Waiting for the wind
My driveway is crowded these days. Chico is a flat town. If I made a few changes I could get by with my two feet and a bicycle. Yet, like most Americans, I drive my car, complain about lack of exercise then complain about the price of gas.
I already have an economical Honda. In the spring I rolled Dad’s 1996 Mustang convertible onto the lawn. I love the car. After Dad died, he and I did a lot of talking while I cruised from here to nowhere with the top down. However, loud, black and fast aren’t practical for Chico in midsummer.
Soon after the north valley was blasted with heat, I draped Dad’s previously-garaged ride with a drab car cover.
Sometimes I get an itch to get behind the wheel, but the sky is filled with smoke, wouldn’t you know? Currently, when I drive Dad’s car it’s because I can’t find the keys to the Honda or feel obligated to keep the fluids from coagulating.
In late June I hauled home the second installment of Dad’s wind and speed legacy: Baby boat.
Some folks may remember the Laser, a small racing sailboat. Our 15foot Chrysler Man o’ War is the Laser’s cheap cousin.
Lakes near here are dry. I don’t have a truck. I don’t have a tow bar. The brake lights on the trailer look like they belong in the museum. Yet, one day you might read that I have joined the Butte Sailing Club.
Long before the Mustang, the boat was a member of our family. We lived up the hill from the Carquinez Straights and the wind and water were a great excuse to leave the house. We camped near lakes. We explored the narrow side channels in the Delta. We rode the crazy roller coasters of waves made by oil tankers headed to the San Pablo Bay.
My first solo sail was at about age 12 in the middle of Pinecrest Lake. My little fingers had spent many moments wrapped around the handle of the rudder. This time, mid-afternoon with a light wind, I noticed Dad had jumped off the boat. He was wearing his fins, and I could see his head getting smaller as the light flickered across the water.
I must admit, I felt triumphant when I managed to turn around and tack back to his big smile. This was the same way he taught me to ride a bike — he ran alongside for a while and quietly let go.
Later I would take the campground kids for a ride on Butt Lake. But over time, Dad’s attention turned to his speed boat.
We called it the “putt-putt.” It was fast enough to tow a water skier, but we preferred a serene ride in the purple blow-up donut.
Years before we learned Dad had cancer, I started talking about “borrowing” the sailboat for the summer, which later turned to serious talk about hauling it to my driveway.
Over the past couple of years, Dad patched up the fiberglass on the faded red hull and bought a new sail. The sail is still crisp and creased, and was never taken out of the bag.
When we learned Dad was sick, I hoped he would remind me how to hook up the rigging. But we ran out of time.
Some day, we’ll have water in the lakes, clear blue days and a little wind to catch. Until then, I’ll search for someone with a truck and tow hitch.