I ran across a photo the other day and it reminded me about the first time I took my mother sailing. You see, I’m normally quite dashing. In fact if you imagine Errol Flynn in the movie Captain Blood, thats me… normally. Its just in this particular photo I resemble something closer to, oh I don’t know, maybe an old shriveled up, gray haired gnome. And not the cool kind that live in the forests of Norway, oh no, I’m talking about the kind that have lived through too many harrowing times. So you can see why this photo got me to thinking about that day.

It all started when we bought our first sailboat and started bragging to everyone about how much fun we were having sailing. So of course my dear mother wants to go sailing. And who could blame her, sailing is fun, but we are new sailors and as such aren’t too sure about our “skills.” I go on to explain to her how if I, Errol Flynn… err, I mean Capt. Puffy Pants, in the prime of my life, can barely hoist my wet, soggy behind back into the dingy after a capsize, then how is my mother going to get back on board. She is not one to give up easily however.

So after what seems like a million years of her begging us to take her sailing, we buy a different boat. One that is more suitable to comfortable day sailing. One where you can relax. One where you can actually cleat the main sheet and have a sip of water without being instantly hurled over the rail like you were a navy jet leaving an aircraft carrier. When one is flying through the air like Peter Pan doing a triple gainer, it is very difficult to maintain the image of a dashing man of the sea which I’ve been trying to cultivate. I suppose the shrieking doesn’t help the image either.

So lets leap ahead a bit to what will now be our third time out in our new keelboat. It’s mid June and it is finally decided that the time is right to take my mother sailing. I check the weather and it is predicted to be windy, maybe too windy for us, but mom insists that we go, so a sailing we shall go.

15 knots. Thats what the weather station was predicting and my handy The Complete Sailor, which I’ve practically memorized, says in it’s revised Beaufort scale that this is perfect wind for a modern keelboat. I quote, “Great sailing. Boat making speed. Full main and #1 genoa.” But the winds were to increase that day unbeknown to us, thanks to the dead-on accurate forecasting of our esteemed meteorologists. Ha! They couldn’t predict their way out of wet paper sack, let alone get anything close to a weather prediction right. They should just come out say “tomorrow will be Saturday, anything else would be just a guess, and you know what, we are not too sure about that either.” At least then we wouldn’t be tempted to trust them.

So we arrive at the boat launch and right away I see other boaters are coming off the lake and saying, “should be a great day for sailing.” Now, I would be remiss at this point if I didn’t mention something that might prove useful to new sailors that I have already learned in my short time at the tiller. When people in power boats say things like , “should be a great day for sailing” and they happen to be coming off the lake at noon, one should take note. But of course I don’t and neither would Errol Flynn. So we motor from the launch to the public dock, pick up my mother and head out, wife at the helm, me standing on the bow striking a most sailorly pose as I scan the horizon for any British ships to add to my fleet.

After a bit more motoring we get out far enough to where I feel it is safe to attempt to raise the main and find that we are unable to raise it in what has now become force 6 winds. Noise generated by luffing sails in force 6 winds can make a new sailor get a little bit frazzled. Add to this the heaving of the hull in these heavy seas, Shoot, the waves had to be a least a foot by now, anyone, even Mr. Flynn, would become anxious in these conditions. So I, with my keen eye, and pounding heart, spot some flat water on the windward side of the lake and suggest we motor over to it, post haste.

Unfortunately, Admiral Honey Bunny, has an aversion to motoring and stops the boat a good deal short of what I had in mind. I mean. I could still see some riffles on the waters surface. Against my better judgment, I still manage to get the main up and we start to make way. For some mental lapse that to this day I can’t figure out, I decide we needed the jib as well. By now we are back out in the full force of the wind and I’m at the bow trying to hank on the jib. The jib meanwhile is trying to simultaneously impersonate a kite and a whip while it tries to fly away from the sailboat. Through the roar and flogging I manage to get the jib ready and then give the command to raise the jib, only somehow I’ve managed to twist the sail around the forestay at least twice. So we, lower the jib, re-hank and try again. Success, its up! And we take off like a rocket!

LOWER THE JIB, LOWER THE JIB, I suavely command. I issued the command loudly and in a very high pitch only to be heard above the wind. Any resemblance to sounding like a litter girl is strictly a vain attempt at mockery. Imagine Errol… Capt. Puffy Pants screaming like a little girl. Ridiculous!

So down comes the jib and we make our way across the lake on broad reach. We have only the main up and it is reefed. So far, so good. My mother is having the time of her life, smiling and laughing the whole way. Ignorance is bliss so they say, the poor old gal doesn’t know her life could be snuffed at any moment. This tremendous burden weighs heavily upon my breast however, as I know that we are eventually going to have to turn the boat around and head upwind lest we run out of lake. It is at this very moment I realize a serious tactical error has been made. I do not think it is important as to who made this error, however. Let’s just say that if we had planned a little further ahead and sailed along the other shoreline, a jibe would not now be looming over our heads like the boom that may soon take off the tops of our heads if we are not careful. I know that this maneuver is fraught with danger and peril and if not handled correctly could lead to my mothers early demise. I am not smiling, nor laughing.

Somehow our boom crosses the wind without incident, our heads and the boat’s rigging still intact and we are sailing on a beat. We are getting soaked from the spray, there are white caps everywhere and there is fair amount of weather helm. I am sure we are not going to make it back alive. With every gust the boat tries to round up and I feel like we are completely out of control. I glance at the GPS and it lies to me. How is it possible when we are careening across the lake like this, crashing from one wave to the next, that we could only be going only 1.5 knots. Never trust an acronym, thats what I say. I know we were going much faster than that, the adrenalin level in my blood was running at least 90% by now, there is no way we were only going 1.5 knots. And there sits my mother giggling away, soaked in spray.

By now I am no longer the dashing swashbuckler I was at the dock, I am now much shorter, with a beard and a pointy little hat has somehow found its way upon my head, replacing the pirate’s, err… baseball cap I had on earlier. After what seems like an eternity, we make it to the far side of the lake again, where it just so happens, the dock is located. I mention that I’m feeling a wee bit hungry and suggest that RIGHT NOW would be a great time for a shore picnic in the adjacent park, you know, if they all want to. Everyone agrees, and I leap from the cockpit to drop the main and motor us over to the dock in a flash, thus averting my mothers untimely demise. If only she knew, if only…she knew.