In the fall of 1965, I bought my first sailboat, a Penguin class just 12 feet in length. When I first saw it tied up in a marina in Kinsale, Virginia, I fell in love with it. I asked the seller for the price, and he said $300. For me, that was an unimaginable amount of money, yet I was determined. I set about doing any chore I could to raise the cash. For a few months I cut grass and sold things I no longer wanted (including a trombone, the third in a line of instruments I did not master.) I was a lousy musician anyway and sailing seemed like something where I could attain better success.
In time, I raised the money and bought the object of my affection. Designed as a recreational craft, the Penguin class sailboat was built predominantly of plywood with wood trim. It had a catboat rig, that is, a sailboat with a single mainsail. With a plumb stem and transom, a transom-hung rudder controlled by a tiller, and a retractable centerboard as its keel, it sailed nicely in either deep or shallow water.
So, when I brought it back to our home in Richmond’s Fan District, I was eager to get it in the water the following summer. Yet I had one more challenge to surmount. I didn’t know how to sail and wasn’t really sure how I would learn that skill.
Then I was presented with a great opportunity. In the spring of 1966, I was a member of my high school track team. I participated in the 440-yard dash track category and tried my hand at discus for a field event. I enjoyed both, until after a very strenuous practice, I experienced acute appendicitis. The next day I was in the hospital, where that organ was promptly removed with my physician father participating in the surgical team.
When I woke up later in my hospital bed, “Dr. Dad” was there to assure me I was in good shape. He asked me if there was anything in particular that I wanted as I recovered. I think he expected me to ask for ice cream. But imagine his surprise when I asked for a sailing book, specifically one that could teach me how to master that art. He promptly produced one for me that afternoon and for several days I dove into its pages.
I learned every sailing term, including the navigation “rules of the road,” how to tie knots, different types of buoys, and how to handle the wind and weather while sailing. From my hospital bed I imagined how I would do what the book prescribed to sail on my own. I was determined. And the following summer and several seasons afterwards, I sailed that dingy like I had been attached to it when it was built, not once capsizing it. I had found something in my youth where I could excel. That sailboat for me was an ideal of life.
In the years that would follow, the opportunities to sail were diminished after I entered the Army. But I never gave up my love of sailing. Eventually I would purchase a 22-foot Catalina sloop that brought our family much fun until the kids grew older and preferred other pursuits. In time I would find that I was the only one in my family still wanting to sail. And as I grew busier with life, there was less time for sailing. However, what never slipped away were the memories and my fascination with sailboats.
In the years since I imagined sailing from the confines of a hospital bed, I have come to appreciate the symbolism of a sailboat in understanding life. There is a worldview that works with the reliability of a sailing craft.
We all need principles for life that get us through both the clear and the rough sailing we encounter. Good ideals have the attributes of a well-made sailboat. For instance, does your ideal have a keel that keeps you upright during the storms of life? Does it have a sail to capture the wind and power you forward? Is there a rudder that steers you accurately regardless of the origin of the wind? And is there a tiller that guides you as you ply the waters of life? Sailboats have all of these aspects. But what of your life ideal? Does it keep you from capsizing? Will it power you without fail? Does it have a rudder to ensure you remain on course and a tiller you can grasp to assure steady progress? Does the source of your ideal in life have these things?
I learned to sail from a hospital bed. Later I found a better sailing book inspired by a Jewish carpenter.
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