Regular readers of this blog have figured out by now that I seem to have no stomach whatsoever for competitiveness, much less conflict or violence. Even the prospect of hunger or homelessness isn't enough to propel me willingly into the world of the "profit motive." When I was involved in sports like tennis or rowing, I never really cared whether I won or lost. Indeed, I often actively wanted the other person/team to win, or just to forego the competition altogether. It was all about the learning journey. In the end, it has been less a case of judging this competitive model as wrong as it has been a case of simply not understanding. I just cannot seem to grasp the need to be best, have more, beat others, win the race.
But this weekend, I found my exception, or to put it more accurately, re-discovered it. I happened upon the TV coverage of the early heats of the America's Cup (sailing). Now, first and foremost was my astonishment at the nature of the modern boats themselves, catamarans (with slim, trailing "foils" like fins or rudders) that literally race above the water. I had never, ever seen such a thing before, and it was utterly magical, miraculous.
The starts of the races, however, have brought out the competitor in me for the first time in over forty years. Back when I was a teenager and our family had a summer cabin on Lake Champlain, I sailed quite a bit. I raced solo in Sunfish races with other teenagers, and then crewed in the adult races which took place in old, 18-foot wooden "knockabouts." I mentioned in an early blog that in these latter races, the "captain's word was law." The skipper was almost always a man, and you simply did not question his decision. If he said, "come about," you immediately released the jib line, threw yourself across the boat, and tightened the line on the other side.
But the starts of the races were particularly thrilling, and were the test of a skipper's talents. For about ten minutes, the six or eight boats would meander lazily around the starting area, but at the five minute horn, things started to get very tense. All the boats would start to jockey about, with the skippers trying to figure out, based on wind strength and direction, wind gusts, and what direction we would be heading in after crossing the line, how best to time getting to the starting line. This was all done with multiple other boats also coming about or jibing over and over, and there were always near misses. Boats on starboard tack (wind coming over the right side of the boat) had the right-of-way, and in the heat of the moment, it was a challenge keeping that straight. In those last few seconds, especially in a strong wind, the margin between beating a competing boat over the starting line right at the horn and crashing into him was extremely thin. I remember that I had a passion for these starts...my eyes jumped up and down from my watch to conditions on the course and I had really good instincts about how to get to the start at the right moment, instincts that, as a crew member, I had to keep to myself. Sometimes when we got a bad start, I knew in my heart that I could have done better, but my family didn't own a boat and women rarely skippered anyway. In those days, I just didn't have the assertiveness to ask for the opportunity, yet another example of keeping my power under wraps.
So it was this weekend that, when I found myself literally screaming at the television screen, "Come about, come about!!!!" and cheering the skippers who pulled tricky maneuvers to cut off the other boat at the start, I realized that "that competitive thing" is not, in fact, completely dead in me. Dormant, perhaps, and limited to one small field of endeavor, but not dead. I'm not quite sure whether this is all metaphorical or a message that it would be nice to return to sailing. And I'm a little embarrassed to have been caught in an inconsistency. But I console myself that if the most "violent" things that ever happened on this planet were sailing regattas, this would be quite a nice world.
