Author: Deborah Guenther
Posted: November 17th, 2011

I suppose for many involved, being a member of The Santa Barbara Yacht Association was a sign of prestige, but for me at the age of 10 it simply meant that after church on Sundays we would pack the car and head to the beach.

Packing the car was half art and half science.  My three older siblings all sailed. My dad did rent dry dock space for one of the boats but that was only because he couldn’t get three boats into the family station wagon.  When loading, one boat he strapped to the top and with the seat down the other boat (‘Sea Shells’ we called them) was slid inside. All the rigging and kids were stuffed in any available spot. Seat belts were not used in those days.

Once at the beach it was play time for myself while the others tended to getting the boats ready for sail.  All the dads and big boys became “Turtles” as they flipped the boats upside down and settled them upon their backs.  It was the easiest way to get the Sea Shells from dry dock, across the sand to the shore.  So prior to and after the races the boats sprouted legs.

Once the shore was lined with flapping sails the proceedings got under way.  It was serious business as the contestants gathered around the map of buoys drawn into the sand.  Each contestant with pen in hand transferred the map onto his or her notepad so as to remember the course once out on the ocean.  Dad wasn’t too long in the Association when his kids showed up with a plastic disk sporting nails to represent the buoys and an attached rubber band to mark the course.  Within the month every sailor carried one.

It was easy to spot my brothers and sister out on the ocean.  They were always near the front and their boats sported the blue ribbons ( that I had believed were earned from placing first many times. I later learned that these ribbons were from participation in special events).  Regularly, we went to the award meetings with my siblings bringing home their share of trophies. I liked the award meetings, but for a different reason.  Right next to the coffee pot in a small box, neatly stacked were the purest whitest, perfectly square … sugar cubes.  Now, I realized they were put out for the coffee drinkers but a good percent of the box found its way into my mouth.  I would take one, place it on my tongue and feel it dissolve away making different shapes as it did so.  After it was gone, I’d practice self control for one or two minutes and then place another on my tongue.  Yes, those meetings were well worth looking forwards to.

Then it became my turn to carry on the family name in the lead of all the races.  My brothers and sister being much older no  longer sailed so it was up to me alone.  I never thought about whether or not I wanted to sail, it was just a part of life. It was easier packing up on Sundays with just one boat to tend to.  I was very diligent to make sure I remembered all the rigging especially that special plastic course marker which dad had designed.  Since I was the only one sailing I could use the boat that had weathered the years the best.  It didn’t matter to me which one it was, dad had made them all so I valued them all equally.  But I did have to make a decision about which paddle to use. One brother was named Dennis so dad had personalized his paddle with a drawing of “Dennis the Menace”.  My sister, who was called Nancy Mary, had a paddle personalized with the Peanuts character ‘Nancy’.  And since there was no character to correspond with my brother Randy, his paddle was blank.  Deductive reasoning lead me to choose “Dennis the Menace”.  I wanted one of the personalized ones and my sister hated hers because the character of Nancy was considered a ‘big mouth’ and I didn’t want to irritate her by always having it around.  

I asked if the ribbons would be taken off the sail since I hadn’t earned them.  I was simply told ‘no’ and assumed it was because they expected me to meet the expectation that they represented in my eyes.  Now, at the beach, it was I helping to set up the boat, and it was my sail that flapped among the others .  With the races ready to begin I took my place with the other contestants around the course drawn in the sand, being careful to accurately transfer that course onto my plastic disk. I felt wonderful.  My day had arrived. I was now one of the sailing members of the family.  But as with all things having all the right gear is one thing, doing something with it was another.  I knew how to sail a Sea Shell all right, but that fine tooth skill required to make your boat move faster than the others  … well… it wasn’t mine.

It was embarrassing at best to be in a boat sporting the ribbons of recognition and to always becoming in last.  But I kept at it … and kept at it … and kept at it. With each Sunday my desperation grew, forgetting even how to sail and using my rudder as a ‘paddle’ … anything just to come in anywhere … but last.  At one point I mentioned the need to take sailing lessons. One brother stated, “Our family didn’t need lessons”. But my humiliation on the ocean was greater than ‘humiliating’ the family.  I was granted lessons only to arrive at my first class and learn that there were no “Sea Shell” lessons. The boat they were teaching us on really didn’t help me maneuver a Sea Shell. Then brilliance struck.  Instead of sailing back and forth behind the starting line as everyone did waiting for the starting horn to blow, I would let my boat just float right behind the starting line.  When the horn would blow I’d fill my sails and be in instant lead.  The others would be way behind since they would have to first sail up to the staring line, then begin.

And that is just what I did .  I sat there, the horn blew, I filled my sails, I was in the lead instantly. All was going well. What a feeling! Yes!, I could enjoy racing sail boats if this was what it was like. My day had come!  But like I said, sailing wasn’t in my blood and victory was not to be mine. I soon saw my sister on shore waving her arms shouting. At first I thought she was sharing in my excitement. But what was she saying?  “Go Back”? She must be crazy … I was in the lead.  But she wouldn’t let up. “Why?” I shouted. She wasn’t about to get into a discussion shouting across the harbor but just kept yelling, “Go back!”

Obediently, I turned about, sailed through all the other boats which had now begun the race, went behind the starting line, turned about and began the race again, this time in the rear … again.  I couldn’t understand why my sister had done that to me.  And then over the horn heard the announcer announce  that I now had a legal start.  So my sister had actually saved me from a greater humiliation than coming in last. She saved me from coming in first and being told I really didn’t win after all.

I continued on with the course. The other boats were as far ahead of me as I had been ahead of them.  And I watched as one by one they finished the race. The horn blew for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners and soon the shore was lined with flapping white sails.  This was always the worst part.  Wishing I wasn’t there, but I always finished the course … had no other choice.  On this day things got worse. My boat hit a point where it wouldn’t move no matter how I fixed the sails.  I checked for sea weed holding me back and finding no problem there,  resorted to moving the rudder back and forth quickly to ‘paddle’ my way in.  The men in the life boat came by to offer their suggestions but nothing worked. Still the night mare was not complete … I must have gone into shock as I realized they could no longer wait for me to come in.  They began the next race.

Luckily the life boat had to monitor the next race so I had been spared the embarrassment of them towing me in.  How I came to shore I don’t recall.  Some where was planted the memory of an adult trying to make light of the situation saying with a chuckle, ‘Hey, thought you were in the lead for once’.  I only smiled. I don’t recall packing up and going home. Somehow I did.

The next Sunday would be difficult. How would I tell my parents I would never sail again?  Everybody actually took it quite well and no doubt were quite relieved.  No more was said about it until it was time to go to the next award meeting. “No” … I didn’t want to go to that either. Nobody argued that I needed to go. It was silently agreed to allow me to put sailing in my past.  I was relieved.

At school the next day I was approached by another girl, also a member of the Sailing Association.  Since I had not been at the meeting to receive the award she had been asked to deliver it to me.  I was confused.  An award for me?  There must be a mistake. Puzzled,  I took the award and privately looked at it.  It was a small blue plaque that fit in both my hands; and it had my name on it … “For Sportsmanship” it read.  The final jab!  The final smack of humiliation. It was a condolence award; a “too bad your so rotten” award. How grateful I was not to have been there to have to have had received it personally in front of everyone.

The plaque made its way into our awards cabinet and the years were allowed to do their healing work.

Thirty years later I sat and watched as friends took my kids out in their boat.  It was fun for them … no pressure of competition … just pure fun.  As I watched, I recalled my experiences on the ocean and that little plaque “For Sportsmanship”.  It’s not an easy thing to instill good character in ones offspring.  And more than success I hoped for good character in my kids … to loose and not complain.  “For Sportsmanship”.  It took me thirty years to realize I had been awarded the highest award a person could receive.