Last Summer's Day Sail

 

I throw the tiller over in a roll the other way, and we’re off to port, however, a monstrous wave soaks us considerably… “Oh yeah, Dad…” says Fred’s daughter, “I forgot.  I have tennis at four.”  Meanwhile, we’re quickly coming to understand that we’re drenched to the bone, in cold saltwater, and feeling the shock of life in us… we don’t fly long on that reach because we’re on the backs of jolly swells, and the drinks are particularly thought tenderizing—the ones in the vibrating cup holders… now, the harbor feels further than it really is… “Should we jibe?” I ask Fred, but he’s attending to his daughter’s current life-jacket situation, so I make the brilliant decision not to jibe (because we could possibly die—or it feels like dying), but the helm is fighting me like a marlin, and I keep slipping down the cockpit’s sheer wetness… so by the time I overshoot the mooring, Fred has jumped onto the bow to save the day… and as we begin to furl the main (of which I put the jib cover on), I’m just then starting to think that Fred’s daughter is a pretty smart girl…