COME SAIL AWAY

I have returned from the sea. Well not quite the sea. The lake, actually, and I was only gone 48 hours. But I feel like I’ve spent Two Years Before the Mast, largely because I am prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. You may recall that John, Aidan and I all embarked (literally) on a quest to get our Intermediate Cruising Certification, a standard that allows you to charter and sail keelboats in most countries. As we don’t actually own a keelboat, we recruited an instructor with his own 36 foot sailboat, and spent the weekend being instructed – and ultimately tested – on our skills and knowledge. This includes not just knowing how to sail, but how to fuel, stock and provision the boat for a one week cruise, engine maintenance, weather, passage planning, mooring, coastal navigation, rules of collision, how to rescue an overboard, and the correct use of a whisker pole. The whole event is capped off by a two hour written test, or “celebration of learning”, as instructor Dave wryly calls it.

None of us really had time to study beforehand. We all have day jobs. Furthermore, sailing is not intuitive. It requires an entire other language, for starters. You may know a jib from a gybe, but do you know what an escutcheon is? A baggywrinkle? A futtock? Right, well, neither do I. Also, I don’t know about you, but my brain does not retain information the way it used to. I can remember the lyrics to The Night Chicago Died, but not what I had for dinner last night. Furthermore, I am prone to motion sickness, which means I couldn’t read when we were underway, so I really couldn’t cram for the exam. Not that there was time: we were constantly hoisting, trimming and dropping sails, running up and down the companionway, taking compass readings, charting our course, and, in my case, existing in a mild state of panic.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” our producer Ian once asked me. Good question, Ian. I’m not really that much of an adventurous soul, or even that athletic, but I am constantly trying to be a better sailor, skier, cyclist and golfer.  This restlessness is not just contained to sports: I have a piano lesson in an hour (for which I have not practiced). I would like to learn to speak Italian, dance the Paso Doble, and play bridge, maybe all at once. It sounds admirable, but I suspect that at heart I’m just a flibbertigibbet. No, that’s not a sailing term, but it should be.

All to say I passed the celebration of learning, but just barely. My coastal navigation skills are little shaky, as is my knowledge of engine repair. When asked what hazards to look out for when swimming at anchor, I drew a picture of a sea monster.  I think Dave gave me extra points for my cooking. I may not know the signals for overtaking a vessel in a channel, but I can pass them some delicious muffins when I do. It’s all good. I won’t be the Terror of the Seas, more like the Nuisance of them.

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