I remember standing on a sandy beach when I was a little boy, watching a sloop (one mast, jib and mainsail) sail toward me on lower New York Harbor.
It was the most graceful thing I had ever seen, and I promised myself that one day I would own a sailboat.
Many, many years later I met a woman who won my heart with just two sentences: "I can make a lemon meringue pie to die for" and "I own a sailboat."
She (Diane) was absolutely correct about the pie but less than truthful about the sailboat, which turned out to be a "Super Snark," which means it was a plank with a triangular sail.
When we were sailing on Otsego Lake we could play "submarine" by shifting my weight forward of the mast. The boat would plow underwater until all you could see were two people up to their waists in water with part of a bright blue sail showing.
People would laugh and point their fingers at us.
I could care less. I was with the most beautiful girl in the world, and I had been in water up to my neck before _ but this time it was cold water.
There came a day when we were up at Samson Smith's Boatyard and we just happened to see a 14-foot Rhodes Bantam sailboat with a "for sale" sign on it.
It looked like a nice boat for "day-sailing." We called the number listed and voila, we were "big" boat owners.
Little did we know we had started a chain of events that would last almost 30 years.
Since we knew little about sailing except keep the sail filled with wind and turn the thing-a-ma-jiggy on the back to steer it where you hoped to go, we decided to join the Otsego Sailing Club.
One fine, sunny day we decided to launch the boat and got it into the water without major mishap. (Which means it didn't fall off the trailer before we got to the water.) The wind was out of the south and "it was blowing stink." (We came to understand that this meant that sane people don't sail on those days but enjoy the companionship of each other on the clubhouse porch sipping cool drinks and lying about past sailing adventures.)
I was smart enough to know that when you see whitecaps on a farm pond that the wind is blowing hard, and Otsego Lake that day looked like boiling foam. Being conservative, I told the crew (Diane) to only hoist the jib, a small triangular sail before the mast.
We did and the boat immediately spun around into the willows lining the shore. We tried again with the same results. It was about that time when a voice floated down from the clubhouse with the admonition that "You can't sail a Rhodes Bantam under a jib alone _ you must put up the mainsail."
We extracted the boat from the willows (again) and I told the crew (Diane) to prepare to hoist the main, which she did. There was an immediate change in the attitude of the boat. The mainsail, which looked like four king-size bed sheets sewn together, filled with a "crack" of air and our boat (named "TRU LUV") leaped through the water. We were flying along with one side of the boat almost perpendicular to the water. I eased off on the rope called the mainsheet (I have no idea why they call it that) and we maintained an element of control.
Back at the clubhouse, the betting was fast and furious as to when we would capsize and some members already had the Boston Whaler ready for a sea (lake) rescue. With white knuckles I hung onto the tiller and proceeded to get my indoctrination to the wonderful world of sailing.
I should note here that there were other boats like ours on the lake that were racing, but they were going downwind and planing, which means that very little of the bottom of the boat was in the water. These people passed us with looks of sheer joy on their faces shouting "yee haw" as they flew by. I decided they were all insane.
We found out later that the Rhodes Bantam sailboat is a "racing machine" and was never designed to be a "day sailor."
We didn't capsize that day, but had to face bringing the boat to the docks, which were lined with other sailboats. I could just picture roaring in and misjudging when to apply the brakes before making toothpicks out of someone else's boat. It was about that time when I discovered that there were no brakes on our boat. Shades of the "Keystone Cops"! I looked at the crew (Diane), and said, "Where did you put the brakes?" The crew (Diane) shrugged.
It was at that moment that I decided that the only way to look professional and not appear like I didn't know anything about sailing was to jump overboard when we got close to the docks and stop the boat by holding onto the anchor line. I shouted to shore, "How deep is the water?" A voice came back, "Six feet."
I waited for the opportune moment and jumped overboard. I had every expectation of hitting bottom with my feet but instead I went deep, deeper into the water. When I finally came to the surface I sputtered, "I thought you said it was six feet deep."
A voice came back from the dock, "Here."
As time went by I found out where the brake was located and learned that ropes were lines and the thing-a-ma-jiggy was called a tiller. The Otsego Sailing Club Membership even accepted us as members, why I haven't a clue.
We never won a race because the crew (Diane) was pregnant with Katie at the time and always had to go to the bathroom half-way through a race. I tried to get her to squat in the bottom of the boat but she always got me with the line, "If you really love me..." I did and still do.
Henry Geerken is a three-time NYSUT award-winner writing humorous articles addressing retiree and senior citizen concerns. He can be reached by e-mail at hgeerken@stny.rr.com.
Print this story
E-mail this story
