Come Sail Away [verse 2]

Second verse, (not the) same as the first.

"On board, I’m the captain, so climb aboard," said Boz.

OK, he didn't really say (nor sing) that. But he did explain to me with excruciating seriousness that he was the captain, and that meant I had to obey him while on board The Flying Squirrel, and that I should not take offence if he were to shout rather gruffly, for example, "Sass! Pull that rope!"; that it only meant I was to do it quickly.

I replied, cheerfully, "Aye aye, Captain!" and refrained from revealing to him my feelings on the subject of men bossing me around in this manner.

[I like it.]

The temperature of Lake Ontario was 42°F, and the wind speed was something in knots, fierce enough to whip the waves in the lake over the breakwater on the western end of the marina. Boz's boat is one of only three left in the marina beside our townhouse complex, the others having been lifted into dry dock last month. And, once we got out into the lake it was the only one on the water.

The western gap was churning evilly, like the River Styx, and Boz ordered me below decks until we'd cleared it. From my perspective down in the hold the grey-green waves were rising a foot above Boz's head, pausing for a moment to let the lambent sunlight play on their surface, then crashing down and spraying him with water.

"OK, Olive Oyl, come on back out," commanded the Captain when we'd cleared the gap. We were in the channel that divides Toronto from the Island Airport, a contentious bit of geography in my part of the world.

"Here," said Boz, indicating a wooden thingamagig I believe is called the tiller, "Why don't you steer us through the channel?"

"I've never driven anything that doesn't have wheels," I replied. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's easy," he laughed, and he placed his hand on top of mine on the thingama—I mean tiller. "Just aim for the smokestacks over there in the distance. And when we get to the other end of the channel, go around behind that building, where it's sheltered from the wind, and I'll hoist the sail."

He didn't mention that you have to move the tiller to the left if you want to go to the right, and vice versa. Until I almost steered us into the retaining wall. Then he mentioned it rather loudly.

Boz's boat has two sails which I'm sure have names but which I know only as the small one in the front and the, um, bigger one. I was absolutely no help to him in hoisting them; it was all I could do to keep the bow pointed into the wind. And I didn't do a very good job of that, even; the wind was too strong. Three times during the sail hoisting Boz jumped back to where I was, grabbed the tiller with one hand and the gas control of the outboard motor with the other, expertly spun the boat back into the wind, then grabbed my hand, put it back on the tiller, and jumped back onto the deck to deal with the sails.

I was simultaneously impressed by his abilities and embarassed by the lack of my own.

"All right, get ready, Sass," yelled Boz from somewhere on the ship's bow. Or deck. Or whatever you call that part at the front that you stand on. "As soon as I hoist the mainsail she's going to turn and pick up speed. Make sure you've got control of her."

"Aye, Captain," I shouted back, knowing I was in control of absolutely nothing.

And take off she did. That Flying Squirrel really flew. I don't know how many knots is screechin' fast, dude—but that's how fast we were going.

And I was driving. Er, sailing.

And it was thrilling.

We flew past the Skydome, then the Bay Street bank towers, and in what was much too short a time for my liking, we had reached Cherry Street and The Docks, marking the end of Toronto Harbour. From there, it would have to be either go around the island, or turn back. I'd been hoping for the former, though Boz said it might be too rough to go out into the open lake, but we'd see once we got there.

When we got there, this is what happened instead:

Boz ordered me to head south for a bit 'til he could assess the wind situation, then decided it was too windy to go around the island, so he ordered (I just like using that verb, OK?) me to turn her around. And that's when the smaller sail, the one at the front of the boat, got twisted around the thingamagig that it's hoisted up on, and even I knew that was a bad thing.

We drifted, and tried to untangle the sail by alternately pulling on the two ropes that control it, but, inexplicably, it twisted even more.

"I've never seen that happen before," said Boz.

You've never had me on your boat before. Could be just a coincidence.

And then, the mainsail ripped.

"OK, Sass, I don't want to scare you but we're in trouble," said my Captain. "You've got to start the motor, and keep control of the boat while I get those sails down."

Or else we're both going to die.

You would think that dropping the sails would take less time than hoisting them, but you would be wrong. Boz had first to untangle, then pull down first one, then the other, and hastily bungee-cord them around something to keep them from flapping away. All this while standing on the deck of a boat that was being rocked and bashed by three foot waves, and that was, unbeknownst to him, moving closer second by second to the rock wall.

I was doing what I could to control the boat and, in my head, working out a worst case scenerio plan. If he were knocked overboard, which I was certain he was about to be, and were knocked unconscious by something on the way down, and the boat were to keel over, I would have maybe three minutes before dying of hypothermia in that water to get to him and get us both to shore. The boat would crash into the rocks and be a total loss; Boz would rue the day he met me and I could forget about him ever wanting to sleep with me; but I reckoned I could do it, and at least we wouldn't die.

We were 100 feet from the rocks. I'd spotted the ladder on the retaining wall just south of them. I had started the motor. The sails were down, now, so I was able to control the boat better.

We didn't die.

Boz sat beside me and took the tiller. The relief I'd been feeling was akin to what you feel when the roller coaster rolls to a stop; you were never seriously in fear for your life. The relief on Boz's face told me perhaps I should have been.

"We'll be OK now," he said. "But I'm not sure we've got enough gas to get us back. We may have to stop at Marina Quay and get some."

"Oh, the old run out of gas trick, eh?" I laughed. "I haven't heard that one since I was in highschool!"

And I hadn't.

* * *
Last year I discovered that Brad works at the same university where I teach, though he's not a professor, he's an I.T. manager. He tells me that Josh has three kids and lives on a farm in Niagara-on-the-Lake. His wife is a teacher.

Boz is handsome and blond and of Ukranian extraction. He doesn't smile much but when he does, like he did at the bar back at the yacht club, where we were sharing that pitcher of Keith's, when he joked about how he had to make sure I got home safely otherwise who would walk the dogs on Monday, well, I would have sailed anywhere with him at that moment.

And I noticed he's no longer wearing his wedding ring.

* * *
Boz is too experienced a sailor to be lured into the rocks. But meanwhile, in the next story, Sass's favourite bartender abandons her.