Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 34

Ferry to Cooperation Island: Cover Reveal

After clacking around inside my brain for years, Ferry to Cooperation Island now has its very first visual created by someone else: the cover!

The process was actually quite easy: the publisher’s design team sent photos they thought might be a good match. Many other equally beautiful coastal scenes had to be rejected because they didn’t match the picture in my mind’s eye of a tiny but endearing island off the coast of Newport.

After some back and forth we settled on this one, which (IMHO) both keeps it real (cliffs, rocks, ocean waves) and provides enough intrigue to entice readers. The image is now out in the world, popping up on virtual bookshelves as a potential pre-order (more about this in a few months).

(Okay, I’m going to allow myself a very large “SQUEE!”)

What do you think? Would you pick it up in a bookstore? Let me know in the comments below, or send me an email. And thanks for sharing my excitement!

Remembering Sandra: Where Boats Met Brownies

Last Sunday, Sandra Tartaglino was mowed down by a 25-foot powerboat while racing her favorite sailboat, the F18, on Narragansett Bay. High-performance catamarans go very fast, so maybe that powerboat driver misjudged their closing speed. Maybe there was a distraction, or too many cold ones, or a simple lack of understanding that power gives way to sail. All we can be sure of at this point is that the sailing community has lost a great friend.

Sandra at the 2019 Snipe Nationals. Photo courtesy Benja Sans Photography

I first met Sandra a few years ago when she showed up at a Snipe regatta with one of my first skippers, boatbuilder Andrew Pimental. Snipe crewing takes a lot of time and effort to master; with her catamaran background, Sandra had the additional challenge of learning to balance as the boat heeled over. (Boats with two hulls do a lot less of that.) I remember laughing with her after sailing about falling down, pulling the wrong line, getting tangled up in tacks… all the usual newbie Snipe crew issues, plus a few. She asked a lot of questions in her quest to improve—a trait that helped her stand out from most of our age group.

We also talked about fitness, nutrition, hydration, Rhode Island traffic—and, of all things, brownies. They were her trademark in the catamaran world, she told me proudly. This week, reading through memories posted by her many catamaran buddies, I now understand how true that was. At most major regattas, she brought brownies to the boat park to share while everyone unrigged. On one rare occasion when she couldn’t make it to the F18 North Americans, she even mailed a batch to Texas.

Sandra joined the tight-knit Snipe class for only a few regattas, but I was already looking forward to our next discussion. She loved to sail, she wasn’t scared to take on a fresh challenge, and she listened well. “She was such a terrific blend of sweet and tough,” Kim Couranz commented—a perfect description. 

We may never understand why Sandra died with so many races still unsailed, while racing the boat she loved most (at a regatta she’d organized). All we can do is remember her. And, maybe, try to catch a whiff of all those brownies baking, up there in catamaran-heaven.

Book Review: The Islanders

Apparently, Meg Mitchell Moore had already written three novels before The Captain’s Daughter hit the shelves in 2017, but it took that harbor-oriented story to move her onto my reader’s radar. I gobbled up that book, added it to the list of comparative titles for Ferry to Cooperation Island—and then was gobsmacked a few months ago to see an announcement of Moore’s newest book, The Islanders. Even before I read it, I knew it would be an even better comp for Ferry!

(FYI, “comp” titles—short for either “comparative” or “competitive,” depending on who you ask—are a kind of shorthand for booksellers, and a must-include for authors when promoting their work to agents, publishers, and readers.)

The Islanders takes place on Block Island during a very recent summer and plots the intersecting dramas and secrets of three people—one local, two visiting. The local, Joy, runs “Joy Bombs” (Reinventing the whoopie pie), and is single mom to thirteen year old Maggie. One of the visitors, Lu, is summering on the island because her mother-in-law rented a house for her young family, a gift that stings as much as it pleases. The other visitor, Anthony, has come to Block Island to run away from recent professional and personal implosions. It isn’t clear to anyone how long he’ll stay, which makes him a useful middle-ground between the bookends of “I’ll be here forever” (Joy) and “I’m just here for the summer” (Lu).

What these three characters each notice or take for granted provides a four-wheel drive vehicle for Moore’s exploration of island contrasts. Different personalities are shaken together into a summer salad of fun, dressed with just enough friction (and all those secrets) to keep things moving forward. And because it’s a small community, the many coincidences seem inevitable rather than contrived.

While devouring the story, I kept stepping back to admire Moore’s ability to paint a scene in a just a few words. Here’s how Lu introduces her husband’s expectations that she embrace life as the perfect housewife:

Jeremy had grown up in Simsbury and his mother hadn’t worked “outside the home,” as she put it. They’d had a battalion of household help and as far as Lu could tell she hadn’t worked inside the home either. But try saying that to her.”

(Later, Lu points out that her surgeon-husband’s wishes were entirely understandable: “Who didn’t want a housewife? She’d goddamn kill for one.”)

Joy came to the island as an angry ex-wife, but a decade has already passed since that anger “floated away on an island wind.” As her daughter grew, “aggressively freckled, curious, and funny,” Joy “began to understand the rhythms of island life.

The way you worked your fingers to the bone during the summer in order to make enough money to survive the winter. Which of the island’s ponds offered the best ice-skating. Where to look for barn owl nests along Mohegan Bluffs. She was too busy to be angry, too consumed and (dare she say it) too happy to feel wronged.”

While I could relate to Lu and Joy, I laughed out loud at
Anthony the author’s “head-writing,” when he described a scene in front of him
as if he were writing a novel—even while admitting that “this would be the most
boring book in the world if he ever wrote it.” Tongue just slightly in cheek, I
felt like Moore was poking fun at the novelist’s eye—while also using it as
shorthand to show us Anthony’s view.

Moore also uses Anthony’s initial unhappiness to convey the prison-like aspects of island life. Consider this description of a single-street downtown:

He could get ice cream, but he wasn’t hungry. He could buy a T-shirt, but he’d packed seven of his favorite gray shirts and didn’t need one. And anyway those activities might require smiling. They would definitely require interaction with human beings. And for sure they’d require money. No thank you, to all three. Anthony had come here to hide from the world. But how on earth was he going to be able to hide in a place so small?”

My two small criticisms of the book are the prologue (melodramatic, not needed, and soon forgotten) and that all three storylines were wrapped up a little bit too neatly—which once again reminds me of my own writing. Loving our characters as we do, both Moore and I want everything to end well. Since we’re in control, that’s exactly what happens.

I admire Moore’s ability to crank out such well-written books in just a few years—and can heartily recommend The Islanders to anyone who can’t wait until June 2020 to enjoy Ferry to Cooperation Island! Though both novels could be considered “beach reads,” I like to think that they each in their own way offer so much more than just a fluffy happily-ever-after throwaway. An island makes a very convenient metaphor; for our lucky characters, it is actually their whole world—even if it’s not forever, or as long as it lasts, but “just for the summer.”

Hammering through the Heat

We have just lived through our first serious heat wave of 2019, and it happened to land squarely on top of the Snipe Nationals. I know you guys are probably tired of hearing me rave about Hammer Nutrition’s great products, but I can honestly say we would not have finished 4th overall if it hadn’t been for my two favorite electrolyte replacements: Endurolytes Extreme, and FIZZ.

Trying to beat the heat means hiding skin from direct sun until just before the starting gun. Photo courtesy Benja Sans

Fueling is very personal, so even when it’s pushing triple digit heat and high humidity, you may not churn through electrolytes as quickly as I do—or you may not react to their absence the same way. When my electrolyte levels fall below optimal, I start doing really stupid things on the race course. I feel fine, but instead of anticipating the next move I postpone a decision until it’s far too late to do anything. Here’s a perfect example, from the last day of Nationals: I knew we weren’t going to lay the weather mark, but I didn’t listen to Kim’s increasingly frustrated suggestions to tack out while we still had the chance. Moments later, we had to jibe out and lost at least six places. Duh!

As soon as we rounded that mark, I asked her to pull out two Endurolytes Extreme so I could wash them down with a quick sip of fluid. We’ve nicknamed these “brain pills,” because they instantly bring me back from the depths of electrolyte-depleted stupidity. We managed to pass a few boats on the second lap of that race, and eventually salvaged a 13th.

Looking back now, it makes sense that a windy hot day made it even harder to keep up than the previous two days of brain-suckingly light air. This is the kind of equation that Hammer Nutrition’s scientists think about all day long; I had just stuck with what what was working, washing down a pill or two between each race. With hiking hard and trimming the main added into the equation, that obviously wasn’t quite enough.

My second favorite electrolyte replacement is FIZZ. Drop a tablet into a water bottle, and it both makes it taste like a treat and supplies a steady stream of electrolytes. Combined with several Endurolytes Extreme each day, and my post-race regimen of Recoverite, I was able to function normally through three days of crippling heat and humidity… except for that one weather mark screwup.

Looking around the boat park after sailing, many of our competitors were visibly exhausted. At one after-race party, I passed off two Endurolytes Extreme to cure a friend’s dehydration headache. What a great product!

Proper fueling doesn’t make up for a lack of fitness, but electrolyte loss can make even the fittest sailor stupid. Trust me, it’s no fun racing with me once I get behind on this crucial supplement. And why sabotage a good regatta when great fuel is so easy to carry?

Okay, that’s it for this round of Hammer-love. For previous articles or to place an order, visit my Sponsor page. Thanks for reading, feel free to email me with fueling questions, and enjoy the summer heat!

Favorite Writing Blog: Guest Post!

Last week, I had the honor of publishing a guest post on my favorite writing blog, Writer Unboxed. You can read it yourself (Power to the Pantsers: There Are No Wasted Words), but if you just want a taste of my own experience as reader-turned-contributor, read on.

Discovery

I don’t remember how I first discovered WU; it was likely through a social media link to a blog post about writing craft, sometime after its inception in 2007. As the website says, “Writer Unboxed is dedicated to publishing empowering, positive, and provocative ideas about the craft and business of fiction.” The first post further explains the origins of the name: “Our critiquing sessions also lean toward finding ways out of literary dead-ends—THE BOX, as we call it—by plucking inspiration from pop culture and other mediums.” Dig a little deeper, and you quickly run across a strict “no-promotion” policy, which keeps authors (and others) from blabbing about themselves without contributing anything useful.

Why I keep reading

The daily posts cover a huge range of topics about writing and craft, while remaining judgment-free about specific publishing choices. The comments can be even more fun, as other writers weigh in with wordplay jokes as well as more serious thoughts. I feel like I’ve gotten to know some of the regular contributors to this online neighborhood, which also includes agents and other industry professionals. In the past few months, I’ve read two novels that show the wide range of styles and topics represented by WU authors: editorial director Therese Walsh’s novel, The Moon Sisters, and Keith Cronin’s Me Again.

Why I contributed

Though several writing friends object to writing for free, I wanted to give something back to this community I’d found so helpful. Because posts are so well-written and informative, I also consider it an honor to be included as a guest contributor. Here are four posts I’ve bookmarked for future reference:

The Psychology Behind Good Cover Design

When Worlds Collide

Can You Be a Writer If You’re Not a Visual Reader?

Non-verbal Communication in Writing

In-person meeting

In November, I’m going to Salem, MA for the 3rd WU Un-Conference. I can’t wait to meet so many of my WU neighbors in person—and I’m sure it will spark another blog post. Thanks WU!

Are you a member of the WU community too, or have another favorite writing blog? Introduce yourself below, or send an email. Thanks for reading!

And if you still want to read my guest post, here’s the link again: Power to the Pantsers: There Are No Wasted Words

Sailing Clinics: Never Too Old to Learn

This past June was bookended by two very different Snipe clinics. The first took place the day before a regatta in Annapolis; the second was a stand-alone weekend event on Mystic Lake (a hill-surrounded pond outside Boston, known for its “mystical” windshifts). 

I admit, I don’t train very much for sailing anymore. I do show up for regattas at least a day early, but those practice sails are usually focused on remembering which lines to pull rather than learning something new. Three days at the beginning of the racing season to focus exclusively on education, rather than worry about who beats whom? That had never been an option—until this year.

When I realized that I was the only sailor to attend both events, it seemed like a good opportunity to (as my least-favorite high school English teacher would’ve said) compare and contrast. But first, let me point out the similarities. The goals of each were: Build boathandling and racing skills across a very wide range of sailors and Snipe abilities. Learn more about how to make our quirky fifteen foot boats go just a little bit faster. And, of course—since the Snipe class motto is Serious Sailing, Serious Fun—laugh with friends both old and new. (This probably should’ve been listed first.)

Benefits of variety

One of the many reasons sailing is such a challenge (both to understand and to do) is that local conditions determine what’s important—and priorities may invert from one moment to the next. What matters on the open waters and longer courses of Chesapeake Bay are boat speed, keeping the boat going through a washing machine’s worth of powerboat chop, and avoiding the wind shadows of other boats. I’ll have to ask one of the locals what really matters on Mystic Lake, but I know one thing: it’s a totally different list, topped by avoiding windless holes, staying in phase with the fleet, and being ready to tack.

Each clinic rightly focused on its location’s particular strengths. In Annapolis, a coach from Severn Sailing Association spent most of the afternoon running drills. Because there was a very concrete goal for each drill, success or failure was instantly obvious. On Mystic Lake, most of the time on the water consisted of short-course racing, with in-the-moment Snipe-specific coaching. In both cases, failure taught us more than success, and we were usually able to apply lessons to the next repetition.   

Format matters

Recently I helped edit, design, and lay out a book for USSailing called Sailing Drills Made Easy, so even while at my desk I’ve been thinking about how best to train for sailing. In an excellent Foreword, Grant “Fuzz” Spanhake reminds us about the benefits of breaking things down into smaller pieces: “Master the individual components, then put them together to develop the total skill.” (This is quite similar to The Power of Personal Planning.)

After experiencing two very different clinic formats (drills and short-course racing), I agree with Fuzz that drills are a more efficient use of learning time. Mystic Lake’s short-course racing felt less like junior sailing, but as soon as the warning signal went, I reverted to my racing habits rather than trying anything new. The “component” approach encourages us to stack up building blocks of simple tasks, and then repeat them until they become a new habit. Short-course coaching is more of a firehose approach, requiring us to prioritize between sometimes conflicting lessons.

Definition of Success

So, did I achieve those common goals of building skills, learning more about making the Snipe go fast, and having fun? That’s a “roger.” Two days after the Annapolis clinic, we used some of our new skills to win that weekend’s regatta. (Read the nitty-gritty explanation in Denial: a Sailing Allegory.) On Mystic Lake, I learned how to evaluate (and adapt) sail shape to the conditions—even if we couldn’t necessarily put those lessons to work immediately. The Snipe is such a complicated beast that it continues to intrigue and attract some of the very best brains in the sailing world—so we are never in danger of running out of things to try. 

As for fun—that is a most definite “YES.” Snipe clinics, like Snipe regattas, feel like the very best family reunion: replaying old memories, making new ones, and laughing our way to learning. 

As you read this, I’m sailing the Snipe Nationals in Beverly, MA, a race course that rewards skills from both of these two very different clinics. So responses to comments and email may be delayed… but please share your thoughts and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Meanwhile thanks for reading, and happy summer!

Authorial Voice: not just another POV

I used to think that Point of View (POV) was as singularly straightforward in novels as it is in real life. By default, we see the world only through our own eyes, so many authors (including me) naturally write our fictional scenes from the perspective of one character.

It wasn’t until I began polishing Ferry to Cooperation Island to submit to the publisher that I recognized the need for an additional and quite distinct POV: authorial voice. Readers will always need more background than the characters themselves in order to “see” the character’s world, so we authors need to slip in bits of information without distracting reader from story. Now I’ve come to recognize authorial voice as a very important item in the novelist’s toolbox.

What the character sees

We first meet James, the main character in Ferry to CI, sitting at his usual table on the deck of the island’s only coffeeshop. The first person who talks to him is the pregnant waitress; when she comes out through the door, James—a man of few words—would probably be thinking to himself, “Patty, with refills.” If that’s all that appeared on the page, though, the reader might stop reading to wonder, “Who the hell is Patty?”

Enter authorial voice, which prods James to paint us a picture of pregnant Patty: “She carried a steaming glass coffee pot just above that huge apron-covered belly. Twins, maybe?”

Engaging the reader isn’t as simple as introducing the POV character and then presenting the world from his unique perspective (even though great writers make it look that simple). Characters shouldn’t appear aware that there’s someone reading over their shoulder (unless it’s a very conscious part of the plan); instead, it’s the author’s job to understand when more information is needed, and then find a way to present it while allowing the reader to remain engaged.

Allow me to introduce…

Meeting new characters is one of the best places to use authorial voice. The reader wants signposts that quickly indicate who each person is and how they’re important to the story. The usual in-person greetings should be edited right off the page; “Hey, how’re you doing?” “Just fine, thanks. Nice day, isn’t it?” doesn’t teach us anything about the two speakers or move the story forward. Instead, the most memorable introductions start with details that could only come from the character’s POV. Here’s another example from a certain book that will be available in June of 2020: “Courtney shivered, mostly from the cold. What was she doing out here on this hard gray New England island, so far from the friendly sloping lawns and bright-colored houses of her Chesapeake home?”

Tool, not crutch

When used to convey information from the POV character’s perspective, only a fellow writer will notice the shift to authorial voice. Used as a crutch, though, it can be quite distracting. Genre fiction often includes conversations between characters that provides information they already know: “Remember how Uncle Harry first met Aunt Jean?” “Of course, they were on the same volleyball team at that tiny college…” “…Which is the same school where their son goes now.” And so forth. I have no idea where this off-the-cuff example might go next (probably nowhere), but assuming some (or all) of these details are important, they would be much less noticeable if conveyed by a soupçon of authorial voice.

Just like real life, a character’s point of view is usually quite obvious. Telling their unique story, however, requires understanding a world they take entirely for granted. That’s why it’s so important for an author to step in every once in awhile, dropping in the key details we readers don’t yet know we need.

Have another thought about authorial voice? Comment below, or send me an email. Thanks for reading!

Diving into Summer, and Everything Else Too

Happy 4th! Many people consider this the first “real” day of summer, but for me the season started a few weeks ago with the First Swim of the season. After a moment or three to consider, I dove off the boat into the harbor, gasped with the chill, and quickly scrambled out onto my paddleboard. It’s my favorite way to start a summer morning, because less than a minute in the water leaves me refreshed, energized, and grateful to live in a place where a salt water dip is both easy and cleansing.

(I admit to a bit of Photoshopping on this one.)

Each June, that first time is always the hardest. But every single morning, right up through October, I’ll still pause and think before taking the leap. Standing on the edge of dry, already anticipating wet, I savor the in-between; the about-to-be. I try to focus on the mental and physical clarity such a complete change of atmosphere brought the day before, rather than getting caught up in the mind-games of What If (What if it’s too cold? What if there’s a shark lurking beneath that opaque sheen of blue?). My daily swim forces me across the edge of life’s comfort zone, again.

Small leaps like this may not seem very important on the “surface,” but I believe they strengthen and stretch us, increasing our capacity to say “yes” to larger adventures. Like the 2019 Snipe Worlds in Brazil—a series of logistical challenges, overlaid with not-so-fond memories of South America. Or preparing for the next book’s arrival in the world, while also trying to open my writing mind once again to the terrifying unknowns of a blank page, so that the next next novel can develop into its best self.

As I dive into Narragansett Bay, gratefully slicing through the boundary between dry and wet, all these quite different worries assume their proper perspective. Just like yesterday’s swim, I’ve successfully met similar challenges before. And always, afterward, I was happy I said “yes” and dove right in.

Now go out and celebrate our nation’s birthday. And if you have a spare moment, share your favorite summer ritual in the comments below, or send me an email. Thanks for reading!

Book Review: Where the Crawdads Sing

I have never before started a post with a direct order, but I’m doing so now:

BUY THIS BOOK.

My reaction to Where the Crawdads Sing was so intensely personal, it made me wonder (again): Why do some books consume me, so that when I look up from reading I have to consciously refocus to regain any sense of where I really am? What kept me reading right through an entire weekend, neglecting other more pressing duties? I don’t have all the answers, but here are some of the elements that make this such an incredibly satisfying read.

Location

“Marsh is not swamp,” the very first sentence states, somehow managing to imply the exact opposite for this ocean-salt-air-lover. Don’t take the cover image too literally; a skiff with an ancient outboard is the main character’s primary source of transportation. Kya Clark, known to townsfolk as The Marsh Girl, could live nowhere else; around her home, “miles of blade-grass so tough” are “interrupted only by trees so bent they wore the shape of the wind.” On every level, this story could’ve only taken place exactly where it’s set.

Structure

After a single opening paragraph set in 1969 that unceremoniously reveals a dead body, we are taken back to 1952 to meet Kya as a little girl—on the “August-hot” morning her Ma walks away for good. A short zoom-out shows the bigger picture—this marsh is guarded by the salty open waters of the Graveyard of the Atlantic—before fading back to a little girl sitting on a front porch stoop, waiting for her mother to return. Her shack’s exact location in the world doesn’t matter to Kya, so author Delia Owens focuses on lyrical descriptions of birds and frogs, marsh grasses and palmettos; the only world our heroine knows.

Then, just as we’re settling in, we are abruptly pulled out of a six-year-old’s head and flashed forward again to 1969 and the identification of that body. It’s a local football hero just past his prime, we learn—and the sheriff smells foul play. The story oscillates back and forth between these two very different realities, with no explanation of how they might be connected. And yet we know—KNOW—they must be.

Trust

That uncertain certainty made me strain to hear what was left unsaid by the characters, and to make connections between what was revealed in each segment. Owens trusts her readers, and so we trust her; even as she focused my attention on scenes so effortless and yet at the same time so stunning, it was as if she was also sitting on my shoulder, promising: “just keep reading; all will be revealed.” A straight-line from start to finish would not have captured my attention nearly so well.

Character

I like to think Kya is based on a real person; that will be one of the many research projects this book sparks, once I’m finished trying to convince you to BUY THIS BOOK. I wish I’d met her, though the odds of that would’ve been slim to none; she rarely left the marsh and kept away from people. Her wisdom is born from reading—coupled with plenty of curiosity, observation, and poetry. And, like her few friends and many enemies, there’s much more going on inside her than we realize.

Deep Twists

Many of the books I read are predictable yet pleasant. This one was mostly neither—and yet my only teensy nitpick is not with the writing, but with the cover image (Kya belongs in a crusty skiff, throttle in hand, not paddling a shiny canoe). Yes, there’s an undying love, but there’s also desertion, abuse, and far more townsfolk who think our main character is an ignorant Marsh Girl than friends who believe in her the way we do. The story continued to surprise—right up until the very last scene.

Just Read It

I’d recommend this book to anyone who wants to live and breathe a world now lost to marsh-draining and air conditioning. There’s as much going on below the surface as there is in plain sight: prejudice, development, education, love and loss—but it’s all tucked away beneath a damn good story, woven around descriptions as rich as Kya’s first night on her own was lonely:

At first, every few minutes, she sat up and peered through the screen. Listening for footsteps in the woods. She knew the shapes of all the trees; still some seemed to dart here and there, moving with the moon. For a while she was so stiff she couldn’t swallow, but on cue, the familiar songs of tree frogs and katydids filled the night. More comforting than three blind mice with a carving knife. The darkness held an odor of sweetness, the earthy breath of frogs and salamanders who’d made it through one more stinky-hot day. The marsh snuggled in closer with a low fog, and she slept.

More Media

I listened to the audiobook version, but I plan to buy a text copy as well—partly to compare the two forms of “reading,” and partly for the joy of re-immersing myself in the Crawdads world. (Note to self: Do not start reading unless there are no chores looming with a tight deadline.)

The movie rights have already been secured, and I’m sure the film will be quite memorable too—though I do wonder where the producers will ever find enough marshy wilderness for filming. But before someone else imparts the “look” of this world onto the big screen, I strongly suggest you view it on the screen between your ears. So I end as this began, with a single instruction: BUY THIS BOOK.

Have you already read Where the Crawdads Sing? Still have it to look forward to? (Insert jealous emoji here.) Either way, share your thoughts in the comments below, or by dropping me an email. Thanks for reading!

Denial: A Sailing Allegory

A few weeks ago, Kim and I won the Colonial Cup, a Snipe invitational regatta in Annapolis—by one measly point. It all came down to the start of the fourth and final race on Sunday, so let me set the scene for you: we’d won the previous race, and finished second the race before that. But our first score that day had been a sixth, and several other teams had been more consistent. To have any shot at winning, we needed another top three finish.

Photo courtesy Ted Morgan Photography

The southerly current was pushing the fleet over the starting line, so it was no surprise to hear the dreaded extra horn right after the starting gun, indicating that at least one boat would be scored OCS (On Course Side, one point worse than last place) if they didn’t turn back and restart. But that didn’t answer the most important question: Was it us?

We had just a split second to decide.

Starts are really hard

A perfect start puts us right on the starting line at full speed when the gun fires. But there’s no bright orange tape running between the two anchored boats that form that line—and even if there were, its exact location would vary from one moment to the next, as the boats bounce up and down and surge fore and aft on their anchor lines.

Because there are so many moving parts, knowing exactly where you are relative to the line is way harder than figuring out if a parking place is long enough for your car, or if your carryon bag will fit into an overhead bin. So when Sunday’s horn sounded, it could’ve been our bow that had poked out seconds before the starting gun. It also could’ve been someone else’s.

When in doubt, deny

Over the course of my sailing career, I’ve gone back to restart when I didn’t need to. I’ve also been scored OCS for starting early and not going back. But by far the most common surprise is to sail the whole race thinking I was over, only to find out I was safely behind the line when the gun went off. Which is why my first instinct in this critical situation can be summed up with one word: denial. Like the toddler who placed hands over eyes and announces, “you can’t see me!” 

Not this time

On this particular start, Kim was absolutely convinced we were over—and my gut was in full agreement. So after only a momentary hesitation I turned the boat as hard as I could, narrowly missing the next boat to leeward, and went back to restart. By the time we trimmed in again, gritting our teeth and trying to find a patch of open water, the entire fleet was in front of us. The only encouragement was from the race committee, still calling in vain for the expected regatta winner (and our closest starting line neighbor) to come back too. (I’m not the only one who sometimes overplays the toddler-denial card.)

Never give up

That particular team now couldn’t win the regatta, but there were plenty of others who’d started clean and were well ahead of us on points. All we could do was to focus on catching as many boats as possible by the finish.

After two laps, we eventually crossed the finish line in tenth and headed back to the dock. After such stellar finishes earlier in the day, the last race felt like a disappointment—so I tried to salvage my pride by focusing on our “positive delta” (finishing better than we started). We also talked about what we’d learned, and finalized plans for our next regatta together (Snipe Nationals in Beverly, MA).

We both knew the points would be close, and neither of us had any idea who’d won. What we never considered is that it would be us.

Surprises ashore

When another competitor came over to tell us that, by his calculations, either we’d won or he had, I was stunned. As soon as the scores were posted, he gave us yet another surprise: “You got it, congrats!”

At a regatta attended by so many top sailors in the class, it was a very odd feeling to finish on such a down note and still come out on top. Still shaking my head on the drive home, I realized that we’d been rewarded for staring down denial and owning up to our mistakes; if we hadn’t restarted that last race, we would’ve finished sixth overall. We’d also been rewarded for something I’m much better at: persistence. (If we’d passed one less boat, we would’ve finished second.)

The morning after

The next day, I woke up still full of regret about the last start; how stupid, being over early! Then I laughed, remembering that we had won anyway—which qualifies us for the 2020 Snipe Western Hemisphere and Orient Championship. As Kim would say, “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”

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