As I drift idly on Walden Pond, I cease to live, and begin to be. – Henry David Thoreau
My mind was cluttered tonight as I prepared for the sail up to Pelican Bay. Solo sailing requires focus and forethought. What might I possibly need during the next 2 1/2 hours of sailing? How do I rig it all within easy reach of the helm? With a trusty autopilot, leaving the helm for a few moments is not a problem, unless… a windstorm picks up… rigging gets fouled… or a dozen other things happen that I’m not anticipating.
Usually the required mental focus chases all other worries and thoughts from my mind. But tonight thoughts of work, worries about kids, and a dozen other thoughts kept jibing unexpectedly across the sea of thoughts in my head.
Harnessed in to the cockpit, I unfurled the sails and pulled them in tight for the sail to Pelican Bay. It’s the longest day of the year, and I expected to pull into the harbor right around the time the sun was setting behind the mountains.
I sheeted the jib and main in tight, setting out across the lake on the first of several tacks. Winds ran 15-19 mph, and after about two miles the water skiers had all faded back to their crowded waters near the safety of the jetty wall.
Two other boats were making the same pilgrimage to Pelican Bay tonight for the annual Sailstice overnighter. Hau Kea, a Catalina 25, passed me half way across the lake. Even with a lower phrf rating I didn’t feel bad about this tonight. She was perfectly trimmed and captained by Todd Frye, owner of the Bonneville Sailing School. He has more hours under his keel on this lake than any sailor ever. I enjoyed watching a master at work. The other boat, a Mac 26, started a good half hour afterwards and would join us later at the docks.
I followed Hau Kea almost all the way across the lake. She continued on, closer to the Lakeside Mountains, but I decided on an early tack to the north, hoping to avoid some of the wind shadow along the west side of the lake. Within a mile or so the wind picked up, and the boat settled in to a comfortable heel as she pushed determinately northward into the lake. My mind still cluttered with flotsam, I didn’t feel like tacking back and forth on a shortcut to the harbor. I left the boat on one long lazy tack out into the lake. An hour later, awaking from the jetsam of thoughts in my head, I checked my position and found I had sailed up to the harbor, but was 2.5 miles out into the lake. I tacked and let the sails out for a brisk beam reach over to Pelican Bay.
A half mile ahead of me, I watched Hau Kea drop her sails and prepare to join the forest of masts that had sailed from Lindon Harbor. As the shadow of sunset stretched across the harbor I pulled in to join the fleet of sailboats resting peacefully on the docks.
Some crews cooked dinner on board, others watched the shore for food delivery drivers, and everyone jumped up to help each arriving sailboat tie in securely and hear the captains’ stories about their voyage over. Nightfall found the docks abuzz with sailors swapping stories in constantly changing groups until one by one they retired to their boats for the night.
The gentle weightless rocking of a sailboat unleashes the most colorful and wildly imaginative dreams. I fell asleep before my eyes even closed, and I slept soundly through the night. I awoke to find the water in the marina was 60 feet deep, crystal clear, and full of all kinds of fish and people snorkeling. Then I opened my eyes and realized it was still 8 feet deep and murky. Another fantastic sailboat-induced dream. It was beautiful though.
Shortly after sunrise, I slipped out of the harbor and turned south for the sail back to the State Park Marina. The wind had shifted to southerly now, which meant another into-the-wind sail for the next few hours. The air was cool enough to wear a fleece jacket while the suns rays worked on bringing the temperature up from 60 to the 90 forecast for later that day.
Turning into the wind I raised the main, then fell off slightly as the jib opened to embrace the wind. Immediately the boat set into a perfect balanced gait gliding effortlessly through the small waves.
I was in no hurry, everyone I knew was still asleep. My mind was physically rested from a sound sleep, and the idyllic sailing conditions offered effortless sailing. I remembered my favorite line from Henry David Thoreau’s On Walden Pond. Thoreau, troubled by the commotion and stress of increasingly complex modern life, decided to escape to a friend’s backwoods property on Walden Pond, and spend a year off the grid. The year was 1854. “As I drift idly on Walden Pond, I cease to live, and begin to be.”