This Month's Story

I could hear the ripple of the wake behind us and see it reflected in the light, spread from our stern like a long fat tail. Ahead, slightly to my left, was the black silhouette of the sail, beyond it the sparkling path, stretching on and on toward the horizon and the low-hanging golden moon. It was one of those rare magical, seemingly endless moments. It was a perfect run.

Once, when my daughter, Cathy, came down on a visit, I left the sail up overnight on my Sunfish. This is a 14-foot personal sailboat that’s barely big enough for one and a half adults. Cathy is a forester for the state of Georgia and it’s nice to have her come here occasionally and get her to look at something besides trees. We had been sailing earlier that day, and I told her that since there was no real weather threat, we could leave the Sunfish rigged for a quick sunset or early morning run.

It was the time of the full moon and, because of the exceptionally clear skies, my real intention was to surprise her with a sail in the moonlight. At about nine o’clock, I called her out on the front porch.

“What do you think, baby duck,”

I pointed to the rigged Sunfish on the beach. The moon had just risen and had laid down a path on the water that ran from the horizon to our beach.

“Would you like to run up the moon path with me?”

“Would I, Dad? Let’s go.”

In minutes, we had pushed the boat out, lowered the centerboard, and with a strong evening breeze on the sail, were on a long reach, straight up a silver path to the moon; I on the tiller, she on the sail.

“Keep an eye out for pilings,” I shouted. “There are two close together around here somewhere.”

“Pilings? Where?”

I whipped the tiller to one side and two tall, thin shadows flew by on our windward side.

“There.”

I said looking back. You could see them now with the moonlight on them, but from the other side they were black on black. I turned back around and concentrated on keeping us on as fast a run on the reach as possible. We flew.

I could hear the ripple of the wake behind us and see it reflected in the light, spread from our stern like a long fat tail. Ahead, slightly to my left, was the black silhouette of the sail, beyond it the sparkling path, stretching on and on toward the horizon and the low-hanging golden moon. It was one of those rare magical, seemingly endless moments. It was a perfect run.

Finally, however, we had to end it. We came about and started the long return run. We switched. This time Cathy had the tiller and I, the sail. Going back over our route, I could see the muted, almost monotone colors of the sail. There was, however, no longer a silver path to follow on the return reach; only the general set of the sails, now on my right, and the shore lights gave us a general bearing.

After a bit, Cathy yelled something. I turned to see what she said. She pointed ahead.

“Here comes the pole.”

I looked around the sail. There was only one piling coming up and it went quickly by. It was short, too short. I looked around us. Where was the other one? I peered under the sail toward the beach. I could tell we were farther offshore than on the outgoing leg, but that was all.

To me, the shore lights were a jumble of distant streetlights and houselights amid indistinguishable dark shapes. Behind us the moon path led right up to the boat, but of course it would always be oriented that way, no matter where we were. Except for the angle of the sail, I had no idea where to steer.

We were lost.

“Are we lost?” yelled Cathy.

“No,” I shouted back, still searching the shore for anything familiar. “We just need to make a tack and we’ll be right in there.”

“When should I tack?”

“Soon,” I said, “I’ll tell you when. Keep on this heading. You’re doing fine.” I peered desperately at the shoreline. There had to be something, some combination of lights I could recognize.

There wasn’t.

“Now?” She said after a few minutes. She sounded worried.

Suddenly, I recognized the distinctive streetlight at the end of Nicholson Avenue. We were directly opposite it. To our right, and slightly behind us, I could make out the light at the end of Carrere’s long pier. Beyond that lay our beach. We were no longer lost!

“All right, now,” I yelled. Cathy shifted the tiller and I ducked, letting the sail swing over me, and we were on a tack headed for Carrere’s pier.

“To your right a little.”

I chopped my arm to denote the correct setting. She turned the tiller correcting our way.

“Good. Stay that way and we’ll be home in a couple of minutes.”

I cleated the sheet I had been holding in my hand. Settling down deeper into the cockpit and letting my feet hang over the side in the dark water, I leaned back to enjoy the end of the ride.

Later, when we were walking up to the house, Cathy behind me, carrying the sail, she said something I barely caught.

“You were lost, weren’t you, Dad?”

I stopped and turned to look back at her.

“Lost! Cathy, I know my way around out there like the back of my hand. We came straight in with only one tack. How can you say that?”

 

“Dad, you were lost.”