This one is for the books

If I would have known ahead of time exactly how it would all play out on Saturday afternoon I’m pretty sure I would have chosen to stay safe at the dock and polish the stainless steel screws on my sailboat.

But that’s not what boats are for, right?

June 16^th was indeed the first time I sailed my boat. June 27^th was the first time I did it alone—as in I was the only human on board. The only other living creature was the big fat-backed spider that crawled out of my mainsheet.

I’d studied my sailing boat manual until I couldn’t see. I’d walked the boat from bow to stern talking to myself about how to rig that and how to raise this. I’d practiced all the moves 101 times.

I put on my “Indiana Jones” hat for good luck, started my little motor, shifted to reverse and backed out of my safe zone.

Within 15 minutes I could hardly believe it. I’d raised the sails, shut the motor off, and sailed in "Sand Bay" all by myself. Unbelievable!

And then the wind died.

I was to meet up with sailing friends at about seven miles from my safe little harbor zone.

I wasn't sure I could make it that far on my first solo voyage but one of the hardy roving tars had faith in me, so I kept going, taking a route north of “Nowhere Island,” past “Midway” and “Copenhagen Islands.”

The day was hot and muggy and most of the time the water shined like glass. I sailed whenever I could and motored when I couldn't, which was more than half the time.

I joked with the invisible man of “Murphy’s Law” about how coincidental it was to be on my first real solo sail in no appreciable wind.

I waved at lake lovers zooming by. One such group of women clearly enjoying their summer pontoon cruise shouted back to me “Beth! You rock! Rock on girl!”

I didn’t know who they were but my head swelled at being recognized on such a big lake and my "Indiana Jones" hat nearly popped off my head.

The skies to the west and south were dark and thundering and my optimist’s prime attitude blinded me to the wind shift. 

And then my little motor up and died just past “Mermaid Rock,” so I put sails up again and POOF! the wind picked up in "Water Narrows" and I sailed right through and into “Swell Bay.”

I came into view of other sailboats with sails down and motoring and I assumed it was the finish line of the Rendezvous Yacht Club’s “Sandpoint Island Race.” They were in fact seeking shelter.

As I was passing one of the boats I yelled to my friends onboard, “I have no motor!” and they looked at me with dropped jaw as I passed them going the wrong direction.

That’s when the wind exploded and off went my "Indiana Jones" hat into the brink and as fast as lightening the big bad storm blew into the bay and there I was with both sails up and a sitting duck.

It was a scene from the Robert Redford movie, “All is Lost.”

I don’t know how much time passed. I was flipped around like a rag doll and at one point was at a 45 degree angle with my boat—me high portside hauling on the tiller as I watched the lake pour in starboard and for a split second I was sure I was going to flip over.

I knew I had to let go and take a sail down and somehow I managed to ditch my jib and my main but forgot that my boom falls into the cockpit when the main comes down if its not hooked on the backstay first. The wind had a heyday with that too.

My friends had stuck around at a safe distance from my rag doll showcase and waited it out until I paid attention to their yelling instructions on where to go to get out of the wind, and then followed me. 

I wish I had that experience on video. I wasn’t scared but it was a harrowing adventure. Everything untoward that could happen to me in sailing appears to have happened all in one day AND on the first solo sail of my life.

The rest of my summer should be golden.

Here's to the journey

Well, folks, I can sail. Yes I can.

I raised my own mainsail and my own working jib and, as forecasted, headed out for my very first sail on my own sailboat June 16^th.

It was a defining moment in my life.

Granted I did have a consummate sailor friend on board who ensured my success by being there with good advice, but it was I, I Captain, who sailed the vessel.

The evening weather was perfect and the wind on Sand Bay allowed “Scout” to get in the groove and heel over. She cruised with a palpable energy—freed after nearly two years of landlocked stillness.

Under that dome of the present moment out on the lake there was nothing in my mind except my focus on keeping a trim sail and a steady course—with the orchestra music of the humming keel whizzing along under water.

A most humble “thank you” is due to the road so far—whose every winding and sometimes grinding bump, heartache, and heavy load got me to that incredibly happy “first ever” moment on the lake.  I could hear Maya Angelou saying, “Wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.”

After my partner, Jon Fistler, committed suicide in 2012 I came upon a bracelet at a local market that had beautiful jade beads and the words “For the Journey” stamped on a tiny piece of silver that hung from the black cording. I wore it a lot in those months following his death, as a rite of passage I suppose, for all the unknowns I knew would come my way. After a long while I took it off and put it away.

I put it back on in January, to help me once again, and vowed then to leave it on until I wore it out and it fell off. I believed that when it left my body, it would be a sign that I had reached an important crossroads in my life.

No word of a lie, the bracelet let go at noon on June 16^th, about five hours before I sailed my boat.

No date in history could have been more significant for that bracelet falling to the floor, given how I’ve struggled with my apprehension of taking the big leap—the one that meant the most—the one I wanted—the one I feared.

Truth be told I think I have been on a long road since that cold and traumatic January day in 2012 and Jon’s suicide. That was the day something inside me shifted out of place and ever since I’ve been on a personal journey to learn the lesson of letting go of what I cannot control, and to letting go of my fear of the unknown.

That day came on June 16^th. 

"As I sail through change

My resolve remains the same

What I chose are magic moments

Because ships are safe in the harbor

But that's not what ships are made for."

I know for sure I’m not done with my changes, and thank heaven I’m not.

But this “Little Miss” just sailed through something very, very big.

Raise the sails and let go

By the time you read this in the newspaper on (or after) June 17^th I will have left the dock on my own boat and raise sails by myself and used the wind as my journeyman.

That most awesome event happened last night after work, June 16^th.

But I am writing this on June 15^th, for deadline purposes, and can only imagine in my wordy mind what it will be like to be in the moment I have dreamt about since February.

My column on June 3^rd talked about fear and how it grows like a fungus and covers up all the good stuff. It kills joy and pleasure and excitement and even after I talked about facing it—still—fear stood there before me, trying to convince me I couldn’t do this thing.

On June 7^th, knowing full well I was booked with sailing friends to put my boat in the water the next evening, I grappled with my fear.

As I smoothed out the air bubbles from the vinyl font signage of “Scout,” set in deep blue sticky lettering on the side of my boat, I started to cry from my fear.

As I peeled off the paper liner, fretting my “what ifs,” I thought about my Grampa Caldwell and how much fear he must have had facing the horrors of war in those filthy, soggy trenches in France during World War One. 

By the time the paper was peeled away to reveal “Scout” I had closed the door on my fear. If he could find the courage in a real war, I could sail my boat. Piece of cake.

On June 8^th with a lot of help from my sailing mates, “Scout” was launched happily in a lovely little bay not far from here. My friends helped me raise her mast and we all watched proudly as she shape-shifted, stretched out, and settled in, tied to a dock in the buoyant blue of “Rainy Lake,” Piece of cake.

On June 11^th my sailing friend taught me how to put the main sail on. Piece of cake.

June 12^th, after stocking “Scout” with everything I needed to escape the trappings of land and sail off into the great unknown, I spent the first night ever on my own sailboat, tied to the dock where she’d been launched. It was a heavenly piece of cake for sure.

That evening, I watched “Captain Weekend” videos on “YouTube” and learned how to hook up my new marine deep cycle battery. Channeling “Red Green” I used aluminum foil and duct tape to cover my cabin windows. Worked great. Piece of cake.

Friends stopped by and helped get “Evin,” my little 6HP motor started and took me out for a “motor only” trek around the bay, and gave me lessons on how to dock again without smashing my bow into the cement pillars. (That piece of cake is reserved for the first time I do it alone.)

By the time you read this, I will have raised her sails and done the thing I have feared the most and I will have had so much fun that I won’t ever be the same woman again.

Letting go is not a piece of cake but once I get there, it will feel like a million bucks.  

On fear and second thoughts

My sail boat still remains in my yard on a trailer, far from the wind and waves.

The grass growing underneath the boat trailer, that I cannot reach with the lawnmower, grows tall and thick.

I now lament each day that I watch it grow unfettered because it defines the one more day—and one more day again—that I am not on the water.

For many years I have subscribed to “Notes from the Universe” and every morning around 5 a.m. (and without fail) I receive a philosophical message in my email. The message usually is the first thing I read when I wake up, because it helps me set the pace for my day.

One recent such message read, “For every fork in the road, Beth, there are often two paths from which to choose: the one you "should" take and the one you want to take. Take the second. Always take the second.”

I work on my boat nearly every day—fixing this, painting that, ordering this or that, and with every day that passes, I find one more reason why I should not launch. I could play “Miss Fix It” all summer long. Safely, I could do that.

I’m scared to take the next step—the one that means the most—the one I want—the one I don’t know enough about and the one I fear—sailing my “Scout” on my own.

That’s the worst thing about fear. It grows like a fungus and covers up all the good stuff. It tramples “could” and infects me with “not sure” and drowns out “want.” It kills joy and pleasure and excitement.

Before I started writing this column I was sitting in the cockpit of my “Scout” admiring my yard from my perch on stilts above the long grass and contemplating how I got “here.”

If someone had told me in early January that I would have my own sailboat by April, I would have said they were delusional.

But life changed the scope of my vision and my decisions. I couldn’t imagine my life without sailing in it and I was infused with a passion to do something to change that.   

If end of April someone would have told me that by the first day of June I would be finding all sorts of excuses why I couldn’t do the thing I want most of all, I would have said they were delusional.

Go figure.

A friend of mine with an eye for philosophy fired off an email to me about Mark Twain and Maria Shriver. Paraphrased, it read, “Throw off the bow line,” and “Let go of the life you imagined so you can experience the life you were meant to live.”

And then there’s the advice of my friend and consummate sailor, Colin, who stressed, “It will all fall into place. Stop worrying. Get the boat in. Then have fun!”  

I want to take that big, scary step. I want to never give up.

"Authenticity, the experience of truth, is our richest food. Without it we will freeze to death.”  I refuse to freeze.

I’m going in.