By Sister Clean

Greetings to all of my irreverent friends and enemies…it’s been a while.  My brother, Mr. Clean, told me his next SA article was turning out to be rather serious and introspective so I figured it was time to step up and take some of the piss out of the soon-to-be-posted Clean Report with something quite the opposite.  Some light reading for you about the antics of a new sailor girl…the Sailing Virgin Update.

Some of you like us Cleans, some of you hate us and quite frankly, neither of us gives a crap.  I apologize to those of you who liked my confessions for not updating you sooner, but I actually do have a life, pathetic as it may be at the moment. In addition to caring for my quite hilarious almost 4-year-old son (who loves race cars, race boats and farting) and meeting with lawyers to determine the future of my life, I’ve been kinda busy doing some other really important things…like learning to sail.

After wandering into this sailing thing by accident in Key West and then on purpose in Miami, I confessed on SA that the sport (the actual sailing part, not just the social part) was interesting to me – and at the very least it seemed a bit more exciting than golfing at the country club. Though I had a few vocal doubters, I really wasn’t joking. There were those who did their best to kick my newbie ass after I poured my heart out, doubting not only whether I was a real person but whether I was worthy of publishing on this critically-acclaimed, Pulitzer-prize-winning journalistic website. I will respond collectively to those who doubted whether I would become a sailor in the only appropriate way…as my dear friend from the Deep South likes to say…FUCK Y’ALL!

Sting Rays and Multihulls in Grand Cayman

After Miami’s debauchery in March, my next trip was to Grand Cayman in April. I spent two days learning to sail on a Hobie Wave in the bathtub-warm waters of the Caribbean, and not only did this single mom learn to fly a hull, right a cat (on purpose, I swear!) and tack and gybe, but look who else got his first ride on a sailboat.

A 50-foot trimaran, no less.  Nephew Clean spent the entire ride back from Stingray City passed out cold on the trampoline.  The kid took to boat like white on rice.  In fact if he was holding a beer and was bald he would have looked just like my brother. Thankfully, pre-Steve Irwin, my boy & I got to swim up close and personal and feed the beautiful rays.

After a near-perfect introduction to sailing, I would move on to the less hospitable waters of Lake St. Clair and the Detroit River in the Adult “Learn-To-Sail” program at a legendary Detroit yacht club that we’ll just call “Harborside” to avoid any, shall we say, “political” issues.

On a ridiculously cold Tuesday night in May, I boarded a Beneteau 325 for my first actual race.  There seemed to be too many people aboard the boat, and I might have learned something had I not been completely in the way. And did I mention that, despite the 55-degree weather, I was barefoot?  Although Clean promised to make sure I had all the gear I needed, he somehow forgot to tell me that I couldn’t get on a boat with my black-soled Nike Shox. My first race was completely unforgettable. I was cold, I was useless and my toes turned blue.

But apparently a certain masochistic tendency is required to sail and I do have that in spades. Although Clean wasn’t taking any chances that my irresistible need for self-punishment would ensure I didn’t give up. To guarantee that I didn’t get discouraged, my brother decided that my next ride would be on a hot and sunny Saturday on the little old I-14 he bought. Though I later learned some very accomplished sailors consider an old 14 to be a death trap, I have to say that Clean knows his big sis. It was out of control fun to fly down the river. I was trapping with my back skimming the water and managed to capsize while trying to reach down in the water to pick up a can of beer that some “hooDlum” passerby chucked to windward.  Then we capsized again just for the fun of it. After finishing off the warm summer day with some adult beverages on the lawn in front of the yacht club, I was definitely ready for more sailing.

My Sailing Gear: The Ugly Shoes

But first there are the shoes. Prior to the arrival of a dodgy sailor who tries every now and then to kick the princess out of me for sport, I wouldn’t walk out of the house with less than a 3" heel on my feet. I know, I know...why am I talking about this on SAILING ANARCHY? Before all of you who grew up in the sailing life stick your noses up in reverse snobbery or complete incomprehension just keep an open mind. If sailing becoming more mainstream? Do you want more female sailors? If yes, you will have to deal with those people whose parents and grandparents didn’t get them on a sailboat while in diapers. So, for this new sailor girl, one of the most traumatizing things I had to face so far in sailing is the ugly shoes. I needed sailing shoes for my class and for the various boats I’d be crewing on. So, I went to the marine stores and scoured the Internet only to find that sailing shoes are some of the most hideous footwear ever invented.

Anyway, after weeks of searching, finding nothing even remotely attractive, I finally broke down and bought what lots of other local sailors around recommended – Keens. Ah, my Keens…for those of you who just came out of a coma or who live in Europe, Keens are footwear resembling the mutant child of Birkenstocks, Tevas and a podiatrist’s orthotics.

These footwear abortions upon my feet; upon the feet of a girl who has the cell phone number of the Neiman Marcus shoe salesman programmed in her Treo. I don’t know whether it’s part of the sailing metamorphosis, but, in spite of their hideousness, I absolutely freaking love them! Combine that with the shocking truth that I was way more excited at receiving a birthday gift of top-of-the-line Henry Lloyd TP foul weather gear from an English pirate than anything from my good Italian friends (Prada or Gucci), and I’d say there was a revolution at hand.

NOODs and Dudes

Although I wasn’t able to actually sail at the Detroit NOOD regatta in early June, I did take nephew Clean down to the yacht club to watch the boats come in and he even got to go on our local celebrity, Napoleon Dynamite’s Melges 24. After the Friday night party, I was completely done for the rest of the weekend. It was a blessing that I was not crew for any boat that weekend. I’m still trying to piece together the whole thing and understand, for purely academic reasons of course, what is the evolution of the fraternity-like atmosphere of the post-sailing parties and regattas. I promise to dedicate myself wholeheartedly to researching this phenomenon and any information you, dear reader, can provide would be very much appreciated. 

For the record, the winner of the most idiotic sailor award of that weekend goes to the dude from Ohio that was knocked unconscious on the water Friday, brought to the hospital with a concussion, released with bandages on his head and who went straight to THE PARTY FRIDAY NIGHT AND STARTED DRINKING.   

In my typical fashion, I figured I’d start sailing slowly, take my classes, get my feet wet at local races and work my way up from there. So what was next? Well, in the end of July, I headed across the pond to take part in my very first regatta: a small, low-key affair that they call Cowes Week.

Before the sleeping pill kicked in, I spent part of my British Airways flight obsessing over the fact that I didn’t have time to get my usual pre-trip pedicure. Another blond moment for the new sailor girl. After a few days in Cowes on the lovely Isle of Wight off the coast of southern England, the only thought of my toes was whether they were still attached to my body and a periodic check to see if they were bruised, bloody, wet or cold.

The very first night, I knew that I would have black & blue marks all over my body from “sailing” on the J/92. J’ronimo, helmed by the father of well known UK sailors the Greenhalgh brothers, was where I got my feet wet (as well as the rest of my body) in true English style. I don’t know what my Pirate had to promise the Papa Greenhalgh to get me on the boat...on second thought maybe I don’t really want to know.

As we left the flat and headed down to High Street, it was a lovely 70-degree day. I asked my Pirate if I’d need my foul weather gear for the sailing. He assured me I would. “But, it’s so warm” I said. “Can’t I just bring the bottoms?” He looked at me in that special way (as if I was a mental patient) and suggested (ordered me) to bring ALL of my foul weather gear. After about 14 seconds on the water, and figuring out what “blowing 20 – 25 knots” meant, I understood. After about 3 minutes upwind I began wondering where I could get fleece on the island despite the fact that it was early August.  

My only task for the first day was to move from one side of the boat to the other as fast as possible. Hey, I thought, I’m athletic. I work out. I can totally do this. Reality set it pretty quickly after a few elephant-like maneuvers. I started to get frustrated. That tends to happen when the 20-year-old med student/sailing chick can kick my ass every which way ‘til Sunday. Now I completely love her (Tony) for teaching me stuff, and I’m all for girl power so I’m happy to see talented girl sailors but it was a bit of a mental challenge to be quite so obviously unskilled. After a few more tacks, I got my ego in check and decided I’ve got to learn somehow, so I began to try and perfect my technique for crossing the cabin top on the tack. Ever the student, I began testing out different variations for getting over. I started having conversations in my head…”float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” and other ridiculous thoughts came to mind.

I tried small baby steps over the hatch; I tried knees first and then to swing over. However, my favorite was when all of a sudden the boat tacked, got caught by a big puff, and in that split second I thought… “head first…yeah, head first is good…” and sure enough I went shooting over the boat head first as we tacked (and broached). My head hit the deck in complete Jackass-style. All I remember thinking at that point, on this moderately breezy Cowes day (25 knots) besides “thank god Clean wasn’t here to witness that” was “DO NOT FALL in the water…DO NOT fall in the water…” and I held on to the rail for dear life. Eventually the boat stopped broaching, we completed the tack and mildly concussed I hiked out and tried to decide whether or not I was going to live, what my suburban Michigan friends would say if they could see me and finally how great a scene Johnny Knoxville and Steve-O could do on a sailboat.

Before Cowes Week, the last time I had more than one beer was in high school. Cowes Week managed to do what countless boyfriends, football (American football, that is) and the microbrewery fad failed to do. I started drinking beer. After 6 hours sailing the Solent, nothing looks quite as good as the 24 lukewarm Heinekens thrown to your boat by the Heineken RIB if you fly their flag. After crossing the line, boat after boat furled their jib, dropped their main and hoisted the green Heineken flag. At last I felt some comfort and familiarity – it wouldn’t be real if some company didn’t try and milk it for all its worth. The esteemed Cowes Week, the oldest regatta in the world, 180 years of history, over 1000 boats, 10,000 sailors, friends and family of sailors all cramped on an island in a town built for a tenth of that, tons of sailing history and….a couple hundred underdressed Eastern European girls imported to work for ₤5 an hour to sell beer. God Bless America! I saw only about 3 USA sails during the entire week, but the good ole’ USA was there in the spirit of commercialism.    

I checked on SA briefly one day from the lone Internet café on the island and there wasn’t much detail or accuracy to some of the reports from Cowes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t capable of adding to the banter at the time for certain reasons...like the ability to stand upright or form a complete thought. I did find my sea legs pretty quickly…my drinking legs…not so much. 

By the way, I now know that my history professors and the books have it ALL wrong. I know why England lost the empire. I know why. They were drunk.  The drink tents in Cowes went all week long and until about 2 am every night. Not drink “tent” for those of you who think Key West is a big regatta. Tents, plural. Skandia Tents. Champagne Tents. UKSA Tents. Heinekin Tents. The BIG TENT. The Shepherd’s Wharf Tent. And everyone, and I mean EVERYONE is required to drink. Not just the junior sailors, not just the 20-something boys, not just the guys with a few days away from the family…I’m talking 70 year old grandmothers & grandfathers drinking with their 18 year old grandchildren. I’m talking moms & dads sitting outside the tents with the toddlers and infants passed out in their bugaboo strollers (was that Magners hard cider in the sippy cup?). I’m talking groups of women drinking more than an entire American bachelor party in Vegas. In fact, I think if you check, drinking in the tents post-race might actually be part of the official UK sailing rules.

To get the full measure of what I am talking about, consider this. We awoke the first morning in the adorable (by Isle of Wight standards anyway) 2 bedroom rented flat near town to noise coming from downstairs. We went downstairs and there was a guy sleeping on the sofa in the front room. Someone we had never seen before. The conversation went like this:

English Pirate: “Excuse me. Who are you?”
Uninvited Visitor: “I’m Alex. From Australia.”
English Pirate: “What are you doing here?”
Uninvited Visitor: “I have no idea.”
English Pirate: “Well, how did you get here?”
Uninvited Visitor: “I have no idea.”
English Pirate: “We got in about 2 am. When did you arrive?”
Uninvited Visitor: “I have no idea.”
English Pirate: “Right.”

Alex said goodbye and off he went to sail. While I freaked out about the stranger in the house, I realized I was having culture shock on top of just the general shock at actually sailing in a regatta for the first time. Even though they speak English in the U.K., the sheer number of boats, the long point to point races (5 hours), the late starts because of the tides and the wind in the Solent (12:30 pm starts for our class most days) and the copious amounts of alcohol resulted in me feeling a bit like I was inhabiting a parallel universe.

And then I went to the Royal Yacht Squadron.  Unlike Mr. Clean, a pre-Sailing Anarchy anarchist who has rejected any form of private organizations, especially those formed by rich, white, men with visions of grandiosity, I have actually belonged to two private country clubs and been a guest at others so it all just tickled me silly. The hats, the traditions, the wall of awards and memorabilia located outside the restrooms…it all was so funny. My English Pirate escorted me one evening to the Royal Yacht Squadron for a cocktail party and he explained the history of what is referred to by some simply as “The Squadron.”  We walked into the garden and were immediately surrounded by a sea of blue blazers of questionable cut and quality (all with brass buttons!) and women dressed in the most unfashionable fashions I have ever had the misfortune of seeing in one place. Apparently, sailing and fashion have yet to converge (start a forum, I don’t care. I’ll NEVER lose this argument). Nevertheless, the English are very proper and polite and everyone from the youngest teen to the oldest codger was happily compliant in their dress code, honored to stand in the presence of yachting history (or was it the free alcohol?). Even my English Pirate and his totally anarchist friends managed to pull ironed button down shirts and navy blazers out of their sailing bags for the Squadron events. This must explain why all the boys wore the same smelly sailing clothes the rest of the week. They needed room for those blue blazers.

I surveyed the crowd and in true in-your-face style I inquired of the men as to the punishment if one sported a jacket of a different color. I couldn’t help it…the blatant and unquestioning conformity with the rules and regulations was totally grating on my independent American sensibilities. They didn’t understand the question....why would anyone considering wearing something besides a blue blazer? In this finely irreverent sport, I was at this point confounded by the British sailors compliance and reverence for this charming yet anachronistic club where white haired men wearing captain costumes complete with captains hats set off little cannons for the starts. I felt like I was watching my son play with his toys. After I managed to offend several women wearing poly-blend floral t-length dresses, who actually were able to keep their mouths completely shut while speaking (to avoid flying penises I presumed), I begged my Pirate to take me to bed or lose me forever. But I digress. Moving on to yet another tent, to the J/boat party. Things get…well…a little foggy after a while.

Basilica and the Badger

One of the days J’ronimo decided not to sail because Papa Greenhalgh got a ride on ABN AMRO. So Pirate & I, along with some friends, decided to take out the RIB, go to lunch on the river and go out and play with Basilica, the Extreme 40 catamaran some of my Pirate’s friends claim to “work” on. Indeed, it is a very cool boat but I just didn’t understand what they meant by working. Will someone please define “work” for me? As far as I can tell, these boys get paid to go fast on a boat and showboat at sailing events. Call me crazy but I’d say someone is being taken for a ride…

Then there were the guys who told me they got paid to take businesspeople on sailboats for Cowes Week (Sunsails) and the businesspeople were paid by their companies to sail on the sailboats for Cowes Week. Do you know the English take off an average 30+ vacation days per year? The French, Italians and Spanish push it to about 35+ days off a year. Do you know how many days Americans take off on average? Under 10.  Is this good or bad?  I’m once again conflicted. My reaction to the work ethic and the days off over here is to be simultaneously appalled and jealous.  

No regatta would be complete without loads of practical jokes. Pirate & I mischievously plotted and came up with a brilliant plan. A friend from the south coast who shall remain nameless (we’ll call him “Dad”), who we love in spite of his neuroses, earned the right to have his boat renamed because of a slight tendency to forget his manners. After some carefully placed calls and a well-executed stealth mission carried out prior to leaving the Isle of Wight, the SB3 “Badger Racing” was renamed…

After some time to reflect, I have concluded that I won Cowes Week. I won a weeks worth of bruises, a swollen and purple ankle, several days worth of sailing in a huge regatta, a week without a single decent meal (except for the Tiffins sandwiches), a week without my Starbucks, a Cowes 2006 Bacardi hat, 6th place overall in a class of 9 boats, a few headaches, a week of new experiences and new friends and good times. There’s even more I won and more I lost, but some things must remain close to my heart.     

“Hot Chicks Hot Racing” or the 3rd Annual Women’s Invitational Regatta

Thank god for my son, otherwise coming back to Michigan after Cowes Week would have been like returning home after the end of summer vacation.

2 weeks after Cowes, no longer broken I was invited to sail in my first local regatta. After a day of racing clinics and match racing exhibitions by some hotshot sailor girls and boys, race day was upon us. The 3rd Annual Women’s Invitational Regatta, complete with local sponsors like “American Laser Hair Removal Centers,” was a totally different experience. It was a whole bunch of sailor girls, from total amateurs (me) to pros and everything in between, racing in 24 boats on the Detroit River. Because there were not enough women boat owners, several of the local male boat owners graciously lent their boats to the girls…and managed to refrain (at least within earshot) from any “women driver” jokes and off we went. I was aboard Cujo, a Melges 24, helmed by world-class match racer, Sandy Hayes and another near-pro racer Sandy Svoboda.

And I won again! This time, due to the outstanding skills of our ringers and our good luck charm (9 year old Marin), we managed to come in 1st place (we got the gun!) overall in the Melges 24 class. Although my arms were sore from pulling the kite down over and over and over, I still managed to get the tiaras atop my teammates’ heads and feather boas around our necks for our photo op.

Watching Sandy do her starts and guide our team to victory was inspiring, especially since her experience on a Melges 24 was nominal.

I also raced some local regattas where highlights included public nudity, beer for breakfast, drunk and disorderly conduct and a guy who looked remarkably like the “Great Gazoo” dressed entirely in green, but apparently that is all normal around here. I must say, it’s been quite a ride so far and yes, in spite of the exhaustion, the hours of preparation, the annoyingly steep learning curve involved in taking up a new sport at this stage in life, I’m hooked and coming back for more. I’ve learned about the sails, the lines and the difference between tacking and gybing. I know what a halyard is and have learned to coil a line and tie a bowline. I’ve furled the jib, dropped the kite and put more vang on. I’ve raised the spinnaker, trimmed the main and jib and I spent many hours hiking out.

I am still dangerous because a little bit of knowledge is always scary, but I know I’ll be okay as long as I keep one hand for me and one for the boat and continue learning. I think I’ll stick with it. It’s a lifestyle and a hobby and a sport all in one.  It’s not just the people…like any subculture, it’s populated with a wide swath of humanity; some wonderful, some horrible, some tolerable, a few fun people who I hope are in my life forever, some who I wish I never lay eyes on again and a very select few who I absolutely adore. It’s also that no matter what is going on in “real life” at the moment, when you are on the water everything seems like it’s going to be ok. Whether you’re trimming, driving, doing bow or simply rail meat or whether you are on a big boat, a small boat, a race boat, or a cruiser, life is good. Now I get it. No worries. I’m for real and I’ll be back for more.