What Happens When Friends Let Friends Steer the Boat

Fall off a little. Head to starboard. To the right, that is. But move the tiller to the left. A little more. Too much!” I caught myself sounding a little irritated with our guests aboard Ariel, our modest 28-foot Columbia sailboat during an afternoon sail last fall.

You might think that piloting a vessel whose top speed is barely 6 knots might teach me to slow down, calm down, or at the very least, sit down. But I’ve yet to find success in any of those “down” ventures.

Having now owned Ariel for about three years, I feel that my sailing chops are adequate, but far from excellent. It seems like the more that I learn, the more I realize how little I know. And because my wife, Laura, and I are fairly new to sailing, we find ourselves learning and refining our skills together. But we probably sail with other folks aboard as often as we’re on the water with just the two of us, and there are at least as many lessons for us with this dynamic.

On that particular day last September when my frustration raised to a momentarily urgent tenor, the passengers happened to be good friends who were visiting from out of town—my high school buddy, Murph, and his wife, Lisa.

After maneuvering Ariel out of the harbor, I quickly handed over the helming duties to Lisa, who was excited to pilot the boat in the waters of Puget Sound. The experience brought back wonderful memories of her childhood in Monterey, ones that I feared I was about to trample on with my impatience.

Lisa, along with her siblings and dad, spent time on the central California bay in a small sailboat. Her experience left her comfortable and confident on the water, but unaccustomed to the nuances of Ariel and the demands of an unsteady wind, making it a challenge to maintain a predetermined course, especially with a fickle captain like myself.

For Murph, anytime on the water is a joy. During the afternoon sail, he recalled the one or two adventures he and I had aboard my dad’s Catalina 36, when the two of us had just graduated from high school. Most of his time since then has been under the water, scuba diving In the kelp forests off the coast of northern California, or exploring coral reefs in the crystal blue waters of the South Pacific. But on that recent autumn day here in the Pacific Northwest, he was eager and willing to learn more about sail trim and steering to a course.

As is the usual case when I’m sailing Ariel with just Laura or guests, I’m constantly monitoring the lines to adjust the sails, calling out orders to alter the tension of the main or jib, hoping not to sound too complicated. I often give our guests a brief lesson in sailing parlance, explaining the differences between ropes and lines, and halyards and sheets, but as a retired teacher, I know that my brief explanations may fall short of their intentions.

When I told Murph to tighten the main sheet and saw his hesitation, I corrected myself, realizing that my incomplete lesson on rope categorization was much too fast.

“Oh, sorry.” I responded. “I mean the lines. No wait, I mean the ropes. The white rope with the red stripe running through it that leads to the back of the boom.” Like other endeavors, hobbies, and sports, sailing’s special lexicon is one that can cause confusion for landlubbers.

Ariel glides along on a light breeze in Commencement Bay.

By the time that I finished reviewing the vocabulary lesson, the wind had shifted, negating my instructions and forcing us to change tack, literally. I then needed to provide a new set of directions, which involved much more than merely adjusting the sheets.

But I’m OK, I told myself. “Who cares where we end up or how fast we go? It’s a beautiful day. We’re with great friends who are in awe of the amazing vistas of the Pacific Northwest.” I did a mental check to slow down and enjoy the splendor as well.

And then I saw that the jib was back-winding. “Fall off, Lisa. Boat to the left, tiller to the right.” Ever cheerful, Lisa responded with an “Aye, aye, captain.”

Thirty seconds later, Ariel was heading into the wind again. “Lisa, fall off,” I said with a bit more impatience this time. I tried to explain. “The boat wants to head into the wind naturally, so you need to constantly fight it with an opposite tiller.”

Lisa followed my instructions, but that time with not as much conviviality, and maybe even a glimmer of mutiny brewing in her eyes. While she was determined to successfully pilot the boat, I saw her frustration with me mounting.

Laura is well aware of my Ahab-like desire to force the easy-going Ariel to her top speed given the conditions, and looked at me with a critical glare-stare that I picked up on. I reminded myself that a day on the water is not about speed, especially in our Columbia 28, with passengers aboard.

Looking north towards Vashon Island with the hope of some wind.

Some sailboats are not meant for speed, I reminded myself. They are designed with displacement hulls, essentially meaning that they float because they displace a volume of water that weighs the same as the vessel. Planing hulls are found on powerboats and racing sailboats, usually, and are designed to “lift” the boat onto the surface of the water, thereby reducing drag and resistance through the water.

When Laura and I were looking for a boat, we didn’t even consider a powerboat. Now I’m not so sure about our decision.

The downside of a sailboat’s displacement hull, if you’re looking for speed, that is, lies in the limited velocity that can be achieved. To simplify the physics, since the hull of the boat sits down in the water, its movement creates a wake, or wave, in which the boat sits. Rising out of this trough requires a tremendous amount of energy or propulsion, one which our embarrassingly small four-stroke outboard gas engine does not possess.

But I’m not interested in combustion engines, anyway. I want to push Ariel as fast as she can go with just wind power, I tell myself, “What that means is finely tuning the jib and mainsail so that the wind flows across their surfaces at just the right angle.”

It also means that I’m a little maniacal about sail adjustment. And on a mid-sized sailboat, I know there are a lot of adjustments, and ones which I have yet to really understand. The sheets can pull the sail downward, inward, or backward. The traveler adjusts the boom’s angle to the wind and the outhaul contributes to sail shape by applying tension or slack to the foot. And then there’s the boom vang, Cunningham, and backstay, which I’ve yet to tackle with confidence.

But the bottom line is, no matter what I do, 6 knots is the maximum speed that I’ll get from our tired little sloop. And moving at 6 knots on an upwind point of sail means that she’ll be heeled over at about 20 degrees—a rather uncomfortable angle for guests and ourselves alike.

Time on a boat with friends is always fun, even when the urge to over-coach is strong.

I’m not sure where I got my need for speed on the water. I’ve never owned a fast car or plane. In fact, I’ve spent the last decade or so trying to slow down, particularly in my approach to work and hobbies. With Murph’s enthusiasm aboard, however, I wanted to provide a good show, but still maintain a balance between relaxation and excitement.

While Lisa was temporarily managing to keep the sails full and the boat on course, I took a moment to look at Mt. Rainier in the distance. Its majesty slowed me down just enough to let the boat underperform. And even beyond, it allowed me to truly not care that Ariel’s speed was less than her potential given the current conditions. Besides, another reprimand of Lisa at the helm, while now almost comical in its delivery, could have dampened the mood of what had been a pleasant day on the water.

As the wind and waves picked up a bit, my mind continued to wander. I thought about another hobby of mine, born from my experiences as a carpenter. When I recalled my shift to guitar making from general construction about 10 years ago, I realized that the biggest thing that luthiery and carpentry have in common is their ‘ry’ ending. Making a guitar is more akin to surgery than sawing, with tolerances for measurements sometimes in the thousands of an inch.

I wondered how sailing fits in. On the one hand, some sail positions have large tolerances, like many measurements in carpentry. Pulling in the jib sheet a few inches has only marginal effect on overall sailing performance. On the other hand, like fine, detailed woodworking, the process and journey can be more enjoyable than the resulting destination. Maybe making small adjustments adds to the pleasure of the experience, especailly as one’s understanding deepens enough to appreciate the variations in the outcome of such miniscule tweaks of sail trim.

I snapped out of my daydream, but with a new perspective. Ariel was heading into the wind again. But this time, instead of telling Lisa to fall off yet again, I told everyone to get ready to move the sails to the other side of the boat. Murph tightened the main sheet. Laura readied the windward winch for the jib sheet, and I told Lisa to head into the wind and “keep ‘er going! A little more… a little more… OK! Tack!” And for a brief instant, I thought that maybe I could, too.

David Casey is a retired math teacher and semiprofessional woodworker and bass player. He plans on using his retirement to build a small sailboat and a kayak, and to explore the waters of southern Puget Sound.