Captain Russ, our sailing instructor, was very firm on safety rules. He did not, for example, allow us to just roam around on the boat while we were underway, probably because we would have ended up in someone's lap. This would have been awkward among us strangers, although it would have been perfectly fine during the three-day certification course, where, as Captain Russ repeatedly told us in an effort to interest us in taking it, students all become fast, enduring friends.
He also repeatedly admonished us that if we were going swimming off a boat -- which we were not engaging in that particular day, but he knew the temptation would arise eventually -- to make sure we put the swimming ladder down into the water. If we forgot, he warned, we would end up like many swimmers who, forgetting to do this, frantically try to claw their way back into the boat, making effort after fruitless effort, and finally, exhausted, turn into mermaids.
The captain was so vehement about this rule that I expected him to make us take an oath:
I, as a potential operator of, or passenger on, a sailing vessel, doth fully understand the imperativeness of always lowering the swimming ladder into the water when any passenger shall be swimming, and do hereby resolve to do so, and doth further understand that if I foolishly and knowingly doth disregard this rule, I carelessly invite disaster, which may include my demise or, worse, my becoming a mermaid.
Occasionally Captain Russ did not seem to act in accord with his own safety instructions, such as when he let ME operate the engine while heading back to moor the boat. He assumed I would immediately be able to recognize, from his descriptions, the choke, the starter, and the "red button." (In my defense, I maintain that the red button was actually pink.)
Captain Russ was extremely patient with this identification process, although I noticed that when my attention was needed to pull the boat alongside the moor, he hastily offered to take care of cutting the engine. No doubt he had visions of my doing the opposite, resulting in not only overshooting our mooring spot but overshooting boats, seagulls, buoys, bridges, etc., and end up coming to rest on someone's $900,000 second-floor condo.
We were told that our boat "did not like wind." We may be excused for finding this announcement somewhat alarming. Were we then safer NOT trying to catch any wind? Should we just drive right into the dead zone? And what would happen if we did catch some wind?
We found out what would happen. Several times, in unthinking moments, we actually caught some wind, and the boat rolled dangerously to one side. The captain, however, assured us that we would not actually go over. This was said as the boat continued to heel to one side. (NOTE: "Heel" in sailing terms does NOT mean the same thing as saying "Heel" to a dog.) The Hero felt the need to clarify what "not actually going over" meant.
Hero (as the boat is lying almost horizontal): But you say it won't actually roll over?
Captain Russ: Nah. Well, it COULD, but it probably won't.
Hero: It probably won't roll over?
Captain Russ: No, definitely not.
Hero: So it won't.
Captain Russ: Probably, nope.
While this helpful conversation was occurring, I and the remaining passenger, another woman, were taking evasive measures -- holding tightly to anything that was not moving, praying, making sure the swimming ladder was down, etc.
At one point when I was in control of the rudder (another of Captain Russ's lapses in safety judgment), he and the other female student were taking down a sail in preparation for mooring, when suddenly, of its own accord, the boat started heeling to one side. The captain and passenger engaged in an impromptu little dance in an effort to keep their balance, and Captain Russ, who had been so casual with his "we probably won't capsize," yelled, "What was THAT?"
"You were right," I said innocently. "I guess the boat doesn't like wind."
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