By Lucy

I haven’t been sleeping well.

It’s a combination of things – the heat hasn’t been too bad, although I can’t open the window at night because the neighbors have been up partying. The guy above me usually practices his guitar at 3 or 4 in the afternoon, but lately he’s been practicing at 10 o’clock at night, which is nuts!

There’s also the other girl, who I’m hoping moves out at the end of September. She annoys me in every way it’s possible to be annoying as a roommate. She doesn’t clean up the kitchen after she cooks and she puts the dishes away visibly dirty; she leaves every light on; she hasn’t figured out how to prop open the bathroom door yet, which when coupled with the always-on lights makes it hard to tell if it’s in use. She often comes down to cook at 10 or 11 PM and she likes to call people on speaker phone while she is cooking.

I had a nasty shock when I woke up Tuesday. My landlord emailed me and asked if I could be out by the end of the month.

Umm, no. I wasn’t even having any luck being out a week early. I had volunteered to be out a couple of days early, figuring 3 or 4 days at the hostel or on K’s futon were not the end of the world. More than 2 weeks was not possible.

I started panicking again. What if he didn’t accept a no? I had no ability to fight him if he insisted.

I had a hair appointment that morning, so I walked down to the salon, not really feeling it. I had to get this done before I left, though; I couldn’t put off a hair cut much longer without looking unkempt, which might reduce my chances of being hired. And it’s one of the few vanities I allow myself.

I feel bad for the hair dresser, who tried in vain to engage me in conversation. I wish there was a polite way to say “I don’t feel like talking, please stop”. It took about 2 hours to touch up my balayage because she didn’t believe that my hair would resist the bleach, although I was pleased that she ran 2 rinses of toner through it to bring down the brassiness without me asking.

My Factor box showed up on time this time. I decided to continue Factor keto for one more week after this. The way you rotate off Keto is to increase the amount of carbs you eat by 10 grams a day, so I figured having the pre-made Keto meals allows me to better control when and how many carbs I consume. On Monday I had a cup of strawberries – Tuesday would be two cups of strawberries. Plus no more MCT oil or sugar-free Splenda.

Since last week there had been no wind on the boat and Wednesday is the day everyone comes out, I checked this website Kevin recommended for air currents. The wind looked pretty robust!

Robust was a word for it. The wind was tearing at us and whipping up the waves even in the marina! We had 11 people on board and we’d probably need all of them for ballast. There was Amy, Michelle and Foster from last week, and Michelle’s daughter, and Jeff and Kevin showed up. Gillian and me, of course. Some guy named DJ that I didn’t talk to a lot. There was also a tall, muscley guy named Marcus who I immediately nicknamed the Terminator in my head (helped by there actually being a terminator named Marcus in Terminator: Salvation).

Everyone was recovered from the weekend’s festivities and bolstered by the strong wind, so there were lots of boats out. It was a paradoxically beautiful sunny day. There was 5 bulk carriers in the bay and 2 being loaded up at the elevators – Kevin said 2 were here to pick up potash.

Before we cast off, Chris clambered up the boat to talk to me. “Are you busy tomorrow?” When I said I wasn’t, he asked me if I’d be interested in volunteering at the Dew Drop Inn the next day.

Sure! This was my opportunity to repay them for feeding me earlier this year. He told me to meet him there at 9.

As we approached the edge of the breakwaters, you could literally see the line where lake became sea. The waves were 2-5 feet tall and some were whitecaps. As we plunged into the deep waves, some of them broke upon the bow and sprayed us with cold water! Chris brought the ship about and we went back into the breakwaters – some people wanted to change into water-proof clothing. They offered me some spares, but I’m used to being wet from work and the motorcycle. I did dig everything out of my pockets to toss into the cabin, just in case.

Kevin has assured me the boat is basically capsized-proof. I’ve never really had a concern about capsizing or going overboard – I’m a strong swimmer and I have the flotation device. Today we’d be testing that theory.

Chris changed to the smaller jib and put the mainsail down a bit.

Then we were back out there. There was a moment as we held our breath – then the wind grabbed the sail and took the boat with it.

The starboard side immediately thrust up into the air. We squeezed down between the side of the cabin and the rail, called the sidedeck. I glanced back towards the port side – the slate-grey lake was rushing by maybe 2 or 3 inches from the rail! We had to be at at least a 45 degree angle! How much more could the boat take?

The boat was tossing us around like a roller coaster as it rolled up and down waves that were higher than deck-height. If anyone was sea-sick, we’d find out today!

There was too many of us for me to tack and jibe today, so Marcus took control of the foredeck (IE everyone not in the pit). He set me and Gillian to assist in tacking and jibing by grabbing the corner of the jib and bringing it around the mast, so the people hauling on the ropes didn’t have to fight the wind so much.

As the wind shifted and Chris yelled “prepare to tack!”, Gillian took one look down the yawning abyss that was the port side and froze. She shook her head and refused to move, so Marcus leapt down instead.

Then the wind grabbed the jib and the boat pitched like a bucking bronco. I got stuck behind Kevin in the mad scramble to switch sides as the starboard side became the yawning abyss, grabbing onto anything that seemed like it wouldn’t take my fingers off.

Then we made it. Slightly damp and laughing a little with the adrenaline, we settled back against the cabin wall.

“You ok, Gillian?” I asked.

“I’m not going down there!”

“You have nothing to worry about! Even if you lose your grip, you’ll just bounce off the sail and land back on the deck!” Marcus said, but she wasn’t budging. And to be fair, I don’t blame her. That didn’t sound terribly encouraging. He glanced at me.

“I’ll do it.” I said quietly.

I have such a martyr complex, but honestly, it was good training. It was like scrambling around a scaffold, except it didn’t trigger my fear of heights because we were mere inches from what looked like ground.

Actually, my biggest problem became Kevin getting on top of the cabin before me, which was where I needed to go across!

“Prepare to tack!”

“Kevin, move your butt!” I yelled. He laughed.

Up and over like I was taking the trenches in World War One. The deck was definitely wet and slippery today. As I landed on the other side, I felt the boat shift with my weight. Grabbed the line and waited until the jib started to flap as it was brought over, then pulled it forward around the mast until someone grabbed it on the other side.

This had the advantage that, although I was willingly jumping into the abyss, after the tack I was already on the high side, ahead of the scramble and with my choice of seat.

Because of the strong wind, there was to be 5 lengths today. The first, third and fifth length had 4 tacks, because the wind was coming directly at the bow if you aimed at the marker. The gap between bringing her about and the first tack was the longest, as the wind was good from the port side and carried us quite a distance.

The second and fourth lengths the wind was entirely at our backs, so we didn’t need to adjust at all.

As we rounded the marker the first time, Foster and Marcus grabbed the boom for the spinnaker and attached it to the bottom of the jib. This held it rigidly perpendicular to the boat, beyond the reach of the jib sheet, which made sense. The ride was much calmer on the way back – we were keeping pace with the waves, so they weren’t tossing us, breaking over the deck, or heeling the boat.

As we came up to the second marker, we need to take the boom down so that we could tack properly again. This was when everything went wrong.

Now, I appreciate that Marcus is an experienced sailor who tries to keep us all in the loop, but he overexplained the next bit. All he needed to do was to tell me to release the boom and duck so him and Foster could bring it down onto the deck. But he started explaining the whole process to me, and was still talking when Chris announced that it was time, so I was still astern the mast when I needed to be in front of it.

The boat lurched. I threw myself forward, unsure of what to hold on to when I was standing next to the mast. I wrapped my right hand around the mast and found something sharp. I felt the moment it started to pierce my index finger, but I also knew if I let go the boat would toss me, either to the deck or in the lake. And between the two of them, the wind-tossed waves would be more forgiving than the fiberglass deck. So I clung on even as the rocking boat caused it to be dragged down my finger like a knife, slicing the length of my finger, pain screaming up my arm.

I glanced down – the boat was now leaning so severely that water was rushing up over the railing! Stepping onto the sidedeck would be stepping into the lake!

Somehow I managed to get around the mast and release the boom. There was a bit of confusion about what to do next, not helped by the pain tearing its way up my arm. We scrambled around a bit, and then I recovered my senses seated back on the high side, blood everywhere.

“Hey, who’s bleeding?” Someone asked.

“Me.” I said, holding up my profusely bleeding finger.

Marcus advised me to hold my hand over the side of the boat so I wasn’t dripping blood all over myself as people scrambled into the cabin to grab a bandage. I amused myself by imagining a trail of sharks following the tasty tasty blood coming off the boat. I cranked the bandage on tight like a tourniquet and pressed hard on it with my other hand, which did nothing to improve the pain.

By the time we reached the first tack, the pain had subsided to a throb. Surprisingly, it had not bled through the bandage, although the pain seemed worse to me than it had been when I almost cut off my pinky.

The wind had definitely gotten stronger as the evening went on. Every tack and jibe henceforth had the rail underwater, something Kevin helpfully informed me is called burying the rail. I got pretty good at judging when Chris was going to call the tack, and already had my feet under me to throw myself across the top of the cabin. At one point Michelle joked that I seemed to be reading his mind, as I was across the deck before the words finished leaving his lips, smooth as butter.

In-between tacks, we sat on the sidedeck, arms and legs through the railing and dangling against the side of the boat. Even the combined weight of 5 or 6 of us wasn’t enough to bring the boat level! We all got soaked by the occasional particularly large wave. Climbing back up the cabin from the low side, when necessary, was akin to climbing a rock face, so steep was the angle.

We finished the race solidly middle-of-the-pack. Since five lengths left us in the middle of the harbor, we packed up the boat as we sailed back. We went to the part of the marina where they were holding a concert, and anchored next to the shore. We unpacked the snacks and drinks and another boat came over and moored next to us, so we had a little party!

Kevin popped out a little laptop and started tapping away. I forgot to mention that Kevin is a little smarty-pants who maths out the handicaps for the boats on Wednesdays. One of the girls glanced over at him.

“Hey Kevin, you’re one of those people who can read anything once and remember it, right?” She asked.

“Occasionally I have to use bookmarks.” He says, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he tapped away.

I’m sure my eyes lit up like Christmas tree lights. I’ve never met anyone else with an eidetic memory!

Between 9 and 9:30, we motored back to the dock. Some people left right away. I decided to try the weekly yacht club meeting.

Now, part of the reason I had avoided the meeting before was because my mental image of a yacht club was a bunch of rich jerks dressed in suits, standing around some room lavishly decorated with velour and crystal chandeliers and kicking waiters aside.

That could not have been farther from the truth. The yacht club is a short, ramshackle building at the end of one of the other piers. Everyone was still in whatever sweaty, comfortable clothes they had been wearing to sail in, carelessly lounging across mismatched sofas and chairs. I knew the food was going to be a hot beef sandwich, but I wasn’t expecting it to be hamburger buns, with the beef and gravy bubbling away in a large crockpot.

I had followed Kevin. He’s quickly figured out that I’m socially awkward/ anxious and I’ll just follow his lead, so he grabbed a bun, slapped some margarine on it, and ladled on some gravy and beef. I copied him.

“Hey Lucy!” Someone exclaimed. It was Holly, seated on a small sofa with a crewmate. She offered me the seat next to her and we talked for a bit.

Eventually a man climbed up on a chair and announced the standings. Everyone cheered and made jokes. It felt kind of homey, stuffed into a second-hand sofa with the smell of beer, far from the pampered rich person’s club I had imagined.

Once the standings were announced, most people left pretty quickly. The food seemed almost like a waste in that respect. If everyone just wanted to hear the standings and leave, you might as well just put out a couple bags of chips.

The next day, I hauled myself out of bed bright and early. Walked to the Dew Drop Inn.

“We’re not open yet.” The guy at the door said.

“I’m here to volunteer.”

“Oh, go see Linda in the office then.” He said, before wandering off.

Who is Linda? I walked through the building, people ignoring me. Maybe I should just wait outside for Chris to show up. I found what looked like an office and knocked on the door. “I’m here to volunteer?”

“Who are you with? Rotary club?” She asked.

Was Chris with Rotary? He hadn’t provided that information to me. I gave her Chris’ name and she shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.” We talked for a bit. Eventually she told me I should apply online and started to walk me out.

Chris was standing in the kitchen. “There you are!” He handed me a white apron with “Rotary Club” on it.

I ended up with Chris at the dessert table. We were portioning out 20 desserts per tray, although said desserts were whatever was leftover at the Metro baker last night. A thick slice of banana bread, a cupcake, two cookies – we gave generous portions. Hard enough to beg for food, why not give them a little extra treat?

Soon enough we had the entire rack of trays filled. I went over to help some other gentleman whose name escapes me. We were packing the lunch bags. One water bottle, 2 snacks, 2 slices of pizza, one sandwich, all prepacked. Eventually we were packing too efficiently and outpaced the ladies packing the sandwiches.

One of the Dew Drop employees came in just then, with a garbage bag filled with dill. He flopped it on a table. Me and Chris went over to work on it – dill fronds have to be stripped from the stem and flowers. Soon our hands were green with juices and we smelled the slightly vanilla-y smell of fresh dill.

Pro-tip: dill does not dry well. I mean, you can dry it and use it that way, but it loses flavour very quickly. I preferred to freeze mine in little cubes, so then you can just have them in a bag in the freezer and pop out a cube at a time for high quality dill flavour.

I suspect part of his intention for inviting me out is to recruit me – like the Soroptimists, they’re also having a problem with an aging membership. I know very little about the Rotary Club except that I’ve seen signs about for them. A quick Google discovered this:

The Object of Rotary is to encourage and foster the ideal of service as a basis of worthy enterprise and, in particular, to encourage and foster:

• First: The development of acquaintance as an opportunity for service;
• Second: High ethical standards in business and professions; the recognition of the worthiness of all useful occupations; and the dignifying of each Rotarian’s occupation as an opportunity to serve society;
• Third: The application of the ideal of service in each Rotarian’s personal, business, and community life;
• Fourth: The advancement of international understanding, goodwill, and peace through a world fellowship of business and professional persons united in the ideal of service.

I do like that idea. How many volunteer organizations can I join?

Actually, as he was talking I was thinking of ways I could convince the Soroptimists to volunteer. We should do more than just fundraise and offer bursaries.

As we were mostly done plucking the dill, a man named Bob came over to talk to me. St Andrew’s church needed some work done, and since I am a carpenter it seemed logical to include me.

I know nothing of churches. There is a smaller room, with pews and an altar, off the main one. It needed a coat of paint, but what we were immediately drawn to was the multiple large cracks in the ceiling with water marks. There was something serious going on with the roof, beyond our abilities. As we left to go back to Dew Drop, I noted that that room is the only one with a flat roof. I wondered if it was buckling under the weight of snow in the winter, or if the rain was being trapped on it.

Eventually the work was done and we headed out. I made myself lunch and went shopping. Now I was up to 30 grams of carbs a day, so I grabbed myself a few bananas and, as a treat, a tub of Pina Colada yogurt!

I have more tough decisions to make. I forgot that I had originally intended to purchase a motorcycle for my New Zealand trip. Researching it, I realized I would have to decide before I got there. Because my helmet is a solid full-face, it would be a trick and a half to bring it. It wouldn’t fit in my tiny carry-on bag. And my ticket came with a free checked bag, so I could simply check my bag and have my helmet be my carry-on.

The decision then became, should I avail myself to all the space allocated to a checked bag?

There is a bag I have been eyeballing for a while, the Ekster Duffel Bag. I like that it’s a large, spacious bag that can be converted to a backpack. It seems like every vagabond’s dream – it’s waterproof, has multiple little pockets, could be easily carried on one’s back, is lockable, there’s straps on the outside for things that roll up, like jackets, and it’s exactly the dimensions of a carry-on. Although the last part is what disappoints me, it seems a little silly to buy another carry-on bag, but otherwise this bag fits my purposes exactly. The luggage I have currently is a second hand bag I found for 15 bucks on Marketplace and doesn’t even have a lock on it.

It’s also 400 dollars.

Happily, my birthday is coming up, so why not?

Anyone interested in contributing to my birthday present can e-transfer hrh.luci@gmail.com ! Let me know in your message if you want your contribution acknowledged on the blog!