We left Victoria, after five months of winter and life-changing events. We headed down around Trial Island. Past Discovery Island. Across the central part of the Juan de Fuca Strait, on our way to Friday Harbor. It was a lovely day. Mostly sunny. Breezy. But not too.
Erik looked me in the eyes and asked if I wanted to sail. I hesitated, knowing I could say “no,” and met his gaze, his face blank as he tried not to show how much this meant. I asked which sail, since the jib is much smaller than the main, and the boat heels much less.
Erik answered, “Both.”
I was gripped by fear as my stomach fell coldly to my feet. Barely breathing, I said in someone else’s voice, “Sure.”
“Yep.” (I was not sure, but that was what came out.)
And so we sailed.
We hit a few glitches as tasks were remembered, maybe a little out of order. But the jib went up smoothly. Beautiful navy blue border against the pale blue sunshine. A couple of adjustments and we felt a little lift as the sail took some of the strain off the engine.
Raising the mainsail, a full 534 square feet of power, was slightly less smooth but still remarkable, given that it had been seven months since the last time it was raised.
Attention must be paid when raising a sail that big and “roachy” (a triangle where the hypotenuse is not a straight line but more an angle arching out and down to the boom). It’s easy for the sail to catch on lazy jack lines as it is lifted 65 feet in the air, so there is the occasional catch-and-back-down-before-going-back-up maneuver. The windier it is, the more likely the sail is to catch, so it was good that the winds were present, but not overpowering.
Erik immediately noticed, of course, that the sail hadn’t reached the top of the mast. After careful perusal, he saw the main halyard was wrapped around another line. It had to be lowered, adjusted, and raised again.
That meant that Erik had to climb a small way up the mast to remove the halyard, reroute and refasten it. I was not convinced this had to be done at sea, but he assured me that with the mast steps he had installed over the winter, everything would be fine.
So there we were, Erik partway up the mast, me at the wheel, my face set in a line of grim determination, and all the while I’m playing the “What do I do if Erik falls off the mast” game. (Similar to the “What do I do if the mast falls down” game which is used to stay alert on long days.)
And you know what, everything was fine. He did not fall off the mast. The sail did not tip us into the ocean. I did not crash us into rocks that were two miles away.
The winds died down a short time later, and we lowered the sails. But as is often the case, as soon as we were back on course, we hit wind. Erik smiled and said, “Let’s put the sails up again!”
UP they went … again.
And everything was fine. We were back on the boat. We sailed. And it was ok.