Assorted notes on sailing
pictures being forthcoming
The shower was first a careful technical operation. I'm never one to suspect myself of signs of order but preparation for day trips, punctuality, and showers during sailing trips are all great orderly skills of mine. The shampoo was carefully tucked in the stuff sack, dollar-fifty-five conscientiously doled out for a bar of dove soap, and keys to the shower are then obtained. Rubber sandals dragged out from my cubby-hole, and clean clothes for afterwards rolled up inside my towel. Everything laid out carefully in order of use within the dingy shower stall: shampoo and soap, rubber sandals, then towel, then clothes.
The water turned on, and the shower then becomes an emotional operation. The water was low pressure, but was pleasing despite that. The water felt particularly thick and soft without the painful stinging drops of showers with more pressure. The water softened the caked brine on my legs; the crunching curls around my face grew limp in the humidity and water. The soreness on the inside of my elbows lessened. The bruises on the top of my knees flared in pain, but eventually were soothed by the rhythm of the soft, low pressure shower.
The soap turned milky, and ran white down my tan legs. The smell reminded me sharply of the winter. The water started whispering, humming, "I know I know I know," in hushed rhythmic tones. I know you're filthy. I know your hair should lie straight; that the wind has it tangled into salty, dirty curls. I know you're sore with bruises. I know you're missing people. I know you ache. I know you've hit your head on the ceiling every morning, every time you squeezed into the forecastle. I know you miss music. I know you love the sea. I know you're anxious to get home. I know you feel conflicted. I know you feel lonely.
It wasn't an offer to help. It was like being noticed, or having someone say "Yes. I see what is happening." It was just the recognition, which somehow felt so beautiful. As beautiful as the light, fluffy hair. The dove-bar-scented skin. The rinsed feet. The hands free of brass polish.
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I felt old. It's hard to keep to yourself on a boat of any size, but I managed nicely. I thrust myself into books (Beloved and Ordinary People), I hummed to myself on bow watch, I ignored the boy who tried to make me angry. When the kids left the boat, for shore leave or swimming, I curled up in bed. Slept and read, wrote a letter and wrote a few half-journal-entries. When we were sailing, I stayed away from the helm; realm of the cook, the captain, the know-it-all kid who knew absolutely nothing, but I also steered clear of the bow sprit; realm of the teen aged social dramas. I kept to myself.
I didn't feel old; I felt in between. I was in between the adults and the kids, I was in limbo. You know at the end of Catcher in the Rye? Where he watches the carousel under the rain? He doesn't try to ride the carousel with the kids, and he doesn't stand with the other adults. He sits out in the rain and gets soaked, despite his red cap. And he's so goddamn happy. That's what I felt like. I was in a comfortable state between childhood and adulthood, and I was content.
Oh, but oh, the childhood of the other kids on the boat. They were fifteen, but oh, such children. I think that somewhere in middle-school kids fall asleep, and don't wake up until sometime in high school. These children hadn't woken up. The funny thing is that, with the exception of the know nothing know-it-all, they were all pretty nice to me. I was reading Beloved and the know nothing know-it-all asked me what it was about. "A mother who kills her daughter," I said, and turned back to my book. Perhaps he felt snubbed, or put off, but I heard him roaring later (when he thought I was out of earshot) "What's so intellectual about baby killing?!?" It led me to believe that conversations about me went like this:
"That chick Margaret is a ho bag/similarly awful term of derision for women!" said the know-it-all. "No she is not! She is an intellectual!" said the girls. "What's so intellectual about baby killing?!?" At least, that is what I like to think. It doesn't matter, though. The know-it-all was disliked by the other children because he was fat. I disliked him because he was pompous and in love with the sound of his own voice and constantly mocked me. When you were a child, you know how you played the Repeat Everything They Say game? He played that too. "I'm wiped out!" I would say to the company at large, and the know-it-all would say "I'm wiped out," in a small, whiny voice.
After the trip, my father was late. The cook and the first mate were going to the restaurant at the dock for beers, and I got to tag along. "He hated me," I said about the know-it-all, pondering my diet coke. They laughed uproariously. "He hated everyone!" The funny thing about him was that he constantly insulted people, but was impervious to insults himself. The cook and the first mate knew what to do about the know-it-all: abuse him and laugh good-naturedly about him later.
The know-it-all was a mystery to me. The girls on the boat, however, were no mystery to me. They were just ignorant, and young, and asleep to the idea of being considerate and careful. One of the girls is in a Disney Channel sitcom. There is little doubt that this information would have sent me rocketing into laughter under different circumstances, but she was standing right in front of me. It took all of my restraint to keep from laughing at her.
I kept to myself. I did hunt out morsels of conversation with the adults. The Captain told me to take German in school, and that it was fashionable for old money women to have their hair dyed with a slightly bluish tint. The First Mate told me that women's colleges are an incredible experience, that I'll love Bryn Mawr. The Cook said that I was on a different level than the rest of the kids, which made me smile inwardly for a whole day.
The sailing was easy. The sailing was pleasant. The sailing was short. I was just shy of real joy to be on the boat. Curled up on deck in the sun, feeling it keeled, screaming fast over short waves, watching the sails. I watched the water, watched it break into foam-paned windows in our wake. I wondered why I spend so much time on land. Being on the water made me feel like I could dissolve at any moment, unroll my muscles and give up my identity for the anonymity and comfort of the sea.
2000-07-08, Assorted notes on sailing
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