I arrived at the base marina ten minutes late, setting my nerves on edge before crew practice had even started. Little did I know, the smidge of apprehension I felt would amplify into confidence-obliterating anxiety that would render me virtually useless before the day was done.
It was the first practice for the crew of Alliance, a 40-foot J122 offshore racing sailboat co-skippered by two military-connected sailing friends, Mary and Eric. I’d met Mary through the base’s Navy Yacht Club, and she’d invited me to be “delivery crew” last year. It was worth a try.
As delivery crew, I wouldn’t race with Alliance, but I’d help sail the boat to and from race locations. As a sailing novice with lots to learn, this lesser status was fine by me. In fact, I was grateful to be exposed to this respectable group of lifelong sailors at all.
At 57-years-of-age, my goal wasn’t to become an expert offshore racer. Realistically, I’d never fully grasp the complexities of navigation, weather, and tactics. My modest aim was to simply be a useful member of the overall crew.
“Hi, I’m Lisa,” I said cheerfully to the crew members who were busy doing various tasks on the docked boat. When they looked in my direction, I sensed mild confusion.
“What’s that frumpy, middle-aged woman doing on the boat?” their faces seemed to say.
“Delivery crew,” I explained with a nervous chuckle, pointing to myself.
The race crew wore scuffed boots and sailing gear, showing wear and tear from years of races. By contrast, I was decked out in glaringly spotless boots and crispy-new foul weather gear without so much as a smudge, wrinkle or stray thread.
Once aboard, I tried to help, but it quickly became apparent that I couldn’t really help without asking for help myself, which kind of defeated the purpose of helping at all. When I did try tasks, I often made stupid mistakes, further rattling my nerves.
“You’re making this more difficult,” Bill, a race crew member, blurted when I attempted to help him pack a spinnaker sail into its designated bag.
My blunders continued that blustery afternoon during practice maneuvers on the Narragansett Bay. I grabbed the wrong line, attached the wrong shackle, tied the wrong knot, forgot where the fairlead was, sheeted in when I should’ve eased out.
Each time I goofed or got in someone’s way, I pivoted and carried on. However, one by one, tiny invisible chinks formed in my self-confidence.
At 6:30 pm, Alliance sailed out of the bay on port tack, following a rhumb line to a point just south of Block Island. The ocean was quite rough, and I was glad that I’d hidden a sea-sickness patch behind my left ear. I volunteered to wash the dinner dishes, one task I thought I couldn’t screw up, but as I worked at the galley sink, the Shepherd’s Pie I’d eaten nearly came back up.
I was assigned to first watch, 8:00 pm to midnight, along with Conor and Julija. When I took the helm, Conor pointed out a lighted beacon up ahead “just of the starboard bow.” I searched in vane for the light. “The OTHER starboard bow,” Conor said flatly.
In the windblown cockpit, my battered self-confidence finally gave way. For the rest of the watch, I clammed up, unable to do or say anything. I’d hit a mental wall. In all my unsuccessful attempts to be useful, I’d rendered myself useLESS.
Chilled to the bone, I huddled in my designated berth after midnight and my paralyzed brain forgot to set an alarm for the 4:00 am watch. My final rookie mistake was waking up an hour late. The entire crew was topside when I appeared in the companionway, as Alliance re-entered the Narragansett Bay.
At home, I convinced myself that I was the laughing stock of the Alliance crew, and that they’d never invite me back. But I received an email from the skippers assigning me to delivery crew after a race the very next weekend. In mustering the courage to try again, I stumbled upon a quote by Henry Ford: “Failure is only the opportunity to begin more intelligently again.”
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