Over the Bounding Main

In my book, sailing = bliss.

To back up this statement, I have lots of empirical evidence: two whole trips filled with sunshiny, calm, lazy hours that ooze by like warm honey, while the rest of the busy, demanding world just ceases to exist (temporarily, of course).

Despite being nothing like the two previous trips, my latest sailing adventure did not disappoint. After our last month of nearly solid rainy days, it looked like a perfect day. The projected cloud banks held off, and we had plenty of sunshine. But the promised 2-4 foot waves, well, they proved to be 6-8 foot swells. I was reminded of horseback riding: the best way to deal with large motions from the beastie on which you are riding is just to relax, and go with the flow.

And hang on for dear life. There was, after all, just a hint of danger in the fun. I’m not likely to become addicted to adrenaline rushes anytime soon, but I began to have a faint idea why people bungee jump and otherwise rashly risk life and limb for the sheer fun of it. Only a very faint idea, mind you.

The real foe in this adventure was much more prosaic than being carried off by the waves. Some fought it with determined snacking; some with pills; some succumbed and were reduced to limp-limbed, green-lipped masses of misery. I’d already done seasick in the hold on calm days. Now I discovered worriedly queasy in the cockpit, and pretty-near-fine, playing figurehead up near the prow. I asked myself why I was so special that I was going to miss out on losing my breakfast like my poor shipmates in the rear. But succumb I did not.

Life is so unfair.

But not even life as a figurehead was all smooth sailing. While I enjoyed the sun-sparkles on the water, stray sea-birds scudding just over the surface, the occasional curling white-cap, and the rolling ride up and down those tallish swells…I was also enrolled in an unofficial water-fight with the Atlantic Ocean. No question about who was winning. Every fifteen minutes or so — just about the time I was starting to feel not-so-drippy, another stray wavelet would redrench my skirt, or more rarely, smack me right in the face. Fortunately, I was armed. With an enormous yellow slicker that functioned more like my own personal tent, solidly blocking out all but the most determined wind and spray.

Also thoroughly banished for those few salty hours: the busy, demanding world. I arrived home windblown, salt-encrusted, close kin to a tomato…and still in love with sailing.