#52 Sailing (and Swearing) My Way Through Life (Sailing Pt 1)
By Mum (Mum to A, L, B)
Language warning: This post contains liberal amounts of swearing.
My 12 year old L reminded me that some people don’t appreciate swearing. If you’ve met me, and you know the real me, you’ll know I’m a match for any deckhand, or pirate in my capacity to swear. Some people think swearing is offensive. Others are impartial, and view them as just words. My view is that swearing is an essential part of vocabulary, and self expression with numerous benefits. Swearing is even good for your health. It’s true! Check out “Swearing is Good for You: The Amazing Science of Bad Language”, by Dr Emma Byrne. It’s a great read. I have a copy if you’d like to borrow it. Swearing need not be gratuitous, but highly functional. Swearing is a short cut to emotional expression. It is effective in reducing physical pain as well as anxiety. It can be preventative against physical violence, and it can also aid emotional connection with others. It’s a fast, free cure-all. What’s not to like about it?
Darling L, I have thoroughly considered your thought that swearing is not appropriate for the blog. Thank you for making me think about this. In the end, I think it’s important to be our true selves, and express our feelings. I have also tried to make the swearing in this blog post educational for the young readers you are concerned about. Hopefully they will improve their vocabulary, and at least learn to swear properly. Read on if you dare. Love, Mummy. xo
The people from whom you learn the most, are quite often the people you hate feel challenged by the most. They drive me up the wall. They really give me the shits. At the same time, they make the best teachers. They show you there is always more to learn. Ugh, I know. Have an emesis bag. It’s all a bit sickening.
Take my PT for example. She knows how far I can go, and she takes me to the brink. She sniffs an inch, and makes a plan to move me a foot. I might never actually go over the edge, but I often feel like I am hanging on by my fingertips. (This is literally true when I attempt a chin-up.) She’s the queen of torture, but I love her. Week after week, I’m back training in her shed pushing myself to be fitter, and stronger. I am constantly learning from my PT how much more I have in me. When I first started I couldn’t do one sit-up. Now, if she asks for 50, I’m there. I missed her while I was away from home on the world tour. Once the jet lag settled, I was straight back into training.
Dad is also an excellent example. He knows how much I have in my tank, and seeks to exploit it encourages me to do my best. He proposes the challenge, and I’ll raise all the very reasonable, and logistical reasons for why not. He then waits patiently before he pounces. In the end, when someone plants the seed of a challenge, I will come running. Before I know it, I’ve done something completely crazy like 9 countries in 6 months. (If you have been following from the start, I’ve only blogged 7. Apologies, this blog is no longer in sequential order. I really need to get some shit off my chest.)
When the going gets tough, I will whine. I will complain. I will let you know of my immense dissatisfaction, marked disdain, and bitter disapproval. You should expect some sledging, and I will most definitely let loose a spray of choice vocabulary. It’s not pretty. So why does anyone put up with my crap? It’s not all bad. People can count on me to get the job done. I’m also deeply loyal - to the point that I am lucky enough to have a friend with whom I have a secret (now not so secret) pact. We have a code to signal:
Get your arse here now! I need a body buried.
Even if it requires 4 connecting flights and a camel ride to get there, when I get the signal, I will come running. If I ever needed to put the call out, the body that I’d need buried would probably be Dad’s. (Warning my friend, we might need to move a big unit.) More than anybody, he’s constantly there, gently nudging me to be a better person. Ugh. Yes, really. It’s a constant annoyance. (By the way, *Mwah* love you, Dad.)
I have only worked out all of this shit, this summer. It’s taken a year for me to put the pieces together over a little bit of sailing. What’s sailing got to do with any of this?
Firstly, sailing is: the activity of travelling on a boat, gliding along the water powered by the wind. The word sailing also implies to do something with ease. For example, she sailed through through life without a care in the world.
However, what I have realised from my year of learning to sail a boat, is that sailing is, in fact, one hard core f*#%ing sport. It takes no prisoners. I have learnt this from experience, and from my sailing instructor, Scout Leader F. His Scout name is “F”. In my group, we nominate our own Scout Leader names. Many people choose animals. My chosen name is “Kitty”, as in “Hello Kitty”, (cute, adorable, and forever young - just like me). For simplicity’s sake, I’ll call my sailing instructor “SLF”.
The “F” in SLF doesn’t rhyme with “duck”, but in the last week I have blurted out something like “duck” more than once in my interactions with him. SLF seems like an appropriate pseudonym for him, given his capacity to draw me into frustrating, and hair raising situations that induce swearing. My swearing has probably saved him from physical assault. At times I could have assaulted him, but I chose the high road and swore at him. A win for all. I’m still a mum, and I don’t fancy being done for GBH (grievous bodily harm). The girls are sufficiently embarrassed by me without a criminal record.
This story starts 12 months ago. Last summer, I signed up for a week long Scout sailing camp. All the girls were keen but B, being only 8, was too young to attend without a parent. I figured I could add value in the catering crew, or a bit of welfare, because I knew “F” all about sailing. At the time, SLF was B and L’s Scout Leader. He was concerned about taking a group of young Scouts to a long, and very remote camp way out in the Gippsland Lakes, the middle of nowhere in Victoria. To make sure their sailing skills were up to the challenge, he ran sailing school for a week in Melbourne’s Port Phillip Bay. I agreed to help manage logistics. The Scouts were amazing. The weather started out perfect. There was sunshine, and enough wind to fill the sails. Later in the week, the weather turned the bay into an ugly, choppy, debris-ridden, basin of brown soup. The Scouts kept sailing, and they honed their skills to sail in difficult conditions. Job done. Scouts fully prepped. Unfortunately, in the process, SLF did his back in. All that hard work, and he was no longer going to camp. He nonchalantly passed me, random parent helper, the baton. He said,
You’re now Scout Leader in charge.
The words just rolled out of his mouth like he was doing me favour. He said it in the same blasé tone of,
Hey, got you a coffee.
Plain Sailing with Scouts
I found myself in charge of more than a dozen Scouts aged 8 to 13 at a sailing camp in a remote national park. It took about 4 hours in the car, and the same amount of time sitting in a little sailing boat to arrive to a camp where the only facility was a pit toilet. Straight after I arrived, I got a 5 page long text message from SLF. I fact checked myself. It really was 5 pages long. He gave me a list of the activities with their objectives he planned for the week. He wanted the Scouts to achieve specific competencies across sailing, bushcraft, and camping… The man had injured his back, but I really wished he had broken his phone.
A short excerpt from SLF’s 5 page list of objectives and activities for camp…
This was no biggie, except that I had no Scout Leader training, and after helping out sailing school for a week, I had increased my knowledge to marginally more than “F” all about sailing. I set myself the task of learning to sail alongside the Scouts with help from some Scout Leaders. All week, I hopped on, and off all kinds of sail boats.
There was a lovely Scout who volunteered to take me out on a boat. We were having a brilliant time in a little boat, and he turned to say to me,
Hey, let’s capsize this boat!
I surprised myself. I found myself saying,
Yeah! Let’s do it!
We hung out the side, and tipped over the sail boat. While floundering in the water trying to right the boat, the motorised safety boat whipped around to check who was in the water, and if they needed assistance. When the safety boat operators saw it was me, they laughed in my face, and hooned off. I loved it. I had a ball.
I even flew across the water on a trimaran. The Captain of the trimaran was a generous, kind, and patient man. He invited me, and my girls to sail his boat with him several times over the week. On my last time on his boat, it was seriously windy. It was blowing 20+ knots, with white caps on the water. He passed us some goggles, and off we went. A and I sat opposite each other passing the tiller across the boat, and taking turns to steer. We sped across the water zig zagging our way up the channel. It was a blast.
Off the water we camped, learnt sailing theory, did some bushcraft, played card games, tied knots, cooked on a fire… In my spare time, while I was also finishing my research to cure cancer, and finding a solution to global warming, I knocked SLF’s list of activities and competencies out of the water. (Pun intended.) I had so much fun, I was convinced to sign up as a Scout Leader. I realised that the reason to a be a Scout Leader was about the opportunity for me to go on fun adventures, learn new skills, and even learn a little bit more about myself. I spent the first six months of last year as a Scout Leader on my L plates. Then we took off on our six month world tour.
Some time while I was meandering along the backstreets and canals of Venice late last year, SLF suggested we take a sailing trip with some Scouts in the summer. After such a great summer last year, I was keen to get some more sailing experience. Dad, A, and L planned to go away for 2 weeks to the Australian Scout Jamboree in Queensland in early January. It would be the perfect time for me and B to go sailing.
We got home from our big trip, and we were due to take off again four weeks later. I had just gotten used to wearing cotton undies, and I was packing the quick dry undies again. I imagined us hanging out on SLF’s sailing boat like the time we sailed to see the little penguins in St Kilda. We could kick back with some other scouting buddies enjoying some summertime sunshine, sea breezes, and working a few ropes. It’s not too hard to crew a little boat when you have an excellent Captain. I’d done this before a few times, and really enjoyed it. A little bit of effort, minimal responsibility, maximum fun. Love it.
I’m a particularly conscientious person, and I didn’t want to be a terrible crew member, so in our few short weeks at home between trips, I convinced L to take me under her wing, and teach me to sail a tiny dinghy all by myself on the lake. Up until recently, SLF had also been her Scout Leader, so L is an excellent sailor. I quickly learnt how to properly rig the boat, steer the boat, and operate the main sheet (the rope that attaches to the main sail). The final test was could I sail the little boat by myself around a little island in the lake. YES! There were a few near capsizes, but I stayed dry above the waist. Woohoo! It was a win for improving my sailing skills, and L’s teaching skills. Best of all, it was a fun time hanging out with L. The girls are way ahead of me in so many ways, and I try to be ready to learn from them. L didn’t just teach me the technicalities of sailing, she also taught me how to have fun out on the water, to let go, and follow the wind.
I followed the wind to SLF’s 2025 summer sailing camp. He had an ambitious plan with around 10 us (5 adults and 5 Cub Scouts aged 9-11) sailing around Port Phillip Bay. We would start at Port Melbourne, near Melbourne CBD, and head south down along Mornington Peninsula. If that went well, we would sail our way back up to Port Melbourne to circle the entire bay. Our accomodation would be scout halls and yacht clubs along the way. If that wasn’t available, we’d be camping.
We set off with an ambitious plan to sail around Port Phillip Bay.
Training Day:
The day before we left, SLF planned some training, and drills. I offered to look after the Scouts on land, as I had so often done. SLF firmly said,
Kitty, I need you on the boat.
I should point out that SLF is a lot taller than me. Even from a seated position, I have to look up to talk to him. He speaks with a discernible accent in short, sharp, precise sentences. He has a punctuated, authoritative tone. He also possesses a vastly superior knowledge of sailing, and the sea. When he says stuff, I try to be all ears. I am also generally compliant. It’s hard to say no when someone says seemingly reasonable things, with seemingly absolute conviction. More sailing experience is always good so I helped rig the boat, and jumped aboard with the rest of the crew. SLF took the helm. I sat in position ready to work the ropes, and crew the boat. As soon as we pulled away from the boat ramp, in SLF’s signature, off the cuff, nonchalant voice, he dropped the bomb,
Kitty, take the tiller. You’re now the Captain.
No! WTF?! I didn’t recall signing up for this! SLF was the expedition leader, and therefore Commander in Chief. It wasn’t the navy, but I felt compelled to comply. I had a horrible moment of déjà vu… Here I was diving into the deep end. I was in way over my head. Again.
This boat was like a big floating bath tub. It was the size of a biggish spa tub. It's not one you want to get into with more than about 5 or so of your closest mates. For the boaties, the spa tub is a Savage Dolphin; a 16.5 footer. It looks ridiculously small for an expedition around Port Phillip Bay. For perspective, the bay has 264 km of coastline around a 1,930 km2 (476,900 acres) body of water. The spa tub was a microscopic speck on the bay. In no way, shape, or form did I feel ready to be Captain, but I took the tiller.
For over 3 hours we sailed upwind in a meandering zig zag up the coast. It was a short 2 km distance along the beach that I often run, or walk with my friends. However, this journey had me wondering how well incontinence pads, and adult nappies might work on a boat. I made a mental note to research waterproof options.
With the greatest of reluctance, I sat at the helm getting useful feedback from SLF that went like this:
Me: Do you think we should tack (make a turn) now?
SLF: You’re the Captain. You decide, and tell the crew.
Me: I’m feeling deeply uncomfortable here, (SLF).
SLF: Try shifting yourself, or moving something in the boat.
Me: No! I’m deeply uncomfortable holding the tiller, and being Captain!
SLF: Hm
Fear levels running high, I only managed to be deeply restrained in my comms with SLF, because he’d put a Scout on board the boat. I might otherwise have used a more colourful vocabulary, and expressive tone.
When I finally pulled the boat into the beach, and let go of the tiller, I jumped out, and stood waist deep in the ocean watching my hands shake. My claim to success in this exercise was that I maintained full bladder, and bowel control at all times on board the boat. As soon as I had hopped off, all bets were off. I duly peed my pants.
Expedition Day 1:
The next day, SLF’s float plan (details for the day’s sailing excursion) had me as Captain of the boat that carried most of the gear we needed for the week long trip. As crew, I had our Scout Group Leader (the Big Kahuna when we’re on land), a parent helper, a Scout, and the love of SLF’s life, his wife and mother of his child. I had no clue why SLF was trusting me with all this?! My satisfactory performance was critical to the survival of significant others, and success of the mission. Straight away, as Captain, I designated SLF’s wife as the sailing instructor, but she already had instructions:
He told me I’m not allowed to touch anything. I’m only allowed to talk.
There was nothing to do, but push on.
Many Scouts make light work. Packing the floating spa tub with camping gear ready for adventure.
The fleet leaving Melbourne. Left to right: the tiny boat, SLF’s boat, the floating spa tub with me at the tiller.
Hand glued to the tiller, I faked it until we made it to our first destination, a little Scout hall on the beach 12 km down the coastline. With beautiful sunny weather, and a good breeze, the hours fell away. We sailed into a little cove, unpacked our boats, decamped in the hall, and a thoughtful parent laid out a spread for dinner. I finally had the thought, that this adventure was really on. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not so crazy after all.
Expedition Day 2:
We woke up to very different conditions. We had anchored the boat in a calm little cove, and now the boat was bouncing around looking like a dog on a chain wanting to be free. Maybe it wanted out of this adventure. Or maybe that’s how I was feeling? The skies were grey, the rain came down, and the wind had picked up. The conditions were too much to sail the tiniest boat in our little fleet of three. SLF suggested I tow it behind the spa tub to the next destination. That sounded reasonable. How hard could it be to tow a tiny boat?
With a new crew on board, I now had a Captain’s assistant instead of a sailing instructor. Captain J, was the Captain of the tiny boat I was towing. He was to be my new Captain’s assistant. At age 10, Captain J was a far more competent and experienced sailor than me. I also had Captain J’s dad on board. He was in charge of the centreboard, and jib sheet (the rope for the head sail at the front of the boat). Big Kahuna was first mate. He was in charge of the main sheet, the rope which controls the main sail. At the bow, I had two Scouts as lookouts.
I ran through the plan to leave the cove with my Captain’s assistant, and he approved. We would pull up the anchor, put down the centreboard, steer our way through the reefs on either side of the cove, and tack our way down the coast to the next port. It’s all well, and good to have excellent plans. Everything went to plan pulling up the anchor, and then it went to shit. Captain J’s dad went to put down the centreboard. The centreboard is the keel of the sailboat. It’s needed to help steer the boat. Without it, the boat will drift sideways. The centreboard on my boat was stuck. It wouldn’t budge. I had my hand on the tiller but it wasn’t doing anything other than pointing the boat into the swell.
We miraculously dodged two reefs as we drifted out into the bay. The swell got bigger, and bigger. Captain J’s dad was furiously trying with all his might to get down the centreboard. He was applying all his force, and giving it a good whack with whatever was in the boat. We started bouncing up and down, bobbing around to the point that the Captain’s assistant began to go silent, and stared out to sea. I took the main sheet from Big Kahuna, and asked him to give Captain J’s dad a hand, but one look down at the bottom of the boat, and he started going pale as seasickness took hold. One of the Scouts sitting at the bow was feeling a wee scared. Rightly so. The front of the boat cops the biggest drops from the swell, and the most splashing. There was a fair bit of action going on. Luckily Big Kahuna’s son, also sitting up at the bow, was having a rollicking time, hanging in for the ride. He was showing everyone on the boat how it’s done.
With a lot of force, and some clever ingenuity, Captain J’s dad finally got the centreboard down. We all cheered. We could finally get sailing. I tried to gain control of the boat, and pick up some speed to make a turn. Alas, that damned dinghy I was towing turned itself into some kind of anchor. I couldn’t turn the boat into the wind. The champagne was put back on ice. We were still heading out into the middle of the bay. Meanwhile the swell had gotten even bigger. The little boat heaved as the swell reached 1.0-1.5m. When you’re sitting in the equivalent of a large spa tub, dropping 1.5m feels like a lot. I turned to see that Captain J was feeding the fish the remains of his pre-masticated cereal from breakfast. Like a true Captain, when I asked him how he was going, he said,
I’m okay.
Fortunately with the centreboard issue fixed, Big Kahuna could look up, and he too was faring better. Captain’s J dad, however, was spent from his battle with the centreboard, and cold. He wrapped himself in the sail of the tiny boat, and sat down on the floor of the boat out of the wind to keep warm. At the same time, he engaged the Scouts sitting at the bow of the boat about their favourite weekend hobbies to distract them from the heaving of the boat, the rain, the cold, and our complete lack of progress towards our destination… He appointed himself in charge of seafarer welfare, and was acing it.
I dug deep. I channeled calm. In every safety briefing SLF reminds everyone that the key to being safe is staying calm. Stay calm, and think things through before you make a decision. I made an assessment of the situation. I could see boats sailing south upwind, including SLF’s boat. If I could make a tack, it would be fine. I tried my best pointing the bow of the boat into the swell to tack. When I beared away, the boat would have the waves coming in from the side of the boat, which really wasn’t ideal. I turned to check on the tiny boat I was towing. It was not doing me any favours to help me make manoeuvres. Half the crew were either cold, seasick, tired, and/or worried. Our radio wasn’t working well in the weather, and I had lost comms with SLF. I had the rudder locked to point the boat into the oncoming waves. It was still raining, and seawater splashed over the bow with every big wave. The Captain’s Assistant was busy pumping water out the boat. This was the kind of situation SLF had instructed me to make a Captain’s call.
The one thing SLF warned me against before leaving shore was gybing. No nonsense, and to the point, he said,
Kitty, avoid gybing.
Gybing is sailing with the wind behind you. In strong winds, gybing can be dangerous. If the wind changes unexpectedly, this can cause the boom (a massive horizontal metal pole that holds the main sail outwards) to swing uncontrollably. The crew become susceptible to head injuries, concussion, and going overboard.
After a full assessment of the situation, I decided that the best thing to do was gybe. I couldn’t tack to turn the boat to sail upwind, so it was keep drifting further out into the bay, or gybe to sail downwind.
I pep talked the crew with the plan:
We will be gybing. We will be heading back up the coast to beach this boat at the nearest safe place to land. We will be getting everyone on shore soon. (Big Kahuna), pull the main sheet in close. I want a controlled gybe. Everyone else, we keep our heads down. Heads down low, and keep them there. Got it?
A round of, “Okay” came back.
Everyone, ready to gybe?
A round of “ready” came back from the crew.
Heads down! Gybing in 3, 2, 1. Gybing now. Let’s go!
We turned the boat downwind, and safely gybed. Not long later, the very thing that makes gybing dangerous in strong winds happened. The sails flapped wildly, and the boom swung, but Big Kahuna was on the job with the main sheet. He kept it under control as I steered the boat until the sails were full again. Since we had pulled up the anchor, this was the first time that the boat was sailing. I could feel the push from the wind and control coming from the rudder. The boat responded with every adjustment I made to the tiller. With the swell coming from behind us, the spa tub was surfing the waves. Instead of holding us back, the tiny boat on the towline was bobbing along, and following us. We felt the rush from the wind, and sea carrying us along. I was ready to beach the boat, but Big Kahuna had a better idea.
Hey Kitty, how about we pull up to the yacht club, and moor in the marina?
Much discussion had gone on about what went wrong with our centreboard. One thought was that we had sand/mussel shells/debris trapped in there from when we scraped the bottom of the boat, and anchored at the beach overnight. Perhaps this jammed the centreboard. It eventually released with pressure from Captain J’s dad while bobbing around in the water, but it was an unpleasant experience to have a malfunctioning boat. The deep water of a marina would mean we could avoid repeating that problem.
One more gybe, and we sailed our way through the channel markers and into the marina. We berthed the spa tub in the company of some 40ft yachts, and luxury cruisers. I looked behind me, and saw SLF with his crew come sailing in behind us. No comms, but they had worked out what we were doing and followed behind. We gave them a huge cheer as they sailed past. We all made it into port. It was not to the destination we set out for, or any of the other two alternatives flagged in the float plan. None of that mattered.
While I had my hypothermic crew wrapped in space blankets, and chomping on jelly snakes, SLF sprung into action. After securing his boat, he met with the General Manager of the extra fancy yacht club (EFYC). SLF organised secure mooring, access to hot showers, and accomodation in the sailing school dinghy shed. Big Kahuna bought a round of hot chips with miraculous warming powers that revived the Scouts. Sufficiently fortified, they threw off the space blankets, unloaded the boats, and moved all the gear to our new digs.
When I finally caught up with SLF, I was still steeped in residual adrenalin. I spluttered out a condensed version of what happened out in the bay. He cut me off with,
We’ll do a full review later.
At this point I only had two words left in me:
FUCK ME!
I stared straight at SLF. He looked blank. If it’s possible to stare down someone much taller than you, then I did it. Just in case he didn’t hear me the first time, I repeated it for him,
FUCK ME!
Thinking about this now, I’m not sure if it was entirely correct to say, “FUCK ME!”. It may well have been equally correct to say, “FUCK YOU!”, “FUCK OFF!”, or just plain “FUUUUCK!”.
“Fuck me” is a:
Sarcastic phrase to express heightened frustration, and exasperation.
“Fuck you” is an:
Exclamation of immense dissatisfaction, marked disdain, and bitter disapproval. (See paragraph 4 above.)
“Fuck off” is an:
Insistent request to someone to make themselves scarce.
“Fuuuuck” is an:
Emphatic equivalent of “Fuck”.
In that super charged moment, they were all true. I turned away to walk off as the tears welled up. SLF grabbed me by the shoulders. From behind I heard him say,
You did well Kitty. Totally exceeded expectations.
At the time, I felt a moment of pride. I had brought my crew, my boat, and all the gear back to shore safely. Wildly, some of crew even had a good time, and everyone returned in good spirits. I earned the title of Captain Kitty. But wait a minute, he told me I “totally exceeded expectations”. Did this mean he didn’t think I could do what I did?! What was he doing setting me loose in the bay in charge of the floating spa tub full of people?! What. The. Fuck?!
I didn’t know it, but we had sailed into somewhere far better than could ever have been planned.
To be continued…