from the novice.

I am probably the least qualified student in this class to write anything about sailing. After all, before three days ago, the extent of my knowledge about sailboats was that they were on Old Spice deodorant. In fact, when I approached Professor Ubels to sign up for the Interim "Learn to Sail" course last fall, he eagerly recounted a sailing story (something that I have recently discovered sailors love to do) about an "accidental jibe" that nearly knocked out a student, amusedly chuckling to himself all the while. Mystified, I slapped my knee and forced a laugh, lacking the slightest inclination as to what a jibe was or how it could be accidental--or even intentional, for that matter. Instead of fleeing Professor Ubel's office, however, I allowed my reservations to be absolved by blissful, naive optimism about quick learning and galvanizing visions of a tropical January. Even if I failed at sailing, I thought, at least I would fail in balmy weather and with a burgeoning tan, no less.

Indeed, both temperament and temperature have been on my side so far. The weather has done it's part: each day has reached the threshold of 70 degrees or more, with auspiciously forecasted highs to come. And despite my utter incompetence in sailing as recent as Monday, three full days of training at Eckerd have dramatically developed my nascent skills as a sailor. Each day our class of 20 students-cum-seafarers spends around two hours in classroom instruction and five to six hours on board keelboats, literally learning the ropes of basic sailing mechanics and technique. Each boat holds a crew of four students and one instructor--all of whom seem to eagerly espouse the kick-the-bird-out-of-the-nest-and-hope-it-flies pedagogical technique. And besides some fraught nerves, it's worked amazingly well, if I do say so myself. In 72 hours I have become best friends with the anatomy of the basic keelboat, the essential vocabulary of sailing, five rope knots and counting, methods of sensing the wind's direction with just my ear, the best ways of turning the boat into the wind (tacking) and away from the wind (jibing), and how to press the auto-pilot button when I'm tired of doing all of that stuff (just kidding on that last one). In fact, not only do I now understand what an "accidental jibe" is--that is, when the wind catches the sail and hurls the boom to the opposite side of the boat--but I've even done it myself a few times (don't worry, everyone ducked in time). And the challenges continue. Today, for instance, instead of lackadaisically meandering across the bay as we have been doing so far, all five boats navigated a triangular course in the middle of bay, which quickly became competitive and brought out some of the feuding natures of student and instructor alike. For round two, tomorrow we'll leave the familiar keelboats behind for the revered FJs (Flying Juniors), much smaller boats that hold two people at most and are known for their "responsive nature," which I've discovered is just a euphemism for what is otherwise known as a tendency to topple their operators into the water.

An FJ

There isn't too much to fret about, though, because the first thing we're doing tomorrow is intentionally capsizing, so we'll be more than sure how to right our boats again if and when they throw us into the bay. Maybe not the best way to start a morning, but even when I'll be soaking wet, I'll still be in Florida--a novelty that just doesn't wear off. More adventures to come!