I am... a sailor (lessons 8)

Lesson 8: be aware of the 150% - 100% divide

When you are on a boat for an extended period of time, you get to know things about the other crew members that even their friends and family do not know. Being in a small space in the middle of a vast ocean exposes foibles as well as strengths. Not everyone likes to become aware of the edges of their personalities, nor do they always find the patience to deal with those of others. Nowhere is this impatience more noticeable than in how willing each crew member is to do their "fair share." 

The harmony of the boat can rest on completing your tasks and responsibilities correctly and in a timely manner. Things like:

• showing up 20 minutes before your watch begins
• cleaning up the galley directly after you have made a sandwich or snack for yourself (i. e. even before you eat it!)
• wipe down the head after showering or shaving
• don't leave any books, clothes, or clutter in the main cabin
• wash the dishes and clean up the galley directly after dinner is finished and before the evening activities (e.g. playing cards or stargazing)
• occasionally ask the others on watch if you can make them a cup of coffee or a snack
• clean up the cabin you are sharing with some other crew member
• occasionally clean up the main cabin
• occasionally sweep and wash the floors
• if needed, pump out the bilge water
• occasionally wash out the cockpit
• take the empty coffee cups and wash and put them away
• make sure all the lines are properly coiled

Actually, the list is endless. Generally, you need to:

1. listen to the captain's instructions

2. make sure the boat is always tip-top

3. Think about what you can do to make the crew happy

4. make sure you are doing your allocated tasks properly

On the surface, you are there to have fun and enjoy yourself. On another level, you have to be diligent and follow the four points in the order in which they are presented. Dave said that you have to do 150% of what you think fair is your share for others to think you have done 100%.

Conclusion: when cohabitating with others, keep working 

I am... a sailor (lessons 7)

Lesson 7: always welcome New Blood
 
I could never figure out whether Dave's way of inviting people to come sailing was of design or out of laziness. Whether it was a Sunday sail or a stretch on a long-distance voyage, the mix of people invited to come on the boat was a random mix of new and old.
 
Weirdly, the mix-and-match of the crews did work for the most part. This is why I think it might have been by design.
 
Though knowing Dave, it could have been out of laziness or disregard of how human dynamics can affect how much pleasure shared company contributes to the sailing experience. He always seemed to take people at face value.
 
I never saw him annoyed with the behaviour or predilections of the crew members. Yet, he had little patience in hearing me complain about certain people who got on my nerves. It was as if the whole art of creating a good crew was in the mix, and introducing a wild card  (someone new) was the hot sauce on top.
 
Conclusion: stay true to your beliefs

I am... a sailor (lessons 6)

Lesson 6: there is bliss in unison

These are Dave's three rules for teamwork: 

* Everyone has to know which tasks to complete, when to complete them, and how to do them.

* Everyone should concentrate on completing their tasks well. They should not interfere with anyone else who is doing or not doing their tasks the way they think they should do them.

* If anyone asks you for help, no matter when you help them.

When teamwork works, there are moments of bliss for all. This feeling of unison is truly marvellous.

Conclusion: good teamwork is not rocket science 

I am... a sailor (lessons 4)

Lesson 4: everyone's equal though not the same

This is a difficult lesson to describe. Some of this has to do with Dave's casual way of making people feel at ease with his company, no matter where they came from or what walk of life they followed. He really believed all were equal, and no level of status or experience, or lack of it, changed his way of dealing with people. On the boat, long-distance sailors or super-successful racers were treated equally as those who were sailing for the first time.

This is not the way ships are usually run. There is probably no better environment to witness top-down management than on a boat. (Okay, maybe the army.) So, the fact Dave was the way he was, was special. This is also the reason he had endless amount of people who wanted to crew for him.

Yet, there were many who only wanted to sail in good weather, or those who preferred to come for drinks once the boat was tied up. There were those who liked the idea of sailing but always backed out at the last moment. It wasn't a big deal. He never took it personally, but would continue inviting them to come along for a sail, even if they did not share the same enthusiasm he did for being out on water.

Conclusion: stay true to your beliefs

I am... a sailor (lessons 3)

Lesson 3: when handing over any task, you have to let go
 
Dave did not believe in what is now called micro-managing. No matter whether you were an experienced sailor or not, he treated everyone the same. He would give instructions to the person next to him if he needed something done. This led some fair-weather sailors to sit somewhere where Dave couldn't see them. But generally, many found it fun to sail with him because everyone contributed.
 
I was always puzzled why he'd send total beginners off to do tasks without any apparent worry, since sometimes the results were not good. I wondered why he didn't choose someone more capable. He said that as a captain, he wanted everyone to feel they were a part of the crew. There were no guests on his boat.
 
If and when things went wrong, he never blamed the person's competency. If a task was not done correctly, it was because his instructions were not good and not the fault of the other person's skills to execute them.
 
Conclusion: always give clear instructions

I am... a sailor (lessons 1-2)

Sailing was a large part of my life, particularly during my late teens and throughout my 20s. As a captain, Dave influenced my growth since I was born. Even after his death, so much of what I think and do is connected to the lessons he taught me while we sailed.
 
Lesson 1: always keep your sails trimmed
 
While sailing a regatta, speed is equal to how well you keep the boat's sails trimmed. When tacking, it is critical to change tack quickly and trim the sails. Even during pleasure sailing, Dave always ensured the sails were filled with wind and the boat was doing its best. If the jib started luffing, he would either change course or trim the sail.
 
Conclusion: never take your eyes off the sail.
 
Lesson 2: a good captain never shouts when the situation is critical
 
There was a time when we were sitting on the boat at the dock when two sailing boats came into the yacht club at the same time.
 
The first boat came in with a captain and four crew members, all dressed in the same T-shirts and looking very spiffy. A strong crosswind was blowing, making tying up to a slot very difficult. The captain had positioned the crew well, each with an extra fender to help fend off the boat if it got too close to another boat. Everything seemed to be going well when a sudden gust of wind hit the boat and manoeuvred it in the wrong direction.
 
The captain increased the motor speed to counter the wind and barked at the crew to fend off the boat. When things got tricky, he shouted at a crew member standing at the bow to jump onto the wharf and then told the other to throw them a line.
 
It was quite spectacular to see the captain struggling to get the boat under control and the crew jumping around, fending off the boats and getting the boat finally tied up.
 
The other boat only had the captain and one crew member. They came in and saw how tricky the situation was. The captain had to abort the first and second attempts because the wind drove the bow in the wrong direction. Eventually, on the third attempt, he tied up without any problem.

I remember Dave's look of admiration at the captain of the second boat. When questioned why, he responded, "A captain never shouts. The first boat was an embarrassing spectacle, whereas the second was a quiet victory."

Conclusion: aim for quiet victories

I am... a sailor (part 1)

Dave's idea of pleasure was being on a boat. It did not matter where he was or who he was with; sailing was where he felt most at home. I don't remember sailing much as a small child. When we finally arrived in Montreal, I must have been 7-8 years old, Dave connected up with an old friend, Frank.

Frank had a sailboat but didn't have anyone to sail with. Dave didn't have a boat, but he had all the time (so it with Frank seemed) to sail.  Eventually, Dave brought us kids along as crew. We could always be counted on to act as a willing crew during regattas. There was the Monday regatta series, the Wednesday series, and the weekend regattas. Every yacht club, from the St. Lawrence Yacht Club on the northwest side of Montreal down to the Hudson Yacht Club, would host at least one regatta during the summer season.

Frank and Dave would find adult volunteers to help crew, but the children were also expected to fill in. If you want to learn how to sail, be a crew member on a boat during a regatta. Sailing is generally a leisure sport, with an occasional storm. 
Most sailors are known for being relaxed beings. They keep their cool in all situations and are super cool because of this. Taking part in a regatta is serious business. There's no room for sloppiness. Looking at the crew during a race is a study of focused mind, intentional minimal movement, and awareness of what might come next.

 
Between the regattas, we had times when we went somewhere as a family, as a pleasure sail. We knew St. Louis and the Richelieu River like the back of our hands. We sailed often in Lake Champlain, the Thousand Islands, and Lake Ontario. Somewhere down the line, we went to Grenda and sailed the Grenadines. We went to Florida once (or twice?) and rented a houseboat in the Everglades. 

After D, Dave, and Pat moved to Grenada, sailing became a part of every visit I had. Once I moved to Germany, I spent nearly all my vacation time sailing with them in Europe (Greece, Turkey, France, England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Denmark), the Grenadines, Venezuela, and the East and West coasts of Canada.

I took a year's sabbatical and sailed with Dave and various changing crews from Scotland down to Gran Canary and then over to Grenada. Sometime later, we sailed from Grenada to Newfoundland with D., Jen, and Dave. I think I got onboard in Bermuda on this trip.

So, that's it, as far as how much sailing played a big part in my life, from childhood until he died. In the next post, I will write about what Dave and sailing taught me about life.

Yesterday's Postcard

Yesterday's postcard was addressed to my father. He was one of the best sailors I've known. He and his brother built their first boat (a Y-flyer) when they were teenagers. He died one evening nine years ago onboard his beloved boat in the company of my mother and friends after a good day's sail.

Postcard From Past Lives: Sailor Girl

Dear Dave,

The night shifts were the most nerve racking. We agreed on wearing lifelines while out on deck. Something you forgot to do over and over again.

During the day, when you would wander forward to fix a frozen cleat or adjust a line that was caught, I’d wait anxiously at the helm for you to trip and lose your balance. I lived under the illusion that I could somehow execute a man-over-board manoeuvre quickly enough to find you in that mass of ocean. Even though it was possible to count the seconds before some object drifted away out of sight amongst the waves.

Nights, when it was your watch, I slept softly. Waiting for the thunder of your feet on deck as you rushed off in some emergency. Thump. Thump. Thump. Then silence as you went about fixing the problem. Silence, during which I held my breath. Silence, during which I imagined an erratic wave throwing you overboard. Silence, praying down my panic.

And then, after an eternity… thump, thump, thump, your tuneless whistle underneath your breath, back on the helm again. I’d fall asleep until the next emergency.

I never feared going on a voyage, for you would be there. In all those years of sailing of along coastal lines, across oceans, and through endless storms, the only thing I feared was you not being there to guide me any more.

There have been times in the last nine years since your death, when I will myself to breath again, when I pray down my panic. I don’t want to live softly any more, waiting for the next emergency. I want to hear the thunder of your feet again on the deck.

Love and affection,

Your Sailor Girl

Helping Hands

Well, I am back from the first four hour session at the occupational therapy school. Went there as a bundle of nerves. Came back filled with energy. The students were good sports about diving in head first into this new course.

Young group of students. Surprising how many of them do not use the computer at all in their day-to-day life. This is not meant as criticism, just strange for me to wrap my head around. I've been using computers since the computers filled up rooms from wall to wall and we had to feed in stacks of punched cards into the computer. I just assumed everyone uses computers; only to different degrees.

This reminds me of my reaction to asking my new boyfriend (now husband) if he could envision going off sailing for a few weeks while visiting my parents in Grenada. His stunned expression and puzzlement (Where would we sleep?) was followed by a flat refusal. I was raised as a child in a sailing family. As far as I knew up to then, there were people who loved to sail and those who liked to sail. That there were people on the face of this planet who never sailed, didn't want to sail, or even hated sailing, threw me for a loop.

Good thing for my husband (and for me) that we had already fallen in love with each other by that time. It didn't make giving up sailing easy, but it did make it romantically noble (or, so I tried to convince myself).

The Art Oral Storytelling

Just been lost in listening to Singing the Fishing. What a rich experience it is: the beautiful art of oral storytelling. The stories of these fishermen, the women doing the gutting, their families, from a generation past (1960s), are still so poignant.

(Note: the audio player says 18 minutes, but the stories carry on for 55 minutes)

Years ago, I sailed with my father the seas the fishermen are talking about. We had some poor weather, but thankfully good as well. It is pleasant to think that we might have been in the harbours with the very boats of fellows in this program; for the boats usually pass on from one generation to another.

Thanks to Matthew at the Crockatt and Powell Booksellers blog.

Sailing versus cooking

There are a few professions that I would give an eyetooth for just to be able get a glimpse behind the scenes of the profession. Locomotive driver, crew on a European barge, stage designer, and, most particularly working in the kitchen of a fine restaurant.

This week I am living out this later fantasy. I asked the chef at our favourite restaurant whether I could work in his kitchen for a week. He gave me this calculating look and then a quick nod of his head, and said I could work the preparation period (from three to six).

It has been a wonderful learning experience so far. I wish I could transform it all into some great story, but that is out of the range of my abilities. What I can say is that there are a lot of parallels between cooking in a restaurant and sailing in a regatta. Here are some of the parallels between sailing or sailors and working in a restaurant kitchen or chefs:

Most are males. (It turns out that I am the first female the chef has allowed in his kitchen.)

The guys are the right type of males: they can physically survive the rigors of working in the heat, in cramped spaces, under stressful conditions, and yet they have a fine, even sensual love for detail.

This reminds me of sailing when there is almost no wind and how the captain and crew coax every little breath of wind into the sails. There is something distinctly fine and sensitive about this, yet the guys also have the enormous strength needed to deal with gale winds.

They are very competitive. I get this underlying sensation that the guys are always trying to outdo each other.

They will compliment or recognise something well done, but such praise is hard earned and never lavishly spread. It can be expressed as a nod of the head or a grunt; and that is enough.

There is a clear hierarchy of who is to do what when. You do what you are told and try not to ask any questions. If there is a lull, then the chef or sous chef just might give you the chance to do something different. The moment things get serious, you are back to your proper job.

If the team works well together then everyone is moving quickly and smoothly. There is no bumping of elbows, not shuffling back-and-forth. You can tell the person who doesn’t quite fit because, no matter the size of his stature, they take up too much space.

There is an economy of space and movement practiced all the time. You don’t spread out your wares. You don’t travel through from the front of the kitchen to the back without something in your hands in both directions.

So that is what I have learnt so far. Here are few things I’ve learnt that are really surprising to me:

All the guys smoke. (Not in the kitchen, but one step beyond the doorway.)

They don’t use many (any) spices other than salt and pepper and next to no herbs, unless they are fresh. The only explanation I can think of is that it seems as if the food’s flavour should be brought out and not coated. Does anyone know if this is the case in other restaurants?

I couldn’t possibly stand the physical rigors of the job. After four hours I am pooped. It is impossible to imagine how people do manage to work ten to twelve hours a day.

This has been like a dream come true. Next, I’ll have to figure out a way to work on a barge…

Our thoughts & prayers

Dear Fee has her last exam tomorrow and I wanted to wish her a clear mind and a warrior’s heart.

I met Fee years ago, as a baby. Her parents and older sister came from Germany to visit me in Grand Canary; where I was living on a sailing boat preparing and provisioning it for an Atlantic crossing.

Fee slept well in an improvised hammock, smiled delightfully when awake, and, as far as I can remember, caused us no worry and gave us a great portion of joy. It was her first trip on a plane and, if I remember correctly, the only one on a boat. She mastered it all splendidly. All in all, she has continued to master life’s challenges splendidly.

Know that you are in our thoughts and prayers. Toi toi toi!

Back to the womb

We are out sailing on Lake St. Louis (Montreal, Quebec). The wind blows hard. I go down below to lie on the forward bunk. The boat charges through the water: sometimes rocking, sometimes ploughing, and sometimes skipping along.

The boat heels so far over that I am lying more on the side of the hull than on the bunk’s cushion. The water surges along the whole length of my body. There is only a layer of fibreglass, a membrane between me and the deep dark depths below. This is, I imagine, as close as it gets to being back in the womb.

Inspiration or direction

About eighteen years ago, I took a sabbatical (a year off work) to do some sailing: Scotland, France, Spain, Canary Islands, cross to Grenada, and the islands off Venezuela and some of the Venezuelan coast. The whole journey was done at a leisurely pace, in various stages, with different crews, and over ten-months time.

It was truly a magical year and the experience taught me much about appreciating the diversity of cultures, and, more importantly, survival: learning to share a small place with other people, and learning to make the most of it. Yet, looking back, the moments of complete happiness and contentment occurred when I became Small. When the beauty and magnitude of nature was so apparent, it filled me with elation.

Being on the ocean for weeks and weeks and not encountering any other human beings convinced me that earth/nature just might be so mighty as to be able to survive the often destructive or inappropriate behaviour of the human race. And for a while, I held onto this hope. Yet, slowly, inevitably, and inconveniently (here) I realised that our planet is at risk of not surviving.

Even though I believe intrinsically that human beings are good, I do not always have faith that we are smart. It is so difficult to know whether the information we receive about global warming, excessive wastes, animal extinction, etc. is correct. And so often, if correct, the information does not offer us any viable alternatives. The information points the finger, but only the finger of blame, and not in the direction we should be pursuing. It would be so wonderful to find some inspiration or direction about where such viable alternatives might be found.

Yesterday, I watched this video presentation, by Janine Benyus, which she gave at TED 2005. She asks questions such as, “How does life make things? How does life make the most of things? How does life make “things” disappear into systems?” She comes up with twelve natural (biological) phenomena, which could possibly help us to solve twelve (or more) distinctly human-created volatile ecological problems.

She says, “Learning about the natural world is one thing. Learning from the natural world, that’s the switch. That is the profound switch.” This made me feel so elated; knowing that the beauty and magnitude of nature can led us in the direction we need to follow.

Please look at the video and tell me what you think.

(Note: I found the introduction of the presentation quite annoying. Ms. Benyus’ attempt to “sex up” the topic didn’t ring true with me. But, do persist, for what she is saying is very fascinating, though how she says it doesn’t always hit the mark.)

Family visit

My favourite sister-in-law (I've six and two brother-in-laws) and her family spontaneously decided to drop by today. We managed to eat our way through all the food in the refrigerator. What a lovely time it was.

All the stores are still closed tomorrow. So, I will have to bring out the ship provisions (canned goods) and try to make due.

I once provisioned an ocean crossing (Atlantic) with canned red peppers instead of tomatoes. Disaster. Three palettes of mushy red peppers and not a tomato in sight. Here we were, faced with three or four weeks of sailing, sans tomatoes. As is so often in life, once the reality sunk in, I turned to Plan B and somehow managed to shine with culinary improvisations.

As an after note, the three palettes of peppers (minus two tins) found their way to an orphanage once the boat arrived in Grenada.

Almost-Fifty

Last summer I turned forty-nine years old. I thought I would take this year and just say almost-fifty instead of forty-nine whenever I mentioned or was asked about my age. For almost-fifty, in my mind, denotes fearlessness (the ability to say the f-word), a reckless indifference to age (what’s one year plus or minus), and, most importantly, almost-fifty represents a generous gift of time for me to get accustomed to the up-and-coming milestone. What I dearly wish for, standing here on the cusp of a new decade, is the time to dance slowly, tenderly, wisely, buoyantly, with the changes. Something, I haven’t managed to do before in my adult life.

When I was 19 years old, I went through a long and agonising crisis, which resulted in my quitting my ballet career. Eventually, I went off to study electrical engineering and then moved to Germany, but I didn’t have this Plan B in my back pocket at the time.

At 29, I went through what I like to refer to as a premature midlife crisis (PMC). No lover (let alone a partner), no children, no career perspectives (try being a female foreign engineer in a large very conservative German corporation)… life was more than grey. It was as bleak as bleak could be. To acerbate the situation even more, I decided to quit my job. Plan B: I went off sailing for a year.

Fast-forward another ten-years to my 39th year. Once again, I plunged headfirst into another crisis. You notice a pattern here? This was mainly brought on by chronic sleep deficiency (Nature Girl, at that time one-years old, didn’t sleep through one night the first three years of her life) and a growing dissatisfaction with my profession. Yes, you guessed, I left the engineering profession behind and started out on a new venture.
So, even though I’ve always been a slow learner, this time around I’m well warned. Almost-fifty I am and I can’t even tell you what Plan A is because I’m already working on Plan B.

Note: this entry was made available through Nature Girl, who cooked dinner tonight while I wrote.

Pelican Pie III

Oh, the delight of listening to the marvellous podcast Rimo Latino (here), one of the few podcasts that we listen to over and over again. Neil Hohmann produces this excellent podcast every two weeks or so. He must be off on vacation, well deserved, but we are getting a bit desperate for new Latino nutrients. Patience. Patience.

Nomad Son is off for the night camping with friends somewhere on the Baltic Sea. Darling daughter is off watching her friend perform in the opera, Saul. She should be back any moment now.

So WoW-hubby and I pass the hours away in quiet occupation. Good music. Good wine. Good feeling that our small world is Just Right. Small mercies of the gentle kind.


Don’t ask where the pelican comes from. I believe this is the third collage it has appeared in. Mainly it crops up because of memories of sailing the coast of Venezuela and seeing the pelican formations flying just over the surface of the water on some mysterious mission. They have a certain dignity, as well as being absurdly pompous: like a parade of old generals in times of peace.