you are trying to save is thrashing about in front of you. I held on to the rope, cutting it from the mast, hoping to pull Race to the surface in time to snag the tight tangle away from his neck. I had to leave him once, in order to retreat to the surface for air. Coach Tripp was still in the launch. “There’s rope knotted around his neck,” I said, holding up my knife. “I’ve cut one loop.” I dove back down before I had a chance to hear Coach Tripp’s response. Diving, I thought, “This is the first day of my senior year.” Slick as a seal in my neoprene suit, I thought of Cal, of how he’d died. I slit the final rope, unhooked Race from the trapeze wire, and clutched him in my arms against my chest.
I was not a cause for celebration. Accidents are always the captain’s fault. It was my fault we were going so fast and my fault that we tacked too soon. True, I had saved Race’s life, but my carelessness, my inattention, had almost killed him. Everyone at Bellingham would know me, know who I was, by dinner. Would they consider me the hero or the fuckup? All I had wanted was to be anonymous.
Coach Tripp and I hauled Race up onto the launch. Race had never lost consciousness, but he had red burn marks around his neck and was coughing furiously, spitting water. On our way up to the surface, he elbowed me in the gut and tried to punch me. A reflex of fear and confusion. “Let’s rush him to the infirmary.” Coach Tripp wrapped a brown wool blanket around Race’s shoulders. “Christ, kid,” he said to me, “too much drama. What are you going to do for an encore?” He handed me an identical Army-issue blanket, the wool scratchy in my wet hands. My dry suit had kept me warm underwater, had enabled me to perform valiantly.
I held the dangerous necklace of rope in one hand, the Swiss Army knife in the other. Someone would need to tow our Fireball back to shore. The knife was the real hero. Later that night, I would give it to Coach Tripp to give to Race. I heard Race ask, “Coach Tripp, what happened?”
I had failed spectacularly, and in doing so I’d protected myself from ever having to fail again. I didn’t want to sail with Race, or anyone who wasn’t Cal. Glancing around the water one last time, I made a decision to remove myself from the world of teams. I would stop choosing sides and holding allegiances. I was through playing.
THREE
You never sail with one wind. Always with three. The true, the created, and the apparent wind; the father, son, and Holy Ghost. The true wind is the one that can’t be trusted. The true wind comes in strong from one direction, but then the boat cuts through the air and creates her own headwind in turn. The apparent wind is the sum of these two forces. A combination of natural gusts and the forward movement of the boat. The sails create their own airflow, constantly forcing a skipper to reevaluate the angle of travel. Handling the apparent wind requires finesse. Imagine carrying a candle and walking through a house after a storm. The electricity is down, the only light shines from the flame, and the wick will blow out if unprotected. Every move creates a wind. Every move brings the risk of extinguishing the candle. A sailor knows how to create shelter, cupping his hand in front of the melting wax, so that the flame will stay straight and lit.
I didn’t establish an apparent wind. Not at Bellingham. Didn’t disrupt or engage the social clime. The accident with Race shook my confidence. Convinced me that I was a danger, a failure. Through my carelessness, my recklessness, I’d nearly killed my crewmate, and I couldn’t blame Race for his dislike or mistrust. A few days after the accident, someone sneaked into my room and left a noose of rope dangling from a hanger in my closet. Though I was startled, I understood how Race would want to send me a message. “Be careful, Prosper. Watch your back.” Those first weeks, I left my room only for meals and classes.
I was not a cause for celebration. Accidents are always the captain’s fault. It was my fault we were going so fast and my fault that we tacked too soon. True, I had saved Race’s life, but my carelessness, my inattention, had almost killed him. Everyone at Bellingham would know me, know who I was, by dinner. Would they consider me the hero or the fuckup? All I had wanted was to be anonymous.
Coach Tripp and I hauled Race up onto the launch. Race had never lost consciousness, but he had red burn marks around his neck and was coughing furiously, spitting water. On our way up to the surface, he elbowed me in the gut and tried to punch me. A reflex of fear and confusion. “Let’s rush him to the infirmary.” Coach Tripp wrapped a brown wool blanket around Race’s shoulders. “Christ, kid,” he said to me, “too much drama. What are you going to do for an encore?” He handed me an identical Army-issue blanket, the wool scratchy in my wet hands. My dry suit had kept me warm underwater, had enabled me to perform valiantly.
I held the dangerous necklace of rope in one hand, the Swiss Army knife in the other. Someone would need to tow our Fireball back to shore. The knife was the real hero. Later that night, I would give it to Coach Tripp to give to Race. I heard Race ask, “Coach Tripp, what happened?”
I had failed spectacularly, and in doing so I’d protected myself from ever having to fail again. I didn’t want to sail with Race, or anyone who wasn’t Cal. Glancing around the water one last time, I made a decision to remove myself from the world of teams. I would stop choosing sides and holding allegiances. I was through playing.
THREE
You never sail with one wind. Always with three. The true, the created, and the apparent wind; the father, son, and Holy Ghost. The true wind is the one that can’t be trusted. The true wind comes in strong from one direction, but then the boat cuts through the air and creates her own headwind in turn. The apparent wind is the sum of these two forces. A combination of natural gusts and the forward movement of the boat. The sails create their own airflow, constantly forcing a skipper to reevaluate the angle of travel. Handling the apparent wind requires finesse. Imagine carrying a candle and walking through a house after a storm. The electricity is down, the only light shines from the flame, and the wick will blow out if unprotected. Every move creates a wind. Every move brings the risk of extinguishing the candle. A sailor knows how to create shelter, cupping his hand in front of the melting wax, so that the flame will stay straight and lit.
I didn’t establish an apparent wind. Not at Bellingham. Didn’t disrupt or engage the social clime. The accident with Race shook my confidence. Convinced me that I was a danger, a failure. Through my carelessness, my recklessness, I’d nearly killed my crewmate, and I couldn’t blame Race for his dislike or mistrust. A few days after the accident, someone sneaked into my room and left a noose of rope dangling from a hanger in my closet. Though I was startled, I understood how Race would want to send me a message. “Be careful, Prosper. Watch your back.” Those first weeks, I left my room only for meals and classes.
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