These last days...

I have been out shackling halyards, tacking jibs, and cleating and uncleating all sorts of ropes...uh sheets. But even after three days of an intense sailing class, I can't confidently say that I have a secure grip on what I am actually shackling.

When it comes to rigging the dinghy first thing in the morning, I usually excuse myself to the bathroom, because I am afraid I might break something. The other guys - and they are all guys - don’t seem to have that problem. They will shackle, cleat and hoist anything.

The instructor with his tanned lower arms - a blue anchor next to “Hold Fast” tattooed across the left one - is the image of popeyed masculinity, the kind I usually try very hard to avoid. And yet, there I am thrown onto the shores of our village reservoir pretending that I am reviewing my bowline knot just one last time before I too will lay hand on that blue vessel that’s sitting in front of me like a dead moose.

All changes, however, when we are on the water. There I reign, because under the smoldering summer heat I can’t wait to capsize. I don’t mind close contact with that natural element. In fact, I crave it.

And so, once tossed onto the choppy waves, I wield the rudder with fearless aplomb, I holler my carefully rehearsed sailing lingo at my crew, and I pray that just once the boom will knock one of them over while we come about. Just once.