You’ll remember from our New Year’s Resolutions that we’re keen on the water. And so, walking past the Limassol Yacht Club one lovely January morning, Laurel decided to sign up for sailing lessons. (John, unfortunately, has been working on proofs for the world’s largest book, so he’ll have to catch up later.) It has been a whirlwind journey: knots, flags, meteorology, high-frequency radio transmissions, the whole megillah. Here’s how it went:
Preparation:
There is much to memorise: a 400 page manual, plus 70 pages on communications. I am so good at memorising things; yay! Can now spell things using phonetic alphabet and flags, and have begun speaking like a pirate in order to fully inhabit the role. Instructor Yury has sent tons of information. Am ready for four days of practical training! [Note to self: must get eyepatch, sextant, and other key pieces of sailing equipment.]
Captain’s Log: Day 1
Morning of radio communications, followed by VHF radio certification exam: perfect score! [This mirrors dive lessons – acing exams, squeaking through practical…] Highlight: a group of Russians, also taking theory, have many questions about the rules. Examples: ‘If we find something in the ocean, can we keep it?’ ‘What happens if we provide the incorrect ID number for our ship, accidentally?’ The law-abiding Austrians and I are scandalised.
Here’s a twist in the rope: although this is an introductory sailing course, the delightful Austrian couple already know how to sail. Also, we were supposed to be eight, but the Russians (different Russians; there are loads of them in Cyprus) have backed out. Benefit: safety; I will be on a boat with people who know about being on boats instead of people like me. Drawback: humiliation; I will be the worst student, always. And our four-day sailing course will now take three days.
The boat is a Fareast 28R, with a length of 9m. This means nothing to me, but it looks more or less like a boat, as seen in the manual. Things move quickly: we have left the marina and are in open water without my noticing. The ship-to-water-angle is alarming. There is limited explanation, but I pick up bits here and there. Am inept in a variety of arenas, but ok at the tiller. Weather squally. Today’s victories: 1) did not barf; 2) remained firmly in boat until it was time to get out; 3) received compliments from Yury on my ‘perfect American accent’ in radio communications. All of that practice speaking my native language has finally paid off! (Let’s hope it doesn’t take fifty years to master the rest.)
Day 2
Theoretical lessons in compass reading, navigational charts, and meteorology. Am in my element, with pencils and maps and books, but left wondering how early sea explorers ever found anything.
Weather much improved; breeze is ‘fresh’. Have successfully tied a knot, possibly even the correct one. Hoisted a jib and travelled a mainsail [surely incorrect nomenclature]. Plus other things I don’t know the names for. Most impressively, have docked and undocked the boat, several times, parking it (her? … odd) parallel, astern, and abow [also probably not the right terms]. Who knew sailboats had motors? Made the acquaintance of a spinnaker. Interestingly, spinnaker was the word I lost on in the 8th grade state spelling bee championship. Also interestingly, I had nothing to do with this whole spinnaker business, but did hop around looking busy.
Day 2 ends in near-triumph! Until – see above re: hopping – I sprain an ankle as we are cleaning the boat. Yury, mostly without malice, observes that deck shoes give better traction than my sneakers. I eschew explaining that I haven’t bought them, or gloves, or the nifty moisture-wicking clothing the Austrians have because after two days he has already seen 33% of my wardrobe. Future implications are worrying: if only someone had given us advice on portable hobbies! That said, I had been thinking about a pegleg, mostly for fashion purposes, and this is excellent practice. [Note to self: watch Pirates of the Caribbean franchise again.]
Day 3
Most of this week spent (foot elevated) poring over charts and tidal tables and wind patterns. Fascinating! Knotting skills are up to 90% accuracy; nautical vocabulary improving daily, me hearties.
Theoretical lessons focus on collision regulations, which I can recite by heart! Alas, nobody cares. Am also confident about my ability to recognise cardinal marks on buoys (which comes in handy when we go around them; see below) and to name every part of a ship.
Final(!) practical lessons: anchoring and man overboard procedures. (Lexical note: MOB is a technical term and in our case, comprises floating boat-pads, aka ‘fenders’; to me they seem neuter, but who knows what they get up to in the hatch after dark?) Being the least able seaman (sic), what with the peg-leg, I mostly take the tiller. All is shipshape except that my well-applied sunscreen drips into my left eye so that it streams with tears. I can see nothing for the first hour. Which makes steering a unique challenge. On the plus side, the ubiquity of the eyepatch is now explained; sailors are so practical!
We practice spotting mans-overboard and performing rescues, which involve rapid tacking and gybing in blustery winds. We repeatedly save our MOB, occasionally with drama. Once I lose sight of him. This is bad, but he was my least favourite crew member. This tacks-ing(!) set of maneuvers complete, we execute figure-8s around two buoys in choppy seas. This is terrifying, plus also exhilarating. In these moments, I am well and truly bitten by the sailing bug (rat?). We moor, and, anti-climactically, demonstrate our ability to tie knots to Yury’s satisfaction.
The Bitter End
Am now officially a ‘Day Skipper’! Specifically, I can take a boat under 10m out in daylight hours within five miles of shore. (At one point these seemed like silly restrictions, but now each and every one makes sense.)
PS: The bitter end is not a bad thing; it’s where the anchor attaches to the ship. See what an educational blog this is? Next up: charter a boat for a three-hour tour.
