The S.S. McShitty

Only pictures can tell the story of yesterday, but since the disposable water-proof camera is days away from yielding its treasures, word-pictures will have to suffice.

First shot: My husband and I, knee-deep in freezing algae attempting to hoist the sails on a small rented Sunfish at the base marina. Our MWR (Morale, Recreation, and Welfare) life jackets glow against the nubbly-gray sky through which a few strands of sunlight reach to the water. We are smiling. Today is my first day sailing on a two-person boat!

Second shot: Out on the water now, waves chuffing at the sides of the boat, my husband is explaining the mechanics of tacking to me while I nervously look for a place to put my feet in the boat's shallow dugout bottom. It is smaller than the foot space in my Honda and two inches of freezing gray water slosh back and forth in it.

Third shot: A mile from shore, and I am finally comfortable with the process of ducking beneath the sail and shifting my ass to the opposite gunwhale when we change directions. My husband and I are huddled together on one side of the boat, soaked in spray. He is laughing and pulling in the sail and I am kissing his ear. The water-proof camera is working double time to keep up with my artsy shots of the sail and the sun peeking through the gray and the water splashing off the bow.

Fourth shot: A stark photo taken seconds after THE FUCKING MAST SNAPS IN HALF, plunging the sail into the water and stopping all motion of the boat a mile from the shore. My husband and I shout in unison, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" We then hurriedly get to work pulling the sail from the water before it sinks, billows in the current, and becomes heavier than the boat.

Next, a series of shots in which we scrap several ideas of how to get out of this situation: 1) My husband plunges heroically into the water and attempts to pull us to shore, but after 30 seconds in the biting cold, realizes that he will go hypothermic before we reach the shore; 2) I try to convince my husband that I am the stronger swimmer and will go for help even though we both know what a wretched sissy I am about cold; 3) we consider screaming at the old man in the fishing boat 300 yards away, but are both too embarassed to do it; 4) we try to ascertain which way the current is pulling us-- out to sea or back to the bay?-- and fail to reach consensus; 5) both of us look to the sky, me wondering how to signal the planes that we are in trouble, my husband evidently flashing back to years of boy scout training.

Next shot, the MacGuyver moment: my husband is hit by a stroke of genius and figures out that by removing the shattered stump part of the mast, he can partially re-rig the sail to the remaining length of mast, shove it into the mast hole at the front of the boat, and partially raise the sail, catch the breeze, and so limp slowly to shore. A few direction changes are required, and in order for him to tack with a partially rigged sail, I must completely compress myself into the tiny bilge water dugout. Finally yoga pays off-- I am a perfect fit!

Final shot: Triumph! We are back on shore, hosing off the S.S. McShitty before checking it back in to the marina, where they will have to take it out back and shoot it like Ol' Yeller. To my utter shock, the man behind the counter seems only mildly surprised at our misfortune. "Yup," he replies, "it's the corrosion. Saltwater gets up in there and before you know it--" snap! He makes a cracking motion with his fists.

Huh. I guess this was covered in the waiver on which I scrawled my name in those heady, pre-sail moments, but still. No hero's welcome? No props for cheating death?

We settle for a blessed retreat to the back seat of my car where we struggle into dry clothes, tangling elbows and feet, both threatening to throw open the doors and alert bystanders to the presence of moon-white naked ass, and, finally, laughing about a good story to tell.