hauled and where a small army of local service providers are giving her a face-lift, fixing her keel, repairing her electronics and giving her a fresh coat of paint.
Instead of selling the boat to raise money for the charity, we’re making her safe so Cameron can keep on sailing. Each day, there's a flurry of activity onboard. And you can see Cameron on her most days, having driven up from Miami to oversee her progress, polishing the stainless.
When the work is done and she’s as safe as can be, Cameron promised to take us all sailing. On that day, I’m not sure which will feel better, seeing the smile on Cameron’s face or feeling the salt spray on my own.
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