Sailing On

The moment Flathead Lake comes into view, JD and I both inhale deeply. We are here for a week of sailing on Vishnu, our 1976 19-foot O’Day Mariner, that we picked up two years ago, JDs indulgent and loving response to my whimsical desire to learn to sail.

We pull into our campsite at Rollins RV Park before sunset, get boat trailer and camper decoupled, truck camper unloaded from the truck, and settle into our camp chairs in hopes of viewing the Perseid meteor shower. We are thankful for the ability to see the night sky, a blessed respite from the pervasive smoke of wildfires raging across the western US. As the last bits of daylight fade and stars slowly come into view, I spot a searing orange streak across the southern sky, and smile.

We sit in our camp chairs for another hour or so, discussing our plans to put the boat in tomorrow morning. We realize, as we run through the steps for raising the mast, how rusty our sailing vocabulary has become in the past year! It’s ok, I remind us both, we are learning. And this past year we, as with most of the nation, have had a lot else to focus on.

After a 10-year struggle with Alzheimer’s, my mom passed in January, at a memory care facility in Bozeman, Montana, surrounded by my dad, sister, JD, and me. Shortly after, we moved dad to Ohio, close to my sister and her kids. Her prolonged illness was for me a deep and meandering apprenticeship with grief – one rich with meaning, and ultimately, many gifts. Chief among them, a deep resolve to better cherish this one wild and precious life that she gave to me.

We wake the next morning and trailer the boat to the dock where we’ve rented a slip for the week. For JD and me, as novice sailors, raising the mast is still a bit intimidating, a process rife with opportunity for one misstep to result in damage or injury. That this boat ramp is steep only adds to our challenge, exaggerating the angle at which we must hoist the 28’ mast from horizontal, while missing overhead power lines. As is often the case, even at this small dock, we attract attention, and a man in an RV with California plates eyes us from inside his rig for awhile, then wanders over. He is a fisherman, although he hasn’t had much luck recently. He asks if we need any help, and JD adeptly delegates a simple yet important task for him that doesn’t require too much explanation – holding the turnbuckles of the shrouds so they stay vertical (and unbent) during the mast raising. As we work, Bob talks to us about the winds and rough waters he’s encountered over the past few days out on Flathead Lake. As we talk, a search is underway for a kayaker who capsized a few days ago in rough waters. I feel my stomach muscles tighten, reflexively. I breathe, reminding myself of our training and safety gear, and the numerous lessons we’ve already learned out on the water under sail. And ultimately, I think to myself, none of us knows when or how our time will come. I refuse to live in the grips of fear.

We get into position standing in Vishnu’s cockpit, a length of dynamic rope (line) attached to the jib halyard, through an eyelet on the chain plate at the bow, and back to where I am standing, holding the foot of the mast in the tabernacle. JD, standing at the stern, gives the word and begins walking towards me, as I pull on the line attached to the halyard, and slowly, steadily, we bring the mast to vertical. We gaze up at the mast, pausing long enough to admire a bald eagle passing directly overhead, before JD attaches the forestay to the chain plate at the bow, and we breathe a huge, collective sigh of relief. We finish rigging the boat with boom, boom vang, and mainsheet, preparing to launch.

We thank Bob for his help, and JD motors Vishnu to our slip. We install the mainsail and jib, and are relieved to find that we aren’t missing any parts, which is a significant feat – and testament to JD’s disciplined preparation and packing. After some effort, we successfully re-rig our single-line reefing system for the mainsail, which we installed last year after a harrowing event in a strong gust on Canyon Ferry reservoir. Sails in place, we head out on the water again, tacking back and forth in consistent, light winds. As we sail, I remember fondly my cousin Brad Ansley, the boatbuilder and sailor from Tennessee who pointed JD and me towards this 19-foot sailboat, and provided countless advice as we (mostly JD) painstakingly restored her after years of lying abandoned in Albert Lea, Minnesota. Days before JD and I left to come sailing on this trip, I had attended (virtually) a celebration of life for Brad’s older brother Donald, an accomplished designer and builder of yachts and sailboats. Brad and Donald share an infectious love of boats, sailing, wood working, and the many wonders and mysteries of life. As Vishnu heeled over in the wind, I closed my eyes, feeling the wind and sun on my face, and thought of them both. What a gift they have given me, their knowledge and passion making it possible for JD and me to be here, now, on the waters of the largest natural lake west of the Mississippi, on a crisp, clear, mountain day – savoring the simple, finer things in life. Donald’s sudden, untimely death, and the grief so poignantly shared by those closest to him, served as yet another reminder: live like tomorrow never comes.

And so JD and I do: our first day out, we cover some 8 miles of water, reaching 7 miles per hour, and the following, we venture further, circumnavigating Wild Horse Island, a voyage of some 16 miles, during which (due to considerable variations in wind speed, particularly on the leeward side of the island) our maximum speed was just over 6.5 mph. Of course in sailing, the object is rarely about speed or the directness of your heading, unless you are racing. JD finds this premise hard to accept at times, but for me, it it provides glorious permission to slow down and meander, savoring the subtle sounds of water lapping against the hull, gurgling as the rudder cuts a gentle wake behind the boat. And for me, it is in precisely these moments of running with – not against – the wind and the water, constantly learning when to relish your momentum, and when to embrace stillness, that the many mysteries and gifts of this one wild and precious life become the most accessible, able to be seen, heard, felt – and trusted. And, sitting aboard Vishnu with JD, once again I am reminded of the promise that we made to each other many years ago – to live for today, taking nothing for granted. How easy it can be to lose sight of this simple aspiration amidst the struggle and strife of every day life, much less every day life in the midst of a global pandemic, and learning how to love and let go of a mother succumbing to dementia. But, yet again I was reminded that water and wind can often reveal the pathway home.

Tomorrow Never Comes
— by Zac Brown Band

I’ve been climbing my way through the sky
Searching for answers that I’ll never find
Losing my breath as I fall
Learning to fly, letting go of it all
Learning to fly, letting go of it all

I’ve been trying to open my eyes
Take it all in as the world passes by
Getting lost in the twists and the turn
Finding these questions inside me still burn
Finding these questions inside me still burn

I’m gonna live
Like tomorrow never comes
There’s no end in sight
Tonight we black out the sun
Better hold on tight
Before you know it’s gone
And live like tomorrow never comes

I keep looking for some kind of sign
Trying to hold on in this race against time
I can’t say where the next bend might be
That is the beauty in life’s mystery
That is the beauty in life’s mystery