How to Sail a Boat

By Matt Vance

Awa Press

Copyright © 2013 Matt Vance
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-877551-85-7
CHAPTER 1

Landfall

FROM THE SMALL CABIN of Chance I watch the towelling curtains that separate the cabin from the cockpit. Orange, red and yellow tropical fish swim in profile in a blue sea. As the boat rolls the curtain dances, giving the sensation of a real underwater scene.

The cabin is used more for storage than for sleeping: it contains old lifejackets, sails and rope that have become stiff with salt water. It is also where small children like me are stuffed when the sea cuts up rough on the homeward leg of a visit to our favourite island. Through a parting in the curtains I can see my father and his friend David easing the boat through the gusts; part nervous tension, part pure enjoyment is written on their faces.

This is my first memory of the sea and of sailing.

On land Dad and David were teachers, with all the trials of the classroom, the school board and parent-teacher evenings. Out at sea they were under the fleeting illusion of being free, beyond the reach of all that. Under sail, they were confronted with a simple set of rules that required them to observe intently, to engage their entire being in the enterprise of moving across the ocean.

Despite the enormity of their effort, Dad and his friend had little effect on the sea: I could see Chance‘s wake being quickly zipped up behind, leaving no trace of our passing. The same could not be said of the sea’s effect on the two men. I could see in their faces the sea subtly unzipping them, pulling out the stuffing that had been buried by life on the land, revealing things about the sailor that only the sea might know.

Chance‘s wake feathered white on a green sea, before dissolving into the general lopping swell that always accompanied a strong nor’easterly. The tension and exhilaration we felt on deck didn’t seem to evaporate in the wake. If anything, these feelings were amplified as the swell rebounded around the hull of the boat. The laughs were louder and the lurches seemed scarier than anything on land.

In calm weather, children were allowed out beyond the curtain to roam the cockpit and help trim the sails. On special occasions I would be ushered on to my father’s lap and allowed to steer. My small hands were barely able to grasp the varnished tiller, and Dad would have to use his weight to gently correct my erratic course.

Through the helm I could feel that Chance was alive as every puff of wind was converted into a quivering surge that rushed up my arms. In my father’s lap I was insulated from responsibility: sailing was a game with a warm safety net as Dad reached out his strong hand and dumped power from the mainsail, or hauled the boat back from the violence of an involuntary gybe that had loomed, while I dreamed I might be that seagull over there. It was only when the sea got rough that, with urgent tones, we were corralled into Chance‘s cabin. Pulling the towelling curtain across the hatch was a sign we were not to venture on deck and mess with the serious job of keeping the boat upright. There was no time for arguing or stalling or all the other stuff we might have tried on land.

While the other kids lolled around on the sail bags and had pillow fights with the spare lifejackets, I was always drawn to what lay beyond the curtains. The thought of what lay out there would give me a queer twisted feeling deep in my guts, accompanied by a dry furry mouth. This was part excitement, part outright fear. It is a feeling I still associate with doing things that make you feel really alive, things that have in them s