The Power of Flight

Refined to its elements, a day of sailing becomes miraculous.

Issue 134: Sept/Oct 2020

Wind and physics create the lift, sucking me along, the same dynamics as flight. One man, two sails, three sheets, aboard a Laser II. What more could I ask for?

I fly, my head hanging upside down over the hull, the land points down instead of up, the water is above the trees, and the trees are above the sky, and I’m moving. Isn’t that enough?

My hair hangs, the ends nearly grazing the water while the wind whips through it, and I’m sucked along, hiked back over the seat edge. The sun, and the wind, and the physics, and miraculous movement—what more could I ask?

To be seen, I suppose. My ego demands that I sail along and be seen, that there be witnesses to my grandness, to the success of my two-sails-one-manness. Two decades have passed since I’ve sailed faster than today. Then I was 12, eyes closed, now I’m remembering, reliving, re-feeling—“Still got it!”

No, but that’s not enough, and now I’m around the bend, out of sight, out of mind. Miracle of flight on water, sun and blue sky and green trees on land. If no one bears witness to a miracle, does it still happen?

And so I tack, perfectly, and head in the opposite direction. The strong wind threatens to ruin my grand exhibition, but I grab hold. I clench. I go up, almost over, but I release just the right line at just the right moment, and I right my boat. I congratulate myself for my control. I adjust the sheets, clip them in, slide towards the bow, and trim my jib. Again I’m flying and in fine form, gliding beneath two full sails.

Master of the Universe! Man of Destiny! In my glory, I whip my curls in the air, shake my mane back and forth, and glance back to the crowd on the dock, rapt fans, all surely thinking, “Oh wow! It’s not Kevin, it’s Superman!”

But the deck chairs are empty. Not a soul in sight. They’ve probably gone in for lunch, someplace warm and together. While out here, in all my solitary glory, chilled by wind and water, I am left with my hubris, my uncleated vanity, all running untethered through blocks and jam cleats.

I return my attention to the sun, and the wind, and the light, and the sails. To the magnificent, glorious, and semi-divine forces urging me along. I tack, and sail on.