Nappeague Notebook: Advanced Beginner

by India DeCarmine

I am resting on all fours on top of my sail as it sits half submerged in the waters of Nappeague Bay. Behind me, my board floats towards the opposite shore, disconnected from the mast foot, and hence the mast, boom and sail itself by the force occasioned by my falling onto my Fanatic "Fun Wing." This ironic brand name is written in black along the mast pocket. With a start I realize that it is fading from view, as the sail sinks into the less than crystal clear waters of the bay, with me still perched trustingly, ridiculously, atop it. What ever made me think that sails float? I look lovingly towards my big floaty board, now out of reach unless I swim for it. I roll off the sail and grab the large end of the mast with one hand, treading water with my other arm and both feet to stay afloat. I reach one foot down to test for bottom, but, lucky me, I have managed to fall into the one section of the bay where the water is actually over my head. My foot swings a watery arc without connecting with the firm sand I was hoping for.

The sail is heavy. I consider dropping it more than once as I half swim, half drag it through the water towards my board. The wind is heavy too, and, although I am not in danger of drowning, the small white caps breaking over my face at irregular intervals obstruct my vision and make me feel as if I am. My board, inanimate object that it is, nonetheless seems to be playing a game of tag in which I am "it", never letting me get close enough to grab the deck, always staying just out of reach. I am not in a playful mood.

Just when I am about to abandon my sail to the murky depths and make an unencumbered dash to my board, my feet touch bottom. I walk to my board, which seems to know the game is up and mysteriously stays put, and reconnect the mastfoot to the universal. Then I sail back to shore, shivering.

When I am on shore I immediately do two things: I tell my husband I will never hook in again, and I pop open a Sam Adams to strengthen my resolve. After I take a long swig of the beer I continue my tirade. "I hate windsurfing and I do not care if I ever get any better," I say. "I stink. I do not want to learn to use the harness - I'll only get catapulted again," I say. Knowing it's not so, I nonetheless end my speech with, "I nearly drowned out there!" just for effect.

It works. My husband and all of my friends leave me on the beach alone, so miserable am I, so disagreeable to be with. This is fine with me; I do not want consolation or, worse than that, advice. I want revenge, and my revenge is never to strive to get better again. That will show them.

As I sit stewing on the beach, contemplating how much I stink at this sport, and how much I will always stink at this sport, a young girl approaches me. She is maybe fifteen-years-old.

"Is that your board?" she says, pointing to my traitorous rig.

"Yeah."

"May I borrow it?" she asks, looking hopeful that I'll say yes but not too sure of herself.

"Have you sailed before?" I ask.

"Once."

The word hangs in the air. I hesitate because a beginner can be hell on your equipment. But then, what do I care?

"Sure," I say, and she smiles a wide smile. "Just stay where it's shallow," I caution her, and she nods appreciatively.

As I finish my beer I watch her trying to uphaul. Her balance is good, and she knows to bend her knees, but she's rushing it. Time after time she painstakingly clears the sail of water, only to lose her balance as she grabs too quickly for the boom. I find myself mouthing instructions to her that she can't possibly hear. "Easy" I say, as she clears the sail, "don't be in such a hurry. Easy, easy...Oh!" She has lost her balance and fallen backwards off the board, pulling the sail over with her so that it covers her in the water.

Sam Adams is left alone on the beach as I wade out to help her. She has crawled out from under the sail by the time I reach her and looks unscathed, but exhausted. "You want it back?" she says, hopeful that my answer will be "yes" this time too; the miseries of uphauling have just about defeated her. She looks disappointed when I say no.

I reposition the sail for her and tell her to get up. She does so, though with only half the bounce of her first attempts.

"Uphaul," I say.

She bends to grasp the uphaul line. Slowly the sail emerges from the bay, the water tipping off of it towards the clew, the wind taking it as soon as itÍs clear, making it wobble furiously. She is so happy to have the sail out of the water that before I can say anything she clutches at the boom and immediately pulls it to her, causing a repeat performance of her dying sail routine.

As she scrambles out from beneath the sail I smile and say "again." This time I don't miss my cue. Once the sail is cleared, I immediately begin to coach her.

"Slow...easy...get the feel of the sail. See how the wind takes it-No! Don't take the boom just yet. Relax. Get comfortable with the weight of the sail first."

She looks at me, not understanding why I won't let her claim her reward for the backbreaking chore of uphauling. The boom floats only inches from her right hand, tempting her.

"If you rush it-you'll lose it. You can't use the sail for balance," I say. But still she doesn't quite understand, and again she makes a desperate grab at the boom and goes over backwards.

The next time is a little better. And the next time after that a real change occurs. Instead of hurrying through the moment where her hands reach the top of the uphaul line and the sail is clear of water, she remains poised in it, testing the weight of the sail in the free air, moving it back and forth slowly, feeling its potential energy. She had learned to treat this moment as having its own worth, instead of merely something to rush through on the way to real sailing. Once I realize this I shut up and let her find her own rhythm. She waits until the wake from a passing fishing boat rolls gently under the board. Then she reaches towards the boom and in one fluid movement her right hand has a hold, and the left follows perfectly behind. Her sail fills with the wind. Her feet shift back, just a bit awkwardly, and she is sailing.

She sails away from me for about ten yards before a playful gust pulls the sail out of her hands. She falls backwards into the shallows. She stays down for awhile but then she stands up in the waist-high water and waves to me. She smiles her big broad smile. I walk out to her.

"That was fantastic. Did you see? I was sailingÜit was soooo great!" She can hardly contain herself. I congratulate her, telling her she's a natural. She bubbles some more about the wind and the water, but then catches a look in my eye that stops her short. "You want it back?" she asks, suddenly.

Watching her, I have remembered something, and she has seen the gleam of it in my eye. I tell her to wait on shore. When I get back, I'll give her another lesson. Then I check my harness straps, do a beach start, and head out for the deeper waters. I have just remembered how much fun I was having before I was catapulted into the bay.

India DeCarmine practices law in New York City. She lives and practices windsurfing in Long Island with her husband Salvatore (Tore).

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