Who Needs an Ocean?

Posted By: SkipperEd
Date: 8/14/00 3:33p.m.

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WHO NEEDS AN OCEAN? by Ed Lange (SkipperEd) I'll never forget the look on her face when I told her we had bought a sailboat. Just like in the cartoons, her eyes bugged out, her eyebrows leaped skyward, and then very slowly and reasonably, as though she were talking to someone who needed a great deal of patience and sublime guidance, she responded, "Shouldn't we be telling you that we bought a sailboat?" Just because she and her husband live four of five nanoseconds from Hingham Bay, and my wife and I live some 150 miles from the nearest serious salt water. She just didn't know: sailing isn't necessarily a matter of monumental yachts and limitless oceans, sailing is a matter of a little imagination and limitless pleasures. For the open-minded, even the inland areas of the country beckon, and the sirens seductively offer their irresistible bodies of water on which the tempted can exercise their imaginations in order to achieve pleasure. Many inland sailors have fallen under the spell of the sirens and halyards are hoisted in every low-salt state in the nation, from New Mexico to Iowa. For those who haven't tried it, the doubts linger. The non-sailors remain unconvinced, seeing sailing as something one does only in places with salt water in their names and veins. Newport, Buzzard's Bay, Gloucester, San Diego, Chesapeake Bay, Puget Sound. These are the places where the around-the-world passages begin, where the calendar photographs are taken, where the residents and visitors alike talk about humpback whales and in reverential tones, "THE SEA." In the minds of the uninitiated, these are the only places where sailing happens, certainly not in the Adirondacks, the Great Plains, the Ozarks, or Big Sky Country. It's true, inland sailing won't allow you the pleasure of seeing a pelican soar over your mast, or the sublime peace of watching the sun sink languidly beyond Catalina Island. Sailing on crystal land-locked lakes doesn't let you gaze out across the vast Atlantic from Nantucket and wonder what would happen if you steered east-noreast. Nor does it allow you to explore the deserted coves and beaches of the Florida Keys or the Virgin Islands. But. The siren sings other songs as well. Sailing a lightweight daysailer with a good friend creates an unfettered laughter and shared excitement of a sort that you might not have enjoyed since pre-adolescence. Overnighting aboard a 22-foot weekender anchored at a northern pine-treed island returns you to a tranquility that can be found only when our ancestral moon is reflected in mirror-smooth water or when a misty dawn urges a Great Blue Heron to spread its wings and soar heavenward. Cruising easily in gentle breezes among the autumn leaves on a football-cool, impossibly blue, apple-biting day reminds you that you really are part of the natural order of things. Hiking out as you race aboard an inexpensive one-design boat provides all the athletics anyone would ever want and confirms without a doubt and for all time that you don't need a big boat on a big ocean for big thrills. There is a connectedness in sailing. An overwhelming sense of unity, of wholeness, of oneness. Of human working in absolute harmony with the forces of nature. In sailing, to oppose nature is to fail. Either all the elements work in concert or you don't get where you want to go. Wind and sails, keel and water, rudder and sailor, unite as a team to make something happen which seems somehow magical if not mystical. Sailing has been happening for thousands of years, and it remains nearly as natural and environmentally "green" today as it was when Odysseus and Leif Ericsson held tillers in their hands. Sailboats still cross lakes, rivers, oceans and circumnavigate without engines of any kind. The quiet, always-astonishing pleasure of slicing smoothly through the waves, powered only by the spirit on the water can take your breath away. And the variety is as infinite as the pleasure. When the breezes whisper at four to six knots, the sailing is easy and relaxed. We lounge back lazily in the cockpit, sipping a cool drink with our legs stretched out to the sun. Or maybe a couple of us slip over the side into the water where we hold onto a line trailing behind the boat and let it tow us smoothly through the ripples. At this gentle wind speed, comments from newcomers are usually spoken with a contented sigh or a drawl and go something like, "What a way to live. Talk about stress reduction." At this point, people fantasize about endless summers of delight among the Mediterranean isles. When the breeze picks up to seven to 10 knots, the sailing is still easy, and the lounging can continue uninterrupted, but now we can actually sail somewhere. We can still be towed behind the boat, but now the sensation is more like a pulsating water massage. At this wind speed, the boat begins to heel (or "go tilty" as we sometimes like to say in our house), but it's perfectly OK. Sailboats are designed, nay, even intended to "go tilty." It's part of that mystical stuff. The wind exerts a force on the sails which is counterbalanced by the ballast, and when you throw the keel and rudder into the equation, the boat goes forward. But a little tilty. The newcomers' comments are now along the lines of "Oh, I can really deal with this." or "So, is it hard to learn to sail?" (Answer: not at all. It's very easy. After all, I did it!) It is at this speed that we begin to imagine ourselves cruising across oceans and staring unblinkingly steely-eyed as we explore the world by sail. At 11 to 16 knots, the lounging comes to an end, and the sailing becomes invigorating. It's at this speed that I usually begin hearing, "Are you sure this thing won't tip over?" For it is at this speed that sailboats begin to heel as they do in the pictures and the sculptures. But after a while, the nervous apprehensions subside, and as the newcomers' confidence in the boat and the skipper builds, I hear, "OH WOW! This is fantastic! I love it!" It is at this wind speed that the adrenaline begins kicking in and the blood starts pumping. It is at this wind speed that the whoops of delight spontaneously burst forth, breaking their bonds of inhibition. It is at this wind speed that all of us, newcomers and not-so-newcomers alike, imagine ourselves winning the America's Cup or maybe even the Whitbread. [now the Volvo] For me, the siren sings more softly now. She has me, and I hear every lovely note. Time has passed since she first enchanted me like a gentle, knowing lover enticing an inexperienced lad. And I remember one of her most wonderful songs. A song sung not on an ocean, but a lake. It was mid-September. Summer was waning. But as a kind of going-away present, summer granted us an absolutely exquisite day — warm sun, blue sky, whipped cream clouds and medium winds (the cruise-across-the-ocean-steely-eyed kind). It was nine-year-old Katie, and Papa off alone together on our wonderful Gloucester 22. White sails were raised against the azure and we were off. Although we were prepared with warm sweatshirts and jackets, they weren't needed at all on this parting gift from summer. It being one of those "let's sail to that island" days, we did, the boat heeling comfortably at 10 or 15 degrees and the sailing easy. Away from telephones, television and with radio and tape decks both silent, we talked. And this, this talking, is unquestionably one of the most wonderful things about sailing. Due to their configurations, finite space and occasional need for cooperative participation, sailboats draw people together. And once together without any possibility for interruption, we tend to talk. On this day, as on many others with out whole little family or with our friends, my young daughter and I talked. We told stories. We laughed. We told silly jokes and sang silly songs. We talked about happy times and sad times and stink-o times and work and friends and school and .... As we neared the island, the wind picked up, driving the boat more quickly. Katie's face came alive with excitement and anticipation of the "Sacandaga sleigh-ride" she knew was coming. In the increasing winds, our boat sprang to vigorous life, gaining more speed and heeling farther and farther. Twenty degrees. Twenty-five. Thirty. Our leeward rail is now cutting through the water. "Thirty-five degrees, Papa!" Her excitement is almost tangible. The boat is solid as a rock. (Perhaps a poor simile for a boat) And having sailed her safely at greater degrees of heel singlehandedly, I let a gust or two push her to 40 a couple of times just so Katie can have done it. Later in the afternoon, the wind slackens and we head for home. But the day is etched vividly in the clear glass of memory. The togetherness, the talking, the laughing, the exhilaration. A moment of being indelibly, supremely alive and sharing a too-brief, fleeting sliver of eternity. End A note to my Trailer Sailor friends. This story was written ten years ago and was published first in Soundings. Even though we have moved up to larger boats and moved to that salt water I mentioned in the story, this remains as true and valid today as it did then.