After what seemed like an eternal amount of time, I finally made it back out onto the water and did a little sailing. However, “little sailing” couldn’t be less accurate, this was big sailing on a big boat — an afternoon spent on the Alma, a 59 foot two masted, flat bottomed scow built in 1891 that’s now part of the National Maritime Museum of San Francisco. It’s an impressive craft with a storied history, accurately restored right down to the vermin below deck. Organized by the folks at BAADS with the participation of the National Parks Service, it was a rare opportunity to sail on something straight out of our nautical past.

When I got to Pier 40 that morning the weather was cold and gray — sadly typical for July in San Francisco — and I was wondering whether I’d made an appropriate clothing decision by wearing thin tear-away sweats, a short sleeve T-shirt and a hoodie. But according to my now-looked-upon-with-skepticism weather widget, the clouds were supposed to burn off and it was going to be a 70° day. I didn’t have anything else in the mix, save my baseball cap and sunglasses, so if my widget was correct then I was going to be comfortable, and if not, well, then I was probably going to be a little cold. Either way I was locked in for three or four hours.

By the time the ship set its sails and we were out from under the Bay Bridge, it was clear my clothing decision was a bad one. And by the time we sailed past the Embarcadero and were out in front of the Golding Gate, I realized I was grossly underdressed. Those around me had clearly gotten information I hadn’t — aside from the obvious fact it was mid-summer on the San Francisco Bay — and apparently had weather widgets that looked out for them and didn’t have a sadistic streak. Because their clothing decisions seemed to be geared more towards the Arctic conditions we were sailing in, rather than my “I’m going to shoot some hoops with Jimmy Buffett down in the Keys” attire.

Still, I didn’t complain or let it be known I was freezing my ass off. We were heading to Angel Island, so by that point in the journey it was looking like an exercise in acceptance more than anything else. The thing is — and Buddhists frame this around the idea of the “second dart” — the cold was inevitable, but it was up to me whether or not I wanted to suffer. In this, the “first dart” is the event beyond your control i.e. getting shot with a dart (or in this case being cold), and the “second dart” is your dwelling upon the pain i.e. shooting yourself again in addition to what came before. I didn’t see any point in making myself more uncomfortable than I had to, so it was pretty cool to see how well I could keep my mind focused on other things.

Nevertheless, so you understand where I’m coming from and just how cold I was — and because it’s all behind me now — let me just say I’ve never been that cold in my life. Seriously, this was something extraordinary, and I’ve surfed in some really cold water with less than adequate wetsuits, skied in blizzard like conditions with frozen solid jeans and sat through summer concerts at the Greek theater here in Berkeley. So when it comes to cold, I think I have a pretty good handle on what I’m talking about.

But the difficulty with being cold now — as a quadriplegic — is twofold: to begin with, I’m a very skinny guy, I’ve got no fat on me to speak of — no blubber. And second, and more importantly, because I’m unable to move any muscles below my level of injury, my circulation sucks. The former of these two functions as a barrier/insulator and the latter functions as a regulator. The upshot being, if I get extremely cold it’s going to take me hours to get warm again, and that’s exactly what happened after this trip.

But I don’t want to give you the impression this trip was solely an exercise in Buddhist tolerance techniques — though that’s certainly one of the more useful things I took away from it (aside from not foolishly trusting my voodoo weather widget, or better still, knowing where and when I’m sailing) — because at the heart of the trip, it was about getting back out on the water after being in bed for a week and a half with the pressure sore, and spending time with a bunch of really cool folks (and dogs) on a truly unique boat.

It’s not exactly my kind of sailing — I prefer being closer to the water, on a heel, feeling the speed of the craft and every bump of the waves — but in the end, for me at least, none of that stuff really matters if you’re not in good company. And like I said, this trip had good company in spades.

Etc.

One of the great things about sailing here in San Francisco is being so close to such dynamic structures. Sailing under either of our bridges — the Bay Bridge or the Golding Gate — is an awe-inspiring experience. The vantage point at sea level of such massive engineering wonders is a perspective I love.

Currently, they’re in the process of building a new Bay Bridge that will replace the not-so-earthquake-safe old one and looking at these two bridges side-by-side is very interesting. The old one (current) — gray, boxy, industrial — is a steel suspension bridge that looks very much of its time, while the new one –a sleek, curved concrete behemoth — seems like something out of the future. Both of these are beautiful in their own right, but side-by-side they are a true architectural treat.

I think the photos below illustrate a little of what I’m talking about. But like all the great wonders of the world, pictures ultimately can’t do it justice. You really must be there to appreciate the scale.

Photos by Steve Dexter.

This post was originally intended to go up the last week in March, but life — being what it is — had other plans.

Every time I sail I discover something new about this sport I’ve quickly fallen in love with and how it’ll all play out in this dream of mine. Last Thursday evening I went out again with B and my friend S on B’s J35, and while it was pretty cold (San Francisco definitely ain’t Fiji) — especially on our way back into the harbor with the wind and the setting sun chasing us down — it was the best time I’ve had sailing yet.

It’s interesting, but I’ve noticed that if it’s the least bit chilly Bay Area sailors don’t seem to want any part of it. Don’t get me wrong, as a quadriplegic I don’t dig the cold either — my lack of circulation is not adept at keeping me warm. But it was a spectacularly clear evening with the wind blowing stiffly at around 12 kn, and so cold or no cold as far as I was concerned there was no better place to be.

The weather, however, being what it was brought up some valuable questions about my comfort. Not just in regards to the temperature, but what that means for me as a disabled passenger on a boat. As I’ve mentioned before, how comfortable I am is largely determined by how I’m sitting. This really can’t be overstated. Proper seating is the central preoccupation of my disabled life. It needs solving in my wheelchair and now it needs solving when I sail. It all springs from there. If this problem can’t be solved a long-distance sail is out of the question.

Try and try again

The last time I sailed in this J I stayed in my acoustic chair which in this particular boat fits perfectly in the cockpit. Again, this worked great and was rather comfortable while the boat was level, but if the boat was to heel for any extended period of time (which is normal over a long distance tack) the lack of upper back support of this chair would lend to some pretty severe neck pain. Not cool.

My idea this time was to ditch the chair altogether and put my cushion on the floor of the cockpit and use the side of the boat as back support. Because I was sitting so low my back was supported up to the top of my shoulders and this was perfect for keeping me comfortable and secure. For added safety we tied down the cushions so they wouldn’t slide and fashioned me a chest strap to keep me from falling over when we heeled.

While this method is better than sitting in the wheelchair if the boat is steeply heeling, it’s not the answer for any trip over an hour and a half. The main issue with this J is the width of the cockpit. I’m 6′2″ and the only way for me to fit properly in this space is to keep my legs bent at about a 45° angle. Sitting like this puts a lot of pressure on my butt (in particular my problematic left ischial bone) and makes it impossible for me to do any weight shifts. These shifts are absolutely crucial if I want to avoid pressure sores. Going too much beyond an hour without doing any can create lasting problems, and I want to spend time sailing not recovering from pressure sores.

It’s obvious that with my disability my mobility on a boat is limited; I’m not going to be able to move around like the rest of the crew and I can accept this. On a boat large enough, however, I imagine my mobility would be freed up dramatically and that’s certainly something to keep in mind where the trip is concerned.

I’m all about being flexible and adapting myself to a world where things aren’t designed with my particular needs in mind — this is something one must do when they want to push themselves beyond the ordinary. But what I don’t want to sacrifice, though, is my comfort as that’s directly related to my enjoyment of both the process and the outcome of a voyage. I expect my butt will take some hits and there will be significant recovery time to follow, but that’s always been part of the game and the collateral damage I’m willing to accept if it gets me something greater.

That said, I do believe in workarounds and that’s what all this sailing is about — discovering what works and doesn’t work and developing solutions to those that don’t. It’s also about having a great time, but as far as I can tell that seems to be a given and not much work to be done there.

Since my website has been making the rounds — landing in places I never would’ve imagined; being forwarded onward and outward by all of you — several people have made some very useful suggestions as far as my sailing future is concerned. One of those suggestions has been an organization called BAADS (Bay Area Association of Disable Sailors) right here in San Francisco. Not so surprisingly, this was one of the first websites that popped up when I was googling for information on disabled sailing way back when this whole voyage first came to me.

Since that time I’ve sailed with the organization twice and it’s been an enriching and valuable experience both times. The folks who are involved — both running it and participating in it — are some pretty dynamic and passionate people. As I’ve said before, sailors remind me of surfers and since I love being around surfers I’m pretty damn comfortable. Anyway, my hope is to be sailing with them on a near weekly basis and by the beginning of summer at the latest sailing solo in one of their adapted boats with a sure sense of my abilities out on the water.

Thinking outside the boat

The more I sail the more ideas that come to me about how to make the sport more comfortable for somebody with my level of disability. As I mentioned in the last post on sailing, one of the most important things I’ll need is some sort of chair that has the ability to be adjusted when the boat tacks and is in a steep heel.

For smaller boats I’ve seen this done, but it’s a permanent fixture. What I’m thinking of is something that wouldn’t be permanent but yet secure and that could be moved around rather easily as the situation on the water dictated. If there are any engineers or creative types out there who want to help me design this by all means contact me. This is an immensely important part of the trip.

I went sailing last Sunday morning with a couple of friends and the individual who I mentioned in the previous post and had, what can only be described, as a transcendent and illuminating experience. I came away from the day not only with a far clearer understanding of my vision, both in terms of what it will take physically as a quadriplegic on a boat and practically as it applies to what special equipment I’ll need to have a safe and comfortable trip, but with an added stoke that guarantees success.

The weather calls for…

I woke up that morning at 5 a.m. (meaning my attendant woke up somewhere around 4 a.m.), having to do my routine and get to the docks in Emeryville by 7:30. Because of the tide situation and the depth of the keel on the boat we had a very narrow window in which we could sail. The Emeryville Harbor entrance is shallow and so we needed to get in and out before the tide dropped out — about three hours. There’s talk of dredging the entrance, but until then — in this boat at least — we’re at the mercy of high tide.

The morning was surprisingly windy, which for this area and this early is rather unusual. When we met B at the docks his face looked a little troubled and when he told us it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to sail it was obvious why. The winds at that point were gale force at around 20 kn and the weather service was forecasting an increase up to 30 kn at Angel Island. His concern was that given the conditions (lots of whitecaps) and the cold (yes, it’s still winter here) it would likely be a wet and miserable sail, and since it would be our first time out probably not a prudent way to begin.

Now I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t somewhat bummed out by this news. Hell, I was fired up to go out in hurricane force winds, but the weather being what it is and part of the process; there’s no need to be disappointed by something you can’t control. Besides, there were plenty of other things we could do that would be crucial for any future trips. Our plans recalibrated, we headed down the exceptionally wobbly dock to “the red dress” and started our morning.

Practice. Figure. Execute.

The first thing we needed to do was to practice getting me in and out of the boat and to determine where and how I would sit. Would I sit on one of the seats with somebody sitting beside me keeping me propped up (I don’t have any trunk or back muscles) or would I sit in my chair in the cockpit as we had previously figured? Both ways have their pros and cons, but in the end I don’t think we’re limited to these two — other solutions will certainly present themselves as we brainstorm further. For now, however, sitting in my wheelchair would certainly suffice, but it’s hardly optimal since once I’m in this particular cockpit moving around is a very difficult proposition. This might prove especially problematic if I needed to get down into the cabin or we were in some wind where the boat was heeling for a long time. Leaning forward or back in this chair for hours on end would be uncomfortable, especially if I was on the low side. To this end I think it would be advantageous to design a seat that would work in any boat and would give us the flexibility to move me around quickly when and if the situation arose. It’ll be interesting to see if any such thing already exists.

When we finished with our experimentation we sat for a moment and discussed what we’d learned and what could be improved to make this and other boats more accessible for me. It was an invaluable use of time and certainly something that needed to be done. Still, I was jonesing for a sail and when after about 15 minutes into our conversation I noticed the wind had dropped off somewhat, I asked B what the current wind speed was and sure enough it was down to 12 kn. Excited about getting out there, I asked him if tide-wise we still had time to go for sail and when he said yes, we got back on “the red dress” — me in my chair (an experiment to be sure) — and motored out into the whitecapped harbor.

That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it…

Just inside the harbor things were pretty crossed up and bumpy, but I was loving it. Once we were outside the breakwater and further out into the bay the cross chop dropped off, but swells remained; still bumpy, but now from a consistent direction. The wind also remained somewhat significant and since it was our first time out, the decision was made to sail on the jib alone.

Under sail power, I felt incredibly at home; in my element and like being in a surf lineup. The more the bump and the faster we went, the more this feeling washed over me. An overwhelming sense of knowing raced through my bloodstream, bringing with it an understanding that this dream of mine was the right thing to do and would indeed happen.

As for my friends, well, they were feeling various degrees of seasickness — T more than D — but they seemed to be having a good time anyway and I know they were happy to share this experience with me. Fortunately for myself I’m not afflicted with this particular problem. Maybe it’s all those years of surfing or being out on the boat with my grandfather, but whatever it is I’m grateful. Of course, get in any weather extreme enough and any stomach is bound to flip and cry foul.

Experience. Experience. Experience.

So, yeah, this was a valuable learning experience for myself as well as T and it was a great first run. As I said above, I have a far greater understanding of what this trip will entail, both in terms of demands on myself and as a team with my attendant. But it also gave me a new set of items I can put on a list to check off as they are accomplished. Like goals successfully achieved, they’ll represent forward progress… and I like that.

Bottom line: sailing is sick (meaning awesome) and I’ve been indeed bitten by the bug. No matter where this incredible voyage takes me, I’ve found a sport I’d like to pursue for life and that’s mighty fine.

Thanks to the efforts of all of you, things are beginning to happen. After fasterbarnacle was forwarded to a friend, they forwarded it to one of their friends, who in turn forwarded to one of theirs who turned out to be a sailor. A couple of weeks ago that person contacted me and on Monday I went to see his boat, a J 35 racer named “the red dress”.

This isn’t the boat that will get me from New Zealand to Australia or Australia to Fiji, but it’s a very important first step. The owner is a great guy who began thinking outside the box the moment after we spoke on the phone; brainstorming as to what would make the vessel quad friendly and thus suitable for some blue water sails. He also offered to fix up the dreess’ remote controlso that I could work the tiller and do some sailing myself. Pretty cool and entirely unexpected.

At the very least, the boat will be suitable for some sails out on the San Francisco Bay and beyond the Golden Gate. After that, if it seems as though it would work for something longer and more adventurous then he’s offered to sail with us to Hawaii in June. Such a voyage would be a great introduction into what open ocean sailing would be all about. The experience my buddy T and I would gain would be invaluable. We’d learn not only what it would take to do this from the disability perspective (my personal needs, etc.), but how we could participate as a functioning unit in the sailing process itself.

If you asked me to script a better beginning to this whole dream of mine I don’t think I could. It’s a beautiful way to start and it’s awesome to see it taking shape. Big mahalos to all of you for your continuing support and help.

I recently finished the book The Proving Ground by G. Bruce Knecht and it’s a fantastic read. In the same class as Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air and Sebastian Junger’s The Perfect Storm, it’s a harrowing retelling of the disastrous 630 mile Sydney to Hobart race of 1998, one of the most challenging yacht races in the world. Colliding with hurricane-force winds and waves upwards of 80 ft, of the 115 boats that started the race in Sydney, only 43 made it to the finish line in the Tasmanian city of Hobart. Seven boats were abandoned. Five sank. Six lives were lost.

While reading this book I couldn’t help but be in awe of the passion and determination of the yachtsmen who choose to test their mettle in such races. Like surfing, the love for the sport is propelled by the magnificence and unpredictability of the ocean. It’s a difficult passion to understand if you don’t do it and nearly impossible to explain if you do. This is especially true when one is talking about the extreme end of either sport.

But why would somebody willingly put themselves in a position where they could be hurt or even lose their lives?

The answer lies both in respect and fear. Respect for the skills you’ve attained and the understanding that the element you love so much is completely unpredictable. And fear for knowing that, despite your skills and the confidence you have in them, you’ve pushed yourself right up to the edge where things can go either way — good or bad. Of course, it’s not the bad one is seeking, but the fact that it’s out there makes everything that much more electric.

The yachtsmen who participate in the Hobart race are some of the best and most prepared athletes in their sport. Yet, the race of 1998 broke many of them. The extreme weather was literally too much for the type of vessels that were out on the water that year and so the yachtsmen’s skills were tested in ways they never had before. In the end it was those skills that saved lives. Even still, when things were all said and done many of these athletes questioned what it was about the sport they loved so much and was anything worth putting themselves in such devastating conditions. For some the answer was never again, while others were back in the race the following year. What makes the story so compelling is that neither choice seemed incorrect.

I told my friend’s brother in law — who’s a sailor — about the book and he said, though it sounds fascinating he’s unable to bring himself to read such stories as they only make trips out on the water more nerve-racking. It reminds him, and reinforces the idea, that when you’re sailing there’s a lot of stuff out of your hands.

For myself, such stories don’t bother me. Maybe it’s because I’m not a sailor and I’ve never experienced scary weather out in the open ocean, but I don’t think so. Before I got into the book I wondered whether reading about such a disastrous event in a part of the world where I want to sail would be a good idea. Or would it only serve to plant seeds of fear and doubt in what I want to do? Fortunately for me the answer was no. Despite the fact that the book largely retells what went wrong in this race, what I took away from it and what affected me most deeply were the things that were done right and the skill and passion of the sailors who both perished and came through it.

Don’t get me wrong, I hope that when this trip happens I have nothing but stellar weather and smooth sailing. I want nothing to do with any weather that even remotely approaches the type of conditions they had for that Hobart race. But I’m not going to be deterred by the possibility that things could get uncomfortable or perhaps even a little scary. As I said above, what makes the ocean so alluring is the fact that it’s unpredictable nature provides for rich, challenging experiences. This is true in surfing, as it is in sailing.

I found this book accidentally after a keyword search for “sailing” on audible.com. I wanted something that described the experience of blue water sailing warts and all. The Proving Ground delivered what I was looking for and then some. Never feeling journalistic in style or tone, the book works as a tale of survival and will completely hold your attention. But more than this, it’ll give you insight into what draws one into the ocean and keeps them there despite the risks and the potential for tragedy.