I'd put on a sailor's suit and cap

by anna at 07:36 PM on July 15, 2004

You might say morality was lax when I was growing up. You'd go to a party and notice that you'd slept with everyone there. But it wasn't like today with the hooking up and all. You had to date first, by which I mean driving around aimlessly, swilling beers with a person. The other difference is that special favors were reserved for long-term relationships rather than the other way around.

There was one notable exception to this rule, whom I'll call Celeste. For four years this shy bookworm lurked on the periphery, observing our mating habits with the cool detachment of a sociologist. Her very virginal existence irked many of us. Lots of guys had tried to rectify the situation but all had failed. She might as well have been wearing a chastity belt.

After graduation we all flocked to the beach. To my surprise Celeste was staying at the same flophouse we were, rather than at a respectable motel in the low numbers where all her future sorority sisters were staying.

Someone suggested we go bayside and rent Catamarans. Now I knew nothing about boats. Nonetheless I was psyched.

The wind was gusting fiercely out to sea as we launched five boats. As the two unattached persons in our party Celeste and I were sailing partners by default. Seldom had I endured a more awkward moment. Both of us where painfully shy, came from different circles and backgrounds and we had nothing in common. At last she asked, "Do you know how to sail one of these things?" I assured her that I did and at first it seemed that were true. With the wind at our backs we skimmed along with the greatest of ease.

The trouble develops when you have to come back against the wind. The more I tried the further out to sea we drifted. Beachfront hotels grew smaller and smaller. Seagulls became fewer and fewer. Celeste goes, "Don't you know how to tack?" To me a tack was something you used to slap a Farrah Fawcett poster on your bedroom wall. I knew nothing of the sailing term for zigzagging back and forth to cheat the wind. As it turned out she did from sailing with her dad. But she was far too demure to volunteer that information. So we foundered in the briny waves, watching a brewing storm, until the Coast Guard came motoring up. Despite my assurances that I had everything under control they insisted on towing the craft back to shore, where my pals stood jeering. The look on Celeste's face could only be described as mortified.

Needless to say the week's central mission went unfulfilled. And while nothing even remotely romantic ensued out there, I must say our excursion proved an apt metaphor for many failed relationships to come. When smooth sailing was at hand, all was well with the world. But when difficulties arose, forget it.

Years later I ran across this girl and her lawyer husband. Like most mousy types time had been pretty kind to her. The Sailboat Incident naturally came up. She told me she wasn't so much mortified at my sailing ineptitude but my friends' cruelty. That and she said she was miffed that I never tried to lay a hand on her the entire time we were adrift at sea. "I just assumed you were gay," she said.

There isn't much you can say to that.