By Sister Clean

Jib, gybe, kite, chute, stick, tack, sprit, prod, guy, sheet, sailing anarchy…WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU CRAZED TESTOSTERONE-FILLED FREAKS TALKING ABOUT?

Until January 2006, all I knew about my brother's "other" life was that I never saw him on weekends, Tuesdays or Wednesday nights from May until October. In spite of our close sibling relationship I never really cared and he never really shared. He did his thing, I did mine and never the twain shall meet. Whatever it was he did when he went off my radar scope seemed to keep him happy and healthy and as the big sister, that's all I really cared about. All this changed a few months ago, when I lost my sailboat racing virginity.

You, dear reader, need to understand my relationship with my brother a bit to follow this story. Because of the thousands of pranks he's played on me over the years, I feel no guilt sharing some of tough guy MR. CLEAN's history that he likely never shared with the Sailing Anarchy family lest it ruin his, ummm, reputation. This "kid" went from U of Colorado law student (code for stoner ski bum), to baby lawyer in San Diego (code for stoner sail/surf bum) to gypsy boat captain with nothing to worry about beyond what kind of fish he caught for dinner and how much rum was left (code for plain ol' stoner bum), to corporate working stiff with a weekly paycheck, house in the 'burbs, car, blackberry and a rockingly cool fiancée (GASP!) who speaks English as her first language and who, despite the bullshit he spouts on the forums, doesn't have "exotic dancer" on her resumé.

Like everything he does, my brother just up and left the 100 foot long wooden boat he ran in Panama without a thought or plan in his big bald head. He simply decided to take a break from his water-based walkabout and rang my doorbell in Michigan a few days later. Since Clean and I hail from a long and distinguished line of abject dysfunction, I was thrilled to have my wonder twin around. He quickly fell in love with his new nephew, who you might have been fortunate enough to see on SA. Imagine my surprise when little brother decided to stay in one place for more than five minutes and make Michigan his permanently temporary (or is that temporarily permanent?) home.
Although my brother and I originally emerged from the same gene cesspool, our lives had taken widely divergent paths.

His path was adventure and total escape from responsibility, while mine led to law school, career, marriage and a child. I'm still not sure how, but soon after his arrival my bro rose to the challenge of acclimating into this small and insular suburban enclave of Detroit. Now I understand that the welcoming nature and warmth of the Detroit sailing community was a big part of this, and within weeks he was out and about more than I, with my army of friends and family. He still managed to spend time with me and my boy, but my "scene" consisted of married couples with children, mortgages, foreign SUVs and golf clubs. The scene didn't hold so much interest for a young and single anarchist, especially when there were races, parties, and gullible single girls aplenty within miles of the lakeshore. As fate would have it, instead of me molding him into a gen-x yuppie with a life of dinner parties and conversations about mutual fund rates, he gave me the tools that would rip me from the jaws of that life like hair during a brazilian wax. Thanks, bro

The path that led to the loss of this sailing virginity actually began early in 2006, when I found myself at a fork in the road. I had experienced four solid months of the brain-exploding stress of divorce and needed a break. Should I go to a fancy resort again? My dear brother suggested a different cure: A few days of sand, surf, sun and sin and some unclean living while carrying out a special mission for him. The ring, my PRECIOUS, the ring. I could have found plenty of excuses to say "no", but with the wisdom that comes with a little age and a little experience, I chose the road less traveled and did as Mr. Clean suggested. He needed me to find and bring our great-great grandmother's ring to Key West where he was racing with his soon-to-be fiancée on a Melges 24, which at that point could be next to a Kawasaki 750 and I wouldn't have known the difference. I couldn't resist the irony: One divorce, one marriage, the circle of life...Hakuna Matata.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, I arrived in Key West expecting to make fun of the geezers in blue blazers and white pants, drinking gin & tonics, and calling each other Chip or Thurston Howell the 3rd. For those of you who are already laughing, you know where this story may be headed, but before you go and post a new thread titled "newbie moron sister Clean," let me give you the full disclosure: Yes, I have blonde highlights. Yes, I have big boobs. But no, I'm not a total bimbo (except when stopped by a cop for speeding, but that's another story). I am actually an attorney, and I grew up ten minutes from the big Atlantic on Long Island. I've caught hammerheads and tuna in the gulf stream, and I do understand what it means to have sea legs. But I did NOT have a clue about sailors, sailing, or especially, racing.

While my friend and I were waiting for the Melgi to come in, a really nice guy we met (also from Michigan) took us down to the marina to watch the sailors come in after a day of racing. I began to feel really confused. Where were the blue blazers, epaulettes, captain's hats, and topsiders and who were all these cute young guys in their board shorts and neoprene, wearing Oakleys and all sorts of cool gear? And what were the big things they were carrying on their broad shoulders? I figured I must have been hallucinating with all the stress in my life. You racers don't realize that almost no one in the US even knows that sailboat racing exists. They may have some peripheral awareness of the America's Cup, but the fact that there is an entire culture that spends hundreds of millions of dollars to race sailboats is just not common knowledge, and I was getting an education. I now know I was on the dock where dozens of Swan 45s were pulling in after their intense racing, but all I knew then was that as far as the eye could see were athletic, rugged, internationally flavored dudes and a few cool-looking chicks. Detail-oriented as I am, I investigated further. I found gorgeous professional Italian sailors (what are they saying? Who cares!), buff Australians and Brits and well turned-out Americans, professionals and weekend warriors alike. My personal problems were quickly forgotten, and I started feeling like a kid in a candy store. The boats, too, were nothing at all like I had pictured in my head on the way to Florida. They were damned sexy, both the little ones with jet-black masts and neon ropes and shiny silver parts and the big, gleaming missiles with glowing teak decks, aggressive graphics and contraptions that I will probably never be able to identify. I was truly in awe. Our tour of the Andrews 68 Equation was fantastic, and yet another lesson in how little I knew about this life.

This preliminary introduction into the sail racing world was a nice little taste of something that I could only suspect was intense and amazing. Since I was only in town for two days and Cujo (bro's ride) had to deal with its broken mast the whole next day, I never got a chance to go and watch the racing on the water. It would be worth the wait.

Part 2

04/12/06