SIGHTINGS my first sail on my new boat
us sailing sues america
The line between the ruffled blue patch of wind and us got closer, and then we were past it. The boat rolled her shoulder down, and I could hardly stand to look away to stow the outboard. Joe's knuckles were white on the tiller. After tacking gently up from Brisbane, we flew under the Bay Bridge, and it felt, for the second time that day, like it was finally real. I was on my own boat, a real boat, a 26-ft '75 International Folkboat named Leona-Annie, and my brother and I were sailing across the Bay to San Rafael. The first time the feeling hit me was early that morning. It was winter, and the kind of cold that makes your nose run and your fingers hurt. Like all great adventures my brother Joe and I embark on, it started with a call to Mom. We'd forgotten the code to get into the boat, but for me, it always takes a nervous phone call home for me to comprehend the scope of an adventure. Finally, we unlocked the companionway, stowed the sail cover, started the outboard and motored out into a dying breeze. I got obsessed with sailing when I was 10 or 11 by reading the Swallows and Amazons series by Arthur Ransom. I took a week-long sailing class that summer and bought Lark, a 13-ft Zuma — sort of a detuned Laser. The whole family helped me scrub the boat in the backyard, and I spent the afternoon figuring out how to rig everything just so on the trailer. I remember looking up at her, in the twilight, with the limp red sail sagging at the leech because I had forgotten the battens. It was as if she were a full-rigged ship. In my memory, she's still massive. Nine years later on Leona-Annie, it stuck with me. As we roared past the Bay Bridge into the heart of the Bay, with the Golden Gate and Alcatraz to windward all yellow and backlit, I started laughing. I ducked below to stow the tiller pilot and crouched for a moment, watching the white genoa and the green rail clip over the chop through the lee deadlights. The previous owner — one of the coolest people I've sailed with — always had gentle music playing belowdecks, so Joe and I emulated him. KCSM Jazz 91.1 came out of a battery-powered radio while we sailed. As I tweaked the sails to hit that famous Folkboat balance, isolated notes drifted up: a trumpet staccato, a piano riff, the trill of a flute. The sailing was sensational, and the rare notes of music added tone, a touch of serenity. It wasn't particularly fierce in the cockpit, but it was my first command. The muffled music gave me confidence. I got my money out of Lark. Every summer, we would drive to a lake for a week of camping. By 11, there was enough wind, and I'd sail until someone would have to tow me back behind a kayak. Later, a Hobie Cat joined the fleet. I got a taste of keelboat sailing on a J/24 when I got my ASA 101 certification. I read everything I could get my hands on — Slocum, the Pardeys, Moitessier. I sailed other people's boats when I could with a variety of characters. I was offered beer, weed, and advice. Some of the wisdom was good. My boatbuilding teacher, Bob Darr at the Arques School in Sausalito, has related esoteric lore and legends alongside practical tips on tying a one-handed bowline and celestial navigation. Once we passed Angel Island on our way north, the wind disappeared again and we started the outboard. I was below again checking the Navionics when Joe yelled at me, "Henry! Get up here!" He pointed at black dolphin fins alongside us. "They were so close, man!" Dolphins, on this first passage? That can only mean good things. I had a good high school experience. My parents helped me pursue the things that interested me; I got to focus on the classics of Western literature. I had sharp classmates with weird, engaging ideas and teachers who were terrifying and inspiring. The week before I graduated, I got on a plane to Barcelona with a backpack and a pair of boots. I had a little money from shoveling horse manure. I wanted to get out into the world and test myself, so I walked the pilgrim trail from Bilbao to Santiago de Compostela and Fisterra — more than 400 miles. It was a wonderful trip. I slept on beaches, perfected three jokes in Spanish that I told to everyone, drank a little cheap wine with strangers, and barely managed to feed myself on chocolate pudding cups and salted ham.
After resigning as the executive director of US Olympic Sailing in early 2023 after a two-year tenure, Paul Cayard refocussed his attention on the AmericaOne Foundation, which supports competitive sailors with direct financial contributions to US Sailing. But in January, US Sailing filed a lawsuit against AmericaOne, Cayard and other former executives who also resigned early last year. US Sailing said AmericaOne's "actions have harmed athletes, the US Sailing Team, and US Sailing's business and reputation with donors, sponsors, competitive sailors and the larger sailing community and Olympic movement."
continued on outside column of next sightings page Page 40 • Latitude 38 • February, 2024
Spread: Joe Fliflet white-knuckles it (both hands and feet) on the helm as the International Folkboat 'Leona-Annie' powers past the Bay Bridge en route from Brisbane to San Rafael. Inset, center: 'LeonaAnnie' as seen in beautiful winter light. Inset, left: The author of this Sightings — and new owner of 'Leona-Annie', Henry Fliflet.