SQUAMISH – We just left the dock and already the sailboat is tilting towards the water at an acute and aggressive angle. I’m seated at the stern, in a small perch, and I am holding onto the railing for dear life. There are white caps on the water and the wind is strong enough that every so often a shock of cold water sprays up and across the boat and its passengers – me, Leah, Will, and Mollo included. The company, Canadian Coastal Sailing, billed this excursion as a sunset sail, and in a way, I suppose that’s right. Over my right shoulder, the sun is starting to set behind the Tantalus Traverse.
But as my ballcap flies off my head and into the waters of Howe Sound, I wonder if maybe I have underestimated this particular excursion.
The boat’s speedometer says we’re traveling at 13 knots, which, to my brain, feels fast. Fast enough at least that I’m now hyper-aware of the position of my body, of the way my shoulders are arched towards my ears, how my hands – which are still gripping the rail – feel clammy inside the gloves Captain Dave handed out shortly after we boarded. I’m also aware of my few worldly possessions. Of the Nikon camera fixed to my left wrist, and of the fact that my car keys, wallet, and phone are all sitting in the open pockets of my Urban Outfitters shorts, and could go overboard at any moment.
Leah is sitting next to Will and Mollo near the ship’s console. She’s wearing black sunglasses a ribbed sleeveless top, and white pants and she looks nervous. Maybe Captain Dave senses this because he’s suggesting that she take the ship’s wheel. Leah protests but we all know she has no choice. She stands reluctantly and he begins to give her instructions. I can barely hear their conversation over the wind, but I think Captain Dave is telling her to address the crew – himself, two deckhands, and another passenger named Keith – and then turn the vessel in the opposite direction.
I watch as she grips the wheel. It’s better, I think, to have this sort of situation thrust upon you because there’s no time to overthink it. You either turn the wheel or you don’t. And so Leah does.
“Ready to tack?” she calls.
“Ready!” they reply.
“Chips ahoy!” she says.
Why Captain Dave wants her to say “Chips ahoy!” I’m not sure, but she turns the wheel hard to the right.
The boat tacks starboard and soon we’re no longer tilting as aggressively. Captain Dave points towards the mountains and tells Leah to steer in that direction. From my perch, I can see Kitesurfers and windsurfers weaving across the water's surface in a sort of rugged ballet. Captain Dave says Squamish residents are only interested in activities that can kill you, and we all laugh. Though still windy, the mood on the yacht has lightened after Leah’s tack. Keith and his fianceé, who are from Ohio, have left the stern and are on the bow taking photos. The other passengers, a group of older women, all of them from Squamish, have also taken out their cellphones and are taking photos. One of them looks at me and says “I’m on a boat motherfucker.”
I ease my grip on the railing. Mollo is still sitting by the console but Will has stood up and swapped places with Leah. He’s talking with Captain Dave about the wind. “Squamish is an English adaptation of a First Nation word,” says Dave “It means ‘Mother of Wind.’” He tells Will that thermal winds blow up from the ocean, and into the inland valley. “Howe Sound is frying pan shaped,” says Dave “Squamish, and the valley it's located in, is in the frying pan’s handle. As the land heats up, so does the air above it. When that warm air rises, it creates a vacuum because cooler, denser air is pulled up from the valley to replace it. It all comes together in the panhandle.”
“That’s so fascinating,” says Will, and I can tell he really means it.
We tack a couple more times and different people try their hand at steering. I’ve driven speed boats around Horseshoe Bay before, but I find sailing more unnatural. “Keep it straight,” says Leah.
A short while later, Dave will slow the boat so that we can go swimming. We’ve been on the water for maybe an hour and a half and the sun is starting to set behind the mountains. Pillars of hazy July light pour into the valley and over the fjord. Will dives into the water and emerges, smiling.
“Is it cold?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
I dive in anyway. The water is indeed cold and I can only stand it for a couple of minutes before I swim back to the boat. It’s quieter now and I can hear music over some hidden speaker. We open the sandwiches we bought in Squamish and I try to reconcile where we are – the stillness of the moment – with where we were. I wonder if Captain Dave embellishes the adventure because it’s good for business.
The sun is almost behind the mountains when they shorten the sails and motor us across the fjord towards the Stawamus Chief. Captain Dave cuts the engine and sends one of the crew below deck. The man reemerges with a bottle of champagne and a big knife. Captain Dave takes Will to the bow and shows him how to slide the knife down the bottle’s edge to saber it. Will tries but he keeps knocking the bottles lip without removing the cork. Everyone is watching and still, he can’t get it. I tell him we’re thirsty. He tries again. The cork shoots off the side of the boat and into the clear blue sky, taking part of the bottle’s neck with it. We toast.
Embellished or not, he’s clearly onto something.
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Awesome