Happy Place(s)

 

My smile must have been broad enough to give me away.

“Are you in your happy place?” Bonnie asked.

I do have a lot of happy places, and this would be one of them.

“Well, look at him. Nose in the wind, eye’s wide open, yahoo-ing with every wave. What do you think,” my daughter chimed in.

Later, over drinks at the salon table, the same question came around. Everyone was hopeful that I was fulfilled - back behind the wheel of a sailing machine while the rest of the crew enjoyed the benefits.

“You know,” I said, “it feels good to have the wind in my hair again, and the sails snapping against the rhythm of the waves. But the real joy is in the eyes of those grandkids - the laughter and giggling that comes from each rise and fall of the boat on the waves.”

It’s true. These years it’s less about the thrill of sailing itself, or the card games in the evening, or the happy hour celebration of surviving another equipment failure or weather challenge. Now it’s more about the reaction of the young crew, and the disappointment when they learn it’s time to leave the water and head back to their landlocked homes. 

Even a two-year-old Roeland found his happiest spot in front of the wheel that was taller than he was. He’d grab hold of that wheel and spin it one way and then the other, sending our wake scribbling across the lake. I didn’t care in the least. The joy in his face was the only course worth steering.

At one point, needing to attend to matters below decks for a moment, I turned to my nine-year-old granddaughter and said, “You got it? Take the wheel and keep us on that course,” pointing to the island in front of us. 

There’s no way she could have known where exactly we were going, or how to maintain that course. It didn’t matter, as the determination in her face told me she was up to it. Her mother reached out for a moment, but then saw the excitement on her face and figured, what the heck? What could go wrong? For the next five minutes, nine-year-old Grace was captain of the ship. 

Six-year-old Charlotte did her part, helping Grandma wash dishes in the galley, growing accustomed to the limited space and small features of the sink and drying rack. Always eager to help, her reaction to the waves was priceless. 

“It’s like a roller coaster, Grace,” she yelled into the wind. Her sister nodded vigorously as she waited for the spray to wet her face. 

Roeland’s father, son Eric, kept his father in the game, taking care of the lines, fenders, and sheets (for hauling sails into the correct position), and solving unexpected problems that always seem to come up underway. It was gratifying to see all those years of handing him the wheel and reciting the terminology of the boat prove to be very handy when in need of a first mate. But the best part was catching his son on his lap, hands gripping the spokes. That would make three generations of sailing instruction that started with his namesake fifty years earlier. 

I can only hope my body will hold up to keep this tradition alive with all seven grandchildren. My movements on deck aren’t as quick as they used to be, and I’ll need more help with each passing season. But if we can keep those smiles growing, and the confidence to step in and help going, it should be a bright future of yahoo-ing.