My father loves four things in the world: my mother, my sister, me, and his sailboat. He spent his childhood on the water of Buzzard’s Bay, Massachusetts in dinghies, kayaks, and sailboats, occasionally gaining or losing one with each serious hurricane. It’s fitting, of course, that he proposed to my mom on his sailboat, his first pride and joy. His attempts to teach my sister and I how to sail began as soon as we were finally old enough to swim and strong enough to help pull in the lines.
Every sunny Saturday during the summer, we pile into our green SUV, a large cooler full of turkey sandwiches, iced tea, and fruit wedged in between my sister and me in the back seat. When we arrive at the harbor, I become the first mate of our little inflatable dinghy. After zipping up my puffy, bright orange life jacket, I slide into the seat opposite my dad next to the motor. With a yank of the handle, the motor starts to sputter and the propeller churns up the salty water below.
I rest my tiny hand on the tiller, turning it from left to right to adjust the speed. My dad’s hand always starts out just beside mine to ensure that I have it under control. He uses big words and sailing jargon that have eventually become second nature to me, but at first seemed like a foreign language. “Pull up along the port side,” he instructs as he points to the left side of the sailboat when we approach the mooring. “Tie us up to this cleat – you know, the way I taught you,” he says, gesturing to the little metal appliance on deck and reminding me to wrap twice and then loop the line. “We’re just going to use the jib today; can you help me pull it out?” he asks, handing me a line attached to the sail at the bow of the boat.
Once we leave the channel and let the wind propel us forward, I am my father’s reflection. He sits at the helm with his hand on the gleaming silver wheel, looking out onto the water silently as I sit beside him doing the same. Every so often he lets me take over, directing me which way to turn the wheel with a simple point of his finger. The loud, ceaseless voices of my mom and sister float along with the wind, yet my dad and I remain silent. Sometimes he points to a house on the water and tells me about who grew up there, what their parents were like, and how they used to play football in the middle of the street together. “You know that all the seagulls and cormorants flock to Bird Island because of the dead bodies buried there, right?” he even tries to convince me as we pass the little island with the lighthouse. I know by his gleaming eyes and joking voice to simply roll my eyes at him.
Please Read On...
Nomadic. Storyteller. 
Them All!
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