Wet Behind The Ears

Good Old Boat Newsletter April 2008


I began my sailing career at the tender age of 11, Jerry, the father of a juvenile delinquent friend of mine, had a 26-foot East Wind named for a Vietnamese sea goddess. Due to his son's growing predilection for mischief, he asked me to crew on his boat. Not knowing what I was getting myself into, I quickly agreed.

It turned out that Jerry was to be feared once he set foot on his little plastic kingdom. A couple of his buddies, his deified girlfriend, and I made up the crew. For the first few weeks of our relationship, I rode my single-speed bike down to the harbor to go out on practice sails.

It turned out he was training me for my first race. The race would be off Jackson Park Harbor on the south side of Chicago, some 20 miles from our home port, Montrose Harbor. These training sessions, as I was to find out, were tame. The whole gang would have a couple of beers, go out sailing for a few hours, and make his girlfriend blush for the rest of the evening.

Times were different then. My parents did not drive me anywhere; they were too busy working. If I wanted to go somewhere, I got there myself. Nobody was too concerned about my whereabouts. Cell phones and GPS would not be invented for decades, so my location was not monitored, nor was I expected to call in. I never pushed my limits, so I never got limited.

After a couple of weeks of training, race day arrived. We drove south down Lake Shore Drive, past the Museum of Science and Industry to Jackson Park. For a Northside kid, this was exotic territory.

Down south, everything seemed different to my pre-teen brain. At first, I was overwhelmed, but not for long. I had had enough training so that — like any waylaid sailor in a foreign port once his ship is in sight — I had the comfort of knowing that home awaited me.

Even though Jerry’s boat was not a racehorse, he was very conscious of any extra weight. This meant that most of my possessions were relegated to the trunk of the car that had brought us. With the bare minimum on board (that is, except for the beer) and the skipper's meeting concluded, we threw off the lines and headed for the lake.

It was then that our captain’s true nature was revealed. The farther we traveled from the dock, the edgier and louder he became. Once through the harbor mouth, I was informed of two aphorisms: one hand for the boat and one hand for myself and throwing up on his boat would result in promptly being thrown off.

These revelations, together with the fact that a nor’easter was blowing white caps down the 300 miles of Lake Michigan, made my semicircular canals immediately revolt. Mal-de-mar was new to me and — as we ran the starting line, jockeying for position — I felt more and more like I had the stomach flu until finally, remembering Jerry's edict, I flung my head over the lifeline and emptied the contents of my stomach into the lake.

Due to his propensity for prematurely reaching the starting line, I did not have much time to ponder my fate. Being much more afraid of him than I was sick, when I was ordered to start tailing the leeward jibsheet, I jumped to the task and my illness was curtailed for the duration of the race. I remember sitting on the rail during the long windward tacks, feeling alone with the wind and the waves . . . until we approached the mark when suddenly we were surrounded by the entire fleet. The shouts of “Starboard!” during the tacking duels still ring in my ears.

I also remember the anguished cry of my fellow crewmate when a sudden lurch of the boat landed his derriere on the lifeline. Inquiring as to his well-being I learned a few new expletives and a valuable lesson about hemorrhoids.

Once the race was over, I reverted to my pre-race condition and turned green . . . and greener still when I learned we would be sailing, not driving, the 20 miles home. I knew not to complain and, maybe because of this, I was treated humanely. Pretzels and water were provided and Jerry took me below, threw me into a snug corner berth and instructed me to keep my eyes shut and get some sleep.

Time passed quickly with minimal discomfort and, now a fully vetted member of the team, I was summoned hours later as we entered our harbor. I sailed with Jerry for many seasons, until I grew up and he bought a larger wooden boat and hightailed it to Florida, never to be heard from again.

When I am out on the water, turning green or not, I often think about my time on his little sea goddess and wonder what my life would have been like had I never accepted his invitation to go sailing . . . depressing thought that!