0707 July 2007.pdf - Pacific San Diego Magazine

“BASICALLY, MY WIFE WAS IMMATURE. I’D BE AT HOME IN THE BATH, AND SHE’D COME IN AND SINK MY BOATS.” —WOODY ALLEN
E S S AY
PAININTHEBOAT
How not to yacht
by susan perloff
Once upon a time, young men took young
women to Cabrillo Point to watch submarine
races. I never understood why I didn’t
see subs, since these were the chilling
days of the Cold War, and submarines and
Sputnik were top of mind.
There were no submarines. Turns out the
races were a male hoax to lure women
out to Sunset Cliffs for some necking. Is it
called making out now?
Fast forward to falling in love with Cap’n
Ed, the skipper of a 14-foot sailboat – bigger
than a bathtub, slower than the tortoise
and the hare. As I watched countless
races from the pier, Cap’n Ed consistently
lost to every other boat in the class. Impressive.
Consistent. Boring.
When his “yacht club,” a gathering spot
for big boys with small dinghies, needed
building funds, it sold concrete pavers to
members. The club is to a marina what the
Swap Meet is to Fashion Valley Mall: minimal
quality, miniature size and no class.
Cap’n sank a hundred bucks and inscribed
Cap’n Ed: DFL, which stands for “dead
flippin’ (or another F-word) last,” his nom
de bateau.
In order to convince the Cap’n to marry
me, I indulged his passion for sunburn and
set sail. He chose a windy day and spent
hours teaching me the “points of sailing.”
Not in language understandable by landlubbers,
like “Pull that rope,” but in the
impenetrable parlance of sea chanteys.
“Hoist the halyard, Honey,” he said, and
“Grab the sheet line and cleat it so we can
head up?” Sheet line? Holy sheet.
If you squat in a boat that accommodates
1.7 people and you are one of 2.0 people
on board and you grab the sheet line, the
cleats bite your leg. Cleats are demonic
steel tweezers designed to hold the ropes
and lines. Lines, by the way, are other
ropes. Lines trim the sails. Uh-huh.
On one becalmed bay, Cap’n Ed lures me
onto his ship with promises of a champagne
supper on terra firma. But there is
no wind, so no movement. In lieu of bubbly,
a passing motorboat captain pitches
us two cans of warm beer and offers to
blow into our meager sail. Oh, buoy.
And who can forget Peter the proctologist
with a sailboat named Bend Over? Peter
wedges his 45-foot vessel onto a shoal under
a bridge as the tide is rising, trapping
the mast under the southbound lane. He
phones the Coast Guard. No help except
for emergencies, says the guard. Sit tight
until the tide ebbs. But Pete’s restless. He
messes with the ropes, lines and sinkers
until he amputates part of a finger. Then
the Coast Guard rescues him.
Sailboats can be fun, but not for me. I
prefer holding hands with Ed and gazing
across Black’s Beach for the submarines.
Visit susanperloff.com.
THE BEATLES’ VOICES IN “YELLOW SUBMARINE” WERE ACTUALLY THE VOICES OF OTHER ACTORS.
pacificbeachmag.com * JULY * PBM 11