Chapter Two: Reefing Grief

Prevention is, as in other aspects of seamanship, better than cure.

– Sir Robin Knox-Johnston

Embarking on a vacation is exhilarating. Imagine you’re in a plane, climbing to 40,000 feet, bound for warm, tropical lands. Your senses are heightened; the adrenaline begins to flow as the plane soars into the clouds. You wonder about your chosen destination: will it be as idyllic as Rick Steves promised? You politely listen to the flight attendant as she reads from a script: “In-the-event-of-an-emergency,” “Locate the nearest exit.” “Attend to yourself, then your child,” and finally, “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.”

This scenario does not happen when sailing with aforementioned novice sailors for a week on the water. Any pretense of being taken care of is shattered in seconds. There are no attendants on board serving up safety tips. There are no regulatory requirements to man a vessel on open water. No sea traffic control. No baggage check. No metal detectors. No first-class meals, wine or peanuts.

There are also no launch delays or holding patterns based on bad weather, at least on the first day, when everybody just wants to get going, and Captain Dave has final say. Let’s face it: on a rain-soaked Tuesday afternoon, nobody in their right mind is on a boat unless someone has paid them to be. We have boarded the vessel Small Hotel, and By God, we will sail this thing! We will NOT spend our first night in Boston Harbor, 500 ft from land and the Mass Turnpike entrance from whence we came – No! We are sailors.

The minute the boat is underway, the adventure has begun. There’s no relaxing and tuning into the movie of your choice. No daydreaming out the window or picking up the latest summer beach read. No, for sailors, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.

In my case, that’s highly unfortunate.

I actually now like the chatty airline captains. You know them. They’re the ones who get on the speaker and tell you exactly how they’re going to fly their bird. Exactly what you’ll see along the way. And exactly – to the minute! When you’ll arrive at your destination.

I used to take this kind of thing in impatient stride. I used to get annoyed when the Captain got on the airwaves and told me, to the minutia, how it was going to happen. Now, I can only say – well – it’s better than the alternative.

“Honey, can you get me the chart? Oh, and my rain gear. I think it might start raining again, and I’m not sure what our heading should be.”

This is our captain. Captain Dave. Responsible not only for the four little souls who I bore thanks to his sperm, but also not sure what his heading should be. No airline captain can say that.

As I go down, I think about the commercial airline equivalent.

“Hi, this is Captain Dave here. I’m operating Small Hotel with First Officer… well; you are the first officer, thanks guys! We’re travelling to Gloucester today. We’ll be heading – I believe – on a course free of shallow waters, unforeseen rocks, and – well, let me get the chart here and look… Can you take the wheel while I put on my glasses? Thanks, you’re doing great! Just head for that piece of land in the distance. Wait, you’re off course! Turn upwind! No that’s DOWNwind! Don’t you know where your wind is? Turn left, NOW! Ignore the Fast Ferry, we have the Right of Way! So, getting back to my Trip Plan… we’ll arrive at Gloucester, according to my calculations, by- uh- dinnertime, which is great because our friends Clyde and Lucy are waiting for us at their house. So don’t go anywhere, we need to raise the main sail, and… Caleb! Where’s your life vest? Didn’t Mommy bring your life vest? Get down under… Right Now! There’s a major oncoming wave leeward that the Fast Ferry just created in its wake. Hold on, guys! I’m turning into it, hold… on!” Splash Bam!

And this is all under power. We have yet to sail. Or leave Boston Harbor. You get the picture.

I’m ready for the white wine and peanuts. In fact, peanuts are looking really good right now.

But there’s no time. We have gone exactly 500 feet – I can still swim to Rowes Wharf, I think, when Captain Dave suggests we put up the mail sail. After all, while the rain has abated, the wind is kicking up to 15 mph (that’s 13 knots in sailor-speak), and By God we can’t motor to Gloucester, we must SAIL, so hoist the sails, Matey!

This is where the True First Mate enters our made-for- Weather-Channel Reality TV show. Yes, it’s my 12-year-old, steady-as-steel, blue-eyed, blond-haired, just-shy-of-five-foot daughter, Chloe.

No matter her height or beauty, Chloe was born to be a sailor. We just didn’t know it, because we weren’t boating folks. God bless my sea-faring, sanguine only daughter. On land, she can’t decide between azure and teal eye shadow. Put her at the helm in a tempest, and she is Amazon Woman. She outshines me at sea- by nautical miles among other things. I dare any man try to tell her how to run a ship – at least while it’s not in port.

Dave and I began what should be a simple maneuver: while Chloe steers the boat into the wind, we raise, or hoist the main sail. Piece of cake. We selected our spot (no Fast Ferries in view) and Chloe took the helm and headed into the wind while Dave and I worked together to hoist the sail.

The wind began to shriek and skirt around the buildings onshore, creating a formidable wind tunnel. We began to hoist, but then – something was wrong. What? The main sail wouldn’t go entirely up! Apparently an inexperienced Boston Harbor Sailing Club member that sailed Small Hotel right before our trip tied down the reefing lines! With square knots! How un-schooled. He should have used a half hitch!

Good Grief (I said out loud) and HOLY SHIT! (I cursed silently).

My language and the situation get far worse from there.

Reefing lines are ropes (sailors NEVER say “Ropes,” they are “Lines”) that are strung through holes (called “grommets”) in the sail that pull the bottom quarter or third of the sail down, in order to “shorten” the sail. This may all sound highly technical, but it’s not. Basically, smaller sail = less power in high wind. So reefing is what you do in high winds to “shorten” your sail and thereby “lengthen” your life. Simple.

I guess the people on Small Hotel prior to us wanted to live a long and fruitful life, so they reefed the lines when the wind kicked up. The problem was they tied square knots (completely un-sailor-like and idiotic) on the lines that now were getting tighter by the moment as we tried to fix the saggy sail in howling winds.

Had we been experienced sailors, we would have left the sail reefed. But we were still afraid of reefing. Reefing was new. Reefing was flappy and floppy.

We decided we needed to de-reef.

“SHIT! There’s, like a huge knot in this line! I can’t get it untied,” I yelled.

“Mama!” Co-pilot Chloe admonished me. “You just said a bad word!”

“I don’t (fucking, I thought) care!” Sorry! Dave, I can’t do this!”

“You have to get the line untied!” yelled Captain Dave. “We’re heading right for the restaurants onshore. Hurry!”

The boom (the really really heavy bottom part of the mail sail that can neatly break a person’s neck if it hits them) was swinging back and forth, as I perched on the edge of the boat, intent on the work at hand.

I began to hyperventilate. My mouth felt like pulled cotton. My hands were bleeding. I was mad. I grabbed at the knot with crazed fury.

Finally, I worked the it free. The knot was undone. So was I.

“I got it!” I yelled. The reefing line flicked back into my face, slapping me with revenge. I cried out, another choice word escaping. Dave raised the sail the rest of the way and Chloe turned the boat just shy of Legal’s restaurant. I don’t want to even think about what the lunch patrons witnessed out their window that day.

I was done. White wine and peanuts were looking really, really good right now. We were under sail, right? If the boat couldn’t do it at this point, who was I to argue?

“Mom, are you OK?” asked confident co-sailor Chloe. You seem a little – well, green?”

I hated my only daughter and loved her all at once.

“I’m fine,” I assured her, quickly wiping the tears from my face. “I just need to go down under and wrap my hand.”

Chloe glanced at Captain Dave with a knowing look and said, “Sure, Mama, whatever you need. Dad and I will take care of things up here.”

I’m not sure what hurt more – my ego or my thumb. Probably my ego, because I had literally – all expletives included – lost it in front of my daughter. It wouldn’t be the last time.

From that moment on, I assumed, it was set in sea-coral. I was the wus, the wimp, the one who cracked under pressure. I was relegated to cook and nanny. Chloe was the real First Mate.

I cowered below with cheese and cracker duty.

“Anybody for a snack?” I asked, passing my peace offering up the stairs from the galley.

“Yeah, sure, Mom!” Chloe responded enthusiastically.

“Hey Dad,” she said, “We plotted 120 degrees southeast until buoy G15, right? I turn then 60 degrees north for 16 nautical miles, until we reach Gloucester Harbor. Is that right?”

“Plus 3. 16.3. That’s my girl!” said Captain Dave, patting her on the back.

“Good job,” I muttered as I sucked on my bloody knuckles and poured myself a nice plastic blue tumbler of white sparking- uh- Gatorade.

Caleb and Joel had been playing video games on the portable laptop, oblivious to the wrenching reefing-wreak that had transpired above. Jake was playing his guitar. I wondered if any of them would ever thank me for saving their life that day.

After all, it was I that loosened the fateful square knot that otherwise would have sent us straight into Legal’s back kitchen, right for the burning hot stove. I relished quietly in that thought as I munched on a cracker.