Yesterday we went sailing. Or, more accurately, yesterday we went to the base to rent a tiny two person Sunfish to use at the marina and I, horrified at the 20-knot wind and itchy, gray, weird smelling water, watched from the shore as my husband and his buddy sailed. And capsized. And sailed again.
The first time we went sailing was in Pensacola, and it was a gorgeous, only-P.Diddy-does-this-kind-of-thing experience. The water was choppy and the sky was dramatic because a wall of thunderstorms sat on the city but out in the bay, the sky was aggressively blue and dotted with chunky white clouds and helicopters, and it was raining marines. The helicopters would come out, flattening the waves and spraying surf everywhere, squat briefly over the water and squeeze out three marines, and then peel off for half an hour while the marines treaded water and tried to save strength for climbing a rope when the helicopter came back.
Our friend's boat was large and sleek and sturdy looking, and it had a little room with a kitchen and bathroom below where masochists could hang out and get thrown from sink to couch to toilet and back again. I hung out on the deck and took artsy photos and trailed my legs from the side and generally felt like a fragrance ad in a magazine-- insoucient, sun-kissed, and lovely. Then I took the wheel and tipped the boat at such an angle and at such a speed that even our pathologically laid back friend said, "Um...whoa. Might want to straighten 'er out there, Cap'n."
No such hijinks yesterday. Maybe I'm a sailing snob and won't get on anything smaller than 19 feet. Maybe I was a little unnerved by the skin-peeling speed of the wind. Mostly I think it was the grave warning from the desk rental guy who had a lisp: "If you get thtuck on the far thide of the bay where the currentth are thtrong, jutht wave really big and thomeone might be able to come get you before the current pullth you out to thea." No thanks. I chose the option of walking along the crusty, morning breath bay trying to keep my hair from whipping out my eyes while I watched the man tear across the waves getting great gulps of bay water as he screamed "Fuck yeah! Is that all you got?!"
I also got a chance to watch wind sailing class, which is where the mention of penises comes in. Hosting an intro to the sport on a day with 20-knot winds makes bad memories for the participants and good theater for the spectator. It looks like this: four grown men in three-foot deep water wobbling on surf boards and then bending over granny-style to try and haul this giant sail erect. If they succeed, they spend the next five minutes alternately hanging their butts out over the board in a half-squat and then snapping their pelvises forward in an attempt to stay on the board and pull the sail upright. It looks like someone trying, and failing, to hump another larger being before finally being slapped back into the water. I really think erectile dysfunction drug companies should look into amateur wind surfing as the perfect polite metaphor for their commercials. A voice-over about four-hour, painful erections and blood clots just naturally pops to mind.
My husband and his friend came back hoarse and soaking. So far, no major skin abnormalities from the water, only exclamations like, "Why haven't we done that before now? Want to go back tomorrow?"
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