Week 14 Theme

Sailing with the Commodore can be a harrowing experience for both captain and crew especially on an empty stomach. One summer I agreed to be the sole crew on a twelve-foot sailboat with my future father-in-law, Ed, racing around the buoys between Somes Sound and Southwest Harbor. Ed had agreed to be the Commodore of the little sailing fleet that season, a post of much work and little thanks. Weather on those Friday afternoons was mostly sunny and the air refreshing and brisk compared to the muggy heat up in Bangor where I worked the rest of the week. I would finish my work early and zoom down to the coast picking up a late lunch on the way. I was already well known in my fiancée’s family for not missing a meal, or a snack, or even teatime.

One breezy Friday afternoon I stopped in Somesville at the old A.V. Higgins store for his famous rotisserie chicken. This was before the day every supermarket deli provided the same mass-produced pullet. A.V.’s chickens were raised out back of the store and flavored from an old family recipe. Matched with some homemade potato salad they had no rival in fast food. I arrived lunch in pack at Ed’s house a few minutes before we were scheduled to leave and could not find him. I saw a puff of blue smoke and recognized the engine noise of Ed’s tender. Walking next door to the dock I saw Commodore Ed intently revving the little dinghy motor checking the gas tank and looking over the engine.

He looked up as I approached and said smiling, “Don’t just stand there, cast us off. Time’s a wasting.” I did not dare mention anything about lunch even though my stomach growled almost as loud as the motor. “Make sure the spinnaker is loaded as soon as we get aboard. The race will be won or lost on the downwind run today.”

We motored out to the mooring and I jumped aboard unbuttoning the covers and unfurling the mainsail from the boom. Ed is single-minded especially when sailing and I am known to be somewhat stubborn at any time. Ed’s sole goal was to get to the starting mark in plenty of time and make a respectable finish while my rumbling tummy jabbed at me to open the pack and have a picnic.

As Ed expertly maneuvered us out of the harbor under sail I sat on the bench opposite for a moment’s rest. That gave Ed the opportunity to remind me to check and re-check that the spinnaker was ready for the first mark. Our spinnaker was a bright blue and red chevron pattern as high as the mast and three times as wide as the boat at the bottom of the sail. We kept it in a plastic, rectangular tall kitchen trash can all stuffed down in there but in a precise way. When stowed properly the two attachments for the sheets or ropes that controlled the bottom of the billowing sail and the one that hooked to the top allowing it to be hoisted aloft would stick up out of the can’s top amongst the blue and red nylon. I pulled the sail out of the can and carefully stuffed it back in perfect order for the hoist which would come at the time of maximum stress in the race just after we turned around the first mark in the race and headed downwind.

I stowed the stuffed can just below and noticed my pack and my mouth began to water. We were approaching the starting boat in the distance where several boats were already milling about. It seemed the only chance for me to gain nourishment before the race stared so I politely placed the warm chicken in my lap and opened the potato salad placing it on the bench beside me with a smile. “Would you like some?” I asked cheerfully. He stared in disbelief as I pulled out a bottle of soda and a large bag of chips.

“Oh God, how come I didn’t see that coming?” Ed said reflecting my smile. “Five minutes to the start and you have to tear into a greasy chicken. If you got that at Higgins’s make sure it’s not two weeks old.”

“Don’t worry I have napkins, and this is the best chicken money can buy.” I believed it biting into a drumstick. I followed the chicken stuffing a handful of chips into my mouth and washing it down with Orange Crush.

“Now put that away, we have work to do,” he said seriously. When I say Ed was serious about racing that’s like saying the chicken was serious about getting away from Higgins on chopping day, he was dead serious. It was more than a race; it was to prove that he was a skillful sailor.

We reached the start but I was still famished. So while Ed was darting around the start hailing others I stashed the chicken below on the shelf beside the spinnaker can figuring to make like I was fixing fast when I was really munching down.

So as we line up for the start Ed starts with barking the orders and I really do need to be told what to do because of inexperience. The orders subside and Ed is intensely monitoring the feel of the rudder, the direction of the wind we are in and look of the water ahead. He is tacking toward the first mark, going against the wind and it looks like it will take a while. So I duck under the front deck to “Look over the spinnaker” and dig into the dark meat under the wings feeling around for the little round pieces set into that bone socket under there that are so good. I grabbed a handful of chips a crunched them without fear of Ed hearing them over the wind.

“How are we doing under there?” Ed said.

Swallow, pause, “OK,” I said.

“Good, are you made fast with the spinnaker because the mark is coming up?”

“What?” I bumped my head on the under deck looking up to see the mark right there. “No I’m not”

“Well what the hell are you doing under there, get with it.” He shouted and I looked back to see fury in his eyes, the dangerous moment in this most critical enterprise.

I grabbed the sheet attached to the pulley at the top of the mast and quickly attached it to the clip and did the same for the two sheets for the bottom of the enormous sail noticing all the grease staining the rope and sailcloth but it was too late.

The mark was right there and Ed was shouting, “Jibe. Watch your head.” The boom came zooming just over my head. If my heart was not racing up to that point I noticed it then all crouched down under the swing toppling over to the opposite bench while Ed turned the boat 180 degrees. The mail sail filled and I scrambled up to see the boats in front unfurl their spinnakers. Ignoring Ed’s shouts I grabbed the pulling end of the top sheet and quickly, arm over arm hoisted up the spinnaker. The chicken flew as it never had in life and right into Ed’s lap. Potato salad dumped under foot and chips scattered over the deck. Shouts became louder in my ears but made no sense as I made fast the top sheet and grabbed the two lower sheets to trim in the spinnaker. I gave every bit of concentration to flying that sail and keeping us from falling behind. I looked up and seeing one billowing shape without twists I tuned the shape a bit with the sheets and calmed to a point where I understood that Ed was still yelling.

But whatever he said now I knew I did my most important job well. But I would have one extra job back at the mooring, scrubbing the grease off the sail, ropes and deck. I still had hopes to find a few morsels under there because I was hungrier than ever.