How Kickball Changed My Life

     Or, “Gee – you (used to) walk funny!”

“I’m not clumsy. It’s just that the floor hates me, the tables
and chairs are bullies, and the walls get in the way.”

 Unknown
 

     I was born with mild cerebral palsy (CP), most likely caused because my brain was deprived of oxygen during birth. I say “most likely” because when I was born CP wasn’t well understood. Most people believed that all people with CP also had significantly lower intelligence than average. Since my CP was mild, my parents decided to keep it a secret. They explained all the oddities away – the walking on my toes, the inability to run fast and keep up with my playmates, not riding a bike until I was eight. They didn’t tell the schools. They didn’t tell my doctors. They didn’t tell me –- not ever. I found out when I went to a neurologist for something else –- when I was 30. No kidding. When I called my Mom, she denied it, even then. 

     Luckily, my CP is atypical as well as mild. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with either of my arms. I played the piano well, and at one time typed at about 100 words per minute. However, the CP affects both my legs, the right one more than my left. There’s a lot I can’t do. My legs are simply not as well coordinated as other people’s legs, and they don’t have as much strength, and have little flexibility. They throw me off- balance easily. If I over-use them, the next day they are so stiff I can barely walk, and I’m at great risk of a fall. This is the reason I retired to Florida, to get away from ice and snow. I had to minimize the risk of a bad fall.

     My parents worked relentlessly at keeping my CP a secret. In our small New Jersey town, there were two pediatricians. Mother took me to one of them for my Kindergarten physical, which I remember because I recall him saying something, and then my mother shouting, “She is NOT retarded! She can READ!” I don’t remember what the doctor said, but it was something about my legs and nothing about being “retarded.” Still, she stormed out and took me to the other pediatrician in town.  I’m sure the first doctor called Dr. Pfister and said, “Look, it’s not severe or anything, and here’s how Mom reacted …” because Dr. Pfister never mentioned it that I know of. 

     Although PE classes were always a nightmare for me, trapped in this (slightly) damaged body was the heart of an athlete. My first attempt was ballet. It was a disaster. I tried to put my foot on the barre … and fell down.

     I couldn’t get my feet in all five positions. When I tried to put my feet in fifth position (feet right next to each other but heel-to-toe), I looked like Quasimodo. Then I fell down.

     That’s really not an exaggeration. Ballet class always started with exercises – put your foot up on the barre and stretch (I fell down), plies’ – supposedly beautiful knee squats. I had to “gracefully” bend down (straight back, please! – oh wait, can’t do that), and in fifth position – you guessed it, I fell down. 

     After three months, the ballet teacher saw my mother and me on the street. She said to her, “There’s something wrong with Susan’s legs. There’s no way she can learn ballet!” I don’t remember what Mom said, but it wasn’t polite … and it wasn’t the truth, either. People learned not to mention the obvious to my mother. 

     Physical Education classes were a nightmare, with one remarkable exception. In fourth grade, our town hired a real PE teacher for the first time. He was fresh out of college and I remember that at age 10 I thought him quite good looking. One day he asked me to stay after school.

     He said, “We’re going to play kickball.” I showed him how standing on my left leg and kicking with my right was best for me. I staggered a little when I kicked sometimes, but I never fell down. He gave me some tips, taught me a little more about the game … and then we played a lot of kickball for the rest of the year. I wish I could find that man and thank him today, because he opened my eyes to the concept of compensation. He changed my life.

     At the end of fourth grade we moved to Florida, and I had opportunities to swim to my heart’s content. The pool was next door, and the ocean a block away. I lived in a world of water that summer, and with my legs floating, I was physically liberated! My arms and back could do the work. My inner athlete exploded, and I started swimming laps. One day my dad took me to the pool, measured it, and I swam laps with him as my lifeguard. Hours later he insisted we stop. He said I had swum seven miles.

     So, thinking I was good at swimming, in junior high school I went out for the swim team. They accepted everyone and kicked no one off. For the first few sessions, the coach was just looking at form doing the Australian crawl. My dad had taught me that well, and I had good form, except, the coach said, I needed to kick harder. So I spent a lot of time with a kickboard, but my kick never got stronger. The basics of CP can sometimes be compensated for, but they can’t be fixed. 

     Then the coach started teaching us other strokes. When we got to the butterfly, my inner Quasimodo emerged again. The frog kick wasn’t any better. He let me stay on the swim team, but I was the slowest on the team because I just couldn’t kick hard, and there were strokes I simply could not do. I dropped out.

     So I tried out for cheerleading, and made it to the finals! But that coach had spotted something, and moved me to the opposite end of the line. “Oh,” I said. “I have to be on this end. I can’t do those moves with my right leg.” She moved me anyway. I fell down.

     Meanwhile, after having walked on my toes for 12 years, I got tired of being teased about it. Remembering my kickball lesson, I went into my bedroom, which had a full-length mirror, and figured out how to walk flat-footed. Four hours later I had figured out how to walk normally. If you saw me walking today, unless I were very tired and you were very observant, you would never spot a hint of an odd gait. 

     This was a “Eureka!’ moment for me. At age 12 I realized that although my legs couldn’t do everything, with practice they could do some things I wanted them to do, often by using my arms to help. I learned to do a lot of things in alternate ways, capitalizing on what my left leg could do while figuring out what to do with the right one. Since that day I have gone through life “alternatively coordinated,” but people rarely guess.

     Then one day as a young adult, I saw Edward M. Kennedy, Jr. on TV, skiing downhill. He looked so free! The leg movements didn’t look all that hard. He had had a partial leg amputation due to bone cancer when he was 12, and I figured that if he could learn to ski, then maybe I could also. So when I was 29, I went to Aspen, where they did teach me to ski. I always used shorter skis, and I didn’t become an expert, but I had fun and in fact met my second husband, the father of my children, through skiing. There was finally a sport I could do -- not competitively, of course, but I was happy just to be able to ski. Using my body “alternatively,” I also took up spelunking, rock climbing and even rappelling. 

     Meanwhile, in Florida I had seen my first marina and was fascinated by sailboats. I saw how physical sailing was – just what I wanted! And it looked as if I could probably do it. In fact, in my first, brief marriage, my husband knew how to sail, and we bought a little 14’ sloop-rigged dinghy, sailing it on a tiny lake. We also sailed little Abaco sailing dinghies on our honeymoon in the Bahamas.

     Then I moved to St. Louis, where there really isn’t much sailing. However, sailing always sat in the back of my mind. When I retired to Florida, the call of the sails got more insistent. I would go to the St. Petersburg Pier, buy some lunch and watch the sailboats, thinking, “If only …”

     Finally I one day I had my chance. Some friends invited me join them at “Fun Day” at Boca Ciega Yacht Club (BCYC). A short ride on someone’s sailboat was included, and I signed up for that. Then I found out that BCYC had a sail school, and that after sail school you could sail the club’s little 16.5’ Catalinas! Well, that was enough for me. I joined, and I took sail school.

     Didn’t work out so well (you should know what’s coming by now). Those boats have low benches, and it takes both leg strength and leg coordination to move from one side to the other at the right time. You have to do that to sail them (unless you just kneel in the middle and lean from side to side, but I hadn’t figured that out yet). The little Catalinas weren’t the boat for me: I tried to change sides while tacking, and (wait for it!) – I fell. Right in the middle of the boat. On my ass. Of course. 

     However, I also sailed on other people’s boats, and discovered something wonderfully freeing for me: all those upper body muscles I had built up while compensating for my weak legs were tremendously helpful on a slightly larger sailboat. All I needed was higher benches and I didn’t fall! Not ever. I can easily and confidently compensate for slightly funky legs on a decent-sized sailboat. The rock-climbing skills turned out to be crucial for me when sailing. It’s how I move around a boat safely when the water is rough: three points secure; one point moving.

      My inner athlete is finally completely free, using all four limbs. I move around my boat safely and with ease. I’ve figured out how to do it, just as I figured out how to walk normally when I was 12. I’m not completely reckless, though. My lifelines are completely netted, and if I have to go forward in rough water, I crawl. It works. It thrills me so much that I lived on my sailboat for 3 ½ years, enjoying what it took to move around the boat. My legs are stronger than they were 20 years ago.

     Some people will think my parents were terribly wrong not to tell me, or others, about the CP, not to get me physical therapy, not to “deal” with it proactively, but I’m not so sure they got this one wrong. I can’t imagine that a physical therapist of the 1950’s would have said, “Let’s figure out how you can go hurtling downhill at 20 mph, on a slippery surface, and trees to miss, with a couple of boards strapped to your unstable legs! It’ll be fun! Then you can jump off a cliff with a rope around your waist. You can climb right back up that cliff and hope your legs don’t give out before you get to the top! You can crawl into a cave, and maybe you’ll even be able to get out! Think of the possibilities!” 

     No. I think from an early age I would have gotten a lot of subtle or not-so-subtle messages about what I “could” and “could not” do. Given the beliefs of the time, probably there would have been some suspicions that I wasn’t really very bright, too. And, I would have listened. I listen. 

     Frankly, I’ve never seen another person with CP who walks as normally as I do (of course, maybe I just don’t know). Figuring out how to compensate on my own has been powerful and transformative, and helped create the person I am now. Because I worked through CP “the hard way,” and learned to compensate in so many ways, I learned the value of tenacity at an early age. Not knowing I wasn’t supposed be able to do some things, I worked out creative solutions that have accumulated over the years, resulting in my ability to do this wonderful, freeing, athletic thing, this sailing. I knew when I started sailing that I would find solutions to any temporary obstacles I faced, because I’d done it many times before. As I sat on my behind in the little Catalina I laughed, because I knew what the problem was, and I knew there was a solution if I hunted for it.

     In spite of all my efforts, there are a few limitations. In addition to avoiding low benches, I don’t sail on boats that have skinny or absent “cat walks” – the flat ledge of the deck along the side of a boat you that you can walk on to move up to the bow. And, I don’t race. In racing, everything has to be done fast. If you’re sitting on the rail to help heel the boat, you have to be able to get up quickly, but for me it’s a rock-climbing task. You might have to get up to the bow quickly, and in the thrill of the moment, I might get careless. With my center of gravity above the lifelines I could easily topple into the water. I always wear shoes (no padding on the bottom of my feet; walking barefoot is painful for me). 

     I always move in a planned way, and often not the way others move on a boat. That’s scary to some people. I often use those rock-climbing skills to get around the boat. No, it doesn’t always look graceful, and it’s not fast enough for racing, but it’s extremely safe. I have alternative approaches just for getting on and off a boat, and I need for people to accept that, and not try to help, because I know how my body works. None of this is a big deal, though. After six years of intensive sailing, it’s second nature to me unless I have to explain it to someone else. 

     Stephen Hawking once said, “However difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at.” If you have some physical limitation but want to be active, look at what your body can do, and try to imagine what those moves can do for you. Work with an occupational therapist (therapy is much more empowering now than it was when I was a child). Research online and see if there are programs for what you want to do. We’ve seen double-amputee champion runners, and wheelchair basketball is a lively game full of all the drama present in any other game of basketball. Find your passion, and then search for a path to it. You may surprise yourself.

Update on Replacing Navionics on my Phone

I went to the T-Mobile store online and found at least eight different programs supported by my phone that will give latitude and longitude. That's pretty much all the one I chose does, but it does so at the touch of one icon.

Then I went to Wal-Mart for something else in the electronics section, and found a plug-in power supply for my phone. The package says it will last "up to two hours." That would probably not be more than 30 minutes if running Navionics on it, but if one was smart in an emergency, and only used it for short phone calls and a quick lat and long check (skipping Navionics entirely), and turning the phone off in between, it might last much longer.

It does use a special dedicated battery, so after what I went through in the hospital with a dead phone and (stupidly) no paper list of important phone numbers, I got two spare batteries.

This gadget and its batteries will be dedicated to the boat. If I decide I need one for everyday life, I will get a second one to put in my purse or car (car batteries can cut out on you). It will also go with me any time I sail on someone else's boat.

I'm sure they make such apps for IPhone, and I'm certain they have a supplemental battery pack for IPhones as well.

The Half a Fish That Got Away

Or, Actually I've Seen This Before ...

My friend Samantha Ring, whom I sailed with last Saturday, loves to fish. I think she may love to fish more than she loves to sail. The Sea Scout with us also loves to fish. So as soon as we were out in the Gulf of Mexico, Sam put a line over the transom. She rigged a reel to the frame of the Bimini.

I saw the hook. It was huge, and it had no bait. No bait? "It's OK. We have a spoon on it," said the Sea Scout.

Huh? Fish prefer to eat with spoons? Who knew?

I was lying down in the cockpit by the time they got their first hit. The fish got away. The second one did also.

Not the third, however. I was, frankly, too sick to lift my head and look by then, but I heard them whoopin' and hollerin' as they pulled that fish in. "Look at the size! He's HUGE! YAHOOOO!" they yelled.

Just as they were pulling the fish up to the boat, something -- either a small shark or a big barracuda, they're not sure -- jumped up, cut off the bottom two thirds of the fish, and swam away with it. Here's what was left.

As you can see, that was a fairly good-sized fish. The theory among some is that this fish was stolen by a shark because barracuda cuts aren't so jagged. I seem to remember a pretty clean cut when a barracuda stole my fish ...

I was ten. We had just moved to Fort Lauderdale, and my parents, inveterate fishers, were making yet another desperate attempt to turn me, my sister and my brother into fishers also (it never worked). This particular beautiful night, we were on a commercial boat with about 30 people, "drift fishing." They took us out to the Gulf Stream and drifted in it while the kingfish were running. All around me people were pulling fish in just about as fast as the crew could help them. I really didn't care that I hadn't caught any fish. I wasn't wild about kingfish. I was satisfied to be on a boat, so quiet with the engine off, drifting along under that stupendous starlit sky.

The captain, however, was determined that I should catch a fish. He even kept the boat out an extra half an hour hoping I would at least catch one. Just as we were about to give up, I got a strong hit! The crew all ran to me, coached, me, and helped me pull this huge kingfish up to the boat. They got out their gaffe and hooked it (something I thought was absolutely barbaric). Just as they pulled it up, a huge barracuda jumped out of nowhere and sliced that fish off just below the gaffe. The crew sadly pulled the head and gills in, and said, "Well, at least you caught something."

I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing them drive that huge hook into a living animal so casually. I haven't fished since and I frankly cheered for the barracuda, who put the poor beast out of his misery quickly while cleverly getting an easy meal for himself as well.

So I didn't have to look at the fish stolen from Samantha. I'd seen this marine stunt before.

Samantha and the Sea Scout continued the weekend sail after I was taken off the boat, and Sunday night they cooked what was left of their fish on a grill. Everyone there says it was quite delicious, but I'm still rooting for the clever fellow who got the rest of it.

Charts vs. Chart Plotters -- Yet Again

If you read my entry "Seasickness," you know that my last sail had its ups and downs. That's putting it midly. I became extremely sick. The Coast Guard rescued me from the boat I was on, and raced to me to shore to a waiting ambulance. I spent about 48 hours in the hospital, and my doctor and nurse practitioner are still following me closely for lingering effects.

The whole experience -- when I wasn't hanging my head over the side of the boat, that is -- was an interesting display regarding the debate between chart plotters and older methods of navigation.

The skipper of the boat I was on, Samantha Ring, is an unapologetic geek when it comes to navigation skills. We recently found out that our late friend Al Davis often used her as an example of one of the best students of celestial navigation he had ever had. Now, Samantha is young in years compared to me. She hasn't yet had the opportunity to do more than weekend hops on her boat. She teaches during the year, and anyone who has taught knows that this does not necessarily mean that your weekends are free. During the summer where she lives, while it is technically possible to sail, the winds are so light that it can be hard to travel any distance. In addition, the risk of afternoon storms combined with the dangers of coastal sailing in a storm off west Florida (lots of shallow water) mean that you go out early and come in early. That also limits the distance you can cover.

So the only reason Samantha had to learn celestial navigation was curiosity. This is a trait she holds in abundance, however. She has also learned extensively about coastal navigation.

In spite of this, I have been urging her to embrace the idea of adding a chart plotter to her set of tools and skills. She has actually been one of the people who believes that the cognitive skills of navigation are superior to electronic support, and after my most recent day on the water it would be hard to disagree with her.

Nevertheless, I talked her into having a chart plotter cable installed on her boat so she could do a test trial with my chart plotter and see if she might find it a useful addition. She was skeptical, but also is making a big leap shortly in the distance she's sailing, so she went along with it.

Unfortunately the installer connected it to dead wires and did not have time to correct this mistake before we left. But my goal was to show her that the two skill sets -- coastal navigation and using a chart plotter -- could work together, so I did the best I could with Navionics on my cell phone (it may be great on an IPAD or computer, but I have used it twice now on my phone and don't recommend it when used that way. IMO it's too clumsy for the small gain in information, but YMMV.)

Rather than try to snake her way through the many islands south of St. Petersburg without the rapid information a chart plotter provides, Samantha chose to go out to sea a bit and then angle in to our goal, Longboat Channel into Longboat Key. It was an ambitious plan for three reasons:

1) We had a much later start than anticipated

2) We had unexpected mechanical problems with the mainsail

3) The fuel gauge (which proved to be markedly inaccurate, as I understand it a fairly common occurrence on sailboats) led us to believe that we were much lower on fuel than we actually were. (I hope I remember to suggest to her to see if she could simply use a dipstick approach to her fuel tank. I can't on my boat, but she might be able to. I was too sick to go into the cabin, so I'm not really quite sure if her new fuel tank configuration would allow that.)

In the meantime, I was getting more and more sick. As skipper, it was Samantha's job to figure out the best way to get me to help, and trusting her to do this, I did not override her judgments. That turned out be very smart on my part.

I should state now that I also did not at any time look over her shoulder to check her calculations. Any movement made me more sick, and she was using my chart book, which suits a small cockpit better than larger charts. I was interested in protecting my chart book from my current medical state.

Samantha went below, knew immediately where her navigation aids were, and returned with dividers, hand bearing compass, parallel rulers, protractor, and two rotating wheels which she described as a "sailing slide rule." That last one is not something I'm familiar with but very curious about now. Some time when it is less likely that I would soil it rather badly, I want to get a look at it and what it can do. It wasn't covered in the coastal navigation class I took, which unfortunately emphasized ... chart plotters.
 
Using these tools while the 15 year old Sea Scout who was with us quite competently handled the boat by herself (in spite of never having single-handed before -- more about her later), Samantha was able to locate our position with remarkable precision. We know this because my phone had just enough battery left to confirm our location.

I have two observations about all of this, done when it really mattered (thanks, Samantha! You saved me from being a lot more sick than I already was.)

First, Samantha did a truly excellent job of navigating when it really counted.

Second, neither Boat US nor the Coast Guard were at first confident that she actually knew where we were. Why? Because we didn't have a chart plotter. THEY seemed to be so reliant on electronic aids that they did not believe Samantha when she reported our position using things like dividers and paper charts. They may well have had good reason for this. It is my suspicion that an awful lot of people don't know how to do it. I don't believe I could have done it as well as Samantha did (assuming I hadn't been sick).

I believe that part of what convinced the Coast Guard that they should come and get us was that over a half hour they got three reports from Samantha of our location, and that the three points reported made sense. By the way, Samantha was loathe to draw lines on charts that weren't hers, adding a new layer of complications that did not prevent her from doing the job well.

The Coast Guard found us efficiently, and something that has to be kept in mind in all of this is the nature of the typical coastal Coast Guard vessel. They are not really equipped for medical rescue. There was no stretcher or back board and it would have been a very bad idea anyway. There was no room in their little cabin for such apparatus. In the back of the boat, lying down simply was not an option. I needed all the physical strength I could manage to muster to be able to sit and hang on to that gun turret or whatever it was (it might have just been an incredibly stout stanchion for lines with a big hole drilled in the top for some other reason than a gun mount). If Samantha had delayed calling, I'm not sure I would have had that strength. I did crash somewhat later in the hospital, but that's a far better location than on a sailbot some miles off shore -- or even on the Coast Guard boat. She got me rescued in a timely way.

We knew the chart plotter wasn't going to work as we left the dock, but they can and do sometimes malfunction some distance into a trip, suddenly and unexpectedly. If I had been on a boat where no one had good coastal navigation skills, I could have ended up much more sick. No solution is perfect. Often it will be the skipper who has these skills, but what if it's the skipper who is sick? We could have just as easily gone on my boat, and I would have had no guarantee that my crew had these skills.

If that's your situation, get a backup chart plotter. I really dislike the handheld chart plotters, but they will give you latitude and longitude, which is all that's needed to get emergency help to your boat. I really do not recommend counting on your phone. You may be too far off the coast to get a signal, but in addition, the lack of sub-menus makes it much more difficult to find something as basic as latitude and longitude.

In fact, the difficulty of finding latitude and longitude in the Navionics program points to something else about the philosophical approach to the design of electronics navigation. Navionics, for instance,  focuses far more on establishing a route and using it as a track (something a modern chart plotter does fairly easily) than in just telling you where you are. I'm going to look for an app that just gives lat and long, because that's really all we needed. With rapid access to latitude and longitude, we could have confidently snaked ourselves through Mullet Key, Egmont Key, etc. At the push of a button we could have told the Coast Guard where we were.

Finally, Navionics depletes the phone battery quite rapidly. We did not have a DC charger with us (it's an easy thing to forget), and when it was dead, it was done. Using Navionics in the open Gulf we could turn it off, but near the shore you would want to leave it on.

I have seen people use Navionics on their phone quite effectively, but it has a steep learning curve, it doesn't do it nearly as well as a chart plotter, it is hard to see to program it in sunlight, and it uses a lot of battery up pretty quickly. Except in an emergency it gets a thumbs down from me.

I'll look and report on what I find regarding lat/long apps, but since I use an Android and most people seem to have Apples for smart phones, people should look on their own as well. T-Mobile, for instance (my provider), recommends that I use only T-Mobile tested apps, and my experience has suggested that this is true. While an I-Phone supposedly gives lat and long, it is also buried in the phone. The Coast Guard tried to lead Samantha through her phone to find it on her phone, apparently not trusting her navigation skills, but in Samantha's view it's the phone that failed. She never did find it and -- smartly -- asserted her status as skipper and insisted that they use the position she had plotted the old-fashioned way.

The weekend's experiences enhanced my opinion that both chart plotters and skilled use of paper charts are crucial, and not just for "serious" sailors. Going out on the water is a little dangerous, and it isn't right to abuse the system by forcing the Coast Guard to do a costly and time-consuming grid search because you didn't know how to figure out where you were.

Seasickness

Or, I Didn't Know it Could Happen to Me!

Somewhere in this blog I said once that seasickness can turn into a true medical emergency. I wish I could figure out where I said that so I could quote it now.

Last week my sailing club, BCYC, went on a three day sailing trip, Saturday through Monday. We planned to sail to Moore's Crab House on Longboat Key on Saturday, and then on Sunday go on to either Sarasota or Twin Dolphin Marina.

Meanwhile, age had started to catch up with me. I had an extremely sore knee, which my doctor's office determined to be caused by arthritis. Because I don't tolerate NSAIDS (as in, they could kill me), they put me on Prednisone. I was prescribed the standard blister pack, with a big dose the first day and then tapering off over the next five days. The Nurse Practitioner was sure my knee would be better in a few days with this.

That was Wednesday. Wednesday night and Thursday I took the big dose, and by Friday I had started tapering off. Unfortunately the blister pack fell out of my purse Friday night at the grocery store, so I missed a dose, but the pamphlet explained how to handle that, and the grocery store returned my pills to me Saturday morning, so I left on the weekend trip as a guest on someone else's boat. I was looking forward to it. She has a Catalina 27' and they can be a lot of fun to sail.

Unfortunately, the boat didn't have a chart plotter, and as three boats including my boat and her Catalina were planning on a 10-day trip in a few weeks, I convinced my friend to try my chart plotter. Another friend put in the cable at the last moment, but unfortunately soldered it to dead wires. He didn't have time to re-wire it before we left. So we had no chart plotter.

Samantha Ring, the skipper, is a good navigator, but we had gotten a late start and we wanted to get in before dark. "No worries," I said. "I have Navionics on my cell phone. I'll use that, and it will take us right to the entrance of Longboat Key Channel." It's a tricky entrance, and Samantha was glad to be able to be very precise about where it was.

So as we went out the Pass-A-Grille Channel, I huddled in the cockpit, with head down and hat shielding the sun so I could see the screen. This version of Navionics has few menus, probably to save on space, so it was a job to figure out how to do it, but after about 20 minutes I finally got a route in and it started tracking our boat.

Unfortunately, the channel had been quite rough, and I started to feel pretty sick. Next thing I knew, I was hanging my head over the leeward side calling -- several times -- for Ralph. It was fortunate, I thought, that I had eaten breakfast so early. My stomach was empty. I figured that was the end of that.

Well, it wasn't. Turns out that Prednisone has a tendency to trigger nausea. I got sicker, and sicker, and sicker. It didn't go away. Eventually I had dry heaves. I couldn't say two words without calling for Ralph in between them. Samantha was beginning to worry. We had had some mechanical problems with the boat that had delayed us. While the boat was now sailing very well, we didn't really know why the mechanical problem had happened, and we were afraid it might happen again. The fuel gauge said she was low on fuel.

I wasn't in a state of medical emergency yet, but it was close to 5PM, I was still retching, and it would be several hours before we got to shore. We both thought I might be in pretty rough shape by then.

Samantha triangulated a precise location for us and called the Coast Guard.  The Coasties initially weren't certain they needed to come, but after some debate (their flight surgeon finally said "Go get her!"), they came out and got me.

While I am extremely grateful to them, it was a terrifying ride. Their boat was moving at at least 50 mph forward (and about 80 mph up and down!) I had declined riding in the cabin because I saw nowhere I could call for Ralph without making a mess in there. I said I would ride in the back, and one of the Coasties rode with me, holding on to my life jacket. I was glad -- we were bouncing all over the place. I nearly landed on the floor a couple of times, and there was an open space in the gunnels I would have fit through! I looked inside the cabin. Those chairs had huge shock absorbers, and the three crew in the cockpit gently bobbed up and down. Meanwhile I was in the back, bouncing hard -- BANG! BANG! BANG!  I clung to what I think was a gun turret, very glad the gun wasn't there as it would have gotten in my way. I was soaked from ocean spray.

Somehow I made it in to the Cortez Bridge Coast Guard Station without soiling their boat. An ambulance was waiting to take me to a nearby hospital. I was glad to be on land!

We did not call for help too soon. While I seemed to finally be done bellowing for Ralph, I hadn't had any food since 6:30 AM, and had only had about 6 oz. of diet soda to drink since the boat had left the dook about noon. My blood chemistry was a little off, and the ER doctor invited me for an overnight stay. I really had no choice. I was in south Bradenton; I had no wearable clothes (never mind why); my car was up in Gulfport; and all my friends were 15 miles south of me. They had no cars either, but it didn't matter, because the battery on my phone was dead (Navionics uses up a lot of battery power) and I couldn't call anyone to bring me clothes and give me a ride home.

It was a good thing I stayed in the hospital. In the middle of the night they drew blood again, and I got the news Saturday morning: my blood chemistry had continued to go sour overnight, and I was now very sick. They were very glad I had opted for admission.

It was 3PM on Monday afternoon before I was released.

It turns out that Prednisone's tendency to trigger nausea is multiplied if you don't finish the blister pack. Oops.

Here's my point: even if your doctor tells you lots of information about what you're taking, even if the pharmacist buries you with details, you still don't know everything about that medication under all possible conditions. Or you might not be on any medications at all, but also not realize that you are about to come down with strep throat or a bladder infection, both of which can make you nauseous. At any time, there could be events sneaking up on you that could turn a minor bout of seasickness into a serious medical problem.

My seasickness did not become life threatening only because I got to the hospital when I did, but ... even though I was very sick on the sailboat, I did not have the classic symptoms of someone about to crash from dehydration. Only a blood chemistry analysis let the doctor know that I was actually headed for a medical cliff, and because I was already in the hospital, that was prevented. If we had waited for the classic symptoms of serious dehydration, I would have been in a whole lot of trouble by the time I got to the hospital. The flight surgeon knew something we did not: moving from "Oh spit I really don't feel good" to "How do you call 911 from a sailboat?" can happen very, very rapidly.

Talk to your doctor about how to manage seasickness. Experiment and find out how you react to Bonine, to Dramamine, to the little wrist bands (they don't work for me but some people swear by them), etc. Know yourself. If you're going on any kind of extended trip, have your crew try these things ahead of time as well.

Then talk to your doctor about the realities of sailing (in particular, being some hours from medical help) and ask what you can stock on your boat. I know they make rectal suppositories that can turn off nausea when someone can't keep anything in their stomach long enough to help. If we had had those suppositories on the boat, it might have saved me 2 days in the hospital, with, I think, a $125 deductible for each day for me to pay, plus $250 for my share of the ambulance. If I could have gotten the nausea under control, I could have drunk Gator-Ade, which includes the potassium I needed so desperately. It all might have been a non-event.

This, by the way, answers, forever for me, the question of whether I should *ever* use Navionics on my phone. Never. Again. Ever. Never. Using the chart plotter, you can still see the horizon. If you can see the horizon, you're less likely to get seasick.

I might have gotten sick anyway. I am now on a new blister pack of Prednisone ("You are NOT going sailing while you're on this, right?" the NP asked.) No ma'am. I've learned my lesson! Maybe because I have just been through so much, this round of Prednisone has made me a little nauseous. I've taken Prednisone before without any nausea, but not this time.

Seasickness really can turn into a medical emergency. I never thought it would happen to me, but it did. It is something to be prepared for.

...

Oh yeah -- one more piece of advice, probably something everyone on the planet with a cell phone except me knew: keep a list of emergency numbers with you. If I had done that, I still could have called a friend from the hospital phone. It wouldn't have changed my medical condition, but would have relieved me of the vision of me walking out of the hospital bare-assed!

Teaching Friends to Sail

I've been doing this, and I discovered something.

As we learn to sail, our instructors tend to focus on language. In fact, some of them delight in burying us in new vocabulary. Port and starboard aren't so bad, although only rarely is the reason for not using "left" and "right" explained. That makes all of it look rather arbitrary to some people.

Then we continue to explain, and explain, and explain.

Well, I had three newer sailors on my boat yesterday, two of them children aged 11 and 13. And I discovered something that I instinctively knew but hadn't put into words: learning to sail is largely physical. My friends were lucky. The wind was up, which made it very easy to tell where it was coming from. So with just a few words, they got the physical sensation of feeling the wind on their faces. All three of them actually had no trouble telling where the wind was coming from. Well, that counts. If I tell them to "point the boat into the wind" and I'm on the bow, they need to be able to tell where the wind is.

We only focused on a few things. I want them all, but especially the mother, to be able to handle the helm. I may have to count on the mother to do this while I'm undoing some fairly serious problem. What I noticed was that I was encouraging them to learn through their muscles, but that the mother kept using words to guide her children. I hope I was polite as I intervened and encouraged her to just let them *feel* how it feels to steer the boat. I have a very responsive wheel, and you don't have to move the wheel much at all to turn the boat. All three got that very quickly, and I made an active decision to explain as little as possible and let them experience as much as possible.

The children spent a lot of time crawling around on their hands and knees. Since I have netting around my boat, I explained to them that if the boat did something unexpected while they were forward, they were to immediately drop to their hands and knees. They actually had a lot of fun doing this, as well as walking around the boat.

By using just a few words and not overloading them with instructions, They very quickly got the idea that they must always be holding on to something, and not the lifelines (which pull them to the edge of the boat, but I didn't say that. I will, but I didn't want to scare them the first day out!)

As you may have guessed, we are planning a trip together.

I think that sometimes we bury newer sailors with too much language. They need to know where the luff and the clew are. Both are important to observe as we sail. I particularly want beginners to get familiar with the location of the clew. That will help them backwind the headsail during a tack in light wind, and controlling it will keep the headsail from wrapping around the forestay while jybing.

But they really don't need to know the name of all corners and sides of the sail their first trip out. They really only need to know luff and clew.

They can also learn to help you watch telltails on the headsail and mainsail. We do *not* have to give them chapter and verse of all the information those telltails can give you, or how it may relate to the position of the headsail car on the track (more vocabulary), etc. on the first time out, but if they can look at the telltales when you can't see them, that can be a lot of help.

My opinion? Pick a few things at a time to teach beginners. Don't try to cram in every little nook and cranny of every fact. Don't bury them in details when they're still working on port and starboard. I recently raced with someone who used "left" and "right" because there were beginners on the crew, and they had been so buried in new vocabulary that they couldn't retain any of it.

That was partly why I took this approach. But I also did because with an 11 and a 13 year old on board and actively learning, I knew that if you bury them in too many 'facts' for which they don't see the point, you'll lose their attention. I NEED them to be able to move around the boat safely. I NEED them to remain interested -- they could be tremendous help, say, tailing for an adult on a winch. But most of all, I need them to have a good time, so they don't beg their mom to turn around and go home!

Do you want to sail with these newer sailors? Are they important to you? Then don't use a chance to teach as a chance to show off. Be gentle. It's a lot to learn, and you may have forgotten just how overwhelming it can be. But the beginners on your boat are easily overwhelmed. With a little thought, you can still teach them a lot and have them step off the boat thinking 'Wow -- I learned a lot!" instead of "I'm not sure I'll ever get this."

You're the teacher, so the conclusions they draw about sailing are in your hands.

Colonoscopy vs. Live-Aboard?

Fugeddaboudit!

Find yourself a NICE hotel/motel room for three days, one with a refrigerator. Two days for prep, one day for the actual test and recovery.

Get a room in a place with very good cable and internet services.

Line up friends to make and bring jell-o in flavors you can have, and stock the refrigerator with drinks your doctor approves.

Colonoscopies and living aboard -- completely incompatible.


'Nuff said!

Observations on Moving Off the Boat

     “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Mark Twain 

Friends have been inquiring, in very kindly ways, about how I feel about having to move off my sailboat. Part of this is no doubt also personal concerns on their part; many of my friends are close to my age, and they know that something could happen that could force them to stop sailing at any time, just as it could happen to me. But mostly I think they're just kind, and caring, and truly hoping I'm OK with how my life has played out lately.

Well, I am OK with it. 

Some have wondered how that could be possible. After all, I'm 68 and didn't even start learning to sail until I was 62. I surprised a lot of people when I moved on the boat, right before my 65th birthday. I acquired a new primary care physician not long ago, and (although he knew the answer from the medical history I had filled out), he asked my marital status. I told him that I was widowed. Then he asked, "Did you move onto the sailboat as a reaction to your husband's death?" 

"No," I said. "He died 18 years ago. I moved onto the sailboat as a reaction to having had breast cancer." 

I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy right before my 61st birthday. The surgery was remarkably easy (my surgeon truly had velvet hands), and I handled chemo very well. I had little problem dealing with Herceptin, one of the real miracles of the 21st century. However, they also put me on an aromatase inhibitor (AI's), drugs designed to suppress female hormones (we don't lose them completely at menopause). My type of breast cancer (there are seven major subgroups) was fed and supported by female hormones. 

I did *not* do well on AI's. I had every symptom they knew of, at severe levels, including a couple that hadn't yet made it into mainstream medical research literature. There was a very good chance that these AI's would be life-saving in my case, and my oncologist really pushed me to stay on them in spite of the side effects, and I tried. I reallly tried. But after two years of those side effects, I just couldn't bear them any more, especially after one of them put me in the emergency room for four hours, resulting in a bill of over $8,000 when I didn't have health insurance. (Oh yeah -- there was nothing wrong with me except a side effect of the AI).

That's when the reality of life hit me right between the eyes: it's going to end some day. I decided that even at the risk of my life, I needed to be happy and feel well again, and that meant dumping the AI's. I did that, felt better immediately, and looked at my tiny sailboat, wishing I could live on it. With no water tank, no shore supply, no head and no working galley, it was perfectly good as a day sailor. But as a home, it was one step up from a cardboard box. Knowing that something could happen at any time that would end my life -- and that I had just made a choice that increased the odds of that happening -- I found a really good deal on a larger, better configured boat, and I bought it.

So you see, there's more than one way I could have moved off my boat. I could be off it because I should have kept taking those AI's and had invited a fatal version of breast cancer back into my life. But it's been seven years and there's no sign of recurrence, and I have probably dodged that bullet. But something will take me some day, just as something will take you, and everyone you know, some day.

The only real question is, "What are you going to do until then? Are you going to live a life of purpose and actively seek ways to bring and keep joy into your life, or are you just going to let life happen to you?"

I made the choice to live aboard while I could. Now I have made the choice to move off, the only rational choice I could have made. My back problems are in no way incapacitating. I can still sail (I'm not sure how I will deal with it when the day comes, as we know it will, that I can no longer sail). Those back problems just make it hard to *live* on the boat, with all the bending, twisting and stretching under load it takes to keep the cabin of a sailboat orderly and comfortable to live in, but with modifications I've made, such as a 2:1 halyard, I can still sail.

I knew I would not always be able to live on board the day I moved on. But I've had 3 1/2 years of a wonderful adventure that just didn't have to happen. Some people have actually told me that they see me as a hero. I don't see it that way. In some ways it was a very selfish thing to do. It's been very hard, for instance, to reciprocate after someone has had me to their home for a party or dinner, unless they sail, and not all of my friends sail. No doubt my daughters see it as much more possible for them to come visit now, since both of them have spouses who have absolutely no interest whatsoever in being on a sailboat, but this being Mother's Day, I have to say they were terrifically supportive of my decision to move aboard, and neither of them said "Thank GOD!" when I decided to move off.   :)

So I would say, make your choices where you can. Think them out as well as you can ahead of time, recognizing that life is often completely unpredictable and even contrary to your desires. Don't be foolish; don't spend your entire 401K at age 50 on the biggest sailboat you can find, but look for sensible ways to follow your dream, whatever it is. If you start to think "I can't ..." ... well, maybe that's true, but look for paths around your obstacles and think creatively first. Then you will be able to say, as I do right now, "It's all good."

Update on the T-Bone accident

I was fortunate to speak to the owner of the sailboat. He was not sailing; he was motoring. He says that the pontoon boat was up on plane, and that he could see the possibility of collision, but that the pontoon boat had the most options for getting out of the way, not the least of which is the fact that his boat was designed for motoring and maneuvered with great ease under power (and especially at that speed). By the time the sailor realized (he had only 20 seconds total before he was hit) the guy was going to hit him, all he could do was turn his boat. He was hoping for a glancing blow, but ... that didn't happen.

The waters of the southern end of Boca Ciega Bay are crowded both with moving boats and with moored or anchored boats. It's not the place to operate a boat at high speed.

Oh, by the way -- there were TWO people on the pontoon boat, but they both chose to leave the pontoon on a plane while they BOTH searched for the cell phone.

The owner of the sailboat reports that the owner of the boat who hit him was well insured. Thank goodness, but don't count on it. I know of one large marina in the area that no longer requires the boats in its slips to carry insurance. Make sure you have insurance unless you're willing to say "Oh well, no more boat" some day.

T-Boned!

Or, This is why you should have a ditch bag!

In the photo below you'll see a sailboat that, until recently, was a racer frequently used by its owner. The owner did not belong to BCYC, but he frequently raced this boat in our races. You can see that the boat was taken care of. Although it might be due soon for a new bottom job, that bottom was squeaky clean.

About three days ago, he was sailing his boat in Boca Ciega Bay when he was suddenly T-boned -- hit right in the middle -- by a pontoon boat!

This is the result. It took less than two minutes for his sailboat to sink.

As sailors, we often talk about "right of way." In fact that isn't the phrase used any more. The Coast Guard now talks about the "stand on" vessel and the "give way" vessel. In the case of a sailboat under sail and a power boat (such as a pontoon boat) under motor power, the law is crystal clear: the sail boat is the "stand on vessel," under normal circumstances expected to maintain its course and speed. The "give way" vessel is the one under motor power, and is required to change course in order to avoid a collision. 

However, things are rarely that cut-and-dried on the water. The over-arching rule from which all other rules branch is, "Do everything possible to avoid a collision." This means that you can't "stand your ground" and say "but I was the stand-on vessel!" Even if you are the only person on your boat, you are required to keep a lookout. That means swiveling your head like an owl -- constantly -- when you're by yourself on your boat. It may be that this sailor's view of the oncoming vessel was blocked by his headsail, a common occurrence. But it is then his responsibility to move about the cockpit or do whatever else is necessary to know what is on the other side of that headsail. "The headsail blocked my view" is an incictment, not a defense.

On the other hand, the driver of the pontoon boat had the same responsibility, and no big sails to block his view. I've heard this story from several people who all repeated the same details, so I suspect it's true: when he hit the sailboat, he had dropped his cell phone and was searching the bottom of his boat to retrieve it. 

"Don't text and drive" applies every bit as much when on the water as it does when behind the wheel of a car.

Both skippers will probably be found to be at fault to some degree; that is nearly always the case under maritime law. However, it is possible that the pontoon boat was coming so fast at the sailboat that the sailor had no chance to change course and avert a collision. If that's the case, the blame will be entirely on the operator of the pontoon boat.

The rules regarding which is the "stand on" vessel and which is the "give way" vessel can be complicated, but always keep the #1 rule in mind: do whatever is necessary to avoid a collision -- if you can.

Taken Advantage Of ...

I wish I could tell you the name of the company, but I can only tell you what happened. Those of you in the St. Petersburg area will at least know to pay attention. Unfortunately, human nature being what it is, this problem may not be exclusive to St. Petersburg.

The St. Petersburg Power and Sailboat Show will take place December 4 - 7 of 2014. It's an annual event, one I have enjoyed. In 2012 I worked at the show on behalf of Boca Ciega Yacht Club. All the volunteers had some time off to visit the other booths. There was a rope vender across the path and west just a bit west of BCYC's booth in 2012, and the prices were too good to resist. I talked with another member who has the same boat as mine, and then went to the rope vender and bought 120' of 3/8" line, at what seemed like a very good price, to use as a spinnaker halyard. I told him what it was to be used for, and he told me he had "some" halyard line left. I want to be clear here; the vender presented himself as knowledgeable regarding lines for sailboats. He assured me that he had a small amount left, just enough, and that he would set it aside for me.

A friend installed this line as a spinnaker halyard for me. I don't have a spinnaker sail; I intended to use it to move heavy things, such as the air conditioner, on and off the boat. It didn't work very well, though. It was extremely hard to raise the air conditioner even a few inches so it could be swung over to the dock. Then I tried to use it to raise my storm sail over the roller furler, and it simply wouldn't do it. Friends took a look at it, and noted the same thing I did: the halyard seemed to run freely until there was any amount of appreciable weight on it. Then it simply wouldn't budge. However, when it had no load, it ran quite freely through all hardware including the sheave at the top of the mast.

Today someone figured out why the line was so difficult to use under load. This supposed halyard rope was not that at all. It was ... polypropelene! It was covered with woven threads, but it had a polypro core. It's cheap line that can't take much strain and that stretches until it breaks. Today's helper noted that as we pulled on the halyard (with someone sitting in a bosun's chair at the end of it to provide load), the line stretched significantly without raising the bosun's chair at all. I had thought it was just me, not as strong as I used to be after being laid up for a while, but three different strong people had not been able to raise it under load. We cut the end to examine the core.

It's really quite scary. In a storm I would have counted on that halyard to keep the storm sail up, and it might not have been up to the task, leaving me in a storm but with essentially no steering, no ability to either heave to or point the boat into the wind.

To me, selling such line to a sailor pretending that it would be suitable for a halyard borders on sociopathic behavior. I would not say that if I knew the name of the company, but I have tried and have not been able to trace it down. Since I can't provide the name of the company, all I can do is describe the danger presented by such sales behavior.

Stretch is not always bad. It's good to have a little stretch in one's dock lines, for instance. Polypropelene can also be useful, as it floats. But it isn't nearly as strong as other lines, and it's particularly susceptible to UV damage. Diameter for diameter, it's a weak rope. Between its weakness, its vulnerability to UV rays and its marked ability to stretch, it's a terrible choice for a halyard.

So all I can say is, "Buyers beware." Venders with Swiss cheese for consciences can spot a beginner from a mile away.  You really can get some great deals at boat shows, but if you aren't 150% certain regarding what you're looking at, bring a more experienced friend along.

The Side Netting Caught Me!

I have said in the past that one of the most dangerous things we do is get on and off a boat.

Last Friday, I got off the boat. As in, I moved off the boat. The moving truck picked up my belongings in one town. We were going to stop by the boat and load more things in the truck, but we were in the middle of what turned out to be record-breaking rain in some places, and we decided to just go to the apartment.

Later, of course, I had to go back to the boat. There were a couple of things that I had to get that day, in spite of the rain: my cat, and her kitty litter box.

I got the cat off first, no problem. But I was tired, and I slipped while getting the clean kitty litter out of the cabin. I spilled kitty litter into my shoe, down the companion way steps and into the cabin. Oh snap!

What I didn't realize was that I also stepped in some of the litter. Murphy noticed, however.

As soon as I put that litter-encrusted shoe on the side deck outside the cockpit, it turned to extremely slippery clay mud. Down I went, most of my weight on the top of my left knee. I felt my body be caught by the netting on the side of the boat. If the netting hadn't caught me, I would have gone into the marina, already injured (my knee did not like that landing), in the rain and with no one around anywhere.

Of course, netting won't help you unless you are on your hands and knees ... but Murphy had already seen to that. Instead of having a much worse accident, I got up, got safely home and washed off my shoes.

Needless to say this incident has made me a believer in side netting. I was going to add something like "particularly for older sailors," but ... NO. This could have happened to anyone (well, anyone with a cat on board!) It has absolutely convinced me that netting plus staying low if moving around the boat in rough waters is a first class idea.

More on Garmin ...

the company I love to hate!

I'm racing in early May in the Women's Regatta, formerly known as the Bikini Cup, a race for women sailors. I'm the navigator for this trip.

At the helm is a woman who would like her navigator to have a chart plotter available, but we're not racing on my boat but on someone else's. Although his boat is very well equipped in many ways, his chart plotter is an old Garmin 76CX.

It's difficult to use as you might a modern chart plotter, tracking your course from waypoint to waypoint. I had one of these until it stopped working, so I was fairly familiar with it, but because of its tiny screen I never used it for anything except getting a precise latitude and longitude, which served me very well once.

I thought, "No problem. I'll just get a manual online." I found a Garmin website that had this old manual, but it wasn't a PDF, and when I downloaded it to my Macintosh, it was just unreadable gabble.

Garmin has done it again in not supporting Macintosh (in fairness, I can't expect them to support an old 76CX, but ...) They could have just put the manual into a PDF file and then anyone would be able to read it. The solution is so easy it's laughable, but clearly they just didn't bother.

We don't really need a chart plotter for this small race course, so I'm not worried about it. We can sight all the markers. But really, Garmin -- PDF? It's ... not hard.

Nobody Wants a Clogged Head!

But ... Why does it happen? I think I know.

Or, A Tale of Two Toilet (Hoses)

I'm no plumber, and at least partly because of that, for the 3 1/2 years I have lived on my boat, I have lived in terror of the thought of a clogged head. The male sailors in my club, who will say just about anything in front of a woman, get vague ... and disgusted ... when they describe what they've been through.

But here's the thing: no one who has told one of these smelly, dirty stories lived on his boat.

Except for one person: he lives on his boat and gets his boat pumped out regularly. Due to mechanical problems, he had not sailed his boat any distance in some time, but he finally had everything fixed up and ship-shape, and he went on a short cruise. Far enough from shore to be legal, he decided to pump overboard and discovered that his sanitary system was clogged. Oh no!

If it was clogged, though, how come he had been able to use the toilet and be pumped out until he went off shore?

The hose that was clogged was the one that went overboard. It hadn't been used in a very long time, and apparently something got left behind. He had to dig a hardened chunk of toilet paper and other things best left unmentioned.

Well, here's what I think, and as I prepare to move off the boat, I'm going to keep it in mind. As I lived on my boat, all the hoses except the overboard one got used regularly. Nothing ever had a chance to get stuck and dried, because something else was already coming up the "freeway." Sometimes it was a little harder than others to pump, but everything always went through.

I think when I move off the boat I will be very careful about flushing completely. I think hoses get clogged because the hoses aren't flushed completely, and then the bot sits in the slip for a month while things get dry and hard.

So that's what I'm suggesting you do. If you take your boat out, say, once a month, if the head has been used, flush it thoroughly. Then use a hose, fill the tank completely and pump it out. In fact, I would flush the tank a couple of times if the boat won't be used for a while. I think this might solve some odor problems as well. If you go out to sea and flush overboard, use plenty of water.

I can't prove any of this, and frankly, I'm not interested in trying to. But I throw it out as a possible solution to a very unsavory problem.

Wearing Gloves ...

or, Someone Really Could Die!

This happened in the marina I live in recently. A man was climbing up his very tall mast, with his wife on the halyard as a safety line.

I don't know what went wrong at the mast, but he slipped, and he needed that safety line to catch him. I also don't know what went wrong in the cockpit, but she did not have gloves on, and could not hold the line. It burned her hands and she had to let go.

He fell 70 feet.

What happened next was like something out of a movie. Instead of hitting the deck, he hit the Bimini. It gave just enough to cushion his fall. Then it split, and he fell through the Bimini to the cockpit, which hurt him more than the fall from the mast did. However, he was not seriously hurt.

I'm not opposed to wives handling the halyard when someone goes up the mast. I do it myself.

However: I always have gloves on, and I always hold the line firmly, with the assumption that this person is going to fall in the next split-second. I have his life in my hands, and that's how I treat it. 

But gloves aren't just for the tasks that are obviously hazardous from the beginning. Just about anything you do on a boat has the potential to become suddenly hazardous. Suppose you fall off your boat at the dock? It's remarkable just how common that is. If you have gloves on, your hands won't get cut by barnacles, and you'll have a much easier time getting out of the water. If you, say, broke an ankle going in, that could be important, especially if you're by yourself. 

I know someone else whose transmission on her smallish sailboat stuck in forward just as she was coming in to dock. She turned the engine off, and made her best guess about going in circles to slow it down before entering her slip, but she didn't get it *quite* right. Since she had gloves on, she was able to grab a line strung between the pilings and physically stop the boat. 

in a storm or rough seas, the stresses on the sheets multiply You can actually pull harder with gloves on than without them. Try it some time. As I've pointed out in other articles, weather can turn sour very quickly. If you already have gloves on, that's one less thing you have to do in the precious few minutes you may have before the ship hits the fan.

And ladies, shake the hand some time of an experienced sailor who doesn't wear gloves. Trust me -- you don't want your hands to feel that rough! If only for vanity's sake, gloves are the answer. They also help tremendously if the diameter of the line you have to pull on is small. My traveler would be an example of that, as is the line on many roller furlers.

While we're at it, I'm going to come down firmly on the side of wearing shoes -- and closed-toe shoes. Once again, if you fall in, you won't cut your feet on barnacles, and you'll have a much easier time getting out of the water. Now, I have a very dear friend whose opinion I highly respect, who can show you the research demonstrating that bare feet grip the deck best. That may well be, but that was only a grip test. It wasn't a "How many body parts can you injure in a storm?" test. I know someone who sailed to Key West in what should have been a good weather window, but he and his crew still got caught in a storm strong enough to knock them around. They came out on the other side of it with a concussion, cracked ribs, and a broken arm. Oh yeah -- the fellow in the open-toed sandals had a broken toe. They didn't have one person fit to sail the boat, although by working together they managed to get to a safe port.

Sailing gloves are like seat belts. When seat belts first came out, lots of people grumbled and said things like "You can't MAKE me wear it!" (Of course, now they can ...) but I was a young teenager, and my parents said, "Actually, yes, we CAN make you wear it." It became a habit, and now I'm not comfortable in a car unless it, and the shoulder harness, are on. I view sailing gloves in the same way. It's not something worth getting flapped over, and like my seat belt, they may never be the difference between life and death, but the restraint system in my car certainly was the difference between minor injuries and major injuries once. That's how I look at sailing gloves, and I urge you to make them part of your routine.

Where I Haven't Been ...

It's been some time since I've made an entry to my blog, and that time has been full of upheaval and big decisions.
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First I aggravated the sacro-iliac part of my back -- both sides (don't ever do things small, right?) It hasn't really improved. Instead I have modified what I do and how I do it. Fortunately it tells me *exactly* what it will and will not tolerate. This has been going on since ... last August.

What it will and will not tolerate is decidedly weird. I can help a friend up a mast with no problems at all as long as I keep my back straight. However, bending over slightly to fold my laundry causes marked discomfort. As a result, I have to send my laundry out.

But -- if I can help hoist someone up a mast, I can sail, right? Yes, I can, thank goodness. And the knee I sprained right before Christmas has finally healed, and that is no longer an obstacle. Sailing on the boat -- yes. Living on the boat, no. The configuration of the interior of my boat allows for lots of storage -- as long as you can stoop, bend and lift while twisting. Which makes my back holler.

In addition there seems to be no pain medication I can take except for aspirin, and as we have become more aware of the dangers of aspirin (and having had a husband who landed in the hospital for five days over a baby aspirin daily), I'm not really keen on gobbling aspirin like candy. As it turns out I don't tolerate NSAIDS, and anything related to codeine makes me ... vomit. So ... I have to obey the back.

The sacro-iliac, I have learned, is a strange little joint. It barely moves. Its location is where the very bottom of the spine meets the pelvis, and it seems to be connected to, well, everything else in the back. It can cause pain in your hips, down your thighs, across the small of your back and up both sides like bolts of lightning. As I said, obey the back.

So, I am announcing here that I am moving off the boat. I'm not distressed by this turn of events, because I got to live on her for three and one-half years. I've had experiences and adventures that I couldn't even imagine ten years ago. I started sailing when I was 62. I didn't have to have that opportunity and I most certainly was never guaranteed the experiences that followed.

I won't stop sailing, of course. I hope to do plenty of sailing on friends' boats. I intend to ply them with beer, and wine, and rum, and escargot if that's what it takes, but I don't expect to stop sailing.

What I'm saying is that just because an adventure may eventually end does not mean that you should not risk anything. When I started on this adventure I knew it would have to end eventually. In fact, that's why I moved on board, shortly before my 65th birthday. I had already survived breast cancer, and it occurred to me: "What are you waiting for? Another medical emergency? Will you be more ready for this afte you've broken a hip or had a stroke?"

None of us know how many days we will have in this life. A refrigerator could fall on me tomorrow. If it does, that calamity will happen whether or not I made it a point to do some of the things I really, really wanted to do first. I've said this before: I'm not saying to be foolish. I'm not advocating what the young couple from California did, recently -- attempt to sail around the world with an inadequately equipped boat (or they would have had a backup steering plan), an apparent inability to make simple repairs to their engine, and with a 1 year old and 3 year old in tow. (Small children, once they get sick, can get very sick extremely fast. Having experienced that with one of my children, I would never take a small child into what amounts to a wilderness, far away from first-rate medical care.)

I'm not suggesting people cash in their retirement plans, quit their jobs and buy a boat. But if you're smart, you can start on a plan toward such a goal. Start building your sailing skills. You've heard me say this before, too -- go out there and sail, but each time you do, practice something that clearly expands your skills. Try steering your boat with a couple of drogues, or go out on a slightly rougher day than you're used to with your sails reefed and increase your heavy weather skills. Or go out for five days instead of two days. Go someplace new.

Build your experience -- not just time over water, which doesn't count for anything unless you're decreasing the mistakes you make and increasing your expertise. If you race, don't always race, because the things you do while racing won't be the things you do in a storm. Use your chart plotter, but use a bearing compass, a chart, and that log you've been keeping (right?) and make your best estimate first. Then use the chart plotter to confirm.

Take a class in meteorology. Do everything you can to get as well prepared as you can, but for heaven's sake don't make it all book-learning. Even if all you can afford is a little 12' dinghy, get a boat and sail it.

I think I've done pretty well for the short amount of time I've had to learn, but keep in mind that I was retired and could take my boat out any time I wanted. I got in lots and lots of sailing time because I could go any time I wanted. You probably have a job spouse, children, all making demands on your time. Be creative and look for ways to make this hobby something your family enjoys with you, and you'll get to do it more.

Don't be sad for me, because I'm not sad about this. Living aboard the boat has been a delight (it's been very windy tonight, and the boat has been rockin' and rollin' and I AM going to miss that!), but I'll still be able to sail.

The truth is that the day will *also* come when I can't safely sail, and I'm not sure how I'll deal with that, but moving off the boat is not a crisis. It's just another change. I was lucky to find BCYC and extremely fortunate to get to do what I have done. Just keep in mind that you aren't guaranteed good health by the time you retire, and ... be sure you enjoy the now while you're planning for the future.

Are You Really Gaining Experience ....

or are you just getting experienced at being lucky?

Most people who live along the Gulf of Mexico will remember an incident from several years ago. Four football players went out fishing on the Gulf of Mexico with tragic results. While the four men were missing but not yet found, one of the wives said, "I'm hopeful, because they're experienced boaters."

As it turned out, they weren't experienced in boating safely. They were experienced at being lucky, and on that day, their luck ran out.

At my sailing club, we were all surprised to hear they were 50 miles or so off shore -- at their favorite fishing spot -- because we had all known for days that a major front was coming through. It was March of 2009, and it's just a fact of life in Florida that fronts can come through and get the Gulf all riled up. Sailors and boaters should never ignore the weather, but especially January through March, when the fronts from the north can really make a mess out of the mostly shallow Gulf of Mexico.

But apparently these fellows were not aware of the fairly severe weather forecast. We noted at the club that not one person there had taken their boat out. In addition, the four fishermen were on a center console fishing boat. These boats are not designed for offshore use. They had been lucky in the past regarding the weather, and that luck had extended to using a boat inappropriate for the fishing they wanted to do.

Their luck ran out in March of 2009. They added to their problem by trying to retrieve an anchor that had set itself so hard that they couldn't get it back up. That can happen in rough water: the bow rises and falls, and with each rise and fall, the anchor sets itself more strongly. This can be a very good thing. You don't want your anchor dragging if you have to use it in a storm.

They compounded their problems by being determined to retrieve that anchor. When they couldn't get it up from the bow, they tied the end of the anchor rode to the stern of the boat, and then drove the boat forward. This can work ... when you're pulling a bush out of the ground with your car. (This is one more example of how driving a boat is completely different than driving a car). It can be a really bad idea in a boat. Boat vs. anchor, and the anchor won. It pulled the stern under (probably the waves helped), and the boat completely capsized.

If a sailboat capsizes, it is likely to right itself. The rigging may be destroyed, and you may have sailors injured and/or in the water, but they typically right themselves. This is not true of power boats.

So now they had four people in the water clinging to an upside down boat. One of the men dived under the boat and retrieved PFD's and water (they should have had their PFD's on already in rough water). Very sadly, three out of the four men drowned.

You may be doing something over and over that is a really bad idea, even though it has not made problems for you -- yet. One example might be running your engine harder than it should be run. My engine manufacturer tells me to never, ever run the engine above 3600 rpm. So I watch the RPM gauge, right?

Not exactly. I allow for a margin of error, because I'm not guaranteed that that RPM gauge is completely accurate. A friend just had his engine worked on, and one of the things the mechanic did was use a separate, digital tool to test how accurate his RPM gauge was. They discovered that his gauge was off by 400 RPM: when it read 3200, the engine was really running at 3600 -- redline for his engine also.

You might not be in the habit of routinely securing loose things below. Then a storm pops up unexpectedly, and you have damaged belongings in your cabin. Or, very commonly, you don't visit your boat often enough. I know of one person whose boat almost sank over a split hose, and another person who did have her boat sink over a split hose. These people aren't checking and working their seacocks, either, because they're not at their boats to do it. They're also not periodically starting their engines. Diesels love to run -- under load, not just idling -- and not doing this is not a good thing. I looked at a boat that was sailed often but not maintained well enough. The oil, when the engine was cold, was literally as thick as peanut butter. No way was I going to buy such a boat. The owners had gotten lucky and not had any serious engine issues because of their neglect of the oil. However, I wonder how the person who bought that boat fared. I know someone else who had a lot of water in her cabin. She didn't have time to sail, so she wasn't checking her boat. Her stuffing box was leaking, and the float valve on her bilge pump was sticking. Her boat also could have sunk. Her problem was spotted because she did the responsible thing and hired someone to do some basic maintenance.

You may be doing things as you sail that are not only inefficient but dangerous as well. Your best protection if you're a newer sailor is to actively network with other sailors. Don't be embarrassed to tell about the things that have gone wrong. Walk away from someone who sees this as a chance to look down their nose at you (they're out there), but cultivate the people who can show you what to learn from your experience. There is no more valuable friend a newer sailor can have.


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This Is not a Happy Topic

... Skin Cancer

It is widely believed among those who get a lot of sun exposure that having a tan will protect one from skin cancer. It *will* protect you from a casual burn, but it will not protect you from skin cancer. 

As I have recently found out, bad burns during child put one at greatly increased risk for squamous-cell skin cancer. 

You may have heard that the only "serious" skin cancer is melanoma. Melanoma is nothing to laugh at, that's for sure, but under the wrong circumstances, squamus-cell and even basal cell can become serious. As it happens, I haven't had yearly skin examinations, but I am saying now: GET THAT YEARLY SKIN EXAMINATION.

It wouldn't have helped me, as it turns out, unless that examination had been within the last three months or so, but most of the time it helps a great deal. I happen to have a rapidly growing squamous-cell skin cancer, on the bridge of my nose, and it's going to have to be dealt with aggressively. Most of the time, though, if you get that yearly skin examination, the doctor will find any skin cancers (even melanoma, which is highly treatable now if caught early) in plenty of time.

I have noticed that when I offer sunscreen to people on my boat, women take it if they forgot to use it, but men? I can't think of a single man I have ever seen use sunscreen. No, that's not true. I do know a couple. They have both had skin cancer and I guess the doctor got their attention.

Just because a skin cancer can USUALLY be removed in plenty of time does not mean you should be casual about this. Wear hats, and use sun screen. Unfortunately it hadn't been invented when I was a child, so a lot of people of my age are going to have otherwise unnecessary skin cancers. 

Don't be foolish. Use good sun screen, and reapply it periodically. Wear a hat (if it storms, you have my blessing to take it off in favor of your foulie hood!)

And get that yearly skin exam. Then, just because the doctor says "it's no big deal," don't think that means you're chasing monsters under the bed. It's just that you caught the monster very early. That's a very good thing to do.


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Memory Foam

Or, Gee, that bunk is hard!

You don’t have to live on your boat to need a comfy place to sleep. At the end of a day full of sailing, you’ve done a lot of physical work, and while you probably could sleep on a bed of nails, it should not have to be your only choice.

Enter memory foam. I don’t think that name is trademarked as I have seen it on foam toppers in stores like BIG LOTS and WAL-MART.

I’m not talking about the foam pads, often waffled in texture, from days gone by. I’ve tried those for other purposes. Maybe they make a psychological difference, but by morning your body will know there was nothing of significance on top of that lumpy, or old, or hard, mattress.

Memory foam is different in that it actually improves comfort. Yes. I’m saying it’s worth the money. And it’s not that much money any more. A twin bed-sized memory foam topper, 4” thick, may not cost you more than $100. Put it on top of the hard cushions typically used on most sailboat bunks and you’ll be a happy camper. My vee berth would require a double-bed size, but that doesn’t cost much more. 

Mention of the vee berth in particular brings us to the issue of shape. Very few things come to a right angle on sailboats, and only rarely is something like a berth standard-sized. That means you’re going to have to cut this foam, and cutting 4” foam can be a challenge. (I do recommend getting the 4”, but I like a soft bed.)

Unless you have an electric knife. Happily, I found one at WAL-MART in their small kitchen appliance center for only ten dollars . I didn’t even bother to try to make a pattern. I simply put the foam on the berth, and cut away the extra foam. I recommend doing that in several stages so you don’t accidentally cut away too much. You may find that your berth is, say, 2” shorter than the foam. Don’t try to force the knife through the foam too fast, and try to keep the knife vertical. However, the foam is packaged quite tightly at the factory, and you may find that it won’t really be completely its final shape until about 24 hours after you have unpacked it.

If you shape the foam precisely, it will fit snugly and tend to stay in place. I had to cut the front edge at an angle, as the berth was the width of a twin bed at one end but not the other. In addition, notches had to be cut out of the back edge. But any mess from the foam is easy to clean up afterwards.

These foam toppers come with mattress covers, which quite naturally are rectangular. Getting the cover on your cut foam is a battle and I suggest you have someone to help you with it.

Then flip the mattress over, and get a needle and thread. Pull the mattress cover tight, working from the edges to the middle, and just baste the folds of extra fabric down, and the mattress cover won’t shift around on you. It doesn’t have to look pretty; no one will ever see it. I also suggest putting a second mattress cover over that. That one will go on much easier than the first one did, and be more easily removable for laundering.

If you really want to go all-out, you can also modify a set of twin or double sheets (or whatever size you’re working with) to fit, but since that’s going to show, if you don’t have good sewing skills, find someone who does have the skills to do that. This time you will have to work on the top side, but a good seamstress can take the extra fabric up where the sheet folds over the edge of the foam, and you won’t have to lie on – or look at – a seam going down the middle of your mattress.

I don’t recommend using memory foam instead of the cushions already on your berth. Those cushions are made for a marine environment and meant to hold up to things like people sitting on them. But you can stow them in the vee berth during the day and pull them out at night if you live on your boat, or store them in any place free of dampness if you only use your boat on occasional weekends.

I have found this moderately priced memory foam to be extremely comfortable, and I’m a “Princess and the Pea” kind of woman – if the bed isn’t comfy, it drives me nuts.

Good luck with this, and … sweet dreams!




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