As my summer in New England comes to an end, I am realizing that I have no regrets about how I have spent my time. However, there is one thing I do miss: sailing.
Every now and again, I remember the mornings I spent in my boat, waterlogged and excited. Here is what I miss.
I miss Sunday mornings. I miss taking a deep, mind clearing breath as I lift my callused feet, pale with pink toenails, up out of the knee-deep, frigid July ocean. This placid body of water known as Buzzard’s Bay was my home for seventeen warm New England summers. I miss stepping into my one-woman sailboat, legs wet, and small cuts on the bottoms of my toes being overcome with a burning sensation due to the salt of the bay. I miss the wind as my copilot. I miss it coming from the southwest, heavy enough to carry me through the racecourse swiftly, yet steady enough to prevent danger.
I miss glossy buoys, marking the starting line that evokes quivers in my bones. I miss reaching the racecourse and seeing my friends, the people who have defined my summers. I miss the immense stone pier that juts out from the coast, and the red, white, and blue yacht club burgee waving in the morning’s wind. I miss squinting to make out the chipped, ivory wooden coarse board, faintly making out the course directions. Five, ten, port.
I miss the startling warning signal, forcing me to turn my boat into the wind to freeze and start my timer. I miss those five short minutes to develop a strategy and to discover how on Earth to go about this race, the ticking stopwatch on my wrist finally running out, and crossing the hectic starting line at the faint beeping of my alarm, just barely missing another boat by mere centimeters. Among the melody of boats slicing and crashing through the bay waves that seem to spread like wildfire, I miss the invigorating start begin.
I miss the upwind race, a battle unlike any other, as the fleet approaches the first mark. I miss my boat climbing and clashing among the oncoming ripples of the sea. I miss the burning in my right hand as the flesh of my palm tears as I haul in the mainsheet rope with all of my might. I miss the quaking abdominals as I crook my body backwards off of the starboard side of my vessel, putting all of my weight into trying to flatten the boat. I miss wavy, sodden hair adhering to my eyelids and the squinting with limited vision due to the tears of the sea dripping from my forehead.
I miss the downwind race, the glittering sun gradually meandering over my exposed skin. I miss the comfort of the ocean, my safety net in case I fall from this suspension above reality. I hope that soon, I can return to my hobby of sailing and experience all this again.
