A personal reflection
I grew up in the east of France near the Swiss border. When I was 10, my parents sent me to summer camp at a lake in the mountains close by. I have vague memories of being stuck in a tiny two-people sailboat with two other girls; as we were one too many, we spent the whole session running left to right according to which side of the boat the main sail would swing to, to balance the weight out so that we wouldn't tip over. We did some mountain biking, some cave exploring, some archery. There was a big party at the end of the week to which I proudly wore a "I <3 New York" tee-shirt. It was the summer before my last year of primary school. I never went back to that camp, and didn’t sail again for another decade. Growing up near the Alps means I was roughly a four-hour drive away from the Mediterranean Sea, or a seven-hour drive away from the Atlantic Ocean, and we only went once or twice. However, for months on end, I would dream of water.
This one wave in particular made recurring appearances – different settings, same wave every time. I would be dreaming of anything, a beach day, looking out the window from my childhood home, a hilly landscape, a river… and this same wave would appear. If you have seen Interstellar, it was that type of wave: a colossal, dozens-of-meters-high wave, that seemed like it would swallow up the whole world. You could see it coming from afar, just a small dot on the horizon at first, and then it would advance, slowly, silently, growing taller and taller. The people around me ran away while I stayed right there, staring straight at it. Finally, when it stood just meters away from me, it would suddenly halt; when it got so close that I could almost touch it if I reached my hand out, it would stop. As if were hitting an invisible wall, it would bounce back, and recede immediately, leaving no trace of its passing. I would wake up then, never scared but always slightly concerned , and scribble another line about it in my diary.
I dreamt of this wave for months on end, night after night. Being young and superstitious, I googled every possible meaning without finding any real answers. The only explanation I came up with is that I must be destined for the sea. In the following years the wave disappeared from my dreams, while my longing grew and grew, and I fulfilled my seafaring wish as best I could. On vacation in Norway, spending a couple of days on the west coast, I tried signing up for surf classes but a huge storm made it impossible to paddle out. On the ferry back to Denmark, I stood outside, hands on the railing, looking at the ripples the boat created in its wake, wondering when I would get to sail again. That summer, I looked up online marine biology classes. Years later, a couple of weeks after moving to Amsterdam, I took a trip to Zandvoort with a friend, and after walking around the sand dunes we spent some time sitting on the beach, side by side, looking at the waves in silence.
I am 21 now. I only got to sail again this October, a little over a decade later. Out of pure coincidence, I met someone at a party who had a sailing license, and in a drunken state he offered to take me with him sometime. The next morning, sobered up and determined to make it happen, I texted him about it and we ended up going the following Thursday. I had spent the whole week talking my friends’ ears off about it, and by the time Thursday rolled around I was terrified – but still dead set on going
I had no idea what to expect, and ended up wearing the (non mandatory) life jacket because my mom had voiced some (valid) concerns. We were out on the Gaasperplas lake for a little over two hours and this is how it went. We spent the first ten minutes pulling out of the tiny harbor and putting up the sails. I was told to sit down and hold on tight, which is what I did, while the two experienced sailors I was with set up everything. It was much more technical than what I remembered – or maybe it had to do with the fact that this boat was five times the size of the one I had sailed in when I was 10. Maybe. That Thursday was a very sunny and calm day, so we spent the first half of the ride zigzagging up the lake, trying to catch some wind. I learned that a rudder at the back of the boat is used for steering, and that the wind does not have to come from behind for the boat to go forward (the miracles of engineering!). I learned that if the wind changes direction, so does the head sail, so we need to free the rope keeping it tight on the left and tighten up the one on the right instead, or vice-versa. And so does the main sail, so we need to duck and change sides (this I remembered from my fond memories of summer camp). After an hour of observing, I got to sit at the back and steer for a little bit – and I did it very poorly but it made me very happy.
I quickly learned that sailor number one, the one who I had met at the party and who invited me on this outing, liked going fast, and enjoyed catching the wind in a way that made the boat dramatically tilt one way or the other, closer to the water. Sailor number two , his roommate, was less of a fan of speed and, when in charge of steering, would calmly sail from one side of the lake to the other. Number two steered most of the time, and we got to relax in the sun for another hour. By the end of hour two, on our way back to the harbor, the wind started to pick up. Catching a good blast, sailor one, back in command, tightened the main sail and the boat began to tilt to the right, more and more and more, until the right side of the hull (usually perpendicular to the ground) was fully touching the water. I was sitting on the floor, back to holdingon for dear life on the railing behind me, the boat narrow enough that if I extended my legs in front of me I could prop my feet up on the other side (the right side, the one touching the water). Picture this scene. The way we were heeling, at a 15-degree angle (even though it felt like 40), I was facing the water, looking straight down at the waves, feeling the adrenaline build up. After two hours of sailing, I had realized that being tilted does not signify that we were tipping over, and I had started to enjoy the speed. So, I was sitting there, holding on for dear life as the boat sailed faster and faster and faster… and then my mind went completely blank. And I felt a sense of freedom I had not felt in years. That child-like freedom of being high up a rock-climbing wall and jumping off, trusting that the person holding the rope will stop my fall. Diving off the 3-meter platform at the public pool knowing that the fear is temporary because the water below will give me immediate release. That one summer I went horse riding and they made us close our eyes and drop our reins, and we were galloping blind and out of control but so, so free. After a couple of seconds that felt like minutes, our captain loosened his grip on the main sail, and the boat slowed down gradually, and we were back in the harbor. We went back to their place and had well-deserved vanilla pudding.
That Thursday night, back home, when I closed my eyes to sleep, I could feel myself rocking left to right as if my bed had drifted off to sea and was rolling on imaginary waves. At the bottom of this page is a picture of me on a large sight-seeing sailing boat, off the coast of Tenerife. Being 3 years old, I got bored waiting for the dolphins to show up, and fell asleep face down on a bench. Sometimes I like to think that this is where it all started: a very young me, fast asleep, being rocked by the waves. Maybe it imprinted something deep down in my subconscious. Maybe this is the feeling I have been chasing all these years, and I periodically awaken it when I am scared of doing something but end up doing it anyways. I guess the point of this essay is: hassle strangers until they take you sailing! People will only take your dreams as seriously as you take them. Growing up inland does not mean it is silly to long for bodies of water.
Images: Helena Peters
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