T-Bone Ahead? Tight quarter manuevering brings sailing exhileration when racing. Working as a team is the key to keeping the boat moving as directed.

I think it's hard for some people to imagine that I'm part of a race crew. Frequently, when I mention to someone that I race, I see a flicker of surprise or disbelief. Maybe it's the three-inch heels or the lipstick that throws them off, but I've come to understand that my appearance can read less like "race crew" than "rail meat." You know, rail meat: those happy people who act as human ballast, wearing bikinis or shorts and flip-flops, holding a beer in one hand and waving with the other, as the crew works to maneuver around them.

The boat I race on has no room for rail meat; there's not even room in the cockpit for a cooler, and it's rare that there's a free hand to hold a beer. As the only female member of a five-person crew, I've made a lot of adjustments, and not just to my wardrobe. To be fair, I've sailed since I was twelve, and understand that bikinis and flip flops have no place on a race boat; the adjustments I've made have more to do with understanding the workings of a team, and the way men communicate with each other.

It all began a couple of years ago, when I got a call from Don, owner of a 1D35, asking me to come out for the Opening Day race, taking place the following day. I'd met Don and his wife at a party several months before and expressed interest in seeing the boat, but I'd never actually seen it. After a quick conference with my boyfriend Patrick, we agreed that Opening Day was as good as any to get an introduction to the boat, and arranged a time to meet. Patrick and I own a boat and have plenty of sailing time under our belts, although we're both quick studies, we had no actual race experience.

Don met us at the boat, and gave us a brief overview of the lines, the running backstays, and the fact that the boat carries no lifelines ("Too much extra weight!" he explained). I eyed the rail, and figured that at least the boat's open transom would make it easy to climb back aboard when I fell off. When the fourth crew member arrived, Don handed out life jackets and we turned loose from the dock, headed out of the harbor.

While the skipper may function as the eyes, ears, and brains of the boat, it's the crew that provides important input and makes the magic happen.

The 1D35 is a lightweight and responsive boat, much more nimble than the Ranger 33 I'm used to handling, and it was thrilling to grip the rail and hike out as we headed toward the starting line, heeled over 30 degrees and making good time. The conditions were perfect—clear skies, wind at about 15 knots, seas flat. I looked around, trying to memorize the locations of the lines for the topping lift, the jib traveler, the throwable life ring. A boat is a boat, I told myself. Starboard is starboard, and port is port. "Here, take the tiller," Don said as he went forward to adjust the instruments, and I found myself at the helm. "Don't worry," he called, "this boat tells you right away if you've done something wrong!" It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear, but I felt secure, knowing that Don's turning over the helm to me meant that he saw me not just as a girl with no race experience, but as a sailor, someone capable of steering the boat. I felt secure until I realized that that is not how I viewed myself. I suddenly felt insecure. I wanted Don to take the helm again. More than anything, I did not want him to know I felt that way.

I managed to sail the boat without incident, and when I handed the tiller back to the skipper, I jumped back on the rail, wondering why I suddenly felt suspiciously like a fraud.

When, toward the end of the race, Don asked us to join the crew for the season--as clear a vote of confidence as any--we happily agreed. I shook off my insecurity as Opening Day jitters and silently vowed to work twice as hard to master the boat and to read up on race strategy.

Normally, I would not be taken for a wallflower, but on race days, I assigned myself the role of student, and disappeared into the woodwork. I sat quietly, responded to commands, and tried hard to absorb everything and add value to the crew. Except for calling traffic or pointing out floating kelp, I kept my comments to a minimum. When I made a mistake, I apologized as if I'd personally offended the skipper. In short, I managed to act nothing at all like myself. Meanwhile, the guys around me were building a crew. Patrick, who has no more race experience than I do, discussed strategy, wind angle, and current, made suggestions on sail trim. I was intimidated by the ease with which the guys fell in with each other, and I stayed silent while they talked. Sure, they occasionally hollered at each other for mistakes, but it was never personal, and no one appeared to hold a grudge.

In a recent race, when we narrowly missed finishing second, Don chalked up our slower time to "boat handling," which translates as, "everyone on the boat making mistakes, but especially you, Turquoise."

Proficient sailors are proficient sailors, regardless of gender. The rule may very well be that a good crew is a smiling crew.

And, see? That is not even true. It's just the way I heard it. The boat is a high-tech race boat, and it was my first season crewing, and every week, when I got on board, I felt overwhelmed by my lack of perfection. The skipper is very patient, but he'd raise his from time to time. After a while, I noticed that I was the only one who ever apologized. Patrick might get hollered at for taking too long to reattach the spinnaker pole during a jibe. He finishes the task and jumps back into the cockpit to attend to other jobs. Our other crew gets hollered at for messing around with the GPS instead of reading the course flags, so he puts down the GPS and announces the course. I got hollered at for, say, failing to trim the jib quickly enough at the downwind mark here's what I did: repeated, "Sorry... Sorry..." and trimmed the jib faster, avoiding everyone's eyes, and brooding internally.

It's not that there's no accountability on the boat; when we'd put the boat away and discuss the race, Patrick might say, "That second takedown was too slow—my fault, the halyard had a kink at the block and I didn't see it," and Don would answer, "We're a crew—we all work together," and everything was fine. I was afraid that he was gathering information, and at the end of the year, he'd assess that I'd spent all our race time sitting back, contemplating the sunlight shining through the spinnakers on the boats behind us, and out me as the rail meat I was.

Eventually, I decided to take a different tack with my approach to crewing, because I think it hurt my standing to be constantly apologizing. One day toward the end of the season, when we were setting out, Don commented as he looked at the spinnaker in the bag, that I'd packed it backwards, which would have no impact on performance, but which would result in the numbers reading backwards when the sail is flying. Out of habit, I apologized, but when it came time to fly the chute, I looked up and saw that the numbers were not backwards; I'd packed the sail correctly, as I invariably do. He did not apologize, and I didn't point it out.

Later, when he hollered that we'd sailed through a wide patch of kelp I hadn't seen, I decided not to apologize. I just said, "Yeah. That kelp's hard to see in this light." No one batted an eye, just agreed with me, saying, "Yeah. Sure is." I smiled to myself, and understood finally that I was part of the crew.