I arrived at the base marina ten minutes late, leaving my nerves on edge before crew training even began. Little did I know, the hint of apprehension I felt would amplify into an anxiety that would destroy confidence and render me virtually useless before the day was over.
It was the first training session for the crew of Alliance, a 40-foot J122 offshore racing sailboat, co-skippered by two sailing friends with military connections, Mary and Eric. I met Mary through the base’s Navy Yacht Club, and she invited me to be the “delivery team” last year.
As a delivery team, I would not race with the Alliance, but would help sail the boat to and from the race venues. As a sailing novice with a lot to learn, this lower status was fine with me. In fact, I was grateful to have been exposed to this respectable group of long-time sailors.
At age 57, my goal was not to become an offshore racing expert. Realistically, I would never fully understand the complexities of navigation, weather, and tactics. My modest goal was simply to be a useful member of the crew as a whole.
“Hello, my name is Lisa,” he happily said to the crew who were busy performing various tasks on the docked boat. When they looked in my direction, I felt slight confusion.
“What is that scruffy, middle-aged woman doing on the boat?” her faces seemed to say.
“Delivery team,” I explained with a nervous laugh, pointing to myself.
The race crew wore scuffed boots and navigation equipment, showing the wear and tear of years of racing. In contrast, I was dressed in visibly immaculate boots and crisp new weather clothing without so much as a stain, wrinkle, or stray thread.
Once on board, I looked for ways to help, but it quickly became clear that I really couldn’t help without asking for help, which sort of defeated the purpose of helping. When I tried to complete tasks, I often made stupid mistakes, which irritated me even more.
“You’re making this harder,” Bill, a member of the race team, blurted out when I tried to help him put a balloon candle in his designated bag.
My mistakes continued that stormy afternoon during maneuvering practice in Narragansett Bay. I took the wrong line, put on the wrong cuff, tied the wrong knot, forgot where the guide wire was, put the sheet in when it should have come off.
Every time I messed up or got in someone’s way, I pivoted and continued. However, one by one, small, invisible cracks formed in my self-confidence.
At 6:30 p.m., Alliance departed the bay on port tack, following a rhumb line to a point south of Block Island. The ocean was quite rough and I was glad I had hidden a spot of seasickness behind my left ear. I offered to wash the dinner dishes, a task I thought I couldn’t mess up, but as I worked at the kitchen sink, the shepherd’s pie I ate almost came back.
I was assigned to the first watch, from 8pm to midnight, along with Conor and Julija. As I took the helm, Conor pointed out a light ahead, “just off the starboard bow.” I looked in vain for the light. “The OTHER starboard bow,” Conor said flatly.
In the windblown cabin, my shaken self-confidence finally gave way. For the rest of the vigil I was silent, unable to do or say anything. I hit a mental wall. In all my failed attempts to be useful, I have become useless.
Cold to the bone, I huddled in my assigned bunk after midnight and my paralyzed brain forgot to set an alarm for the 4 a.m. clock. My last rookie mistake was waking up an hour late. The entire crew was on the surface when I appeared at the ladder, when the Alliance re-entered Narragansett Bay.
At home, I convinced myself that I was the laughing stock of the Alliance crew and that they would never invite me back. But I got an email from the captains assigning me to the delivery team after a race the following weekend. As I mustered up the courage to try again, I came across a quote from Henry Ford: “Failure is only the opportunity to begin again more intelligently.”
