Not One of the Guys

By Donna Lawrence

(Originally published in Singularity Magazine)

A saga of ten hours at sea with two men

I always knew men had certain advantages in life. I just never thought that standing up

while taking care of nature’s needs was a skill that I would ever envy. That is, until I

bought my sailboat.

My husband, Bob, and I found a lovely little 18-foot sloop at a bargain price. It was of

indeterminate age, but it looked to be in good shape, and it was in the water, floating. It

seemed the perfect boat for us. I love to sail. Bob loves to fix things. So I wrote a check,

and she was ours.

Our first challenge was to get our sailboat 40 miles down the California coast, from

Newport Harbor to Oceanside Harbor. My sailing experience at that point was limited to

tacking across bays and harbors, and I was not ready to take on the open sea by myself.

So we searched for an experienced sailor to help. I made some calls, but the timing was

not right for the old salts I contacted. Then serendipity brought us two expert sailors for

the trip.

Our boat had to be moved from its slip in Newport Harbor soon. While at the dock trying

to figure this out, we saw a young man in a launch, herding a flock of children sailing

tiny sailboats into a corral-like dock. As soon as his charges dispersed, we ran down to

talk to him. Jason agreed to help us and suggested that we also hire his friend and sailing

instructor, Berkeley. Thus, I found my crew.

The day before our trip, Berkeley and Jason helped me check out the boat and fill the gas

tank for the outboard motor. The sailboat has a cabin, but no head. So Bob and I had

bought a camp toilet, which amounted to a large plastic box with two chambers. We

stowed it below, in the cabin. There was no suitable place for it. The floor space is small,

and the seating area is covered with long blue cushions. It would be awkward, but there

was no choice. The trip down the coast would take ten to twelve hours.

Next morning, as the quiet waters of Newport Harbor turned pink with dawn, we set out

to sea. We would have to motor much of the morning, because the winds do not usually

pick up until later. I was at the tiller as we turned out of the mouth of the harbor and

headed south. Swells lifted us up and pushed us along. I held the course. The morning air

was cold, but I had dressed in layers, had gloves on my hands and a broad smile on my

face.

Cruising about half a mile off shore, we could see landmarks that I had seen only from

the land side before. Recognizable buildings at Laguna Beach appeared and then were

behind us. As we passed Dana Point, the view opened up. The coast that Richard Henry

Dana described in Two Years Before The Mast was gliding by me. A sea lion surfaced

nearby, then dived and disappeared. Pelicans skimmed the surface of the water, not

minding that we were a mere 20 feet away.

After a couple of hours, Berkeley took out a sandwich and asked for a bottle of water. He

had suggested I bring plenty of water aboard, because we needed to stay hydrated. I

brought the water, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be fully hydrated. I had limited

myself to one cup of coffee before leaving home. The three of us ate sandwiches. I took a

few sips of water—no more than absolutely necessary.

I had taken a break from the helm, but I was back at the tiller when Berkeley announced

that he was going to use the head off the starboard side, and I could look off to port for a

while. I was not expecting this. I glued my gaze to the coastline as he took care of his

needs off the side of my boat. So this was the way the guys do it. I attempted to appear

casual, engrossed in the view off the port side.

Later, Jason took advantage of his God given ability as well, and I once again stared at

the coastline. I started thinking about that plastic box below. Since my companions had

taken care of themselves so easily, using the box seemed all the more cumbersome. For

privacy, I would need to slide the three sections of door in and pull the hatch cover over.

Then rearrange my clothes, sit on the box, which would probably be wobbly on the

cushion. There was a hand pump mechanism. The ceiling was low, so I would be bent

over. No. I would wait.

By around noon, we hoisted the main sail, though there was still not much breeze.

Passing Camp Pendleton, we had to head farther out to sea, because the Marines don’t

want random sailboats getting involved in their amphibious exercises. We used the motor

as well as the sail, in order to maintain our speed. We wanted to reach Oceanside Harbor

before dark, and sunset would be at about 6:15. Once again I thought about the box,

waiting below, unused.

Berkeley asked for another water bottle. I handed him one and checked the level on mine.

I had drunk about a third of it. No, don’t think about water, I told myself. I focused on the

sea.

Sailing at about three miles offshore slowed our progress down the coast, but we were

still confident that we could get into a slip at the harbor before nightfall. By mid

afternoon, Berkeley suggested that Jason hoist the jib, and we could see if there was

enough wind to sail. It was warmer now, and I had shed my top two layers of clothing,

leaving a long-sleeved jersey and jeans. I went forward with Jason, sitting on the deck

and holding on to a strut, watching as he attached the jib and hoisted it into position near

the top of the mast. Then I went back to take the tiller. The sails were filling with wind,

so I shut off the motor. The noise that had been constant all day stopped abruptly. The

sudden quiet sent a breath of relaxation through me. We were finally sailing. Water

slapped gently against the hull, and there was no other sound. We were all grinning now.

In my pure joy, I temporarily forgot about the box.

By now we could see a high-rise condo building that I knew was at Oceanside Harbor,

and we realized we had time to play before dark. We sailed this way and that, enjoying

the silent freedom of the wind and water. Finally we headed toward the harbor. The

entrance here is not a straight line. It requires first going straight for a short distance, then

making a sharp right turn, being careful to stay in the area between the red and green

lights. Straying on either side would take us into shallow, hazardous territory. We were

back on the motor now, for better control. I steered us into the harbor, then continued on

to a slip. Berkeley and Jason stood ready to step onto the dock and secure us.

We had arrived after ten hours on the water and were now safely tucked into our new

harbor. My sailboat was home. But I could not stop to revel in the moment. I had to go. I

dashed up the ramp in search of the nearest restroom. I could be skipper on my boat. I

could be part of the crew, but I would never be one of the guys.