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Can a tale which depicts utter incompetence be funny? We shall see.

I have been sailing a few times in my life with experienced and competent helmsmen. For four other times I have been out alone or with others in a sailboat; but I will not dignify what we were doing by using the word 'sailing.' This is the story of those four bouts with hapless bumbling in a boat. (I have added a fifth tale of competent sailing because it relates to one of the others.)

Real sailors don't know everything they are going to do from the moment they untie the boat at the dock. However, they do know what to do at the time they need to do it. In general, they have what is called a plan for any voyage they undertake. They are expert geometers, but it is a geometry born of knowledge of the fresh sea wind and their boat's reaction to it, rather than stale dry theorems. When they begin, they know the exact angle at which they need to sail at in order to most efficiently use the force of the wind; but this is done by feel, by intuition, rather than calculation. Then too, they know exactly how far to sail before they 'come about' (as it's called), and then precisely the next direction to sail in. They are able to accomplish the multi-directional series of maneuvers called 'tacking' with ease. And so on.

Despite my mathematical training, I never calculated anything. I just went out in blithe unconcern and 'sailed.' I 'sailed' in whichever direction the wind happened to be blowing. (I know, it's not possible to sail unless the wind is blowing, but you know what I mean: I was an opportunistic sailor.) (It is fortunate that this attitude of mine did not spill over into politics; for, if the prevailing winds happened to be blowing towards Vichy…) I had heard once that one should 'come about into the wind', which I would do; but I wouldn't know what to do next. Needless to say, I had no idea how to tack.

Then there is the matter of the number of sails on a boat. The sailors I have been with always had at least two. The second sail is usually a jib; and I have noticed that this sail can be used in whole or in part, depending on the wind conditions. But I could never figure out which conditions warranted which position of the sail. Of course a third sail only complicated things further.

But the sunfish-sort of boat (the type detailed in the tales below) only has one sail. As such, it has a marvelous basic simplicity, namely: the sail is up or down, period. There is no middle ground, and thus no room for subtlety or finesse.

A person who has been invited to sail in a larger boat knows well the preparations that need to be made before the voyage is started: a complicated series of ropes and guy-wires must be engaged and coordinated. That's why the sunfish and its ilk are so tempting: because there are virtually no preparations at all. Just untie the boat, hoist the sail, and (when you are deep enough) push down the centerboard. And, voila, you are on your way! It is all so simple and easy that it tends, I'm afraid, to be indulged in by (let's be blunt here) the simple-minded.

It seems amazing that, with so little knowledge and so much flailing about, I was able to get anywhere by 'sailing' at all; furthermore, that I was able to, by pure dumb luck, get myself back home again to tell tales of fractured adventures. But, then, the gods are sometimes kind to those who are ignorant of the fact that they have been blessed.

1. The first time I went sailing was during the time I was visiting my newly wed cousin Susanne and her husband Pat back in 1968. Their first house was on one of the Finger Lakes in upstate New York. During the course of the afternoon they took me out on their sunfish. I recall my feelings of awe and exhilaration over the fact that we were moving through the water so swiftly and yet so soundlessly – and that we were being powered by a wonderful free natural force. I also admired how deftly Pat maneuvered the boat – how he actually got it to go where he wanted it to go by merely pulling on a rope with one hand and managing the tiller with the other.

I hoped that he would give me a chance to try my luck at this, but he didn't offer. After awhile we came back to the dock.

That evening my cousin and her husband were going to his boss's house for dinner. I would be left to fend for myself (though not to forage for food: Suzie had left me something to eat.) I was hoping for permission to use the sunfish, but I didn't dare ask. I remember that they were walking down the path to their car when, almost at the last moment, Pat turned and drawled back to me, 'Oh, feel free to take out the yacht if you like.' He said the word 'yacht' with a humorously exaggerated 'ah' sound, as if it were really some great noble vessel, rather than a lowly sunfish.

But it was my sunfish for the evening! I wolfed my food and then ran out to the dock. I untied the boat and hoisted the sail. In a moment I was out on the lake, sailing (so I supposed) like a pro.

After 'sailing' for a bit, I noticed a place where two strips of land came jutting out from each side, making a sort of narrows or eye-of-the-needle: I thought it would be quaint to sail through this 'eye' and so into the larger lake beyond.

But when I reached the narrows the wind died: the sail hung limp and there was no breeze at all. I tried blowing at the sail (an admittedly amateur thing to do), but that had no effect. Apparently there was just no wind in that hemmed-in place.

I heard a brass bell clanging over to my left. I looked, and there I saw a ferry which had just loaded its last car; the bell was a signal that the ferry was about to start its trip across. And I was in the way.

Ferries like this one, I knew, traveled on cables. So it was not possible for them to turn aside and avoid me. They had the right of way and it was my responsibility to avoid them. But how?

I first considered (despite the fact that I wasn't wearing a life jacket) jumping overboard and swimming for my life: Sauve qui peut! Of course the boat would be crushed by the ferry, but that would be a relatively small price to pay for my life. I only hesitated when I imagined having to face Pat when he got home that night:

Pat: So how was your evening?
Me: Oh fine, fine.
Pat: Did you get a chance to take out the boat?
Me: What boat?

No, I realized that that would not do at all – I would have to try and save the boat too. I reached over the side and began paddling furiously with one hand (sunfishes are low enough in the water to allow that) while using the tiller to steer with the other hand. And in this way I managed to get out of the path of the ferry.

I have no idea how I got back to Suzie and Pat's that night.

2. About a dozen years later I had a similar experience on a much grander scale. My wife Dorothy and I were sailing out of Boston harbor on the boat of an experienced sailor: it was Charles Wesley Grady, the minister of the church at which I was organist. The wind died in the harbor and then, almost at the same moment, I saw a huge tanker approaching us (for, indeed, we were in the sea lane.) Our captain did have an outboard motor, and he proceeded to pull the cord:

Va-RUMPH buh-buh-buh

Va-RUMPH buh-buh-buh

The motor wasn't starting; and I now estimated the height of that tanker to be about eight stories. It was looming menacingly. What could we do? What we most certainly couldn't do was what I had done up at my cousin's – the sides of the boat were too high to paddle. Could we swim away in time?

I looked at Charles to see whether he would be reduced to a minister's last fallback option in such a case: prayer. But then I remembered that he was a Unitarian minister, and that such types do not so much pray as intone vague soliloquies to some 'Source of All Creative Being.'

Well, eventually that motor did start and we got out of the tanker's way!

3. My other three tales all happened at Silver Bay up on Lake George where we would vacation each summer.

The boat that some of us in the family had the most fun with up there was a little craft (if that word doesn't dignify it too much) that my sister-in-law Marge purchased from Sears and named 'Whistler.' It was a small dinghy constructed of Styrofoam and painted orange (the same color as the life jackets); but it had a centerboard and tiller of dark varnished wood. In other words, it spanned from cheap to venerable.

Now the time of the incident I'm about to describe occurred when Marge was still single (she would later marry Dave, who had a real sailboat and was an excellent sailor; she herself would become one too. Not so the rest of us!) She, Dorothy and I (which probably constituted one adult too many for that small boat) had gone out in Whistler on a windy overcast day. At one point Marge let Dorothy take the tiller and try her hand at sailing. I don't know how it happened, but somehow Marge and I found ourselves dumped overboard fully clothed into the cold choppy waters off Slim Point. In her quest to get back to us for a rescue, Dorothy pulled the sail tightly and turned the tiller in our direction. The result was that she began going round and round in convoluted circles.

This behavior caused different reactions in the castaways. I myself (a weak swimmer) was swallowing large quantities of lake water (Lake George is 95% pure, but that was little consolation) and half drowning. Marge (a strong swimmer), on the other hand, was laughing so hard she peed in her pants (change that water purity to 94%.) Did we have the life jackets on? Goodness gracious no – why would we wear those?

Dorothy eventually spiraled back to us. Ironically, she was the cold one: her body turned blue. So I took her home and threw her in a hot shower!

4. When one is feeling the urge to sail, it is probably wise to check the weather report first, to see whether any storms are brewing. (That is, provided one is bothered by storms while sailing.)

That is what I most decidedly did not do one afternoon I took Whistler out by myself on the lake. The weather seemed nice enough when I started: although it was overcast, an innocent (so I thought) breeze (or was it already a small wind?) was blowing. I was already well (or was it ill?) out on the lake when I saw that both sky and water had taken on a leaden, pewter hue (did I really need two metals to describe that hue? Well, yes: the 'pewter' is for the exact color, while the 'lead' is there to give the feeling of weight, of a poisonous ponderousness.)(Let us agree that the hue was ominous.)

Then, subito, I found myself in the midst of a raging ferocious storm. (Are two adjectives necessary here? Wouldn't 'raging' be sufficient all by itself? Well, apparently not!)(Am I 'writing' like I 'sailed' – by the seat of my pants?) Gone was the pewter (if not the lead): now everything was black. A fierce wind and rain were rampant. The waves were a foot high. I recall the aluminum mast being bent down almost to the water. It was just short of a hurricane (the storm tends to grow in my mind over the years.)

And what was I doing during this cataclysm? Did I trim the sail, batten down the hatches (of which there were none) and hunker down in the (non-existent) hold until the storm blew over? What, and miss the best, the most exhilarating 'sailing' of my life (which could have ended right there)?! Of course not! I enjoyed it all immensely: the wind threatening to snap the mast in two; I figuring out how exactly to 'encounter' those foot-high waves without swamping the boat (I guess I figured it out, for I never overturned), etc.

And, no, I didn't have my life jacket on – that would have qualified the excitement.

5. My brother-in-law Dick and I once 'sailed' Whistler across the Lake to Divers Rock. (Note: This name does not mean 'Various and Sundry' Rocks. I believe it was named for a man named 'Diver.')

Dicky, as I called him, was (still is) a bit crazy in a way that I never was. For example, he might go out for a sail knowing beforehand that there would be a hurricane; whereas I only decided to enjoy it after I was stuck in it.

Anyway, we left our mooring in the lake and headed for Divers. Midway over there (it is a bit over a mile across the lake) something ominous happened: in the process of fooling around, Dicky lost his so-called Dick-towel. It fell overboard and went down to the Davy Jones Locker of Lake George.

Now I know what some of you are thinking, but it just wasn't so: the Dick-towel was used to dry any part of Dick. It was so called because Dick's name was engraved or embroidered or written with permanent marker on it, and he had had it since he was a wee little boy. Anyway - now it would be all wet for eternity.

After a suitable period of mourning for the towel (he even dove for it a couple of times, sans succes), we were on our way again. Dicky was doing the 'sailing' now, and the loss of the towel merely seemed to have raised him to a higher (or was it lower?) plane of hilarity. He began to improvise a set of pseudo sea chanteys, singing them in a suitably hearty way – things like:

'Hail me winds ablowin',
Hail me winds heigh ho!'

Or this sort of thing:

'So pull me hearties, pull me rogues!'

(I also recall that the expression 'shiver me timbers!' played a small-if-not-insignificant role.)

This spirit of raucous gaiety was so infectious that even I joined in for a chorus or two.

After that bit of dramatic improvisation had played itself out (it probably had done so long before he realized it had), Dicky had the idea of lashing down the sail rope and fixing the tiller; thus would the boat 'sail' itself. He and I then sat on opposite gunwales, where we could banter at will and lacked only gin and tonics to complete the effect of two leisurely gentlemen out for a sail.

We were not too far from Divers when Dicky did a rather silly (some would call it dumb) thing, even for him. It was the climactic act he had saved just for that moment. We were sitting there merrily 'conversing' (I probably shouldn't dignify what we were doing with such a word) when suddenly, without any more of a warning save a last giggle, he just sort of let himself fall backwards off the boat and into the water.

Of course this tended to upset (so to speak) the delicate balance which had been in effect up to that point. To wit: my weight no longer had a counterbalance. The result was that the boat immediately tipped over on top of me, its mast and sail straight down in the water.

Did I have my life jacket on? Are you crazy?! How could we enjoy such a free-wheeling, let-it-all-hang-out 'sail' as we had had with those horribly restrictive things choking us??

Well, of course I was able to swim out from under the boat (in other words, I did not go the way of the Dick-towel.) I admonished Dicky for his dangerous behavior, but I did it gently so as not to hurt his delicate feelings (I believe I used some words to the effect of 'You idiot!')

I do not remember much about the rest of the day. Of course Dicky dove off Divers Rock several times. (I didn't participate in such foolishness – I just watched him. As such, then, we were the perfect pair, I playing the voyeur to his exhibitionist.)

Of course we 'sailed' back. We may have even 'tacked' for all I know. But one thing is for certain: it was not as – interesting - as the trip over!

By the way, Dick has recently made it known to family and friends that he prefers to be called 'Richard.'

I, however, have taken to calling him 'Dickikins.'