“Here. Pack this.” Trish placed the fashionable pink sundress, neatly folded, into my carry-on.
I decided not to argue this time but to take the damn dress, which—whispering to myself—I would never, in a million years, wear on the boat.
We blazed across the Florida peninsula via Alligator Alley, then up the west coast to Venice Beach in her 1986 Nissan Z. The T-tops sat securely in the trunk while our bags shifted insecurely on the back seat.
The marina was easy enough to find, but the sailboat was another matter. The dockmaster gave us a blank stare when I asked where the Jennessee was docked.
Spying the owner of the Jennessee approaching, he said, “Oh! You mean the Ja-NOOSE.” The man with the blank stare was now laughing. Was it my pronunciation or my southern accent?
“Ahoy there.” Beth, our captain-instructor, stepped onto the pier.
After introducing ourselves to this vivacious, bleached blonde with the shortest pixie-cut hair I’d ever seen, we chatted as we made our way to the boat. Talk included our trip over, the name of the vessel, our interest in sailing, and hers in teaching—and why she taught only women. We learned, as we stowed our things, that the sailboat was co-owned by Beth and her husband (and the bank), who had a sailing school that catered to couples. After a short time, they realized that many of the wives and girlfriends had a serious interest in learning to sail, but they were intimidated. Most of the men belittled and bullied even those who had real potential.
Women for Sail was born, with Beth as captain and her best friend Kathleen—Captain Kath, as we student-crew called her—as co-captain. They were keeping an eye out for a potential third, relief captain.
The others arrived. It was an eclectic group: Mary Ann and her partner Susan were the serious ones. They wanted to own a sailboat and live aboard; Joanie, to whom everything was good fun, was on a dare; Trish (the Dish, as her last ex-husband called her) with her expectations of meeting men with money—and me. I only wanted to learn the basics so I could crew with experienced sailors and not be a complete idiot.
Kathleen floated in near midnight: tall, with reddish-brown hair, shy—and in love. She didn’t say so, but Beth did.
“Ah, the ‘ff’ look.”
Beth looked around at our blank faces.
“Fresh fucked.” She seemed amazed that we hadn’t known.
“See if I confide in you again,” Kath chided sheepishly as she blushed.
Trish and I were to share the V-berth, the forward part of the 39-foot Beneteau. We decided feet toward the higher, narrowing end was preferable, and for once, I was glad that Trish had insisted on bringing her own pillow—and mine. With the extra cushioning, our heads were almost level with our feet. The others went to their assigned bunks, and we all slept soundly with the gentle, whispering slap of the water on the starboard side of the boat.
The exciting first day started early with a hearty breakfast, which put us all in a good mood. Sharing cooking and cleanup responsibilities added to the camaraderie of the close quarters. Personality differences had not yet bludgeoned any hope of lasting friendships.
“Safety first—and there will be a test.” A refrain we were to hear ad infinitum from our two captains.
The U.S. Coast Guard safety requirements, we were shocked to learn, involved only one thing—life jackets: where they were stowed and how to put them on securely.
There were other measures sailors used to minimize bruises and/or stitches—like backing down ladders, keeping one hand on the boat, never standing in a coiled line (it may be uncoiling), and wearing sailing gloves when hauling in lines, especially in heavy wind. Most of this we learned after ignoring warnings from our captains.
We each had to demonstrate competency with a fire extinguisher before we could set sail. This was most important to Beth, as there was still a mortgage on the Jennessee. There was practice with the boat hook and life ring at the dock, but man-overboard drill had to wait for deeper water. The charts (called maps if you’re on land), with their mysterious circles and numbers, lay on the navigation table to be used in plotting our course.
Through the laughter, we made the menu, provisioned the boat, and prepared to shove off.
Getting out of the marina was our first real lesson. Weaving between the piers full of very expensive yachts was frightening, to say the least. After a few near misses, I was pleased to see that Mary Ann at the helm looked confident as the Jennessee motored out into the bay. When we passed a fishing boat, one man yelled, “I’ll take two,” referring to the name on the flag we flew from the mast. Women for Sail. It was a comment we would come to despise before our week was over.
Our first night on the water was rewarding. Susan set the anchor at a spot that I thought was less than perfect. After a delicious dinner—have I mentioned how hungry being on the water makes you?—we plotted our course.
The first hint of animosity among the crew came when I, as designated skipper, tried to hoist the anchor aboard the next morning. We had gone over the importance of knots, and certain ones— such as the one securing the bitter end of the anchor rode to the vessel—were more important than others. It was Joanie’s duty, but she was not good with knots and instead of asking for help she tied the loose end to the boat with a granny knot and threw the remaining line into the anchor well. It was no surprise to anyone that Joanie had to swim out to retrieve the heavy metal weight.
It was Trish’s turn at docking.
“Slow down—slow— slow down, oh shit!” Beth was heard just before the screeching sound of the boat scraping the edge of the concrete pier.
It was funny, but those of us who laughed got the full brunt of Trish’s ire.
We were all tired—tired of sleeping in cramped positions, tired from hauling lines, fighting wind, and managing the galley.
It was the man-overboard procedure that guaranteed all camaraderie had ended. The skipper, Mary Ann, was to maneuver the 39-foot sailboat in a figure-of-eight around the one who naively volunteered to go overboard—me. Joanie would throw the line; I would catch it and be pulled safely to the boat; Trish and Susan would help me to get aboard.
“Turn. Turn, Mary Ann. Do you know what a figure eight looks like?”
“Oh my god. Now she’s gonna run over the man-overboard.”
“Joanie, throw the line before she drowns. Not now, you’re too far away.”
“Pull. Not the leg. You’ll split her in two.”
These and other less professional exclamations were heard from our captains.
It was a disaster. Only the squall was worse—when the dinghy, being hauled behind the Jennessee, broke free and careened into a buoy before turning upside down and spilling all its contents.
“There goes our beer.”
“I wonder how much the fine is for dumping a weeks’ worth of garbage into the Gulf.
It was graduation day—D-Day, as Trish had called it from the start. Thank goodness man-overboard was an extra exercise and not a requirement for passing Sailing 101.
Sunburned, clutching our certificates of completion, we stepped off the boat: me in Trish’s pink sundress (I wore it after all), and Trish, with her sunglasses and hat. Proudly we made our way through the gauntlet of men who were silenced into reluctant admiration. Women for sail were now riding the crest of the wave and boy, it felt good.
I decided not to argue this time but to take the damn dress, which—whispering to myself—I would never, in a million years, wear on the boat.
We blazed across the Florida peninsula via Alligator Alley, then up the west coast to Venice Beach in her 1986 Nissan Z. The T-tops sat securely in the trunk while our bags shifted insecurely on the back seat.
The marina was easy enough to find, but the sailboat was another matter. The dockmaster gave us a blank stare when I asked where the Jennessee was docked.
Spying the owner of the Jennessee approaching, he said, “Oh! You mean the Ja-NOOSE.” The man with the blank stare was now laughing. Was it my pronunciation or my southern accent?
“Ahoy there.” Beth, our captain-instructor, stepped onto the pier.
After introducing ourselves to this vivacious, bleached blonde with the shortest pixie-cut hair I’d ever seen, we chatted as we made our way to the boat. Talk included our trip over, the name of the vessel, our interest in sailing, and hers in teaching—and why she taught only women. We learned, as we stowed our things, that the sailboat was co-owned by Beth and her husband (and the bank), who had a sailing school that catered to couples. After a short time, they realized that many of the wives and girlfriends had a serious interest in learning to sail, but they were intimidated. Most of the men belittled and bullied even those who had real potential.
Women for Sail was born, with Beth as captain and her best friend Kathleen—Captain Kath, as we student-crew called her—as co-captain. They were keeping an eye out for a potential third, relief captain.
The others arrived. It was an eclectic group: Mary Ann and her partner Susan were the serious ones. They wanted to own a sailboat and live aboard; Joanie, to whom everything was good fun, was on a dare; Trish (the Dish, as her last ex-husband called her) with her expectations of meeting men with money—and me. I only wanted to learn the basics so I could crew with experienced sailors and not be a complete idiot.
Kathleen floated in near midnight: tall, with reddish-brown hair, shy—and in love. She didn’t say so, but Beth did.
“Ah, the ‘ff’ look.”
Beth looked around at our blank faces.
“Fresh fucked.” She seemed amazed that we hadn’t known.
“See if I confide in you again,” Kath chided sheepishly as she blushed.
Trish and I were to share the V-berth, the forward part of the 39-foot Beneteau. We decided feet toward the higher, narrowing end was preferable, and for once, I was glad that Trish had insisted on bringing her own pillow—and mine. With the extra cushioning, our heads were almost level with our feet. The others went to their assigned bunks, and we all slept soundly with the gentle, whispering slap of the water on the starboard side of the boat.
The exciting first day started early with a hearty breakfast, which put us all in a good mood. Sharing cooking and cleanup responsibilities added to the camaraderie of the close quarters. Personality differences had not yet bludgeoned any hope of lasting friendships.
“Safety first—and there will be a test.” A refrain we were to hear ad infinitum from our two captains.
The U.S. Coast Guard safety requirements, we were shocked to learn, involved only one thing—life jackets: where they were stowed and how to put them on securely.
There were other measures sailors used to minimize bruises and/or stitches—like backing down ladders, keeping one hand on the boat, never standing in a coiled line (it may be uncoiling), and wearing sailing gloves when hauling in lines, especially in heavy wind. Most of this we learned after ignoring warnings from our captains.
We each had to demonstrate competency with a fire extinguisher before we could set sail. This was most important to Beth, as there was still a mortgage on the Jennessee. There was practice with the boat hook and life ring at the dock, but man-overboard drill had to wait for deeper water. The charts (called maps if you’re on land), with their mysterious circles and numbers, lay on the navigation table to be used in plotting our course.
Through the laughter, we made the menu, provisioned the boat, and prepared to shove off.
Getting out of the marina was our first real lesson. Weaving between the piers full of very expensive yachts was frightening, to say the least. After a few near misses, I was pleased to see that Mary Ann at the helm looked confident as the Jennessee motored out into the bay. When we passed a fishing boat, one man yelled, “I’ll take two,” referring to the name on the flag we flew from the mast. Women for Sail. It was a comment we would come to despise before our week was over.
Our first night on the water was rewarding. Susan set the anchor at a spot that I thought was less than perfect. After a delicious dinner—have I mentioned how hungry being on the water makes you?—we plotted our course.
The first hint of animosity among the crew came when I, as designated skipper, tried to hoist the anchor aboard the next morning. We had gone over the importance of knots, and certain ones— such as the one securing the bitter end of the anchor rode to the vessel—were more important than others. It was Joanie’s duty, but she was not good with knots and instead of asking for help she tied the loose end to the boat with a granny knot and threw the remaining line into the anchor well. It was no surprise to anyone that Joanie had to swim out to retrieve the heavy metal weight.
It was Trish’s turn at docking.
“Slow down—slow— slow down, oh shit!” Beth was heard just before the screeching sound of the boat scraping the edge of the concrete pier.
It was funny, but those of us who laughed got the full brunt of Trish’s ire.
We were all tired—tired of sleeping in cramped positions, tired from hauling lines, fighting wind, and managing the galley.
It was the man-overboard procedure that guaranteed all camaraderie had ended. The skipper, Mary Ann, was to maneuver the 39-foot sailboat in a figure-of-eight around the one who naively volunteered to go overboard—me. Joanie would throw the line; I would catch it and be pulled safely to the boat; Trish and Susan would help me to get aboard.
“Turn. Turn, Mary Ann. Do you know what a figure eight looks like?”
“Oh my god. Now she’s gonna run over the man-overboard.”
“Joanie, throw the line before she drowns. Not now, you’re too far away.”
“Pull. Not the leg. You’ll split her in two.”
These and other less professional exclamations were heard from our captains.
It was a disaster. Only the squall was worse—when the dinghy, being hauled behind the Jennessee, broke free and careened into a buoy before turning upside down and spilling all its contents.
“There goes our beer.”
“I wonder how much the fine is for dumping a weeks’ worth of garbage into the Gulf.
It was graduation day—D-Day, as Trish had called it from the start. Thank goodness man-overboard was an extra exercise and not a requirement for passing Sailing 101.
Sunburned, clutching our certificates of completion, we stepped off the boat: me in Trish’s pink sundress (I wore it after all), and Trish, with her sunglasses and hat. Proudly we made our way through the gauntlet of men who were silenced into reluctant admiration. Women for sail were now riding the crest of the wave and boy, it felt good.
