Tomorrow’s probably going to be an unremarkable day of sailing. Odds are, I won’t have 15 knots on the beam. I probably won’t see Willy do a flip over the harbor break wall, catch a double rainbow, or curate a sailing experience that’ll wow friends. Yep, in all likelihood, tomorrow’s conditions will be “blah.” The sailing will be “bleh.” I’ll motor back inside the marina feeling “meh.” And it’s not only okay, it’s often for the better.

As I write this, we’re closing out four weeks of crap weather in Southern California. In any “normal” place, rain and 55 degrees wouldn’t elicit sympathy. But this isn’t a normal place; this is Los Angeles. Out here, cloud cover is breaking news. Rain feels apocalyptic. When temps dip below 60, we put on earmuffs, listen to Joni Mitchell and shelter indoors.

I’m calling it “March Sadness.” In four weeks, I’ve sailed only twice. On both outings, friends got seasick; the bilge was wet; sunny California was sunless. If anything captures my recent mood, it’s the old garbage bags that are taped over Delilah’s unfinished teak.

Yeah, I’ve been a real Eeyore. Seems to me, the more I love sailing, the harder it gets to accept “bad” days on the water. At the same time, I’m also realizing that sailing, like life, isn’t a beer commercial or a motivational poster. Some days have to suck. The key is to embrace it.

Today, I ventured down to the boat with that attitude in mind. Mist-like, upside-down rain bounced off the cockpit floor as the kids and I motored around inside Marina Del Rey. In a stroke of genius, I put on my foul-weather jacket, then immediately sat down in my jeans and soaked my butt.   

My four-year-old, Ederra, held the tiller and steered us through the soup to a guest dock outside a small grocery market. “We can’t sail, but we can eat our feelings,” I told the kids. They scarfed down cookies. I made hot cocoa in the Jet Boil. Then, as rain pitter-pattered outside, we settled in and watched a movie inside Delilah’s tiny cabin.  

There’s a tree-filled park in the marina with a hill that offers fantastic views of the main channel. We tied Delilah to a transient dock. Ederra was using a wet shoe to kick a waterlogged soccer ball to her brother. 

“There are a hundred boats here, but no people,” she said, looking around in disbelief. “Why are there no people?” 

Kids. They’ll remind you of the pleasure and amazement of what life is. Yeah, some days are unremarkable, inadequate, uncomfortable even. But, when we release ourselves from the pursuit of perfection—perfect sailing, perfect weather, perfect parenting—we awaken to the moment with a fresh appreciation for life.

From the park, we watched fishing boats come and go. Long-distance cruisers poked heads from hatches and adjusted their rain tarps. In the distance, the Santa Monica mountains, typically parched and brown, showed a rare emerald green from recent rain. 

We were chilled to the bone and feeding soggy bits of cracker to a couple of ducks on the lawn when a boater on a bicycle sped past. 

“You’re in an overnight slip,” he told me, gesturing down the hill toward Delilah. “The sheriff boat’s coming. They give tickets for that.” 

We ran, slipped and slid down the hill and made it back to the boat just as law enforcement floated past. 

“No worries, we’re just practicing,” one of the officers said as they continued past Delilah. 

“So am I,” I said, powerwalking like a mall-walker down the dock. Looking foolish is so much easier than looking good. 

Anyway, after three rainy hours in the marina, we started back for the slip. I sipped cold coffee and squinted in the mist. Then, about a hundred yards from the dock, a guy in a RIB came motoring by. Behind him, in the pouring rain, a dozen kids were being towed out to sea on Optis. The little boats zipped, wiggled and zig-zagged. The looks on the kids’ faces said nothing of the ongoing atmospheric river, seasonal depression or my middle-aged-man-with-a-sailboat problems. Whatever kind of weather we were having, they were here for it, getting the best of it, soaking it up.

And it was the look on those faces, the time spent with my kids, and, later, the sight of my rain-soaked self, smiling in photos, that got me thinking: Seems to me, you can spend all your energy chasing perfect days on the water. You can swipe at wind and weather apps. You can download charts. You can stalk sunshine, flat seas and idyllic anchorages. And you can totally wear yourself out. Meanwhile, as Herb McCormick recently noted, “Some of the best times you can have on a sailboat are when you don’t actually go anywhere.”

I’m just a noob cruiser sporting wet denim, steering with the tiller cover on, but I’ll second that emotion. Sailing, like life, is about more than pleasure-seeking. It’s about embracing the full spectrum of emotions and a wide range of experiences—even the unpleasant.

And so, my wish for you is that you float on a blasé, windless day. That you motor the marina in the rain. That you spill cocoa, sip cold coffee and get wet. That you tie up to an old dock, feed the ducks, or at the very least feed yourself. 

Because sometimes good enough is good enough. Sometimes the low points turn into highlights. And, even when they don’t, does it really matter?

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on his Cape Dory 25, Delilah. Stalk him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post The Upshot of Imperfect, Unexciting, Totally “Meh” Sailing appeared first on Cruising World.

I was at the marina recently, prepping Delilah‘s sunburned, 50-year-old teak for varnish. It was Tuesday morning in Los Angeles and, for a few precious moments, I was showing all the signs of a competent, mechanically capable man who can do his own boat work. 

One foot on the dock, the other on the boat, I leaned, reached and began to remove a small section of old varnish from Delilah‘s toe rail. But, as the boat drifted on its dock lines, my reaching turned to stretching; stretching turned to an ever-widening, yoga-like stance; and, soon, I was doing my closest approximation of the splits. I fell on the boat. My heat gun fell in the drink. Birds scattered as a small, high-pitched scream came out of me. 

And this, friends, was Day One of my teak maintenance experience.

Over the following days and weeks, small failures turned to fiasco as I assembled a growing list of mishaps, silly mistakes and minor middle-aged injuries. After stripping, sanding and cleaning the toe rail, handrails and cabin top trim, I left my freshly-prepped teak uncovered in the rain. Does it rain in LA? Yeah, it poured for a week. When the storm was over, I removed my blue tape and pulled off large sections of deck paint. I slipped up and scratched Delilah‘s hull with a palm sander, and I drained an entire tin of acetone in my dock box.

Can you see a pattern? I could, and it drove me nuts. 

Truth was, my work was amateur at best. Delilah‘s teak would probably never look as good as the day I bought her. Also, I live 25 miles from the marina. In LA traffic, it takes me approximately 16 hours to get to the boat. Sure, I was halfway through the toe rail and trim, but I hadn’t even started on the cockpit combings. 

“How’s it going?” a dock mate asked. 

I’d been off-and-on at the project for two weeks, was finishing my third coat of varnish, and listening to dangerous amounts of Emo. 

“The boat’s looking good,” he said. “You wanna take a break and come sailing with us?”

We raced around the buoys that evening. On the final stretch, maybe 300 yards from the finish line, the wind shut off and we were becalmed. As the sun disappeared, I held a limp jib sheet and remembered a passage from a Robert Pirsig book: “Zen is the spirit of the valley, not the mountaintop,” he wrote. “The only zen you find at the top of a mountain is the zen you bring up there.”

Back at the dock, I cleaned up my tools in the dark, then slept on the boat. In the morning, I walked to coffee and got an early start on my fourth coat of varnish. Only, this time, I opened the wrong can and brushed on the wrong product. Blame the universe? Blame others? Blame myself? Truth was, the spilled acetone had taken the labels off the cans. 

I keep a book of poetry on the boat. Sometimes I read it. Sometimes it’s a photo prop. This time, it was a self-help kit. “We are so achievement-oriented that we often surge right by the true value of relating to what’s before us,” Mark Nepo writes, “because we think that accomplishing things will complete us, when it is experiencing life that will.”

A week earlier, I might have cried over the mistake. But this time, I stopped, looked around and laughed. On a nearby dock, sea lions were waking; a small family of ducks was floating past. In the trees, birds chirped. All around me, there was light, air, moving water, the miracle of life.

I sat down, smiled, and watched the varnish dry. After all, what could be better?

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Stalk him on Instagram.

The post Zen and the Art of Teak Toe Rail Maintenance appeared first on Cruising World.

The trip is over. All is well. I almost slept. 

After two nights at anchor on Catalina Island, I’ve got a bunch of photos that make me look way cooler than I am in actual life. 

The sail over to the island was a breeze. On a clear, So-Cal morning, my pal Thaddeus and I motored out Santa Monica Bay, close hauled across the San Pedro Channel, then boomeranged around the back of Catalina Island. At sundown we slipped into Cat Harbor, found a cozy spot in ten feet of water, and dropped the hook. 

After 18 months with my Cape Dory 25 Delilah, and more than 180 days on the water, it was my first time anchoring overnight. Shockingly, it was mostly a success. That first night, I closed my eyes, shut off my brain, and honest-to-god slept. But, on night two, things got wacky—or, at least I did.

Around midnight, after a couple hours of snoozing, I poked my head out of my sleep sack and nearly shat myself. The ten feet of water we’d started the night in was just five feet now. Over the next hour, I hemmed and hawed as the tide continued to fall, my imagination ran wild, and a small mental health crisis ensued, leaving me asking myself questions like: Does the Coast Guard perform rescues in knee deep water? Will the helicopter lower the basket if the evacuee can simply walk to shore? Does my tow boat membership include tele-therapy? 

Move to deeper water or stay put? I debated but couldn’t decide. Anyway, by 3 a.m. I was a full-blown mess. I stood on the deck in my underwear, my white thighs aglow under the light of a full moon, mentally preparing for a long list of emergency scenarios that would never happen.

“I’m thinking we’re fine,” Thaddeus eventually said, after calmly weighing each of our options aloud with me. “Sometimes, there are no good choices. Sometimes the best move is to hold tight, stay observant and do nothing. But, I really do think you should put a shirt on.” 

He was right. We weren’t dragging anchor. Delilah hadn’t gone aground. Truth was, the scariest thing happening was the moonlit silhouette of my softly round dad bod. 

“Point taken,” I said. Thaddeus’ level-headedness was just what I needed, and I was grateful. 

Back in Delilah’s cabin I put on a shirt, snapped a photo of the depth sounder at 3.6 feet, then climbed back in my sleeping bag. We never did go aground that night, and I didn’t sleep. Instead, I spent the rest of the night lying awake, chatting endlessly about my feelings (like real captains do), wondering what I could learn and how I might do things differently next time we anchor overnight. In the morning, the sun rose, and the tide lifted and brought my confidence up with it. After caffeinating, Thaddeus and I readied Delilah and began the 41-mile sail home to Marina Del Rey. 

“Sorry about last night,” I told him. “I totally ruined a good night of sleep.” 

“It’s alright. Honestly, I learned a lot about your personality,” he said. 

Touché, bro. I learned something about me too. 

You see, in recent months I’d read a good bit about ground tackle—about anchors, rope, chain and scope. But what I hadn’t considered was the strong mental game needed for overnight anchoring. One thing’s for sure, I’m going to need more confidence next time I “sleep” at anchor. 

My ocean cruiser friend, James Frederick, tells me that confidence comes with experience. 

“Starting out, I used to keep an iPad in the v-berth with Navionics running and checked it like 20 times a night,” he told me. “But, the anxiety completely disappears after anchoring for a while in various situations and high winds. Nowadays, I sit anchor watch for the first hour after anchoring, and then I rarely even think about it after that, even in 45 knots last week.” 

The other thing I’m going to need is a stronger mental approach. Recently, Fatty Goodlander wrote about psychological crew management and how captains can keep a nervous crew calm by keeping them busy. “Get the mind off the blow. Focus on the everyday mundane, and the fearful what ifs lose their bite,” he wrote. “The difference between ordeal and adventure is attitude.” 

So, yeah, I’ve got some work to do. With practice and a solid head-game, I’ll gain experience, build skills, and grow the mindset necessary to anchor overnight. Maybe I’ll sleep; Maybe I won’t. Only time will tell. But, the next time the tide falls and the moon rises, at least I’ll have my shirt on.

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Stalk him on Instagram.

The post Sleepless in Cat Harbor appeared first on Cruising World.

A recent study found that 60 percent of couples fight over their boat name. Just kidding. I made that up. There was no study, and there were no documented fights, but, come on. Don’t you think there would be? I mean, just look around: Making Luff, Breaking Wind, Tina Tuna … These are actual boat names, chosen by actual people, splashed with paint onto the transoms of really unlucky boats. I sheet you knot: some people go out of their way to ruin a good boat with a bad name.

Some boat names are nouns, others are puns, and many of us wonder why. Why name a boat Bow Movement? Why name a yacht Mistress? Am I Feelin’ Nauti? Not really. If you ask me, an erotic boat name is about as necessary as a dashboard stuffed-animal display or a tattoo of a doughnut. 

Yes, you can do it, but should you?

There’s no law requiring that you name your boat. For that matter, you don’t have to name your kids either, though life will be easier if you do. Still, you shouldn’t confuse the two. Take “Banana” for instance. Great name for a boat; bad name for a kid. Or “Felony.” Bad name for a kid; great name for a superyacht.

Of course, this is all just my opinion. Truth is, I’ve never named a boat. When I bought Delilah, she was already Delilah. The week I launched her, a friendly dock mate gave me some good advice: “Wait a year before you make any major changes,” he said. “See what you like and don’t like about your new boat.” 

Well, it’s been two years now. The only changes I’ve made are changes to my hair. And so, as we ring in a new year, I find myself staring at Delilah’s transom, wondering: Should I rename my boat?

For the record, I hate decision-making. For me, dinner menus are tough. Shopping for blue jeans is tougher. The thought of choosing a new boat name makes me sweaty at best, so I took my question to an expert.

Sally Curran left England in her twenties, moved to Los Angeles, and has spent 30 years painting boat lettering and applying marine decals at Sally’s Seasigns in Marina Del Rey, California. Most people would struggle to squeeze three decades of marine trauma into a single conversation, but Sally’s a pro who’s seen it all—bad names, kitschy puns, weird stuff, and, every so often, a solid name.

“Most times, new boat owners have a few ideas swimming around in their heads,” she says as we sit in her office. “I tell people that simple is better, that the Coast Guard should be able to read your boat name from a distance, and that you shouldn’t be embarrassed to say it over VHF if you’re in trouble or needing a rescue.”

“Do they take your advice?” I ask.
Sally sighs. “I knew a surgeon who named his boat Yo Mama,” she says.

Sally advises against political statements. She also advises against naming your boat after a husband or wife. “I’ve removed one woman’s name and put another woman’s on,” she tells me. “So, yeah, divorce is another consideration.”

Sally studied graphic design. Starting out, she hand-painted boat names. Nowadays, she mostly uses vinyl lettering—which gives me some hope, because it means names like Ship Faced can simply be peeled off, as if they were never there. 

Sally doesn’t just know the crazy names; she knows the characters who create them. Wandering the marina together, she points out examples, both good and bad, of how lettering can be designed, applied and displayed. She tells me about the “forgetful types” who want their name on the front, back and side of the boat; and the “free spirits” who’ve had life experiences and want to tell the whole story on the transom. She says: “I’m, like, okay, fine, but do you really need the whole sentence?” 

Some clients want a seascape by their boat name, a picture of a frolicking dolphin or a breaching whale. Sally and I agree that this is unnecessary, though not nearly as problematic as the last group. “Oh gawd,” she says. “In every marina there’s some guy who wants to name his boat Seamen.”

“Some people can’t be helped,” I tell her. “But you can help me.”

I tell Sally about Delilah, my Cape Dory 25, and the meaning of the name. As the story goes, the boat’s previous owner, Wade, had adopted a dog around the time he got the boat. The dog absolutely loved the water, Wade had explained over text as I trailered the boat home from Washington to Southern California. It was her favorite thing in the world.

I share this story with Sally. I tell her I love it. I can tell she appreciates it too. And so, after our conversation, I reach back out to Wade and ask if he’ll tell me a little more about Delilah (the dog) and Delilah (the boat). In a thoughtful email, Wade tells me how Delilah had been a shelter dog, adopted at age 10; how she’d laid in the driveway and watched as he sanded, painted, and restored the Cape Dory over for more than two years. The boat was called Viveka then. Wade wanted to change the name, thought about it for a long time, and Delilah was the only name that seemed obvious. “I had the decal waiting to be put on when Delilah suddenly had to be put down,” he wrote in his email. “She was nearly 13, then was fine one day and incredibly sick the next. The vet said she was riddled with cancer.”

The morning after she was put down, Wade went outside and put the lettering on Delilah’s transom. “Admittedly, not an easy job to do through tears,” he wrote.

Boat names can make you laugh, make you think, or make you cry. Sure, some might make you cringe. But, the good news is that everyone gets to choose their own boat name. As for me, I’m holding onto the story of this little green boat and the dog who loved the water. I’m letting Delilah stay Delilah. I’m keeping the name.

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Find him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post Boat-Name Bingo appeared first on Cruising World.

When I first got my boat, I imagined heading out to sea on all sorts of heroic adventures. In my dreams, I climb the mast barefoot, tie complicated knots, and sail off into orange sunsets. In my dreams, I’m tall and handsome: a skilled sailor who’s totally unafraid on the ocean.

Then, there’s me.

After 18 months with Delilah , my Cape Dory 25 ,  I’ve barely sailed beyond California’s Santa Monica Bay. I can’t tie perfect bowlines or take hunky, sunset selfies. And, in wind over 15 knots, my heartbeat feels like footsteps behind me.

My dreams of cruising haven’t come to fruition yet, but I’m making my way. I’m doing what I can, where I can, and I’m doing it now. For instance, despite our noobishness and busy schedules, some pals and I recently set off on a little micro-adventure. That morning, I threw some snacks and beer in a cooler. I put on a hat and cut an old pair of denim pants into shorts. Then, I looked in the mirror. 

Everyone talks about the cost of sailing, but they never warn you about the fashion risks.

Fishing hat with UV neck-protector? Check. Jorts? Check.

Our loose no-plan-plan was to leave Marina Del Rey mid-morning and beat upwind until we reached Malibu — until we smelled surf wax, saw fancy homes stilted on toothpicks over the sea, or spotted Jason Momoa— and then return home.

And so, at 11 a.m., three little buddy boats ghosted out from behind the marina break wall: Althea, a Harbor 25; Time Traveler, a Capri 18; and my pal Thaddeus and me aboard Delilah.

In a clearing haze, we sailed north past nearby Venice Pier and the warm, sandy beaches of Santa Monica. Then, just as the fog burned off and the coffee ran out, a 15-knot breeze showed up. Next thing you know, we were close-hauled, our three little boats on their ears, screaming at 5 or 6 knots. Warm spray came over Delilah’s cabin top. We don’t have a dodger, but my jorts absorbed seawater like a squeegee.

We spent three hours tacking upwind. When we reached Malibu, we turned a few circles, attempted to anchor, failed, but found a mooring ball. Then, we cracked a celebratory beer.

We were only 11 miles from home. Essentially, we were locals exploring our own backyard. Still, sitting on Delilah and staring back at our course, I felt like Sir Ernest Shackleton.

We sailed home on a broad reach. Along the way, Thaddeus introduced me to the music of Charley Crockett, a Texas blues artist who’s a descendent of Davy Crockett. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what adventures Davy went on, but what did it matter? Here we were sailing past windswept mountains and cliffs that drop like stars into the sea. Here we were on a small boat, wandering the edge of a big ocean, living our own adventure.

We were back behind the break wall at sunset. Thaddeus and I dropped the mainsail and motored through the main channel as gold light painted the sky and the Wednesday night racers flew wing-on-wing behind us.

No, we hadn’t been offshore; our voyage wasn’t an ocean epic. But it was a photo-worthy finish to an incredible day I’ll not soon forget.

Maybe you’re a new sailor with lofty cruising goals. Or, maybe you’re an old salt, still sailing local waters. Either way, don’t let big dreams stop you from stepping out on small adventures. 

Let’s face it: We can’t all have cajones like Bernard Moitessier, set off on a quest like Robin Lee Graham, or be the next Davy Crockett. But, if you’ve got a little time and a little sailboat, turns out, that’s all you need.

So whoever you are, wherever you are, grab the boat you’ve got, get out there, and go. Look for small adventures, even in your own backyard, and you’ll find them. 

Or, at the very least, you’ll have a nice pair of jorts.

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Find him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post Dream a Little Dream appeared first on Cruising World.

They say baseball is in decline. Bowling too. I won’t miss bowling, but I would miss sailing. So, I’m doing my part to save the sport: taking my kids out on the water every chance I get, hoping they’ll catch the bug and discover the magic of sailing for themselves.

Last week, Ezra and I shoved off from Marina Del Rey on our first ever father-and-son cruise to nearby Catalina Island. Every parent knows the weight that comes with managing the expectations of an excited kid. Will the trip live up to the hype? Will he love cruising? Hate it? Want a boat of his own? Swear off sailing and his weird, boat-obsessed dad all together?

We split a Dramamine as we left the dock. Ezra swallowed his half like a champ; I let mine dissolve in my cheek. Minutes later, my mouth was so numb I couldn’t taste my coffee. 

“Ith dith nummal?” I asked, putting in a call to a sailor-doctor pal.

“Some antihistamines have topical anesthetic properties,” Doctor Geller said. “Have fun. You’re gonna have a great weekend!”

In fog and flat seas, we motorsailed Delilah, our Cape Dory 25, south along the first half of the 31-mile course for Isthmus Cove. As a parent, I was worried about Ezra, but he was fine. Legs folded in the cockpit, he kept watch for dolphins, took in views of the cliffs of Palos Verdes and offered the kind of pure, unfiltered insight only a kid can produce.

“I wonder if the ferry would’ve been more interesting,” Ezra said. “All I see is nothing but plain old beautiful sea.”

“You want pretzels? An apple? A sandwich?” I stammered, looking to fix a problem that didn’t exist.

“Dad, snacks don’t matter,” Ezra said. “The experience is what matters.”

We played “I Spy” and “Hot Hands” as Delilah logged miles. Ezra spotted ships and deejayed, while I pretended not to love Justin Bieber.

After three hours motorsailing, the wind shifted west/northwest. I shut off the outboard, unrolled our 120-percent genoa, and let Delilah do some carefree summer sailing, moving along at 5 knots on a warm 10 knot breeze over dreamy Pacific swells.

“Dad, this is great and all. But, seriously, why do you love sailing so much?” Ezra eventually asked. 

He was perched on Delilah’s cabin top. I stood in the companionway behind him, watching his blonde hair waive in the wind as the island broke distantly through the haze.

Tears welled in my eyes as I thought about my answer. “Because of moments like this,” I said.

Yeah, I was a gushy mess. Eighteen months ago, I didn’t even have a sailboat. Now, here I was in our pretty little sloop, 15 miles off the gorgeous California coast, listening to my tender 8-year-old express his slightly below-average interest in sailing.

When the numbness wore off, I ate all of the snacks I’d reserved for Ezra. I sang all the Bieber, and cried all of the middle-aged dad tears, thinking about what our first cruise together meant to me and what it could mean to Ezra.

Approaching the island, a spicy breeze was blowing through the isthmus. After 6-hours, our voyage to Catalina Island was nearly over but there was still time to make a few unforced errors in front of my son.

First, I dropped the main on myself and prematurely rolled the headsail. Then, while motoring, I used a foot pump and began inflating our dinghy.

“Why are you doing this now?” Ezra said.

“So we’re ready when we get there!” I exclaimed, breathing heavily, sweating, running out of space in the cockpit to stand.

After approximately 10,000 pumps, I tossed the dinghy overboard and put it in tow, but the drag of the inflatable combined with the current overpowered our 3.5-hp outboard. Add a stiff headwind and now Delilah was moving backward.

And so, back up went the sails.

Back on the boat came the dinghy.

The last half-mile of the trip took a full hour to complete. But who’s counting?

My wife, Emily, and our 3-year-old daughter, Ederra, took the ferry over and joined us on the island. Together, we spent two nights on a mooring in 10 feet of water in Isthmus Cove. We paddled around the translucent shallows in a leaky dinghy and spotted Garibaldi. The kids swam in their summer skin. Then, at nightfall, we put sandy legs in sleeping bags and watched the stars from the cockpit of our little green boat.

Dreams.

On Sunday, Emily and the kids took the ferry home. With a full heart, I solo-sailed Delilah back to Marina Del Rey, still buzzing from the success of the trip, still listening to Bieber tunes, all the while wondering what the trip had meant to Ezra and our future sailing.

“How would you describe the sail?” I asked him the following day. We were lounging on our apartment sofa, flipping through photos from the weekend, tending to our sunburns.

“Um, I don’t know,” Ezra said, “casual, boring, easy.”

“Well, I’m proud of you, buddy,” I said. “I thought it was epic.”

“Um, seriously?” Ezra said.

I bit my nails.

“Dad, maybe you’re thinking I don’t like sailing. But I do. Sure, we’ve sailed to an island. I like that we’ve accomplished that, but think of what we’ll soon be capable of. This was like a warm-up for even bigger trips I’m really gonna like.”

Touché, buddy. Touché.

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Find him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post First Father-Son Cruise appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailed solo into the dock the other day. Just crushed the thing. Cracked the dockbox and took a chunk of paint off Delilah’s bow. That’s the great thing about singlehanded sailing: You don’t need anyone’s help to make mistakes.

Days later, I had another award-winner. Was coming alongside the marina guest dock, tried to spill wind, messed up, panicked, and came in with so much stank I had to leap off the boat and lasso a cleat cowboy-style. Afterward, the sheriff came by.

“Everything good?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You came in pretty hot.”

Sailing will reveal things about your personality. Maybe you’re a worrywart tied to the dock or a type-A perfectionist with sacrificial covers for your Sunbrella covers. Me? My issue is speed. Put me in a stressful situation and I begin to move in double-time, apply twice the force and produce half the results. Film me in slow-mo, under stress, and I still look like a speed demon.

For the record, there’s nothing wrong with moving quickly. What’s wrong is when you get in a jam, rush into poorly thought-out “fixes” and add problems to problems. Take it from me: every blunder from my first year with a sailboat points to my need to calm down and pump the brakes. 

Day One, I snagged a shroud while stepping the mast. Sure, I could’ve stopped, but I was in a rush, raised the spar anyway and bent a genoa car. Weeks later, when my furler jammed, our hero returned. In less than thirty seconds, I went from stressed, to scared, to completely flipping out. I put the furling line on the primary winch and ground my way to heartbreak.

First-world problems. Pass me a tissue.

I had to wait a month for a new extrusion and forestay. On weekends, I motored around the marina, eating my feelings and listening to Richard Marx, staring at headsails like a dumped boyfriend watching romance flicks. 

“Listen, it happens,” a dockmate said when I told him my sob story. “Just stop and take a deep breath, you know?”

No, I didn’t know. Maybe because I’d been rushing from the moment I’d launched Delilah. Or maybe it was more than that. 

My buddy, Matt, is a psychologist who spent years doing adventure-based therapy. Despite his Ph. D., Dr. Poinsett still answers my late-night calls seeking free professional help. 

“Under stress, our minds become more rigid and it’s easier to believe distorted thoughts like I’m gonna’ fail, I’m in danger, or I need to fix this now,” he said. “These kinds of thoughts not only intensify emotions, but often lead to worse performance.”

I told Matt I could relate to the worse performance part. I needed help, and I needed it…fast?

“We can’t just snap our fingers and be more mentally and emotionally fit,” he said. “But we can dive in and start cultivating some relaxation skills.” 

Dr. Poinsett told me about the STOP acronym: Stop, Take a breath, Observe, and Proceed. And I told him about an online article from an ad-covered website that said running a finger over your lips can produce calm.

“Um…I’m not familiar with the lip technique,” Dr. Poinsett said. “But consider this: if you’re out on the boat and the loudest core belief in your head is, I might fail or I’m in danger, you’re setting yourself up for a fight-or-flight response.”

I nibbled snacks, slurped on a fifth cup of coffee, and scribbled notes.

“But the good news is this,” he continued. “We can also learn and practice new scripts like: I’ve done this before, I’m going to be safe, or even if things don’t go exactly to plan, I can handle it.”

Man, every sailor should have a free therapist. If a part breaks, we don’t have to panic. Awareness of our emotions can prevent overreacting. And new thought patterns can calm us down to make better decisions.

Yeah, I’ll probably never win a sailing trophy or a mental wellness award, but I’m working on it.
And if I do crash into the dock again, I’m betting the sheriff won’t trouble with a dude who’s deep-breathing and rubbing weird circles on his lips.

But, I’m just a noob. What do I know? 

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Find him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post Guy Sails Into A Dock appeared first on Cruising World.

My dock mate has a Beneteau 235. So, naturally, I’m jealous.

Ash’s boat is just 23 feet overall—a foot shorter than mine—but has an honest-to-God cruising interior. The table converts to a bed. The head transforms to a nav station. Looking around, I saw cubbies and shelves and a small galley. If I tilted my head, I could almost stand.

So, yeah, I’m pouty, ’cause I’m over here on my Cape Dory 25, contorting on a settee with no seatback, using an empty shoe to hold my beer. I’m not tall, but in this little cabin, I feel colossal. Add my wife and our two kiddos, and now we’re playing Tetris with our bodies. “Whose leg is this?” I ask in the darkness when we “sleep” aboard.

“Mine,” all three say in unison.

But Ash’s little Beneteau is the least of my problems. Because out here in Marina del Rey, California, there are Hinckleys and Shannons, Swans and Oysters. On a typical day, we pass Foggy, Frank Gehry’s 74-foot daysailer, and a superyacht named Invictus. “Dad, I know we love Delilah, but we gotta get one of those,” my 8-year-old said the first time he saw it.

“What do they have that we don’t have?” I asked.

Ezra scanned the yacht’s six decks. “A hot tub?”

Our Delilah is 24 feet overall and just 18 feet on the waterline. Inside, we have less than 5 feet of headroom. When friends come aboard, the tour begins and ends in the same spot. “Very cool,” they say, stopping in the companionway, opting not to hunch and dive deeper inside the cave. “Really, super-cute interior!”

Maybe I should’ve bought a bigger boat. Maybe our little family needs more cabin space, a nice U-shaped dinette or, you know, creature comforts. Problem is: While one part of me can picture myself on a 40-footer, relaxing in a spacious salon and drinking from a hollowed-out coconut, the other part of me knows that my preoccupation with amenities, my qualms about Delilah’s interior, and boat envy itself are all just distractions.

See, I have a theory. I’m just a noob cruiser, but I think the best sailors out there on the fanciest yachts are chasing the same kind of joy that a kid can find on a Sunfish. I think sailing is simple, and too often we complicate it.

Consumerism doesn’t help. We live in a world that tells us we’re one purchase away from happiness. If only I had that boat, that wheel or that canvas, then I’d be content.

Then, there’s our complexity bias, our tendency to believe that complicated is better than simple. We wander the marina, fantasizing about bigger boats, better systems and more stuff. Trouble is, we spend so much time staring at the boat we don’t have that we overlook the best parts of the boat we do have.

We forget to smell the roses. Or worse, we don’t even notice them.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with moving up. New boats are amazing. Big boats are beautiful. I’m not here to shame us for daydreaming. I’m just saying we’ll likely feel anxious or envious even on the dreamiest of yachts. And that’s OK too.

The other day, Ezra and I were out on a father-and-son sail. When the wind died, we sat in the cockpit, eating SpaghettiOs and listening to our favorite songs as the sun set and Delilah bounced around like a fishing bobber.

On our way back, a fancy looking couple on a Beneteau Sense 50 flagged us down in the channel. Our outboard was making a racket, so I cut it to hear what they were yelling.

“We love your boat!” the woman called from behind one of the Beneteau’s two enormous wheels. “Sometimes I wish we had a little sailboat!”

“What?” Ezra asked after they passed. “They wish they had our little boat?”

I kicked my feet up on the orange bucket we use as a cooler. I looked at Ezra and smiled.

C’est la vie.

Click here to read more from The Noob Files

David Blake Fischer is a “noob” sailor living in Southern California whose work has appeared in McSweeney’s, BuzzFeed, the Moth, and Good Old Boat. He hasn’t crossed oceans. In fact, he’s only recently crossed the Santa Monica Bay. Follow him as he fumbles out the channel, backwinds his jib and sometimes drags his fenders on Delilah, his Cape Dory 25. Find him on Instagram @sailingdelilah.

The post Taming the Green-Eyed Monster appeared first on Cruising World.