Ammi Midstokke: Sailing and other forms of magic

There are some things that are better for us to not ask about. Like how a tube of mixed metals crammed with 300 people flies over an ocean, or how foie gras is made.

I am a physics ignoramus. I have a vague recollection of passing a class with some lectures on levers and pulleys when I was 13.

Beyond everything I’ve forgotten in middle school, my knowledge of physics rests on “what makes sense” and some kind of intuitive survival instinct that suggests falling or being fallen upon are both bad things.

No one told me, when I began to learn sailing, that it was physics. Or maybe they said, “It’s just physics,” and I assumed they meant “physical” and – not for the first time – overestimated my ability.

It turns out, sailing is just like flying, only sideways over and through water. Which means it is basically witchcraft, good fortune and superstitions.

Science tells us (real science, not this gravity-defying stuff) that learning as we age is good for our brains.

I was doing okay with the first section of my American Sailing Association book, dedicated primarily to vocabulary. I assumed all the new words were going to be used for the spells one must cast to move 7,000 pounds of boat and ballast toward the thing that is pushing against it.

And then I came across a diagram with angles and wind force and speed, and my aging brain nearly exploded.

I am of the first, primitive, accidental sailing sort.

I want to board a floating log, shake out my woolen cape, and accidentally realize the wind moves it faster.

I want to be a happenstance sailor, blown this way and that way by the wind, not in knots, nor in particular ambition beyond the dream of discovery. Preferably I want a beachy island with fresh water and a lot of fruit trees and no cannibals.

I have heard that the best sailors are intuitive, and I believe I’ve witnessed a few in sailboat races.

They lounge on the gunwale of their vessel, line in one hand, the other holding a stirred martini or trailing in the water they cut with their smooth vessel. They nod as my boat – all screams of “STARBOARD! STARBOARD!!!” at another boat careening toward us – thwacks and thumps and luffs and stalls its way around a buoy.

“We had the right of way,” explains my more knowledgeable companion, as if rightness keeps one from ramming.

I aged a decade in that race, white-knuckled and holding on for dear life to the tiller, a device that causes some form of reverse dyslexia in me.

Regardless of how one phrases the direction (usually something like windward or upwind or weather side, but never just right or left), I manage to steer the boat the other way.

Once, I got to sail a boat with a wheel that went where I pointed it, and for a moment I had hope.

It was short-lived, because boats are not cars and you don’t turn, you tack or jibe.

The best part is all the dramatic flare of issuing commands. I get so caught up in the thrill of it, I tack until I jibe, which may explain why I was not invited to helm the boat for the next racing day.

Watching me sail a boat is like watching a candy wrapper caught in an eddy.

Undaunted, and as-of-yet undrowned, I signed myself and my husband up for a legitimate sailing course this spring. This is how I discovered there is math and something called “airfoils” (even though a keel and a rudder are under the water).

The brochure says we’ll be qualified to charter a boat up to 40 feet anywhere around the world, once we’ve passed the class.

This is the false optimism that gets me in so much trouble. Charlie did not seem convinced, and likely muttered something about “qualified” and “should” not being interchangeable words before noting we needed to update my life insurance policy.

Apparently, I’ll have to wait a little longer before we set sail for that tropical island.

In the meantime, I’m driving down the road with my hand out the window to learn Bernoulli’s Principle. One way or another, I’m going to learn to sail.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com