Man, I had a rough day, I went to the airport to pick up a friend, went into the men’s room and Idaho Senator Larry Craig asked me to vote on his bail out package.
MSNBC featured celebrities and their favorite book. For example, Greg Kinnear’s was “Into the Wild.” Anne Curry’s was “The Once and Future King.” And President Bush listed that monkey George book with that feller with the yeller hat.
Saturday Morning Caffeine-fueled rant
Although most are great, there are a few parents we know through our daughter’s school who are, well, crazy a-holes.
It got me to thinking: how come none of adults I knew growing up were a-holes or crazy? Or were they?
Then I started thinking harder: my high school varsity football coach was a complete crazy a-hole. A full-fledged moron, but a crazy a-hole. He placed his winning record far above the health of the teenagers he was responsible for time and time again. If he tried now the verbal and physical abuse he did back in 1975/76, he would go to jail.
And then there was the blowhard neighbor down the street who, when I was ten, claimed to be a sailing expert. Every year he crewed on a boat that raced in the famous Chicago to Mackinac race. (Looking back, his fat ass was probably just used for ballast)
So when my Dad bought a broken down 15 foot sailboat from a broken down drunk - they didn't have alcoholics back then, just drunks - and fixed it up all summer, until it was finally ready by November, Mr. Gould insisted he would show us how to sail.
In retrospect anyone who wasn’t a total a-hole would not have chosen to go out on such a cold and blustery day on Lake Michigan in November. The sky was the same battleship grey as the lake except the Lake had white caps from the high winds.
When my brother and I weakly protested that it was cold – we were in blue jeans and thick sweaters and were still freezing –Mr. Gould blustered:
“Ahh, don’t tell me you’re a damn fair weather sailor?”
We didn’t know what a fair weather sailor meant, we just knew we didn’t want to be one. "Yes, of course we're fair weather sailors," we should have screamed; "anyone who isn't is a d*ckhead."
Out on the lake Mr. Gould was working hard to show us how great of a sailor he was which apparently meant terrifying me and my brother to death. We did not know that a sail boat under full sail heeled so far to one side and we did not like it to say the least.
Now after years of sailing and windsurfing I know that, if you are in a race or trying to sail at top speed, you heel as far over as you can and throw your weight over the side. But we were not in a race, we were on our 15 foot boat, the Swoose’s virgin cruise. On a blustery November day on Lake Michigan, no less.
What I also now know after years of sailing is that maybe on a rough day in a close, tough race, you haul the sails in tight and heel the boat over so far that you are on the edge of flipping. But any sailor who is any good won’t flip it. All you have to do is spill the wind out of the sails for a split second and or head into the wind a touch and it eases back.
You also learn to read the texture of water in front of you to anticipate a hard gust. You have to be an idiot or something has to snag or break to flip a boat over – especially a wide family picnic cruiser like we had, it was not a tippy, sleek narrow racer.
It turns out Mr. Gould was such an idiot.
Before we knew what happened we took in water on the leeward side, the weight of all the water threw Mr. Gould off and he panicked and lost control of the main sail and the tiller, so Swoose lurched all the way to the other side, the wind caught the sail and, as we were now sitting on the wrong side, it tilted way over the other way and we nearly flipped over taking in more water until it was totally swamped. The gunwales were even with the lake's boiling surface. All that was out of the water was the mast and boom and the sails.
We all clung to the side and held on for dear life. What we didn’t know then is that the boat had built-in floating buoys and it was not going to sink. And we all had life preservers on. But for a few horrifying minutes, with waves lapping over my head, I thought we were all going to drown.
Thankfully the Coast Guard had been watching us – they knew only a putz would try and sail in that weather – and they had figured out before we did that Mr. Gould sailed like a buffoon so they had a motor boat out to tow us back in right away.
When we got back to shore, we were blue and shaking. Now they would take us to the hospital for hypothermia. All we did then was take hot showers and eat soup.
What kind of idiotic a-hole risks drowning himself and two young boys and their Dad to show off his macho sailing skills, especially when it was obvious he didn’t really know what he was doing?
That winter I would look out at the jagged, forbearing ice-covered endless lake and tremble with horror imagining my body lying somewhere on the mirky bottom. They say when you get thrown off a horse you have to get back on. The same is true for a sailboat. That spring I was too terrified to go back out in Swoose and it broke my Dad’s poor heart. It wasn’t until about August that I really started enjoying sailing.
From that moment on, Mr. Gould was dead to me. For years after that he would say hello on the sidewalk and I would glare back, not trying to be rude, but mute with pure disgust. There was just no polite way to hide my contempt for him. One day in the backyard my Dad was enjoying an Old Style beer and I had a Seven Up as we listened to the Cubs game on the radio, and my Dad said Mr. Gould asked why I was still mad at him. I told my Dad;
“I’m not mad at him, I just hate him.”
It was one of the times I proudly got my Dad to laugh beer out of his nose.
The swamping of Swoose did teach me that there is nothing quite as satisfying as conquering your fears. Once I got over my abject terror of sailing, it added to the excitement and I fell deeply in love with sailing. I fell in love with the water as well. (It’s tough to do one without the other)
To this day when I am out on the ocean on my board and the swells start to come up a little higher than my comfort range, and I begin to notice the cresting waves sounding like a freight train, I remember that cold November day in Lake Michigan.
Maybe I owe that thrill to Mr. Gould?
No, he was a crazy a-hole.
MSNBC featured celebrities and their favorite book. For example, Greg Kinnear’s was “Into the Wild.” Anne Curry’s was “The Once and Future King.” And President Bush listed that monkey George book with that feller with the yeller hat.
Saturday Morning Caffeine-fueled rant
Although most are great, there are a few parents we know through our daughter’s school who are, well, crazy a-holes.
It got me to thinking: how come none of adults I knew growing up were a-holes or crazy? Or were they?
Then I started thinking harder: my high school varsity football coach was a complete crazy a-hole. A full-fledged moron, but a crazy a-hole. He placed his winning record far above the health of the teenagers he was responsible for time and time again. If he tried now the verbal and physical abuse he did back in 1975/76, he would go to jail.
And then there was the blowhard neighbor down the street who, when I was ten, claimed to be a sailing expert. Every year he crewed on a boat that raced in the famous Chicago to Mackinac race. (Looking back, his fat ass was probably just used for ballast)
So when my Dad bought a broken down 15 foot sailboat from a broken down drunk - they didn't have alcoholics back then, just drunks - and fixed it up all summer, until it was finally ready by November, Mr. Gould insisted he would show us how to sail.
In retrospect anyone who wasn’t a total a-hole would not have chosen to go out on such a cold and blustery day on Lake Michigan in November. The sky was the same battleship grey as the lake except the Lake had white caps from the high winds.
When my brother and I weakly protested that it was cold – we were in blue jeans and thick sweaters and were still freezing –Mr. Gould blustered:
“Ahh, don’t tell me you’re a damn fair weather sailor?”
We didn’t know what a fair weather sailor meant, we just knew we didn’t want to be one. "Yes, of course we're fair weather sailors," we should have screamed; "anyone who isn't is a d*ckhead."
Out on the lake Mr. Gould was working hard to show us how great of a sailor he was which apparently meant terrifying me and my brother to death. We did not know that a sail boat under full sail heeled so far to one side and we did not like it to say the least.
Now after years of sailing and windsurfing I know that, if you are in a race or trying to sail at top speed, you heel as far over as you can and throw your weight over the side. But we were not in a race, we were on our 15 foot boat, the Swoose’s virgin cruise. On a blustery November day on Lake Michigan, no less.
What I also now know after years of sailing is that maybe on a rough day in a close, tough race, you haul the sails in tight and heel the boat over so far that you are on the edge of flipping. But any sailor who is any good won’t flip it. All you have to do is spill the wind out of the sails for a split second and or head into the wind a touch and it eases back.
You also learn to read the texture of water in front of you to anticipate a hard gust. You have to be an idiot or something has to snag or break to flip a boat over – especially a wide family picnic cruiser like we had, it was not a tippy, sleek narrow racer.
It turns out Mr. Gould was such an idiot.
Before we knew what happened we took in water on the leeward side, the weight of all the water threw Mr. Gould off and he panicked and lost control of the main sail and the tiller, so Swoose lurched all the way to the other side, the wind caught the sail and, as we were now sitting on the wrong side, it tilted way over the other way and we nearly flipped over taking in more water until it was totally swamped. The gunwales were even with the lake's boiling surface. All that was out of the water was the mast and boom and the sails.
We all clung to the side and held on for dear life. What we didn’t know then is that the boat had built-in floating buoys and it was not going to sink. And we all had life preservers on. But for a few horrifying minutes, with waves lapping over my head, I thought we were all going to drown.
Thankfully the Coast Guard had been watching us – they knew only a putz would try and sail in that weather – and they had figured out before we did that Mr. Gould sailed like a buffoon so they had a motor boat out to tow us back in right away.
When we got back to shore, we were blue and shaking. Now they would take us to the hospital for hypothermia. All we did then was take hot showers and eat soup.
What kind of idiotic a-hole risks drowning himself and two young boys and their Dad to show off his macho sailing skills, especially when it was obvious he didn’t really know what he was doing?
That winter I would look out at the jagged, forbearing ice-covered endless lake and tremble with horror imagining my body lying somewhere on the mirky bottom. They say when you get thrown off a horse you have to get back on. The same is true for a sailboat. That spring I was too terrified to go back out in Swoose and it broke my Dad’s poor heart. It wasn’t until about August that I really started enjoying sailing.
From that moment on, Mr. Gould was dead to me. For years after that he would say hello on the sidewalk and I would glare back, not trying to be rude, but mute with pure disgust. There was just no polite way to hide my contempt for him. One day in the backyard my Dad was enjoying an Old Style beer and I had a Seven Up as we listened to the Cubs game on the radio, and my Dad said Mr. Gould asked why I was still mad at him. I told my Dad;
“I’m not mad at him, I just hate him.”
It was one of the times I proudly got my Dad to laugh beer out of his nose.
The swamping of Swoose did teach me that there is nothing quite as satisfying as conquering your fears. Once I got over my abject terror of sailing, it added to the excitement and I fell deeply in love with sailing. I fell in love with the water as well. (It’s tough to do one without the other)
To this day when I am out on the ocean on my board and the swells start to come up a little higher than my comfort range, and I begin to notice the cresting waves sounding like a freight train, I remember that cold November day in Lake Michigan.
Maybe I owe that thrill to Mr. Gould?
No, he was a crazy a-hole.
posted by Alex at
1:01 PM
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