Small Boats, Big Boats, Boys and Men

Everything used to be so simple. I was young. School was easy; I mastered long division and even geometry. I spent hours in front of the TV with friends. I negotiated an equitable settlement with my parents whereby I took a shower only every other day.

My family had a house in the mountains. It was by the lake. Over the summer I would sail my 12-foot Sunfish. And that was simple, too. During those hot days my mom made me iced tea in the morning. I walked down to my slip by the lake and put up the sail. Sometimes I even attempted this maneuver after I untied the small boat from its protective dock; I challenged the lake to rock me as I secured the large sheet of orange nylon. Occasionally a gust of wind tipped the boat and I found myself swimming in the warm water. After righting the boat, I applied a fresh coat of tanning lotion. The sun was always shining.

I learned to call the single rope used to control the sail the “sheet” and the large pole that held the sail in place the “boom.” There were also “tacks” and “jibs” and “coming about.” When I called the rudder a “tiller,” the respect of my fellow sailors grew.

I would spend the whole day out on the water. When it got windy I could achieve extra stability by leaning over the side of boat. As I sailed I held the sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other. There was a satisfying directness about the endeavor; I had complete control of my destiny. With a jerk of the wrist I could come about or direct myself toward the island in the middle of the lake or head back home for dinner. Instant satisfaction.

But I have grown, and times have changed. Several months ago I went sailing in a 70-foot yacht in San Francisco Bay. My college dormitory organized the trip. It was my first time sailing a big boat. What a difference! We achieved unheard-of speeds. The boat was majestic; a friend who sailed with me called it “sexy.” We were equipped with a kitchen and a bathroom and a stereo in the living room. The boat had three sails, and its boom seemed to be made from an intact tree trunk. There was no need to lean over the side to create extra stability. I was finally sailing a boat built for men.

The day was rainy and cold. The bay was rough. After some prodding the captain allowed me to take hold of the large wooden wheel. But I could not sail the yacht alone. The captain barked orders to the crew, and they controlled the masts. He told me precisely the angle and direction to turn the wheel. I was not in control; I did not even understand what was going on. I had to depend on others for both guidance and assistance. But the inter-dependence required to sail the yacht did not temper the thrill. I returned to the bay within a month.

My experiences with sailing have mirrored my struggles with maturity. When I was young I had only modest goals, quickly and easily achieved. I held the tiller in one hand and the sheet in the other. Now that I am older I seek richer challenges and rewards. My boat has become larger; I cannot do everything myself. My life, like my sailing excursions, has become more complicated.

Awhile ago my dad called me. “We’ve decided to sell your sailboat,” he said. I protested. I tried to reason with him. I begged. But he was right: I did not spend summers at home anymore. I rarely used the Sunfish. It was time to put aside childish things.

Nonetheless, he relented. He did not sell my last 12 feet of childhood.

This summer, regardless of the career-oriented projects on my agenda, I will sail my little boat. I will make time. I’ve had a taste of adulthood, and I’m not ready to concede to it entirely.