Columbus Monthly / October 2010 / Finale: He said, she said

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Finale: He said, she said

Columbus Monthly editor Ray Paprocki and his wife, Columbus Monthly Homes editor Sherry Beck Paprocki, took sailing lessons together through the Hoover Sailing Club at Hoover Reservoir. Here are their versions of the six sessions spread over three weeks this summer.

His

Although I fare reasonably well at athletic pursuits, I have to admit my confidence level with watercraft is about the same as trying to defuse a pipe bomb blindfolded. I’m exaggerating, but you get the point. Sherry has been talking about learning to sail for many years, however, so in June I gave her the gift of discovering the joys of tacking and jibbing for her birthday.

My main priority before we began was to protect my wife from bodily harm. Unfortunately, that mission wasn’t quite accomplished. While I never felt completely in control of our 14-foot, two-person dinghy, I learned enough to get us around in calm waters. But then there was the boom incident, which I’ll let Sherry explain, and the Lesson from Hell.

On that particular Thursday, the wind was rippling the normally placid Hoover Reservoir, causing whitecaps to crash ashore. We stood there, our faces wrinkled by the G-forces, staring at the beast before us. Although many in our class probably wanted to scream, “Don’t make us sail!,” no one did, perhaps secretly hoping that when the lead instructor arrived, he would have the good sense not to send this cast of newbies into the great maw of impending doom.

Instead, all of us listened as his two assistants—a combined age younger than most of the students—calmly, but not reassuringly, talked about how to maneuver the tiny craft in “heavy wind.” We gamely nodded when asked if we were ready to launch, but still cast our gazes toward the door, looking for the head teacher to ride to the rescue.

Tentatively, the boats were rigged and wheeled toward the dock. Then, like the cavalry coming over the hill, the instructor appeared. But instead of sending us to the safety of our homes, he enthusiastically embraced this idea that seemed similar to dropping folks out of an airplane with an umbrella to slow their descent.

So, dutifully I set sail into the foamy abyss with Sherry working as the crew. As if shot from a cannon, we sped along, gaining momentum, the boat rocking uncontrollably, rising, rising, rising on one side as we scrambled to balance the bullet hurtling to destinations unknown.

But still we tipped even higher, until gravity triumphed over prayers and we were cast unmercifully into the angry wake. God save us all.

Happy birthday, Sherry.

Hers

It was after the fifth of six sailing lessons when Ray told me something new: As a child he decided he was better at sports if his feet were on solid ground.

He tells me this an hour after our most harrowing lesson in wind. After we’ve flipped the sailboat upside down (an accident called turtling), after we’ve climbed on top the toppled boat and pulled it into a capsized position.

This capsized position was good because we already had mastered recovery from capsizing. Just minutes before, in fact, we had mastered that.

For many years, I have wanted to sail. For my birthday, Ray gave me three choices—the other two being more spectator in nature, such as seeing Jersey Boys in another city. I could tell by the slight change in his expression that he was surprised that I chose the only participant sport.

Sailing would be so peaceful, I thought, just floating on water, connected only to wind, clearing our heads of deadline pressures.

I wasn’t at all nervous on the first Monday evening lesson. The weather was hot, the water was cool and certainly this wouldn’t be too hard in the following lessons, with three rescue boats on the water with us and five other boats. The test came on the second lesson.

Juggling tasks, as any careerist mom knows, is important. I pride myself on this ability. In the case of sailing, that meant being able to hold the mainsail rope while steering the boat with the tiller. While I drove, I would even offer Ray some advice about managing the front sail, the jib.

In one swoop of the weighty boom—the steel bar that supports the mainsail and handily swings back and forth with the wind—everything I ever thought about the wonders of juggling went overboard with the increasing size of the purple bump in the middle of my forehead. If you think life comes at you fast, try a flailing boom with an inexperienced sailor.

Ray jumped up, ready to leap over the center of the boat to help. I yelled, afraid his movement would capsize us. This was the first time instructors Jamie, Minnow, Steve and others helped. I had learned to focus and we bumbled through other lessons, including the windy one when we mastered capsize recovery.

Now that I know how Ray feels about his feet on steady ground, I’m doubting another sailing adventure.