Improper Rigging

I did what any kid would do when they turn 16…work hard during the summer and scrounge up enough cash to buy an old used sailboat…a 16 foot long Hobie Cat.  I don’t know where the urge came from, but there was no stopping it.  I woke up one day and wanted to sail.  It was in my blood.  My father grew up riding waves together in California with the uncle of Andy and Bruce Irons (two of the best surfers in the world).  My grandfather was a captain in the Air Force during World War II.  I wanted to ride both mediums…air and water, and to feel a fraction of what the explorers, pirates, and salts of history felt.  I wished to change latitude in a combustion-free mind numbing state of silence, be subjected to the hand of God, and reckon with conditions beyond my control.

So at least I read a book first.  That didn’t help.  I could not even rig the boat without help from a friend’s father who had experience.  It seems a complicated and awkward contraption out of water, yet so much simpler than any mechanically driven device.  The sails are as pistons catching an explosion of air.  The hulls literally engineered like aero plane wings.  The sailor adorns his ropes, cables, and connections like a spider spinning his web.  Once in water and paired with wind she finds herself comfortable at home, with every part in use and set in proper tension…forming the oceanic threshold for utilitarian beauty.  With nothing else, she will sail for as long as the sailor can hold on and as far as the air reaches. 

It only takes one to rig a Hobie Cat, but two to connect the mast.  I have sailed as many times solo as I have with a friend, yet when alone it has never failed that during setup, an intrigued bystander will offer a hand right when needed.  If I were to assemble my boat at a desolate lake, without doubt, a stranger would appear to help.  People are drawn to a sailboat.

Nearly every sail, I learn something new, whether through revelation or failure.  Most often, it’s failure.  I’m novice in many regards, but skilled enough to be stubborn.  It doesn’t take a sailor to realize that storms are the greatest danger and flipping your boat is second greatest.  Pirates might be third, but there is too much law and not enough bounty.

In my years, I’ve flipped it with my father, friends, an unwavering girl, and by myself.  I’m running out of volunteers.  Sometimes I’ve been able to right the boat and continue sailing without any more than a wet laugh and redemptive scream.  Other times, there was more to digest...shrouds breaking, mast falling, ropes nearly severing my neck, coast guard reports, snapped off rudders flying through the air like daggers, getting trapped underwater below sails, falling through the sail, getting cut on oyster bars, outgoing tides offshore at dusk with no one in sight, falling to water from an incorrectly tied trapeze knot and nearly losing the boat, being pestered by marine patrol while looping around a legitimate race, chasing an unmanned motor boat adrift in heavy offshore winds after tequila shots, and perfecting 40 miles alone on my 30^th birthday.

But let me tell you about one recent story….an abnormal weather pattern had set in late summer offering rare days of consistent strong winds.  All conditions were lining up to make a solo run 20 miles south to visit my family.  My life had begun to revolve around the wind.  Only its direction and strength altered my decisions on whether to surf, fish, sail, or rest.  Today was a day to sail…but there was one season specific danger involved – afternoon storms.  The later I got started, the higher percentage chance of getting caught in one.  It was a calculated risk.  I took it.  My confidence level was high and worst case I planned on staying close to shore the entire duration.  So I sailed.  The next land mass point on the horizon was straight ahead from the exit jetty and so I held a tight line sailing 10 miles in less than one hour.  Conditions were raw but even; the wind steady but strong.  The sea was rough, but my hulls cut through swells like a trite hot knife on butter.  Clouds were forming, but none to my concern…yet. 

In my corner cutting crow’s path, I found myself centered two miles offshore from the crescent shaped beach.  Not until my furthest unplanned point from land, did one cloud expand.  The white and blue collapsed into a monotonous grey.  I held my path southeast as the storm rolled northeast.  It won’t catch me, I’ll make it around.  Wrong.  Another cell popped up to the east and in minutes darkness was above me.  The wind increased.  The rain came.  A squall was born over my head and I was no longer sailing for sport.  I was sailing for safety.

I’m guessing the winds ramped above 25 mph with gusts in the upper 30's.  The mph to knot conversion always slips my mind.  I never was good at tying knots either.  You would think I should know all this in the middle of a storm.  Hey, I did read the book…and knew how to balance and steer.  But none of that mattered.  Whatever the wind, sweet sixteen was slicing through water at the same speed or greater.  Her nose split the sea like a busted open fire hydrant.  Whatever my skill, there was no way out…easy or hard.  My hat began fluttering to the point of distraction.  I tipped it to the water as a peace offering and to allow my eyes full focus.  Besides…there was no sun.

My heart beat, knees shook, and real fear crept through my body.  The boat nearly blew over 3 times…once I stood vertical on its side with the mast parallel to sea, but was able to lean back enough to drop her level again.  I was near the edge of the storm…and almost through it.  But there lay the squall line.  Winds were whipping in more than one direction.  Rapidly.  The boat was in frightened tension.  The sails began speaking…vibrating a warning.  Something was in the air...beside wind.  If I sailed left, I risked pitch pole (nose diving at extreme speed).  If I sailed right, I would re-enter the storm.  If there was an answer, I never knew it.  The boat pitch poled in dramatic fashion.  I went overboard.  One minute later the wind died, the sky cleared, and my sunglasses were 50 some feet below me.
The worst was over.  Sparing logistical talk, I could not right the boat for a variety of reasons…some my fault, some not.  Despite the threatening affair, I was lucky.  The storm dissipated and there was no electricity being drawn toward my aluminum lightning rod mast.  Neither were there any sharks to my knowledge.  Although it crossed my mind…given that my peeled back toe nail was gushing blood in the same zone a friend had hooked 3 large sharks while fishing the week before. 

So I fought to no avail for an hour to right the boat, all the while drifting toward shore at one mile per hour.  By then I was exhausted, dehydrated, nauseous, and nearing a vomit.  An ambulance and fire truck were seen flashing lights on the beach, but I was still a mile offshore…and only needed water.  Apparently some boys onshore had called 911 when they saw me disappear in the storm.  Then the sheriff arrived in his twin engine offshore boat.  That didn’t help either.  He seemed more concerned about not losing his rope and getting my personal information in the midst of a dire situation.  I’ll spare further comment in that regard.  Should I send him a bill for damaging my mast?  After another hour on side, I was nearing the sandbar forcing the sheriff to leave.  As I began to abandon ship and swim for shore, 3 fellows appeared paddling out to help.  The four of us were able to right the boat just before landfall.  As I nearly collapsed in the sand, the storm reappeared with greater force…but I was dry this time.  While splitting beers with my newfound friends and swapping stories, the local news van came scouting the beach looking for remnants of the scene that had passed.  We remained hid and parted ways.

The adrenaline flowed for at least 24 hours.  I felt alive and great for a week.  The only real loss…my Go Pro waterproof camera cut off film ten minutes before the storm.  All evidence of disaster was gone with the wind.  Regardless, the experience was mine alone…and for those that hear and read it.

“Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do, than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain

Shuffle Court

I seem to only write when I’m sad. It’s an outlet, or an inlet that lets things flow out. It’s like talking to yourself, but taking the effort to define all those thoughts in black and white. If you decide to share, it’s like talking without listening. To what avail? The unselfishness of sharing may be defeated by the selfishness of speaking.

A fragment is considered err by the laws of language. I consider grammar to be vanity at some degree...man made rules. Does it really matter, the fork, the spoon, the knife…how they lay? The name of the color forces a meaningless opinion and jades the eye. Thought has no boundary; therefore illustration of thought must have no restriction. Rules only become a line of reference for understanding. My sentence short of a subject or verb is correct. My thoughts are as such…disjointed. Short. Strange? 

As writing is an illustration of thought, pictures are an illustration of reality. Both are reminiscent of the past. Whatever is read now in words was thought in the past, and whatever photograph seen today was taken yesterday. Everything we read and see in saved form is looking back. Eventually all will turn to fossil, whether buried in the ground or stored in the network cloud. Truth in full essence only exists in the passing moment. What becomes of the truth after its initial raw expression and what is gained from study of the fossil, is left to the unguided imagination of another generation. The future can never be known, but neither will the past be recalled without mistake. Perhaps memories are better left to memory…and memory is meant to fade. What is forgotten can never be wrong, and what is lost makes room for the future.

Enough fruitless philosophy. After listening to The Gambler by Kenny Rogers, I unexpectedly played poker for the first time in years…and lost. I folded with the right hand and bet with the wrong hand. Metaphors aside, I regained my heart…worth more than any plastic chips or gold coins. I found hope in another hopeless romantic. Two negatives make a positive in algebra, but do those rules apply between people? Does hopeless + hopeless = hope? Or am I just crazy? The latter sounds less crazy. In the words from a song I quoted before by Trace Adkins, “forget mathematical equations”.

Since it’s the last day of national poetry month (or was when I wrote this) and I’m still a hopeless romantic (my algebraic metaphorical equation failed), let me share another chopped up less than stellar set of rhyming thoughts that never went anywhere. This was at first inspired years ago by a stranger which I never met and evolved into a dedication for my friends getting married at the oldest operational set of shuffleboard courts in the world. Don’t ask how I plan on proposing. People have tried, but that secret is reserved indefinitely. And regardless of chemistry or math, hope is never really lost in my world.

So here we stand
On these courts
Shuffleboard
A game of sorts

Ninety years
Slid history
That won’t change
You or me

From far across
I caught your eye
Right there below
The string lit sky

Circles collide
Chitter chatter
Time sits still
No more matter
 
Don’t push heavy
Or be so slight
Chalkboard is clean
No score tonight

Stay off the line
No room for doubt
Cause it's all in
Or it's all out

Strange folk will try
So hard to block
Knock us around
Tic tock tic tock

No end in sight
It’s just the start
To share a life
Without part