A mariner grapples with an unfamiliar reluctance — and finds the cure
Issue 152: Sept/Oct 2023
The grayer I get, the more of a serenity-seeking sailor I become. Or is “serenity-seeking” another way of saying “fearful”? That might explain my reluctance to head out to our 12-foot catboat for the first sail of the season.
We put Finn in the water later than usual: Our son’s wedding in Chicago consumed the early summer, along with most of the year. Through it all, I itched to grip our boat’s lines and tiller, feel the pulse of the water beneath the hull, hear the sail thrum on a reach. Not until mid-July could we find the time to sail.
We arrived at my mother-in-law’s shingled cottage, “The Fisherman’s Shack,” in Megansett on Cape Cod the night before I planned to take the boat out, and rose early to a gem of a morning — sundazzled waters, skies flecked with a fleet of silver and cream cloud hulls, and light airs.
In the decade-plus that we’ve owned Finn, such an ideal morning would have spurred me to vault out of bed, throw on swimming trunks and sailing cap, and dash down to the beach. Once there, I’d plunge into the water and swim out to the boat. I’d sail for as long as my arms and knees and coccyx could take the punishment Finn’s wooden cockpit and coaming could dish out. Coffee? Breakfast? Sunscreen? Why waste time? As the bumper sticker says, I’d rather be sailing.
But now I sat on the porch nursing a cup of coffee, eyeing Buzzards Bay. A queasiness crept into my stomach. Out in the mooring field, our boat pranced as if to say, “What’s the holdup?”
Indeed, what was wrong? “Better go now,” my wife, Ellen, exhorted me. “You know it’ll blow later.”
I balked. I drank another cup of coffee. Then another. I made breakfast for her. I made breakfast for myself. I shaved.
Go, I told myself. Already I could see the once sheetmetal- slick water crawling with cat’s-paws. A Buzzards Bay version of a trade wind, the summertime sou’westers around here build as the sun climbs, often puffing so hard that sailing in our yachtlet becomes a fool’s errand. Putting on sunscreen was my last act of procrastination. I had no excuse left. What was this knot of reluctance tightening within me? Why was I quailing?
I was suffering from sailor’s block, that’s why — nervousness that I would bungle the handling of the boat even after sailing her hundreds of times over the years. Other aging mariners I’ve talked to say they’ve become more cautious with age, too. My sister, who sails a Rhodes 19 with my brother-in-law, confesses to having grown less willing to push the boat in the challenging conditions she used to embrace.
But I frog-marched myself down to the beach, my heart pistoning within my chest in anticipation and trepidation. I knew I had to go, and the moment I surfaced with a gasp in the clear sun-rippled water, my reluctance ebbed. I stroked out to the boat, gagged on a mouthful of seawater courtesy of a frisky wave, shrugged off the sight of the shivers on the building chop, hoisted the sail with trembling hands, and dropped away from the mooring.
For three hours I horsed Finn around in a breeze that built from 12 to 15 to 20 knots. On one tack I saw a Cape Cod Knockabout, a reef in her main, leaving the inner harbor to join a race off Scraggy Neck. A reef — now that would have been a good idea. But I became so absorbed in the act of keeping my small craft trim in the heaves of wind, so exhilarated at my success, that I forgot about my case of nerves. No matter that I got set into the shallows and bumped a submerged rock, weathered an unintentional jibe, and suffered a bruised elbow and bloodied knees. With my sailor’s block shattered, my sailing ardor returned. The cure for sailor’s block? Go sailing.
I put Finn back on the mooring and buttoned her up. Then I went to the foredeck, now reluctant to leave. Salt-encrusted, sunbaked, sore … I bounded with Finn in a state of bliss as the Knockabouts bashed through the whitecaps. Finally, I let myself over the side to backstroke sea-otter fashion so I could watch her yaw and pitch on the foaming chop. Relief buoyed me. My lust for sailing had returned.
A serenity-seeking sailor I might be, but when I venture out in boisterous conditions again, I’ll remind myself: Reef the sail, skipper.
Craig Moodie lives with his wife, Ellen, in Massachusetts. His work includes A Sailor’s Valentine and Other Stories and, under the name John Macfarlane, the middle-grade novel Stormstruck!, a Kirkus Best Book.
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