There she was; wood trim lightly accentuating her mustard yellow coloring, pinstripes down the sides adding a firm line to her curves, solid silver smooth stainless steel centerboard, tenderly creased ivory white sails, and beautiful. She was nineteen feet long from her bow to her stern. Her width was six and a half feet, long enough to stretch out in, but nothing more. Her sides rose about three feet from the hull to the deck, with no cabin. She was a racer; a smooth, sleek, flat over the top racing dinghy. She smelled of age old wind and water, the lightest fragrance of a warm spring day, and adventure.
And an adventure she was. After sitting for over 30 years with not a single feel of the water beneath her bow or caress of air over her sides she re-seized her dreams upon first contact. For myself it was a slower curve, she had to teach me how to guide her. Those first few weeks with her were magical. I’d lower her gently into the murky water and she’d bounce lightly with joy. Upon boarding her she’d immediately react to my presence, moving side to side, ready to go. Once the sails were raised and rudder in place she’d moan to be released from her only hindrance, the bow line attached to the dock. And as I released her she’d take off so fast that many times I’d almost miss jumping aboard as she left without me; almost, but I never did. She constantly pushed me. Never allowing me to settle for placidity. As I slowly learned how to treat her best she’d throw me for loop after loop. I’d maneuver the tiller and rudder slightly to the side in order to change direction and in complete defiance and crackling her sails as she did it she’d throw her boom and sail to the other side, just narrowly missing my head. But, she never got me, though many a time in her anger she tried to judge me with a crack to the head she always missed. She pushed me and I pushed her.
Over time I became connected with her movements and we began to work as one. Through her not-so-gentle guiding I eventually learned how to read her signs. Others were not so lucky as I. One day while allowing another to share in her mystery she became angry and upon turning threw her boom from starboard to port side in the blink of an eye. As I yelled at her to stop and for the unlucky recipient of her attack to duck, I heard the boom-crack of wood to skull. I turned to see the victim of her delicate brutality clinging to the side and barely maintaining a hold. She groaned in laughter as I leaped from the stern and rudder to her side and pulled him back on board. The rest of the way back to the land I eased her on, controlling her temper at this unwanted guest, letting her know they were my guest and she should allow them to join in this adventure.
She grew to accept others and came to realize that with more guests came a greater thrill. Though she and I both loved our days alone, silently listening to the other as we glided across the lake, we also realized the call of an adventure. As we came to learn this I invited more and more to experience her lessons with me. Soon she came to enjoy giving these lessons in adventure. The more she learned to enjoy the lessons, the farther she pushed to teach them; and once, almost gave her very life to share an adventure.
The day was perfect. The sky had but a few wispy white clouds high in the bluer than blue sky. This presented a fittingly stark contrast to the murky brown waters of the ever shallow lake she called home. As the six of us boarded her and set off from the wooden dock the wind was moving from the northwest at a steady blow of about twelve knots. She moved steadily, only slightly burdened by the excessive load, towards the middle of the lake.
In the center of the lake lay an island about half a mile wide and covered in a aurora of lost time. Every winter all but the tops of the now red and yellow leaved trees would stay above the water. Every summer, the water level would drop low enough to allow explorers to traipse the new land. Occasionally, strange sounds would rise forth from the insides of it’s densely foilaged center and all would turn to face the island listening intently for another. There were rumors of forts, treasures and even helicopter pads on the island. It was was an ever present force, luring boaters to it’s muddy shores and grassy jungle. This day, the island called us forth, closer and closer, to it’s ever changing secrets.
500 yards off the dock, just past the safety net, the adventure began. Everything had been smooth up to this point. My five friends sat along the low sides of the boat and on her ample bow, trying to avoid her sails and rigging, while I gently piloted her with rudder through the exceedingly shallow water. Then she began to leak. Her transom flaps which typically let water out of the boat, had begun to let water in. I quickly scrambled to reach over her stern and mend her bleeding wounds, barking out orders, “You here! You there! You, get the duct tape.” As she sped on I handed the rudder’s control to the newly appointed helmsman (who had all of a weeks experience behind the helm) and leaned over her back end. Madly drying with a brilliant yellow towel and taping over the holes I managed to prolong her agony. As I came around to face the bow again I noticed my helmsman had drifted us to the shallow part of the lake. “Not there!” I cried, but it was too late. Pushing him out of the way with my right hand I grabbed the helm and tried to turn us. It was futile, we had become lodged in the muck. My centerboard, that shiny untarnished stainless steel was being held fast by rotten, smelly, brown gunk that was all of 4 feet below. I began the fine art of pulling the rope that raised the centerboard, then lowering it enough to move us forward, then raising it from the mud, then lowering. At the same time, bent halfway over to reach the rope, I would hold the helm with my other hand and awkwardly twist my neck to try and see over the bow. It was of no help, we had drifted farther in to the shallows. We had to lighten the ship.
One of my faithful crew realized all too soon what must be done. So, without second though, he stood up on her edge, pulled off his shirt and threw it to the center of the boat. Next removing his shoes he discarded them to the side. Last he dropped his pants and stood facing the water for but a second, then dove head first. As his pale body moved toward the shallow muck my warning cry, “No! It’s too shallow!” reached deaf ears. He came up in about a foot of brown water, mostly covered in mud. Soon the rest of my gallant crew followed suit. Watching them jump over her sides and off her bow I realized how quickly she had taught them. They asked no questions, held no hindrances, and made no statements as they silently went overboard.
As they waded and swam towards the island I was left alone with my ship. She was now light enough to move. Acting as one crazed by the heat I dashed 10 feet forward with brown mud dropping from my pants and let the front sail down then lifted the centerboard by pulling in 3 inches of rope and pivoted on my heels to leap in 2 steps back to the un-piloted helm. I looked up, and, with my bare toes gripping the now brown speckled deck, I re-assumed control. We slowly turned a little, then a little more. As soon as we were facing away from the shallows I pulled taught on the mainsail rope and held steady to her rudder while we gained speed. We pulled away from the shallows, moving to deeper and deeper water, as my bare-feet stood amongst piles of clothes and mud. We were free. As I sailed round the point of the island and looked backwards at my crew of five standing on the edge of the island, I could not help but wave as I sailed away. What gallant men; what brothers, what a crew.
Later on, as she bobbed up and down freely just off the island, I thanked her for the ride. She didn’t respond; but resting lightly on the water, bowline tied to a scrawny leafless tree on shore, with mud surrounding us and covering her, she seemed to understand. My friends and I tromped off into the woods swinging a dull, rusty machete as she looked on.
The blue sky had darkened but a little, the white capped waves had become rolling, and she now sat. Beautiful white sails dropped, mud speckles spattering her insides and outsides, discarded clothing laying over her lines, cleats, bow, stern and rigging, while she calmly looked on. Six men, creating the loudest ruckus possible by slashing trees and branches, singing made up songs, and gabbering nosily, moved off into the center of the island; while she waited. She had been used and discarded. Her time and come and gone. We were off to better things, grander times, funner adventures, and she was silent.
Time passes on. Things come and go. What was young becomes old. Yet, we never forget our first taste of adventure. Though she might never be the same, though she might never provide that same thrill as the first time, she will be there. Every new place I explore, every new thing I do, calls back to that first time I got a taste of it. One adventure leads to the next and always I will strive for more, but she will never leave. She taught me everything. She taught me all she knew, to laugh, to love, to live. So though she is gone from my presence physically, owned by someone else, sold for a trinket, traded for another year, what she taught will always be there. She will never leave my mind, never leave my heart. She holds that special place of firsts, first love, first kiss, first day of school, first word, first step, first death. And she was a first. My first adventure.
