The perfect antidote to hectic work schedules and a long winter: sailing upwind on a stretch of salt water on Puget Sound.

I wish I could say our sail was a brilliant and leisurely downwind run to an exotic tropical port as-yet un-explored, but it was simply a well-intentioned daysail in a several-hour snatch of time stolen from the usual seven-day work week. We had been cooped up all winter and decided to take a short day sail out of Everett around Port Gardner Bay in Washington‘s Puget Sound to just get the wind in our hair; an infusion of salt water to the parched veins, if you will.

Leaving the dock was taking a little longer than my Admiral and I had hoped. We did not connect with our third crewmember after a miscommunication placed her at the wrong gate at the right time, a mistake that would put us in the wrong place at the wrong time later in the day. She was a lightly experienced sailor who had not sailed in a while, and who was also recovering from a broken arm injured a couple of months ago. We were not expecting anything more than a moderately competent sailing companion. The Admiral usually tends to the foredeck and I to the tiller and mainsail, as is probably the usual arrangement on a short handed boat. Our new second mate was to sit in the cockpit, and perhaps help by raising the jib halyard, but her main task was to enjoy the sail.

Our 22-foot Chrysler Panakeia motored out of her berth and purred along borne by the outboard engine, and seemed to be happy to be plying the wavelets in the marina, flashing her shiny hull to the usual marina denizens. We donned all of our warm gear and lifejackets. Ashore, a few hardy sailors braved the chilly March air and even the gray gulls were hunched on pilings or hidden away in some shelter out of the wind.

Panakeia hits her theoretical hull speed and then some, strutting her stuff on the downwind leg.

In our three seasons of sailing in the Puget Sound, we’ve learned that the wind typically dies in the later afternoon, becoming spotty and unreliable. Eight-to-ten knots of wind keeps Panakeia happily gurgling along at nearly half the wind speed. Since at this time we did not have a reefing system, at above ten knots of wind, we luffed the mainsail to keep a comfortable angle of heel. We usually stopped sailing if the wind rose over 18 knots. After this day in March, we have learned to avoid winds above twenty knots. Thinking the afternoon’s brisk winds would be manageable, and believing, based on our experience, that they would probably not be sustained throughout the afternoon, we thought little of how ominous the clouds appeared. It was simply good to be out in the wind and waves again. The sails went up and off we went.

Experienced sailors have repeatedly told us that you need to sail in all seasons, all weather and all sorts of water conditions to become a knowledgeable sailor, and have held to that belief, even though that advice probably came from Captain Ron who said “If anything’s going to happen, it’ll happen out there.” It’s advice to be repeated over cold beers and warm fires in the local pub or restaurant post-race as if it were the Grail or some sacred theme requiring constant reiteration to remain in the knowledge of men. Experience requires a modicum of common sense, if learning is to happen. One cannot possibly live long enough to make all the mistakes one can make and learn from them, especially if mortality is possible from missteps in the process.

Panakeia sailed up and down wind, reached and ran with the sails full and by on the downwind legs. Close hauled, the sails were taut, and on the reaches they billowed gloriously. When we sailed upwind it was with a thrilling 30 degrees of heel and a fine, cold spray blowing back from the bow wake with each hit on the regular spaced wind waves. One could not have possibly asked for a better day of sailing, except for sailing speed-freaks who would have preferred a cat or tri to break 20 on the knot meter. We exceeded seven knots many times during that short day sail, though hull speed for our little boat is a little over five knots, with fractions of a knot above that mark counted as precious additions. The day was hard to end when the time came to head to the berth.

For old hands and new sailors alike, every trip beyond the marina docks and safety of the jetties holds its own promise and peril.

We sailed Panakeia a little closer to the naval station wharf than we usually do to begin dropping sail since the wind seemed to be picking up a mite more than we would wish it to. I turned the boat into the wind and gave the Admiral the order to drop the jib, which she was already crawling up the cabin top to do. The new second mate was across from me in the cockpit enjoying the last bit of wind on her face, wishing that it hadn’t been over so soon. Suddenly, Panakeia didn’t heed her tiller. I let her go around one time and tried to get her to stay in irons, which she simply would not do. Around we went again. Without warning, the wind slammed us about twice as hard as it had been blowing and I found green water flowing over my hips and then up to my chest. The Admiral was holding on to the mast for dear life and I was yelling “Drop the main, Drop the main! Let the halyards fly!” I looked around at events happening in slow motion, trying to take in what I was seeing and trying to process it in a manner that made sense. Nothing was making sense. There was no reason the mast should be lying in the water and certainly no earthly reason that the boat was filling with green water. It just couldn’t be. My mind was displaced, was witnessing this event from far off, unwilling to be part of the drama unfolding. Our second mate related later that all she could think was, “Isn’t that water in the boat a pretty color green?” All I could think was “What an idiot for not starting the outboard before trying to drop the sails.”

Finally, I was able to release the main sheet and somehow, the second mate had managed to release the main halyard and the mainsail, boom, and sheets filled the cockpit. Panakeia righted herself and quickly after the main was released, and the green water drained out of the cockpit. Time came back into focus and the world seemed to get back to regular speed. The jib came down and the boat heeled over only from the force of wind on her hull and spars. The boat was alright, the women were accounted for, and the wind was blowing like a banshee. We weren’t sinking and I had control of the tiller again. All was right with the world.

We caught our breath and let the adrenaline subside. Since the wind was pushing us toward the sub net at Naval station Everett, we had to get the outboard going and clean up the mess of lines and sails strewn over Panakeia’s hull, even if fully exhausted from the last three minutes of exertion. Grateful that we operate as a team even if rusty, wear our survival gear even in “protected” waters and usually perform the same motions in the same way, we motored back to the berth and shakily made our way to a local restaurant to dry out in front of a warm fire.

A sailor does need to experience all weather, all water, and all conditions in his boat before the boat’s capabilities and actions can be appreciated or expected. We now know that we will start dropping sail before the wind rises over 18 knots. We also now know that we have better instincts and teamwork than we thought. In addition, I’ve installed a mainsail reefing system and I keep a hand on the mainsheet even when we are maneuvering to drop canvas. While experience is the best teacher, inevitably, it is a stern taskmaster.