Learning to Sail

This week I've been taking sailing lessons. I've lived in Maine for more than twenty years and have only been on a sailboat once before, and I spent most of the time napping in the cabin. I wouldn't have even thought of sailing now except that a friend had signed up for the lessons and invited me to join her.

The first day, we helped rig the boat, learned words like sheet, halyard, and boomvang (which I hold dibs on for a band name if I ever take up music), and manned the jib while our instructor, Will, maneuvered the boat out into open water. We hadn't had any classroom instruction, and, though Will did his best to convey the relationship between the boat, the sails, the rudder, and the wind, it was a lot to take in wile putting it into practice. When it came my turn to skipper, a gust of wind caught the mainsail with the sheet cinched tight, we heeled over, and, feeling like I was sitting in one of those rocking chairs that tips over backward, I forgot everything Will had told us.

Water began to pour into the cockpit, and I looked up in time to see Will sitting on the gunwale, arched over backwards in a vain attempt to counterbalance the tilt of the boat. "Release the mainsheet," he said through clenched teeth. I did, the boat righted, and we spent a long time bailing the water out.

The next day we had much calmer breezes. A bit too calm, as we petered out in the doldrums near the end of our lesson. Day three there was a chance of thunderstorms, so we stayed on dry land, practicing tying knots and studying the points of sail. We were learning backwards, but on a boat you have to take what Mother Nature tosses your way.

By day four, I started to put all the pieces together—tiller, mainsheet, wind direction, points of sail—and managed a successful man overboard drill (rescuing Taylor, the moldy boat fender) and docked the boat.

From our first day, I was struck by the many variables involved in sailing—the wind, the water, the boat itself, gravity, waves, the sails, the lines, the shore, other boats—more moving parts, I thought, than any endeavor I'd ever before attempted. Then I remembered writing. There's plot, character, narrative arc, emotional arc, description, dialogue, point of view, theme, structure, rhythm, word choice. All must work together to keep the whole sailing smoothly.

A couple weeks ago, my sails were full and I was gliding effortlessly, making revisions to my book, starting a new essay. Then I had to change direction to work on projects for other people, and though I tacked fairly smoothly, when I finished the other projects, my bow nosed into the wind, and I found myself in irons, sails luffing. I'd lost momentum, and, moving backwards, my rudder steered the boat in the opposite way I wanted it to go.

My only choice is to scull until my sails catch wind—that means put my butt in a chair and pick up a project, even if it looks about as appealing as a swamped boat, and fiddle with it until I start to pick up speed again. I fully intend to bail out that essay—but I will probably wait until my sailing lessons are finished.

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Paddle Away With Me

I slide the kayak off the roof racks and balance it on my left shoulder—it weighs less than the double stroller I heaved in and out of the back of my car for three years—and ease the boat into the water near the culvert. Bullfrogs thrum in the wetland across the road, and green frogs twang on the edges of the pond. A small painted turtle hovering in the shallows dives away at my approach, and I hope I've frightened it away from any ideas of crossing the road.

I bought this boat on a whim a few weeks ago. I was mad because I'd been made to work on the Sunday of Memorial Weekend, and the sporting goods store was having a sale. So I decided to treat my ill humor with a little retail therapy on my lunch break. Only it wasn't a whim, because for years I've thought how nice it would be to have a little kayak for exploring the ponds and bogs and swamps near my home. But I thought that if I had one kayak, I would need five, plus some enormous vehicle in which to tote both boats and family.

The boat glides through the tall rushes of the outlet channel and out into open water. Usually I like to paddle along the northern shore, nosing among the pickerel weed and lily pads and watching whirligig beetles twirl, but today I've been staring down a threatening thunderstorm, and now that the dark bank of cumulonimbus clouds has passed on, I have only half an hour before I need to hurry home, cook dinner, and drive kids to their soccer game. So I paddle straight across the pond, heading for the northern shore.

It's easy to forget, when you're a mom, that you can do things by yourself. By "can" I mean both "are cabable of" and "are allowed to." The latter makes some sense; after years in which peeing alone is a triumph, you tend consider the people you gave birth to extensions of your own body. "Whither thou goest" and all that. But the former is crazy. Motherhood is a job that requires the knowlege of a complete set of encyclopedias, the organizational skills of a NASA ground crew, the control of a drill seargant, and the patience of Mother Theresa. Yet somehow raising children makes us feel unequal to other tasks. How much of that feeling is inherent, I wonder, and how much dictated by society?

I paddle northward, into a wind that rumples the dark surface of the water, calling gelatinous core muscles into duty. This pond is only two miles from my house, and it's small, only about 22 acres in area and 18 feet at its deepest point. But there are only five houses on its shore, all on the southwest corner. With the road and the houses at my back, I might be paddling into the wilderness. The eastern shore is edged in hemlocks and, beyond, a wooded hillside. To the north stand the spindly forms of larch trees, rising from a sphagnum bog. Tree swallows perch on the bare upper branches of the larches, chittering and making forways over the pond to snap up bugs.

Sheep laurel grows dense along the boggy shore, bright with magenta blooms. Turqoise pond damsels dance along the edge between water and land. I nose my boat between two hummocks to get a closer look at a pair of alien-shaped pitcher plant flowers and notice a small pink blossom, then another and another and another. Calopogon orchids have come into bloom in the last two days.

I take photos and make a few quick sketches, but all too soon duty calls me back across the pond. I paddle straight and steady, the breeze now at my back, my abdominal muscles remembering that they once had structure. I lift the boat out of the water and onto the car, cinching it down tight, and drive home with the wind blowing through my hair.

This post went out last week to subscribers of my newsletter, along with some bonus material. You can subscribe here.

Summer Round-Up

I thought summer wouldn't go by so fast this year, since we didn't take a three- (or eight-) week road (or hiking) trip in the middle of it, but, if anything, I think it went faster. After the first day of "Hey Mom, hey Mom, hey Mom," I knew I had to sign E and Z up for a LOT of camps, which I did, which was nice for me (and probably for them, too, but they won't admit it), but it also resulted in a lot of the same kind of rushing around to get places on time that characterizes the rest of the year and is, I believe, a huge contributor to making time fly by. But, this summer was not ALL rushing around. Since my last, 4th-of-July update, we took a weekend trip to Vermont (for a funeral and some college tours, but also a bit of sight-seeing and hanging out in swimming pools; I have no photo evidence of that trip, however).

We also went to the beach.



And I, without kids, did some bird-watching.



And saw Maine's peculuar red-billed tropic bird.



And some bonus seals.



We went to the beach again.



And we went on a 5-day camping trip.


With 4 other families, for a total of 21 people, 12 of them being males under the age of 18 (five of those being males 13 years old).



While there, we climbed a small mountain.



Then we went to the beach again.



And we went hiking again.





And, finally, we celebrated the nominal (though not calendrical and, this year, not even weather-wise) last day of summer by taking a gorgeous boat ride among harbors and islands and coves.



This summer may have gone by too fast, and it may not have been marked by an epic vacation, but it was still pretty darn nice.

(Long) Weekend Things ~ Fourth of July

We usually stick close to home for the Fourth of July, but this year C's step-siblings were in town, so we headed up to camp for a few days.

But first, of course, we hit our town's parade, which was somewhat diminished due to new safety rules (no uninsured floats; no throwing candy from moving vehicles).




The rules didn't stop the fire truck brigade.




Nor the annual walking social justice float.



The fourth was hot and sticky, as I think it was all over the world, so afterward we found our way to a new swimming hole (which was an improvement over our original plan of running through the sprinklers). Afterward, we had a low-key cookout in the back yard.



I had thought this would be the year we finally made it to a firework show, but my brother-in-law showed up with a load of backyard fireworks just in time to save our children from a) having to leave the house and b) having to share space with strangers. Somewhere between the swimming hole and the cookout, the auto focus on my regular camera lens quit working, so no photos of the fireworks.

The next day, we headed up to camp, where the weather was perfect for soaking in the lake, canoeing, cooking out, and just general relaxicating.




We arrived home on Saturday, just in time for C and I to head out to a gala and performance of Pride@Prejudice (yes, the @ is intentional, and no, I did not even notice it when I bought the tickets; it refers to a device—literal and figurative, as in the actors made use of cell phones, laptops, etc.--the playwrite used for clever asides that explained some ambiguities to the audience and summarized bits of the narrative to scrunch the story into play length).

I was so excited about the gala (period costume optional), that I made a semi-regency dress to wear. I say semi because I bought a period-style pattern, but, taking one look at it realized it was way more complicated than I wanted to deal with so instead adapted the design of a blouse I have with an empire waist and raglan sleeves.

Wild Wednesday ~ Sea Bird Cruise

On Sunday I joined some fellow Maine Master Naturalists and other bird watchers on a cruise around Casco Bay in search of ducks, gulls, and other birds. Our trip organizer predicted it to be "a real corker of a day," and it was, with mostly sunny skies, calm seas, and balmy air (temps hit 55 degrees on the mainland!)—perfect winter bird-watching weather.

The first and last bird we saw was a house sparrow (Paser domesticus), who made itself at home inside the ferry terminal, living off dropped crumbs from Standard Co. baked goods, and, when it wanted a bit of fresh air, skimming over the tops of passengers' heads on their way in or out of the terminal. Once out on the water, our sightings became a little bit more exotic. The bird we saw in greatest abundance was the long-tailed duck (Clangula hyemalis). The males of this smallish species (around 16.5 inches long) have a distinctive white head and, as the name suggests, long tail, and a black-and-white striped appearance when flying. We observed several rafts of 10-20 of these birds.




Buffleheads (Bucephala albeola) also appeared in large numbers (35 at official count). The bufflehead is a petit duck (13.5 inches), and the breeding male of this species displays a very white breast and underside with a large white patch on its head.



The most interesting, and new to me bird we saw was the surf scoter (Melanitta perspicallata), of which we saw several. The male surf scoter is black with a bright white spot on the back of its head and a bulging, orange-white-and-black bill. It looks like it borrowed a puffin's make-up kit, and I've decided to nickname it the puffin duck. We also spied a few black scoters (Melamitta nigra), which are much less distinctive than their surf cousins, with a mere bump on the plain yellow bill and no white spot on the back of the head.



Several solo loons, of both the common (Gavia immer) and red-throated (Gavia stellata) varieties, popped up alongside the boat as we puttered among Casco Bay's islands. Both species still wore their muted winter plumage, although some of the common loons appeared to be working on their breeding season checker-board backs. The red-throated loon is smaller than the common, but that is not always easy to detect when they're not next to each other. The best way we found to tell them apart was that the red-throated has a more slender bill, which it holds up above horizontal. The red-throated loon's neck also appeared longer and more slender than the common loon's, and some passengers remarked that it had an almost cormorant-like appearance.

Other waterfowl we saw included: Canada Goose (Branta canadensis), American Black Duck (Anas rubripes), Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), Common Eider (Somateria mollissima), Common Goldeneye (Bucephala clangula), and Red-breasted Merganser (Mergus serrator).



We also saw several members of three species of gull—Ring-billed (Larus delawarensis), Herring (Larua argentatus), and Great Black-backed (Larus marinus)— and a couple Black Guillemots (Cepphus grylle).



For raptors, the group got a great view of a red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) sailing over one of the islands, and passengers also reported sightings of a Bald Eagle (Haliacetus leucocephalus) and a Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus).

Finally, while nearing the various islands, birders caught sight or sound of a handful of passerines, in addition to the above-mentioned house sparrow: Rock Dove/Feral Pigeon (Columba livia), Mourning Dove (Zinaida macroura), Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata), American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos), Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus), American Robin (Turdus migratorius), and Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis).

I was, I admit, reluctant at first to spend three hours on the ocean in February looking at birds, but I've made it my mission this month to try new things and say "yes" to opportunities, and this one turned out great (though I might be singing—or quacking—a different tune if it had been 15 degrees, not 55)!

Little Vacation

My parents visited for a couple of weeks, which turned into a little vacation for us--hiking and beach going and eating out and doing many of the things people come to Maine to do, but that we don't ever think about doing--lighthousing (I'm pretty sure that's a verb now), whale-watching, island-going, window-shopping.

It was fun--a good end-of-summer hurrah--and a bit exhausting. We're looking forward to a bit of a rest this weekend before school starts Tuesday.