Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 18

The Unique Power of Word—and Boat—Choice

A few weeks ago, Paul and I took some out-of-town family for a tour of Hadley Harbor onboard Pierre. As we motored into the crowded anchorage, I quickly realized that most powerboaters waved, while many sailors did not—the opposite response to the greetings we would’ve received if we’d been (as usual) navigating through the harbor on a sailboat. We even spotted one friend who didn’t recognize us—and got an unexpectedly dirty look from another sailor. 

It is a different look, hanging out on Pierre.

When I mentioned this observation, my niece’s boyfriend said that he had never heard the term “powerboat” before. On the lakes of Minnesota, he explained, such vessels are just called “boats.” (Wind-propelled craft, he quickly assured me, are definitely called “sailboats.”)

Regional language variations are nothing new, but this was definitely the first time I’d considered the term “boat” as a generic default for a motorized vessel. I always thought it was just powerboaters who used it that way! But in an area like Minnesota, where sailboats are a rare odd sighting and powerboats are the norm, it would make sense. 

In my saltwater world, what is meant by “boat” will vary with who is talking. Sailors commonly refer to their own craft as “boats;” so do powerboaters. Without any other context, there’s no way for a listener know for certain which world the speaker inhabits.

And they are different worlds! Inside Hadley Harbor that day, we were all lucky enough to be enjoying a well-protected harbor accessible only by privately-owned vessels. But the dividing line between power and sail was still glaringly obvious—and a great reminder that how we are perceived by others depends not just on the words we choose, but also on what kind of “boat” we take on our next harbor tour.

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Unexpected Rewards of Race Commentary and Homework

Sailing is my preferred way to spend an afternoon—not watching other folks do so. But last Friday, I helped 75 charter guests understand what 192 boats were doing as they started the 635-mile race from Newport to Bermuda. And because I did my homework, it was fun! 

Coastal Queen’s captain graciously allowed me to share his wheelhouse while I was commentating, and we had the best view of all.My Ride

I’m a big fan of the Jamestown-Newport Ferry Company, and their smaller vessel Katherine was part of the inspiration for Ferry to Cooperation Island. So when they asked me to provide race start commentary onboard their biggest ferry, Coastal Queen (not to be confused with this much different Coastal Queen), I was flattered—and also a bit nervous. I’d never done race commentary before; what could I find to talk about that would be RITE (Relevant, Interesting, Timely, and Entertaining), over the several hours it would take for nineteen different classes to start? 

Not knowing where else to begin, I decided to scroll through the crew list to see how many Olympians were racing to Bermuda (five). I also noted any National Sailing Hall of Fame inductees (three), since tags like that would help non-sailors realize just how experienced a fleet it was. Along the way, I was surprised to see the names of many other casual friends—so I highlighted their boats on my scratch sheet. Worst case, I could always fill in any dead air with sea stories.

Photo courtesy Jamestown-Newport FerryOut There

 When we got out to the course area at the entrance to Narragansett Bay’s East Passage, the ebbing tide and strong southwest breeze had built up a significant swell. With so many boats milling about—racers and spectators, power and sail—it seemed at first like a sea of constant chaos, even from my wheelhouse perch on the tallest vessel of them all. But thanks to all my advance research, I was able to share a steady stream of information over the sound system: which boats would start next, and who was onboard the nearest vessels—even though most folks weren’t actually recognizable, bundled up inside their foulweather gear. The first callout was to Charlie Ogletree, a three-time Olympian and 2004 silver medalist, onboard the very distinctive trimaran Argo; he and his four teammates would soon fulfill all of the pre-race hype by setting a new course record (33 hours, 9 seconds). 

Less than 34 hours after this photo was taken, Argo crossed the finish line in Bermuda—after averaging a very wet and wild 19.24 knots.

As we watched the incredible variety of sailing vessels put up headsails, line up to start, and then charge off toward a tiny island well past the gray horizon, I wondered how to convey to the onboard crowd just how much of a challenge racing offshore really was—especially with thunder and lightning and a huge windshift due to sweep across the course quite soon. It was only once we were heading back into Narragansett Bay, running away from the huge waves that had rolled and tipped us for the past few hours, that I realized: all on its own, the Coastal Queen had provided its passengers with a sensory education far more memorable than anything I’d said. “How do you get the crazy gene to want to do a race like that?” one guest asked. A perfect example of showing that’s far more effective than telling. 

Most of the 75 spectators preferred the top deck, but the viewing was equally good from the bar area.Teamwork and timing

 When we arrived back at the dock just ahead of the first thunderstorm, another guest told me “This completely exceeded my expectations!” Running to get the car, dodging raindrops, I mentally put a big check mark in the day’s success column—thanks to the ferry captain’s excellent timing, and to all of my pre-race homework. Together, we gave casual spectators an accurate but rain-free taste of our incredible sport—and made an afternoon of watching sailing more fun than expected. 

Thanks also to Paul for selling so many books while I blathered on, and for all the great photos! For more, visit PaulCroninStudios. 

Selkie, Sheila McCurdy’s lovely 38 footer, had to retire from this year’s race.Afterword

In the days since, I’ve been following the race tracker and cheering on everyone—especially my friends on Masquerade, who definitively won their start and, four days later, their class. (The skipper is also a devoted blog reader; hi Andy!) On a sadder note, I’ve also been mentally sending heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of Colin Golder, a skipper who went overboard halfway to Bermuda and did not survive. Yet another reminder that offshore, anything can happen.

Were you out watching last Friday, or racing yourself? If so, let me know how it went in the comments below or send me an email. And thanks for reading!

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The Plot: Story-Borrowing or Story-Stealing?

As a fiction writer, I know there’s a very fine line between “borrowing” and “stealing”—especially if the original source of inspiration has long-since been forgotten. I wrote about this six years ago, when I reviewed Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic. Today, thanks to a 2021 novel I’ve just devoured, I’m pondering a slightly different aspect of this dilemma: Who really owns a story, and when is it okay to write a book sparked by someone else’s idea?

Those are the signature questions of The Plot, by Jean Hanff Korelitz. A struggling novelist named Jacob Finch Bonner dreams of writing a bestseller—and then does, but only by stealing the “sure thing” plot idea of his writing student.

This fantastical assumption—that a novel’s plot could be any sort of “sure thing”—initially made me cry bullsh*t, until I realized it was the first of several tongue-in-cheek jabs at the entire writing industry. And by then, Jake’s misery as a once-promising-but-now-forgotten author had already made him sympathetic. When another professor at the “third-rate” MFA program where he’s teaching writing tells him how much she likes his work, we can almost hear his sigh of frustration: “It ought to be nice when it still happened, but somehow it wasn’t. Somehow it made him feel awful. But really, didn’t everything?” 

The best scene of all takes place the very next morning, when Jacob asks his writing class to introduce themselves. One particularly confident blond student makes a big impression:

““Evan Parker,” the guy said without preamble. “But I’m thinking about reversing it, professionally.” 

Jake frowned. “You mean, as a pen name?” 

“For privacy, yeah. Parker Evan.” 

It was all he could do not to laugh . . . for most writers, even reliably published and actually self-supporting writers, the privacy was thunderous. 

“And what kind of fiction?” 

“I’m not so much about the labels,” said Evan Parker/Parker Evan, sweeping that lock of thick hair off his forehead and back. It fell immediately over his face again, but perhaps that was the point. “I just care about the story. Either it’s a good plot or it isn’t. And if it’s not a good plot, the best writing isn’t going to help. And if it is, the worst writing isn’t going to hurt it.” 

When Jacob digs for details, Parker announces that he doesn’t want to share any details about his plot “in this setting.” So Jacob asks what he’s hoping to get out of the class?

“Oh,” said Evan Parker/Parker Evan, “I’m not really looking to improve. I’m a very good writer, and my novel is well on track. And actually, if I’m being honest about it, I’m not even sure writing can even be taught. I mean, even by the best teacher.” 

Jake noted the wave of dismay circling the seminar table. More than one of his new students, more likely than not, were considering his wasted tuition money. “Well, I’d obviously disagree with that,” he said, trying for a laugh. 

After some incredulous questions from his fellow students, Evan adds with a shrug: 

“I’m not against this kind of thing, obviously. The jury’s out on whether it works, that’s all. I’m already writing my book, and I know how good it is. But I figured, even if the program itself doesn’t actually help me, I wouldn’t say no to the degree. More letters after your name, that never hurts, right? And there’s a chance I could get an agent out of it.” 

Jacob eventually dredges up a teaching moment, reminding everyone how important it is to have other eyes on your writing. Then he adds that he expects to learn “a great deal from the writers in this room.” 

Evan Parker/Parker Evan is, of course, scornful. 

“I don’t think there’s a person on the planet, no matter how lousy a writer he is, who could mess up a plot like mine. And that’s about all I’m going to say.” 

Once Jacob pries the plot out of Evan, he privately and reluctantly agrees with all of the over-confident student’s claims. Which makes it easy to understand why, from Jacob’s perspective, he can’t NOT write this book, once he learns that Evan died of an overdose. Of course, as predicted, it’s a huge success. But the allure of a standing-room only national book tour—something he’d only dreamed of with his earlier novels—is quickly overpowered by guilt. In self-defense, he has to come up with a stock answer to the most common question of all: Where did you get your ideas? 

“I don’t think ideas, even great ideas, are all that hard to come by,” he blithely tells one interviewer. “…there are a hundred novels in every day’s issue of The New York Times, and we recycle the paper or use it to line the birdcage.” Other people’s stories are the key, he explains, because once you get “out of your own head and look around… There are stories growing from trees.” Even so, Jacob lives with the constant fear that someone—a former student, his next interviewer, a too-clever reader—will call him out. 

In Seattle he meets Anna, who has “gleaming gray hair held back off her face with a frankly girlish headband.” They manage to fit in a quick coffee and exchange phone numbers before he rushes to the airport—which is when he finally receives the email he’s been secretly dreading, identifying him as a thief. For three days, Jake holes up in his New York apartment with a bottle of Jameson’s whisky and a dozen of his favorite cupcakes, stewing about the email. The only saving grace is flirting with Anna by text, along with her reminder that “nobody else gets to live your life.” She comes for a visit, then moves in with him; they marry six months later, just as he finishes his next novel (one he already knows is not a “sure thing”). 

The accusatory emails escalate, but Jake keeps them secret from everyone—including Anna. Meanwhile, excerpts from his bestselling book provide just-in-time parallels to what’s happening in “real” time. 

I figured out who the stalker was long before the final reveal, and at least one reviewer did too. As readers, we always enjoy thinking we’re just a little smarter than the characters. But in this case, I found all the backstory detective work a bit too drawn out—and a distraction from a far more important point: that fame and fortune are not nearly as worthwhile as simply watching a stranger lose themselves in your work. 

The biggest strengths of this book—all those tongue-in-cheek details that take us both inside a writer’s head and into the perils of publishing—may not be worth it to those in search of an easy-to-follow mystery. But if you’ve ever wondered where to draw the line between story-stealing and story-borrowing, The Plot’s twisted ending provides a fresh perspective on who really owns a story, and when it might actually be okay to write a book sparked by someone else’s idea.

Got a thought about this book, or these questions? Add a comment below or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude.

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World Ocean and Women’s Fiction Day: June 8

Yesterday was both World Ocean and Women’s Fiction Day —a perfect combination of markers for a blog about Where Books Meet Boats! Apparently I’m not the only one who connects authors with the sea… though I’m guessing this surprising confluence is actually a complete coincidence.

World Ocean Day 

This was first proposed in 1992 and really gained momentum in the early 2000s. Over the past two years, a pledge to protect 30 percent of the world’s oceans by 2030 has been signed by more than 1100 organizations in 84 countries. They also appreciate the subtleties of proper pluralization; a decision to revert to their original, singular name helps focus our attention on the “one world ocean that unites us all.” Learn more by visiting the World Ocean Day website; you can also read my own take on how climate change is affecting the Atlantic Seaboard in Trusting My Coastal Senses: the Science behind Observation.

Women’s Fiction Day

Different writers and readers define the genre of women’s fiction differently; I’ve even seen it expanded out to include any and all “fiction written by a woman.” Frankly, I could go either way on whether Ferry to Cooperation Island makes the cut, but the sponsor of Women’s Fiction Day, the Women’s Fiction Writer’s Association, is definitely pushing towards maximum inclusivity. They wish to promote “women’s fiction that delves into family dynamics, female friendships, job challenges, long-buried secrets,” as well as “lighter reads [and] denser narratives.” Surely FERRY makes that list! 

Add your support

Even though I’m not a huge fan of “XX Day” (there are just so many now!), it seemed important to mark this occasion where two circles of #coastalfiction intersect. So, even though the day is already passed, here are three things you can do to show the day some love.

Support the world’s oceans by1. Cleaning up your local waterway

Pick up any trash you see, on shore or on the water, especially those pesky balloons—and stop buying them, too. There are plenty of biodegradable ways to recognize birthdays and anniversaries. 

2. Eliminating chemicals from your lawn and garden beds

Especially if you live near the water, any fertilizer that drains into the ocean will increase its chemical imbalance. (Ever wondered what causes that brown surface sludge?)

3. Making a donation

There are many organizations working to help keep our oceans a pristine playground. Some of my favorites include:

Save the Bay Clean Ocean AccessSailors for the Sea

And of course World Ocean Day!

Support Women’s Fiction by 1. Buying books!

Here are a few authors I’ve interviewed to get you started:

Barbara Rogan

Wendy Mitman Clarke

Barbara O’Neal

Alice Early

Marie Force

2. Writing a review

Or just crowing about the books you love to all your friends and fellow book-lovers.

3. Inviting a local author to your book club

We all love to talk with readers about our characters, the worlds we create, and where we get our inspiration.

Got a book about the ocean that I would enjoy? Please share it in the comments below or send me an email. I might just reward you by sending along a special prize. Meanwhile, here’s to celebrating World Ocean Day and Women’s Fiction Day—yesterday, today, and all year long. 

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Where Books Meet Boats: No Such Thing as “Chore”

A few weekends ago, while scraping old varnish out from under Matsya’s mast track (a time-consuming task that should be done annually), I realized another linking truth between boats and books: for a long-term stint in either world, you have to enjoy the process.in either world, you have to enjoy the process. So much more time is spent working on boats (at least old wooden ones) than actually sailing them, just as so much more time is spent writing books than actually reading them. Both are realities learned the hard way, simply impossible to explain to either the starry-eyed boat buyer or aspiring novelist: there are no “chores,” only tasks that—eventually—provide their own reward.

But why should I try to explain this basic truth? A writer who doesn’t enjoy the day to day grind of turning inspiration into a shareable story probably won’t ever become an author. And even sailors who sub out the pre-launch rituals of boat ownership will still have plenty of grunt work to do just getting off the mooring. (For one thing, they might find that pulling up their mainsail is harder than expected—especially if nobody remembered to lube that mast track.)

June is the month of pure potential, which means as much time playing on the water and away from my desk as work permits. Now that the Star book project has gone to the printer, I’m determined to get back to my WIP—so I’m going to strive for balance between writing and sailing.

Either way, I’ll try to remember that there are no chores. Boating adventures will spark more inspired writing; so will this newfound knowledge, that enjoying the pure potential of hard work is a definite commonality. And on the many foggy writing mornings when I can’t really see where putting words on the page will eventually lead, the afternoon’s sailing might just be its own reward. Especially when, without any real effort, I can so easily hoist Matsya’s mainsail. 

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In Search of Inspiration: Spring and Launching Season

This week, on my morning set aside for blog writing, I must admit I was completely out of ideas. What can I say, it happens. Outside my window, a perfect spring day beckoned… so I turned to the archives, searching for “Spring” through thirteen years of weekly posts. Of course that turned up a healthy collection of writing that celebrates this incredible time of year, when bottom paint mixes with the heady scent of lilacs and first sails tap into summer’s pure potential.

This year, a string of northerly gales has slowed the start of the local boating season. Watching the earliest launchers flailing away on their wind-thrashed moorings made me glad we were still toiling away on our own craft—but now that the weather has finally locked into “must get on the water” temperatures, my last-day-of-sixth-grade excitement has arrived.

So instead of trying to find fresh words to describe the many joys of spring and launching season, here are a few blog posts from the archives that still ring true today. Thanks for reading. If you can stomach a little extra screen time—before your own spring temptations lure you away—please leave a comment or send me an email. I read every single one, with gratitude.

Thoughts for a Spring Friday (2010)

“As I force myself to stay at my desk on this lovely morning, I’m hoping this afternoon to sneak out and dig in the garden. Don’t tell my clients, okay?”

The Secret Habits of Spring Trees (2016)

On this morning’s paddle, I figured out yet another reason why I like spring so much: each tree on the shoreline shows its own personality in deciding when to leaf out. I prefer to think of it as a “decision” each tree makes for him or herself. “I’m going to be an early spring leafer,” one might say, perhaps as a New Year’s resolution. Every day is different; even morning to evening, what’s blooming and who’s leafing out can make significant progress. 

Spring Sailing Fever (2018)

It’s like the last day of sixth grade, times ten; adrenaline thumping, eyes jumping from creeping clock to the window full of blue sky and bending trees. Sailing brings us perspective, which helps us slow down enough to breathe in the beauty all around us. So now, if you’ll excuse me…

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You Never Know: Embracing the Most Unexpected Lessons

I was going to write a post about teachers today—and just as I sat down at my desk, I learned that May is Teacher’s Appreciation month! How’s that for synchronicity? 

What I mean by “teachers” is broader than the official term, however; I want to thank all the folks who teach us stuff, even if it’s unintentionally. Could be a parent, child, friend, spouse, writer—even a passing stranger. Because that’s the point of this post: You Never Know what effect you will have on others.

When I was in fifth grade, a teacher handed out a poem that I’ve never forgotten. I can no longer remember her name, but I can still picture her round-lettered words (remember mimeos?). Even a handwriting font could never duplicate the personality of her lowercase As… but I digress. 

The poem was entitled You Never Know, and unfortunately the author has long-since been lost to time and history. The words, however, remain stuck in the same corner of my brain as my childhood phone number:

You never know when someone 
Might catch a dream from you
You never know when a little thing
Or something you might do
Could open up the windows
Of a mind that seeks the light
The way you live might not matter at all
But you never know—it might

And just in case it could be
That another’s life, through you,
Might possibly change for the better,
With a broader and brighter view
It seems it might be worth a try
At pointing the way to right
Of course, it may not matter at all…
But then again – it might.

I don’t remember discussing the poem in class, or even with a favorite classmate. I do remember reading it over and over again, which is of course why it has stuck with me. I didn’t yet understand “irony,” but I did realize this: my own heartfelt reaction proved the poem’s point.

For the past two years, we’ve learned the special value of human interaction—especially those short and quickly-forgotten snippets of conversation we used to take so much for granted. We’re also newly appreciative of teachers, and how every day they meet or exceed incredible expectations. Looking back on what I now realize was a very privileged childhood, I’m especially grateful for this one teacher who handed out a poem and then let a bunch of ten year olds just… absorb it on our own. If we’d discussed and dissected to death how to set someone on “the way to right,” maybe the rest of it wouldn’t have dug so deep into my brain—and I wouldn’t be writing this post today. You Never Know.

As I’ve finished and then published each of my books, other writers have occasionally reached out for advice. I certainly don’t have all the answers, and what defines success is quite different for everyone. So imagine my surprise when a reader emailed to thank me, years later, for some “life-changing” advice that had been part of a short conversation! That’s the flip side of this poem: I Never Know my own effect on others. Just as that long-ago teacher surely never predicted that, almost forty years later, one of her students would be writing a blog post about a handwritten handout. 

Happy Teacher’s Appreciation Month, to all my teachers: the ones whose lowercase As I still remember, as well as the many nameless folks who simply made a passing comment that taught me something unintentionally. In your honor, I will do my best to pass along the right wisdom to anyone who comes looking for it—even though I can’t predict or even understand what tiny gem is going to stick best.

Got a childhood poem or memory that’s taught you something unexpected? Add a comment below, or send me an email. And thanks for reading! 

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Family Sailing: Launching the 52nd Season

A few weeks ago, Paul and I helped with a springtime family tradition; rigging the Newman family sailboat and sailing her down Buzzards Bay, to the mooring where she’s swung for (most of) the past fifty-two summers. Katrina is only six years younger than I am, so she’s played a role in my most significant life phases: first trophies won, teenaged rebellions, international adventuring. 

This 38 footer showed up in our back yard in February 1970 as a bare hull and deck (built by Charley Morgan). Six months later, she had her very first launch day as a workable family cruiser—though without a midship hatch, or a head door, or many other important features that would be added over the next several years. Every spring thereafter, launching day reestablished Katrina as the leading lady for that season’s challenges: race winner, family cruiser, bluewater voyager, liveaboard. 

My first (and only) offshore trophy: Winning our class in the 1979 Marblehead to Halifax Race

As her roles evolved, so did mine. In my early teens, I learned the excitement of racing and working as a team while acting as her “foredeck queen.” Skills honed by maintaining and upgrading her rigging turned into a business for a few years. (“My granddaughter is a rigger,” my grandfather proudly told his friends.) And though adulthood was supposed to start with college graduation, mine really began six months later with a Transatlantic—Katrina’s second, my first—followed by a parent-free two months taking care of each other in the Caribbean. That winter of cruising, burdened only by varnishing and navigating between islands, taught me many lessons; the most important was that endless summer will actually get pretty dull after a few months. I haven’t taken more than a week off since. 

First launch day, July 1970. Still to be added: aft ports, midship hatch, lower lifelines, and many other less visible features

Now that we’re both “mature,” Katrina and I don’t spend as much time together as we once did. But one memorable winter, she brought my parents to Miami—just in time for a much-needed celebration with my Olympic team. Memories like that are why I always show up for launch day, especially now that Paul and I do more of the heavy lifting and sailhandling than we used to. 

This year, Katrina will serve as a centerpiece for the Newman family reunion. After that, she’ll settle back into her retirement as a local cruiser. (She might even grudgingly accept Pierre as a grand-nephew, as long as he maintains a respectful distance.)

Passing the “dinghy test” on a Maine evening a few years ago

The world is a very different place than it was in 1970, but this blue sailboat has adapted and thrived through it all—thanks to the many upgrades and customizations my dad has designed, engineered, and installed. And even now that I’m well past the teenage rebellion stage, she’s still a key piece of my personal growth and education—especially as a reminder, each year, of the joyous rites of launching season. 

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Voyage to the Dark Side (for Novel Research)

Sailing fans, stop reading right now. I’m about to make an embarrassing boat confession (which is why I’m sneaking it in today, on my “writing” Thursday):

Paul and I bought a powerboat. 

Now pick yourself up off the floor, because I have some excellent justifications for this radical move. 

Why this is such a big deal

First, a little background for non-boating readers. There is a vast and unbridgeable divide between powerboat people (“stinkpotters”) and sailboat people (“blowboaters”). I still remember the 1980s prediction of a prominent sailing magazine editor: the Arab-Israeli conflict will end long before sailors and powerboaters come to any sort of understanding. Shortly after I was born, my older brother apparently asked our father why anyone would own a powerboat; Dad responded, “Because they don’t yet know how to sail.” 

Hence this blog’s title. For two lifelong sailors, buying anything motorized bigger than a center console or dinghy definitely begs explanation. 

Why would two sailors buy a powerboat?

When Paul sold his Archambault 31 last year, we both knew that we wanted to continue cruising around New England—but also agreed that the next boat should be easier to manage. After many winter window-seat chats, we kept coming back to the same conclusion: a small overnightable powerboat was the best compromise. Something big enough to transport us and our wingfoil gear and SUPs to many of our favorite harbors, without requiring the perfect weather window to get home again. 

The right powerboat, of course

After copious research and a few in-person inspections, Paul put down a deposit on a Nauset 27 we’ve named Pierre. (There’s a story there too, of course.) The buying process was pleasantly straightforward, thanks to a trustworthy seller—and our acceptance of the many quirks that come along with a 40 year old boat. After a few modifications to make it “ours,” including a renaming ceremony, we cast off for our first mini-cruise: an 80-mile, two-day run to Jamestown.

Perfectly rational hindsight

It wasn’t until I’d logged a few hours running the boat that I realized; I can personally justify this new adventure as research! One of the many struggles while writing Ferry to Cooperation Island (which continues with the sequel) was my complete lack of muscle-memory about operating a small ferry boat. I’ve asked a lot of questions of friends who run similar vessels, but I still don’t know what I don’t know. What’s it like to depend on a finicky motor to cross open water, regardless of the wind and weather?

Pierre is only about half the size of the fictional Homer, and we definitely aren’t signing on to four runs a day, year round. But I’ve now experienced the unique vibrations of standing watch while listening for any change in the vibrations underfoot—so I can infuse that new body-knowledge into what my characters feel on their next ferry ride. 

Guilty as charged

As for the elephant in the room, our increased carbon footprint… well, that will be partially offset by all the car-gallons we would otherwise be burning on family visits. But we’ll still have to live with some guilt, knowing we are a bigger part of the problem—a definite change for two wind-powered lives.

Don’t worry, sailors; next week, I’ll be back on topic once again. Between Snipes, wingfoiling, model boat racing, Matsya, and other people’s boats, there will be plenty of summer tales more pleasing to all of the readers I can now call “blowboaters.” But I might also blog again about future stinkpotting on Pierre—and all that boring old research. You have been warned!

How about you—got an opinion about powerboats (good or otherwise)? Share it in the comments below, or by email. I read every single one, with thanks.

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9 Lessons from Racing Model Sailboats

Back in January, Paul and I joined the Sail Newport Thumb Yachting Guild, a year-round group that gathers along a chosen edge of Newport Harbor each weekend to race model boats—and rib each other. After working our way through many of the classic newbie mistakes, we’re now mostly up to speed—though I’m still working on my boathandling, especially downwind. The ultimate goal is a wing-to-wing jibe, but since that’s a long way off I’m instead going to share eight lessons that apply to full-sized sailboat racing—along with one more that definitely doesn’t. Added together, they explain why I’m so hooked on racing these tiny craft.

1. Racing won’t be any fun until…

you are up to speed, with reliable boathandling. It takes a surprising amount of practice to dependably move both thumbs in their appropriate directions, especially during the stress and confusion of a crowded mark rounding.

2. It’s a chess game

You can’t out-hike or out-ooch your way into the lead. (This may be why one fleet wife calls it “your old man boat.”)

3. I get to share the experience…

while still in the heat of the moment. But unlike the Snipe, the banter is with your competitors rather than your teammate—and everyone gets to steer!

4. Good basics and courtesy are rewarded

One fleet member owes his success almost entirely to consistently great starts and staying out of trouble. He’s also the nicest guy in the fleet, so he gets an occasional break. Remember this approach—it works.

5. Top results require a complete and mesmerizing focus

No matter what else might be going on inside your head or around the harbor, keep your eyes on your own boat. 

6. Clumps are slow 

Don’t get caught up in the little battles.

7. Muscle memory matters

The more time I spend operating the controller (which adjusts rudder and sheets), the more my thumbs “remember” from one weekend to the next.

8. The best sailors personalize their tuning

We all start out with the same numbers, but everyone at the top of the fleet has tweaked their settings to better suit a personal sailing style. So asking too many setup questions will eventually result in directly conflicting answers.

Last but not least, here’s

9. The lesson that doesn’t carry over to full-sized sailboats

It’s the best bang for the buck in the entire industry. A new suit of sails costs only a tad more than one tank of gas, and replacement fittings are less than a latte! 

Even though the details seemed quite different at first, learning to sail model boats was like jumping into any new class. Listening and learning is the best place to start, but sooner or later we all have to develop our own style. Which is what will keep me coming back for more, even after I eventually master that wing-to-wing jibe.

For the techies out there, we race DF95s. Read more about our boat assembly on Paul’s blog.

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