Journey

Venturing into the unknown can be a thrill or an unmitigated disaster. My first competitive sailing race you could say was a little of both.

My boyfriend (not yet husband) was a big sailor, as was his whole family and crew of childhood friends. He owned a 43 foot C&C yacht, which he liked to sail off the coast of Maine.  And we, his family and me, were sailing his boat, somehow named "Common Sense," from Marion, Mass. to Bermuda, an annual race for sailors.  It was the summer of 1993, an odd number year, which meant a racing year for cruisers, which was the sailing class of our boat.  We were contenders for a prize.

I had some sea legs. Sailed on a variety of boats and in different water ways. Once I hauled for three days and nights, battling oil tankers and over-sized cruise ships, as we brought a tub of a sailboat up from Norfolk, VA to its berth in New York City.  But the thought of being mid-ocean, with no sight of land and no Motel 6 for a quick overnight, made me queasy before we even got out to sea.

So, as any woman would do, I got myself outfitted for an uninterrupted life at sea. From a marine supply store I bought a slick yellow suit for foul weather gear, waterproof boots, and a broad brimmed sou'wester that fastened under my chin for safe keeping even if faced with charging wind and rain. For an extra dose of security, a seasickness patch, which I discretely placed behind my left ear.

Race day came. We loaded our gear on the boat and set our high-peaked sails along our 60 foot mast.  It's hard to imagine, but sailing races actually have a starting line, and so boats have to tack back and forth, cutting in and out of the wind, dodging the other boats also trying to maintain an optimal starting position.  Adding to the usual maneuvering and shouts of "hard a lee," the day was overcast, the air dense. The visibility range shallow with the low hanging clouds and heavy mist. The sea a constant swell of churning white-capped peaks.  One boat, losing its bearing in the fog, ran aground. A navy cutter careened into the bow of another ship.

Amidst the jostling of the start, the queasiness I anticipated far out at sea, swept over me like a rogue wave. With all ears trained to hear the gun crack that would announce the start of the race, I leaned over the windward side of the boat and heaved.

Readings for 4/19: Detail and Description

Before I go into any commentary, I have to confess to a mega dose of writer's envy after reading David Foster Wallace's "Shipping Out." I had read one strange short piece of his about a boy contortionist that ran in a New Yorker, but it had none of the irony or deft use of language and structure as this piece. I also confess to needing a dictionary I was circling so many words I'd never seen before.

My favorite line: "Trudy is fifty-six and looks - and I mean this in the nicest possible way - rather like Jackie Gleason in drag..." The description goes on, creating a woman who we intuitively know well and have seen before.

But I can't admire Wallace's prodigious detail without also complimenting his structure. Each section with a heading is a mini scene unto itself that helps to create a whole. And with each additional character and detail, Wallace pulls us into his descriptive weave of life aboard the 7NC. Like a Picasso painting, we see the whole from different vantage points.  Distorted, or should I say reflecting, Wallace's particlar brand of being.

A streaming 20,000 words, the piece is long, has no real drama except for his moments of macabre and despair, but I savored, and giggled and sighed over every word.

The Wreck of the Lady Mary is a solid piece of more traditional reporting and writing. Where Wallace hinges his telling on personality and culture, Amy Ellis Nutt takes us on a  dramatic journey. Because her reporting is so good, and because she has access to the lone survivor, Nutt can take us to the scene of the tragedy at sea, unspooling events as they occurred real time. Like with Wallace, the structure of this piece fuels us into the heart of the tragedy. We are with each of the crew members as they say depart from their families, not knowing it will be their last goodbye, and head out to sea on their last fishing expedition.

With dialogue such as "salvame por favor," we know these are immigrant men. A fisherman remarks, "there are no skid marks on the ocean," and we know how quickly the sea can destroy and swallow up any evidence. When Arias finds himself hanging for dear life onto the plank he salvaged and brought on board, the story's arc comes full circle.

It also leaves me wanting to read more.

Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: Part 1 by Rebecca West I found the most tedious. I was interested in the history she related but was distracted by her wordiness. She is a descriptive writer; she has a penchant for sharing small telling bits and a patient way of unspooling her words, but I just wanted her to get to the point sooner.

Not by coincidence, all three pieces start with a compelling intro that sets the stage and tone for the story to come.