Sailing with John Wayne
A few posts ago, I have already reported about sailing, and
how I am literally trying to find my sea legs in this new found hobby. And no,
sailing is not as expensive as it sounds. There are several small yachts for
sail that go for a few thousand dollars, less than the price of a motorcycle or
a bajaj in Dar. It doesn't even need an engine. And a lot of people agree that Dar was made for sailing.
May 1 is Queen’s Day in Dar—this is not something I
personally celebrate, but let’s humor the Dutch here, the organizers of the
regatta taking place in Oyster Bay. Before reaching the club, I had assumed I
had a date with another captain who could possibly teach me more about sailing.
If they needed me to scrub the decks, I would have done exactly that. What I
didn’t count on was that a certain friend to go unnamed here had signed me up
for a regatta, an actual race. Not for the first time since becoming a
worldchump have I told myself: just what have I gotten myself into?
The boat’s crew includes an English couple, Bill and Jenny, an experienced American sailor named Dave who would man the sails, and me, the guy who knows as much about sailing as life on Neptune. The star of the crew, however, is Ron, the captain. Mid-fifties with a full crown of distinguished looking gray hair, this is one of those rugged captains you would expect to find in one of those old black and white Hollywood movies. First he will call the crew to attention, and before you know it he will make you walk the plank. This is the best John Wayne impersonator I have ever seen, and the man doesn’t even know it, nor is he trying very hard. He has a large square chin jutting out, looks like John Wayne and even sounds more like the man, if that’s even possible. I expect to say at any time, ‘Hello, pilgrim. Make yourself at home’.
John Wayne is limping because he strained a foot the day before trying to disembark from a dinghy that was to bring him back to shore from one of his excursions. No sweat, I am thinking. If John Wayne was able to function without a lung, I am guessing that the strained foot with the elaborate wrap around it qualifies as small potatoes, right?
I am ordered to the right side of the boat and placed in charge of moving the jib, the front sail, whenever we make turns, and the wind dictates the jib must be moved…like very quickly. I am not shaking, nor am I overtly nervous. I have been in far worse situations than these, but secretly I am also thinking, ‘Good God. Why me?’ I obviously don’t want to be the fifth wheel on the boat…I would like to contribute, but I also realize that a fifth wheel might be preferable to being a flat tire, and so I ask a lot of questions. Bill, the big guy from Nottingham, is the biggest help.
Now, sailing itself might not look that demanding. What the crew needs to do is switch the sails the moment the boat turns and exactly at the right moment. Failing to do so will cost time that will be hard to make up, especially if the other boats know what they are doing.
John (or Ron) Wayne checks the course and the wind conditions. He’s an old hat at this, as is pretty much everybody else on this boat not wearing a goofy Dead Sea Fishing Club cap like I am.
Once the boat, the Sans Pareil (French for ‘without equal’) nears the turn, John Wayne orders the crew to get ready, Dave stands up at the front of the boat to grab the sail once it’s released and bam--the jib snaps from one side of the boat to the other as quickly as a boxer’s upper cut. People who have been hit by a jib and knocked into the water will know that an uppercut might just be preferable to the sheer force of a battering ram whipping from side to side in very strong winds.
The moment John Wayne says, Now! There is a controlled chaos on the boat. I will be releasing the rope or pulling it on my side. Releasing the jib is a piece of cake. Pulling it back toward you is a piece of cake too, but only if that cake is made out of cement. You need to stand up and pull the rope as if your life depends on it. I goof a couple of times but eventually get the hang of it. The race takes about two hours, we finish in the middle of the pack and finally bump beer cans once the boat is anchored, and we trade banter with the other crews who have just arrived.
John Wayne looks visibly pleased, and I am glad he didn’t make me walk the plank, although I’m pretty sure he thought about it. Back on shore there’s the regatta after party, sponsored by Heineken. Nice. I slam a few more ice cold Heinekens before I head out.
Next Saturday I will get my next chance to earn my wings, or shall I say paddles. I hope I get a potbellied retired captain who’s not as gruff as John Wayne, but being out of my element, I realize beggars (or non-sailors) can’t be choosers.
The boat’s crew includes an English couple, Bill and Jenny, an experienced American sailor named Dave who would man the sails, and me, the guy who knows as much about sailing as life on Neptune. The star of the crew, however, is Ron, the captain. Mid-fifties with a full crown of distinguished looking gray hair, this is one of those rugged captains you would expect to find in one of those old black and white Hollywood movies. First he will call the crew to attention, and before you know it he will make you walk the plank. This is the best John Wayne impersonator I have ever seen, and the man doesn’t even know it, nor is he trying very hard. He has a large square chin jutting out, looks like John Wayne and even sounds more like the man, if that’s even possible. I expect to say at any time, ‘Hello, pilgrim. Make yourself at home’.
John Wayne is limping because he strained a foot the day before trying to disembark from a dinghy that was to bring him back to shore from one of his excursions. No sweat, I am thinking. If John Wayne was able to function without a lung, I am guessing that the strained foot with the elaborate wrap around it qualifies as small potatoes, right?
I am ordered to the right side of the boat and placed in charge of moving the jib, the front sail, whenever we make turns, and the wind dictates the jib must be moved…like very quickly. I am not shaking, nor am I overtly nervous. I have been in far worse situations than these, but secretly I am also thinking, ‘Good God. Why me?’ I obviously don’t want to be the fifth wheel on the boat…I would like to contribute, but I also realize that a fifth wheel might be preferable to being a flat tire, and so I ask a lot of questions. Bill, the big guy from Nottingham, is the biggest help.
Now, sailing itself might not look that demanding. What the crew needs to do is switch the sails the moment the boat turns and exactly at the right moment. Failing to do so will cost time that will be hard to make up, especially if the other boats know what they are doing.
John (or Ron) Wayne checks the course and the wind conditions. He’s an old hat at this, as is pretty much everybody else on this boat not wearing a goofy Dead Sea Fishing Club cap like I am.
Once the boat, the Sans Pareil (French for ‘without equal’) nears the turn, John Wayne orders the crew to get ready, Dave stands up at the front of the boat to grab the sail once it’s released and bam--the jib snaps from one side of the boat to the other as quickly as a boxer’s upper cut. People who have been hit by a jib and knocked into the water will know that an uppercut might just be preferable to the sheer force of a battering ram whipping from side to side in very strong winds.
The moment John Wayne says, Now! There is a controlled chaos on the boat. I will be releasing the rope or pulling it on my side. Releasing the jib is a piece of cake. Pulling it back toward you is a piece of cake too, but only if that cake is made out of cement. You need to stand up and pull the rope as if your life depends on it. I goof a couple of times but eventually get the hang of it. The race takes about two hours, we finish in the middle of the pack and finally bump beer cans once the boat is anchored, and we trade banter with the other crews who have just arrived.
John Wayne looks visibly pleased, and I am glad he didn’t make me walk the plank, although I’m pretty sure he thought about it. Back on shore there’s the regatta after party, sponsored by Heineken. Nice. I slam a few more ice cold Heinekens before I head out.
Next Saturday I will get my next chance to earn my wings, or shall I say paddles. I hope I get a potbellied retired captain who’s not as gruff as John Wayne, but being out of my element, I realize beggars (or non-sailors) can’t be choosers.
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