Summer School

Come sail away

By Beth Nervig

I was excited when I heard that learning to sail would be my summer school assignment.

But soon the panic set in. Panic because I have bad balance. And panic because the only time I ever sailed was when I was 9 at Girl Scout camp, and my troop capsized the Sunfish sailboat.

A week before my lessons I received a packet in the mail with three sailing books and a DVD. At first glance, the main book, “Let’s Go Sailing,” had the coherency of an IKEA instruction manual.

My note from Northern Breezes Sailing School informed me I’d have to read up and memorize information for the American Sailing Association (ASA) test I would be taking after my second day of class. Normally, I prefer to skim such material and look mainly at the pictures. Except the pictures looked like something out of a physics textbook. The words were even worse.

There were over 50 sailing terms, and the majority didn’t seem to be in English. When I got excited over recognizing a few, I was crushed to find they had other sailing meanings. Words like “gooseneck” (what my late grandmother had in her older years), “Genoa” (a great type of salami!), and “shroud” (what I would be wearing to cover my face in embarrassment after being the only student ever to fail a sailing vocab test), meant completely different things in sail-speak. Oh crap.

The morning of my first lesson, I was a tad nervous. Unfortunately, my sister, who let me stay with her in Plymouth, was not exactly providing familial support.

“Wait a second…your writing assignment is sailing?” said my older sister Andrea, smirking at me over breakfast.

I answered “Yes,” as nonchalantly as possible, but was not encouraged when she could barely stop laughing through her coffee.

“These people have definitely never met you. Beth, only highly coordinated people sail! You’re so screwed.

” My lessons included two three-hour sessions with an instructor from Northern Breezes Sailing School at Medicine Lake in Plymouth. At first, I thought six hours seemed like a lot of boat time—definitely long enough to crash my boat into an oncoming schooner, or fall overboard and take my instructor with me.

At first glance, my sailing instructor Tony Green was not what I expected. I figured he’d have on boat shoes or, at the very least, white pants. Instead he wore Tevas and cargo pants, and though his hat looked like the skipper’s, it was tan, and much more outdoorsman than yachtsman. He explained that sailing can sometimes get a bad rap for being elitist, but really it’s just for anyone who loves being on the water.

The boat wasn’t what I expected, either. Previously, I thought all sailboats consisted of one main vessel and a couple of big sails, and that they were only fast in strong winds. Wrong. I got to learn on a trimaran, more specifically a Windrider 17. It had three main parts—a cockpit hull in the middle that looked like a giant kayak and two pontoon-like hulls with beams connecting to the main hull. It only weighed 400 lbs. (a feather in boat terms), and thus was able to pick up a fair amount of speed with even the slightest winds. My favorite part about the Windrider was that it’s very hard to tip over, so my lack of balance was practically a non-issue.

For the first half-hour of my day one lesson, Tony helmed the boat and listed off important factors a sailor should know. Basically, wind is the be-all, end-all in the world of sailing. Once you know which direction the wind is going, you can figure out how to maneuver your boat for maximum speed, control and overall sailing fun. Sailing is all about turning the boat toward or away from the wind, catching that wind and steering the boat while enjoying some breezy lake scenery.

For some reason, I had assumed that as soon as a sailor figures out the wind thing, it’s time to relax and ride along. Not quite. To steer a Windrider 17, the driver uses a rudder controlled by foot pedals. Simultaneously, the driver uses his hands to control the main sail and the jib sail (or smaller front sail). On Minnesota lakes especially, the wind direction is always changing slightly, and winds can pick up or die down in a flash. On a Windrider 17, sailors must be mindful of sudden wind changes while both hands and feet are constantly occupied by steering and rigging. I wasn’t sure my uncoordinated limbs were going to be able to team up with my mind to accomplish this whole sailing thing.

When it was my turn to take the helm, I gave Tony my best ‘are-you-sure-I’m-not-going-to-kill-us-both’ look. He was blindly confident in my abilities, which reassured me somewhat.

Once in the driver’s seat, I still had a problem with the lingo. When you turn the front of the boat into the wind, you have to say “ready about” and then “hard alee” when you’re turning. On my first turn I said, “ready to jib” and then “heeling” while mid-turn. Tony ignored the fact I was totally wrong, and quietly supplied the right terms.

Every once in a while, he would say something like, “Trim the jib so you don’t luff, and then turn into beam reach.” When my eyes glazed over, he’d calmly explain that he meant I should pull in my smaller sail so we could pick up speed. By the end of three hours, the terms started making sense. Even learning the wind angles came much easier than I expected. Soon, I felt like a pro. I could do figure eights and a man-overboard drill by doubling back to pick up a fallen life preserver.

The best feeling of the day came when I finally got to pick up some speed. All of the sails filled with wind, and one of my side “pontoons” came completely out of the water. This position is called “heeling,” and it felt invigorating. I was starting to understand why first-time sailors get addicted to the feel of being on the water.

On day two, I was much more comfortable on the Windrider. Tony let me take the wheel and only gave minor tips, while constantly quizzing me on the terms and ideas that would be on my ASA exam. For the last hour, I took my sailing test, which included a knot-tying section and 100 questions. To pass, I needed an 80, and with Tony’s help during our pre-test review, I was able to squeak by with a very proud 83.

So now I’m an official ASA-certified sailor. I can captain a Windrider 17 with ease. My small, shiny sticker that explains my rank is in the mail. I can do figure eights in a sailboat, and pick up any “victims” (or stray beverage cans) that fall in the water. I can even rent a Northern Breezes boat and take my friends out for the day.

Oh, and now that I’ve been accepted in the sailing world, I’m going to start using my newfound vocabulary in everyday conversation. A “gooseneck,” is no longer flabby neck skin, but the doohickey that attaches a sail to a mast. “Genoa,” while still a tasty salami, is also a type of larger jib sail that lets a boat go faster, and a “shroud” will no longer be needed to cover my face, but it is a line that supports the mast on a sailboat.

Next time I’m on a lake I might slyly try out this line on a fellow passersby: “That boat seems to be on a close reach; if they trim the jib too far on the port tack, their main might luff, and then they’ll be ‘in irons.’”

I will follow up this passersby’s confused stare with a friendly chuckle and a suggestion to try a sailing class at Northern Breezes Sailing School. If they’re like me, it will open up a whole new world of adventure and some pretty sweet vocabulary.