Today we are going to the sailing school. It's right by the Berkeley Marina and we'll sail right into the bay of San Francisco. We joined the sailing school so we could "get in the groove" with other like-minded sailors who want to sail, sail, sail.
We get there early on Saturday morning after a couple of hours of studying our sailing fundamentals book, practicing tying knots, eating a healthy breakfast, and prudently packing our clothes for any weather that may come along.
The head of the school re-introduces himself for the 5th time (we all look alike) and confidently states that "Sarah will be overseeing your rigging of the boat. She'll check your knots, make sure the lines are all set up right, and will make sure the motor is all set up to go." Kenny and I look at each other and feel assured that we made the right move in joining the OCSC.
Well, only 15 minutes left before the sailing instructor, Dave, shows up and no Sarah. Well, maybe she wants us to put everything together before she strolls on the scene to "school" us in the error of our ways. We guess and rig where all the lines go (because we've never sailed their boat before), start the motor, make sure the electrical is working, check out the sails, make sure the life jackets are in good shape, and yep, the gas tank is full. Where is Sarah, our sage?
Sarah, the "sage", trips up the dock to the boat with her know-it-all boyfriend, Corey. Corey's taken one more class than Sarah so he knows "everything". She's a petite young Asian woman that looks like she'd have a hard time pulling out a thread let alone pulling out a jib sheet. She comes to the boat already full of apologies. "I'm always late. Anybody bring sunscreen? Oh I totally forgot to eat this morning, I'm starving, I hope you brought snacks. I can never start the motor-thingy."
Meanwhile the boyfriend starts yelling out orders and stating the correct way to set all the rigging. But not a finger to be lifted by the golden boy. Sarah, goo goo eyed, gushes about what a great sailor he is. "I'll never be as good as him."
I think, "You know what sista? You are so right about that one."
Dave comes up with flip flops and island shorts. Ah a breath of fresh air. He's the instructor and looks totally unanal. Not.
As the three of us take turns being the helmsperson, crew and ornament, he shouts out curses about the lack of wind to us as if we can do something about it. I take the tiller first and to me, the "lack" of wind is just right. What lack of wind? Oh the lack of gale that will push over the boat if you're not carefully following a close-haul tack? See I did learn something!
Sarah is the ornament, I'm taking the boat out into the bay while Kenny is trimming the lines as we tack back and forth. Luckily for us the know-it-all stayed behind and Sarah was left to fend for herself. Dave yells for her to "take the helm". And I think "Oh shit, we are so not going to make it back. Where's my life jacket?" I don the moldy once-bright red vest gladly after Captain Sarah nearly rips off the boom when she accidentally jibes and whips us all the way around. (all it means is that we did an uncontrolled 180....in 300 feet of freezing water) Mary mother of god I swear under my breath. I can honestly say I don't think I ever used that curse sentence in my lifetime. Well there's always a first time. "Oops" she coyly states covering her mouth while she lets go of the tiller (steering wheel) to complete the look she's trying to achieve.
Well Dave doesn't look worried so I relax a little bit. He's kind of like the driving instructor when you're 16 years old. They've been to the brink of inexperienced driver death, and lived so whatever...."I think I'll get me another whiskey snort." At least that was how my driving instructor was. Sarah continues her captaining. She stares at a point on the horizon without regard for anything else.......like the wind. Which by now is blowing so at least Instructor Dave has quit bitchin' about that. We are heeled over bad and I'm cinching up my life jacket as much as possible. She doesn't seem to give a rat's ass about water splashing into the cabin. I start to check out "exactly" how far away we are from the shore, how I feel strength-wise, and if it's best to strip out of the parker before we sink when (thank god) the instructor grabs the tiller and yells out "Jesus Christ, what are you trying to do? Get us all killed?" She crouches down on the bench seat and looks like a puppy just scolded with a rolled up newspaper. He states in instructor voice..."You are not understanding how this boat works." I'm not quite sure what he expects her to absorb and move on from that, but I feel better.
I feel better knowing that someone sails a whole hell of a lot worse than me. I contemplate the "wisdom" of his words.
Carryon.
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