from her sail. (Sitting in the bottom of the boat gave her a low center of gravity and with the short mast and the added ballast of the steel dagger board she was very stable and I never did capsize her.) I learned to be firm tacking through the eye of the wind and avoid getting caught in irons. I learned to trim the sail properly on reaches and runs and was soon zipping from one side of the marina to the other. After a few scary surprises and advice from my mentor, I learned to control my jibes by grabbing the boom and horsing the main over. Within two weeks I could tack her on her axis only feet from the rocks with a single snap of the mainsail as I simultaneously shifted my weight to windward, then sail off in an instant feeling as if we were flying. She had become a physical part of me, and me a part of her. I often hung around the chandlery


when I wasn’t on the water, and a short while later a flyer appeared on their bulletin board announcing a kids’ dinghy race in a few weeks with no yacht club membership needed. Cocky with my newfound confidence in my outstanding sailing ability (after all, I


was descended from Vikings), I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to make myself known to the sailing world at large; I would enter the race and sail on to glory. I knew she looked dorky with


her short stubby stick and low slung mainsail, but hadn’t had any luck in finding a new one yet. Still, I wanted to doll her up a bit before the race by giving her a new paint job, replacing the goofy green rudder with a proper one of varnished mahogany, and getting a brand new main sheet with two new bronze blocks for the boom. Back at the chandlery, I outlined


my vision to Wayne, the clerk (we were well on a first name basis by now), which led to an in-depth discussion of some of the finer points of maintaining maritime bright work. He had a rudder and tiller in stock, but I would need three grits of sandpaper, brushes, sealer, spar varnish, tack rags and paint thinner to do the job properly. Fine, I said. “And she needs to look fast,“which led to another in-depth discussion of the finer points of nautical color schemes. I finally decided to keep her hull white but trim her in the speediest color I


could imagine, “fire engine red”. He gathered all my stuff and I paid him $32.50. I went right home and began to


work on the rudder and tiller. After sanding them fine and wiping them clean of sawdust, I ran my fingers over their warm silky surfaces so exquisitely smooth. I then carefully brushed on the first coat of sealer and marveled at the mahogany’s instant change from the dusty pale pink of the raw wood to the rich glossy brown of the finished bright work. This part of her was literally changing before my eyes, and over the next few days, I improved the finish until I could clearly see my reflection in it.


That afternoon, I was back at the


boat. I pulled her out of the water, turned her over on the finger of the slip, hosed her down with fresh water as Wayne had instructed and let her dry in the sun. I painted her according to plan, but the pinnacle of her rapid appearance was the diagonal red and white stripes that dressed out the dagger board, visible only under water (hopefully), looking to me like a shark chasing prey (but surely more like a submerged barber pole to the unbiased observer). “She’s lookin’ good!” I mused to myself with a smile, “Look out kids, ‘cause here we come!” The day of the big race began


(206) 632-4462


1900 N. Northlake Way, Seattle, WA. 98103 48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2011 PAGE 40


with a skippers’ meeting in front of the chandlery. (Alright! I was now a real skipper!) There were eight of us competing, four El Toros, two Sabots and one sawed-off Sea Shell. The Harbor Master handed us all the race instructions and reviewed the simple course: two buoys marked the starting line at the leeward end of the marina, a beat up the main channel, a rounding of the windward buoy to port, then a run back to the starting line to finish. A couple of parents would time the start with flags and horns at the end the dock, Wayne and the Harbor Master would shepherd the fleet in the marina’s Boston Whaler, and the parents would record the finishes. The Harbor Master’s final instructions to his group of fledgling skippers were, “Mind the time with the horns and the flags and don’t start early or we’ll call you back. The boat on the starboard tack is God and always has the right of way. Now go out there and have fun!”


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