Volume: 1

April

The the art and joy of pure sailing, removed by the fury of racing.

April's boyfriend du jour was limited to being with her at high school events, such as dances and games. Meanwhile, I had boats, quite a few of them, from thirteen to fifty feet, none owned by me, but to which I had nearly full-time access. I'd call the owner to verify it was available. My primary rule was to return the boat in better shape than we found it. Usually, that meant hosing it off. If I found anything broken, I'd fix it within a day or two. If it was something expensive, I'd tell the owner and arrange to have it fixed on his account.

Our habit of meeting on weekend mornings, rigging and launching the boat, usually a Lido 14, and sailing up to the race course was delightful because I was with April. We'd take some form of picnic with us. The best part of the day was the leisurely sail to and from the races. I always brought a cooler loaded with beer that we enjoyed on the way back. April started drinking beer when she was thirteen.

The racing was challenging, frustrating, stupid and idiotic but that's what we were conditioned to do. It was similar to something like race walking -- why even bother? Race courses included upwind, crosswind and downwind legs in various combinations, completed while obeying rules made up by blue-hairs on the east coast. Each leg of the course culminated in a mark rounding that featured a lot of shouting if any competitor was nearby. Every ripple, every puff of wind and its direction, every move by a rival was over-analyzed so that by the end of the thirty-minute race, the art of moving a boat through water, meaning pure sailing, was removed. Anxiety and stress replaced the art. At the time, it seemed desperately important. In the grand scheme of things, it was stupid and idiotic.