Sailing the waters of San Francisco bay can be a humbling experience for anyone. During the summer, the heat rising from the sunbaked central valley brings the cold Pacific wind shrieking through the gaps between the lumpy, heaped up mountains. The tides can run fiercely in all kinds of unexpected directions. The saying is that if you can sail San Francisco bay, you can sail anywhere. If you happen to have some motor planning challenges and a touch of ADD, as I do, sailing the bay can get downright intimidating.
Last week, I took a three-day course on basic coastal cruising offered by the American Sailing Association. (More about this later.) Just the week prior, I had accompanied two novice sailors on an easy sail in the semi-protected waters off Point Richmond. My companions looked to me for advice, reassurance and a bit of safety. When our 22-foot Catalina caught the 15-18 knot breeze and tilted steeply – as it’s designed to do, I heard a sharp intake of breath from one of my companions.
“You OK?” I asked.
“A little scared.”
I patted his knee, in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture, and tried to explain how the weight of the keel counter-balances the wind on the sails and keeps the boat stable.
By the end of the day, I think we were all enjoying ourselves, even the fellow who had held his breath as our boat responded to that first burst of wind. For myself, I left the boat aglow with a quiet sense of accomplishment – I had played a role in creating an experience that was challenging, thrilling and safe for two strangers.
Then, came my basic coastal cruising class. The point of this course was prepare me to skipper larger cruising sailboats – the kinds with inboard marine diesel engines and water, toilet, propane and electrical systems that make life comfortable on a weekend cruise. To turn day-sailors into competent cruising skippers.
For reasons not entirely beyond my control, I didn’t get beyond the first chapter of the course textbook before the first class. Still, I figured I’d catch up on the reading in the evenings after class. Besides, muscle memory would help with on-the-water, seamanship work. Afterall, I’d passed the prerequisite “Basic Keelboat Sailing” course with flying colors.
To my shock and embarrassment, these assumptions didn’t pan out. During the three painful days on the bay, every one of my limitations as a sailor was exposed: my ADD, my bouts of physical awkwardness, my sometimes shaky grasp of the rules of the road. Certainly, the instructor’s pedagogy didn’t always sync well with the way I learn best. Several times when I reached for my notebook to jot something down, he’d question the relevance of note-taking: “Oh, don’t bother taking notes. Remember, the most important stuff you have to learn by doing.” (OK, I thought, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to have some notes to help me remember what you’re explaining, right?)
One of my major goals for the course was to get a better handle on marine diesel engines. Peering into into a dimly lit engine compartment while the instructor casually toured the array of mysterious but non-descript cylinders, hoses and tubes leading into and out of the engine, a leaden voice inside my head began to repeat a certain two-word phrase with gathering certainty: “You’re screwed.”
By the third and final day of the class, I was found myself wondering if I’d pass the course. There were reasons for hope: My helmsmanship wasn’t too bad. Plus, the people who owned the sailing club might want my instructor to give a borderline student the benefit of the doubt, and he probably knew this. These days, almost every kind of teaching is seen through the lens of “customer service.”
On our way back to the clubhouse, the instructor took me aside for a private word.
“Honestly, I have concerns about your taking one of these boats out as skipper. One of the things I’m looking for in this course is a command presence, and I don’t see that in you right now. I’d like you to take a review course and then re-assess. Talk to someone at the front desk about scheduling the review course.”
How is it possible for me, the experienced and confident sailor who kept his day-sailing companions safe on San Francisco bay, to face such a reckoning? Sure, there was my poor preparation and the instructor’s poor pedagogy. But there was also the bay itself, the complex physics of sail, wind, and current that will expose any weakness, any lack of preparation or readiness.
Oh, I haven’t given up. I’ll apply a compress to my bruised ego. I’ll register for the review class. Before the class meets, I’ll thoroughly read the textbook and practice the maneuvers our instructor demonstrated. And I’ll pass. Perhaps, some failures are a form of preparation. If so, I’ll be as prepared as anyone.
