Chapter 28. Pittwater and Sailing

Good morning beloved reader,

Of the two coming-of-age braided narratives — one being Camilla growing up in a home accessible only by water in Pittwater, Australia; the other being Jamie and Camilla young adulting in New York City 1990-1997 — this chapter tells a story in the former narrative.

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Chapter 28. Pittwater and Sailing

I was thirteen years old, with long, brown braids falling down my back like Laura Ingles Wilder in The Little House on the Prairie, and Penny was fifteen with blossoming breasts and on the way to becoming a young woman. Maybe because Dad wanted to provide something for us to do in our teenage years, he bought us an eight-and-a-half-foot-long Manly Junior sailing dinghy. He later told us he’d been inspired by the book Swallows and Amazons — an English classic that details the adventures of a group of kids who grew up sailing on a lake. But with the Manly Junior’s wooden, tub-like shape, and so many ropes and wires, sailing was too complicated and slow.  

It wasn’t until Dad got rid of the Manly Junior and bought us a second-hand, sleek, red fiberglass, twelve-foot-long Laser called Laser Blades, that Penny and I quickly developed a love and passion for sailing. Simple to rig, easy to sail, and fast: Laser Blades was a joy. We spent hours out on Pittwater. Tacking back and forth between the buoys and other boats. Inhaling the salty tang of sea air. Feeling the sun on our skin and how the weight of our bodies made a difference to how the boat leaned over in the wind. 

~

Now fifteen, with a new short haircut and blond highlights, and the entire summer holidays stretching out before us; one morning I woke up to a languid, warm-weather haze. Lying in my bed contemplating the day, I reached one foot down to the floor, then the other, and my body pulled me outside. Stepping through my bedroom’s glass door onto the deck surrounding our home, I turned my face up to the harsh Australian sun, already strong before eight a.m. The sweet smell of honeysuckle intermingling with the sharp, tangy scent of the eucalypts, made me linger and savor breathing in deeply. It was as though a lusciousness enveloped my whole being. 

Then a breeze brushed the skin on my arm and I smiled. 

Enough wind for a sail.

I walked around the deck and through another glass door into our kitchen. Grabbing a quarter of a red papaya from the fridge, I spooned out the fuzzy black seeds then drizzled over the tangy green juice from a fresh lime. The papaya gently woke my digestive system. Still hungry, I cut up a ripe mango, its juices dripping, and threw it and pieces of  peach flecked with red where the pit had been, into a bowl with yogurt, scattering Mum’s granola over the top. Penny walked into the kitchen.

“Yum, can I have some?” she asked.

“Nope, make your own,” I said. “And there’s papaya in the fridge too.” 

She looked out the window before opening the fridge. “It looks gorgeous out there.”

Sometimes I went sailing alone, but that day Penny wanted to come. After we’d both eaten, we told Mum we were heading out and walked down the hill to the stone wall of the waterfront. It only took ten minutes to rig Laser Blades and we were off. I sat in the front of the cockpit holding the main sheet — the rope that pulls in the sail — and Penny held the tiller to steer. As we sailed out of Lovett Bay, I felt the breeze pick up. Penny and I looked at each other and grinned: a stronger wind meant a more thrilling sail. 

The wind must have been blowing about fifteen knots and Laser Blades skipped over the top of the waves at a great pace. After about twenty minutes we neared Scotland Island. Tacking the boat, we headed left towards Little Lovett Bay where two friends from school lived. Within minutes, two windsurfers sailed towards us. We waved at them madly.

Rupert and Tom were born in England. When they were ten and twelve, their family immigrated to Australia by sailing to Pittwater in their twenty-eight foot yacht called Golden Opportunity. Their home was in the next bay around from ours. Rupert, the older of the two, with curly blond hair and blue eyes, had a more serious disposition. Tom, with brown hair, brown eyes and an athletic physique, was a dare devil and a flirt with a mischievous grin. 

Penny and I glanced at each other. Without even verbalizing our thoughts, we knew what we were going to do. She steered Laser Blades very close to Tom’s windsurfer, then right at the moment we were directly upwind from him, I quickly pulled in the mainsheet, making our sail rapidly move towards us. This stole Tom’s wind and created a vacuum, with the desired result: he lost his balance and fell in.

Surfacing, he coughed up water, laughed, and yelled out, “You bastards!”

We sailed in the other direction, chuckling and trying to get away before he could retaliate.

For hours and hours, we continued to sail and play with our friends. Then, out of nowhere, the front of a Southerly buster whipped up the waves. Telltale whitecaps blew across the water towards us. We set our sails to a broad reach to maximize the power of the wind. The front of the storm hit us. The wind picked up our boat, thrusting her forward, making us plane across the top of the water. Our heartbeats quickened. The speed made the centerboard hum. Waves splashed in our faces. The wind plastered our hair to our skulls. We stuck our feet under the black, foam-padded-lean-strap in the small cockpit; pushed our bums out over the edge of the deck, and leaned out as far as possible to counter the pull of the gust. 

Penny gripped the tiller, pushing and pulling as we surfed through the wind and waves. I pulled and released the mainsheet; using the force of the wind to boost our speed. We leaned out against the gale as far as we could. But bam! It was too much. A savage gust whipped us over. Capsized. Penny fell into the water and the hull lay sideways, afloat with the mast flat on the surface. 

Just at the point she tipped, I managed to scramble over the top of the deck. Climbing over the side and standing on the centerboard now sticking out parallel to the water, I used my body’s weight with the centerboard as a lever. The Laser eased back upright—slowly at first, then all of a sudden. Scrambling back over the top as she came up, I was back in the cockpit. My heart beat wildly as the wind continued to howl. With her mast upright again, her sails flapped loudly, loose in the wind. The mainsheet rope jiggled erratically like a bewitched snake, standing-up on its tail.

Penny climbed back into the cockpit, took the tiller, I grabbed the mainsheet, pulled it in, and off we flew again.  

Capsizing was part of the fun. A Laser was so easy to right again. If I went out sailing alone and capsized, I could still bring her back upright by myself. Even if she turned turtle with the mast pointing down to the bottom of Pittwater, I could still right her again. 

~

It wasn’t until years later, after I went through interfaith seminary, that I understood how our sailing adventures developed resilience. Even when our boat capsized, we knew we could turn her back upright and continue sailing. In fact, the more stormy and challenging the conditions, the more thrilling the sail, and the more fun we had. We wanted the more challenging conditions.

After interfaith seminary, I realized that my spiritual practice, or sadhana, helped me to cultivate a similar resilience. My sadhana is like the keel of a sailboat: it brings me back to center, time and time again.   

In contemplating the parallels between sailing and spiritual practice, I recognize that life will always provide challenges, and if I can surf them like a wave while using the wind to my advantage, I may even be able to enjoy the thrill of the ride. At least this is my intention, which makes me smile at the irony of welcoming challenges.

There is a state of being, or a state of consciousness, that Eckhart Tolle describes: he uses the word Presence to point towards this space where there is no thinking. A spacious Presence between thoughts. A space between the stream of continual thinking.

It wasn’t until I heard Tolle also describe how people experience this same state of consciousness when doing extreme sports, like rock climbing, or sky-diving, or any kind of physical activity that requires single-minded focus on what they are doing, that I realized that’s what sailing is for me. When I’m sailing or windsurfing, I experience this state of Presence. I am one with all of life. I experience a spaciousness of no thinking. 

Growing up in an area only accessible by water, I entertain the idea that the ocean can represent the depths of the unconscious — but when you sail across the top, you’re free. 

There’s a freedom and liberation in catching the unseen wind in your sail, as it lifts you up and thrusts you forward as though you’re flying. Flying and free. Moving over and above the depths. Then capsizing and being thrown into the depths. 

This tension between life and death. 

And that state of grace and freedom and flying and fun and play… versus fear.

~

Another time I sailed by myself to Trincomalee — an historic home on Rocky Point. This home belonged to my friend’s family. Her name was Justine Johnston, but her friends called her JJ. And, in typical Australian style, we shortened it even further to just “J”. Only after moving to America with Jamie, did I realize how many words Australians shorten: a swimming costume is a cozzie, a mosquito is a mozzie, a cup of tea is a cuppa, this afternoon is this arvo, chocolate is choccy, what Americans call a cookie, an Aussie calls a bikky — short for a biscuit — and yes I love a cuppa in the arvo with a choccy bikky. And as kids, we loved our Chrissie prezzies. 

But I digress… as I sailed towards Trincomalee, I put my fingers in my mouth to give a loud, short whistle. I hoped J would hear and come out to play. A grin grew on my face from ear-to-ear when I saw her scurry down the hill from their house to their wharf.

I sailed in close. J smiled and waved. Dark brown, almost black shoulder-length hair, brown eyes, and very fair skin, she slapped sunscreen onto her face and legs. She also wore a loose shirt over her swimsuit for extra sun protection. 

“Quick, jump on!” I yelled as I tacked the boat about. I could only pause briefly in front of their wharf before the wind caught the sail again. J scrambled aboard, we pushed away from their wharf, and off we sailed. It was one of those gorgeous, clear-blue-sky sunny days that made summer holidays heavenly. A gentle breeze blew and the deep-blue water sparkled as though a slew of diamonds had been scattered across its surface. J crawled over the deck, sat next to me in the cockpit and smiled. 

“Conrad’s racing today,” she said. 

My grin widened even more. We both took endless delight in teasing poor Conrad by disrupting the very serious Manly Junior sailing races in which her younger brother competed. What a mean and torturing big sister and friend. We couldn’t help it. It was so much fun. 

I passed her the mainsheet to adjust the sails while I held the tiller—continually adjusting it slightly by pushing and pulling, to make full use of the breeze.

“They’re racing just on the other side of Scotland Island,” J said.

“Let’s go about then,” I said with a knowing smile. We tacked and set off in the direction towards their race. It didn’t take long to get there on a broad reach with the wind almost behind us. 

Like a swarm of moths being drawn to a light, the small Manly Junior boats sailed towards a large orange buoy, around which they would tack and then sail back in the other direction. Each sailboat held a captain and his mate — all boys, around the age of ten to twelve. But their facial expressions were grim. No one was laughing. 

image credit: Manly Junior Sailing Facebook page

So J and I decided they needed to have some fun.

The rules of sailing dictate that when you’re on a starboard tack (when the wind comes over the left side of the boat, and the sail is on the right side of the boat), if another boat is on a collision course with you, they must give way. Sometimes, if it looks like the other boat doesn’t know they’re required to give way to you, you’ll hear people yell out, “STARBOARD” to make it clear. 

Of course we weren’t racing, but we wanted to have some fun with the rules. So we sailed in and out of their race and yelled out “STARBOARD” to make them give way. 

Manly Juniors tacked to avoid crashing into Laser Blades. Ropes rapidly pulled in. Heads lowered as booms swung out to the other side. Sails flapping loudly in the wind. Small boys yelled at us to get out of their race. Total chaos and disruption. 

Mission accomplished. 

Mum used to say that embarrassment is suppressed joy. Conrad must have had a lot of suppressed joy. 

~

It’s ironic to me now that while my father stopped my maternal grandmother from teaching us The Lord’s Prayer when we were kids — perhaps because he didn’t want us to be bogged down with religious dogma — he did encourage in us, a love and passion for sailing, which in retrospect I now recognize as a spiritual practice. When I sail, I surrender to a higher power for the wind to move my boat. I’m completely in tune with my natural environment in the outdoors. Entirely Present in body, mind, emotions, and spirit. A practice in mindfulness. 

Perhaps when Dad was younger, sailing satisfied his own spiritual yearning. An activity in nature that lit him up. The thrill of feeling connected with something larger than himself. Although my guess is that he did not recognize how it connected him with his own inner divinity. 

Click to read chapter 29.