Couples Therapy
We pull into Deep Creek YC at Turkey Neck in the pouring
rain, still recovering from a hair-raising U-turn with our boat trailer on a
windy, single-lane country road. We park in the muddy fields of the upper
parking lot, and slop to the cedar-sided clubhouse overlooking the lake. With more
rain and no wind in the forecast, my mood is glum.
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| The Midwest Districts own Frank and Marianne Gerry |
But then I spot my friend, Chris Czapleski, and squeal with
pleasure. We embrace like the girlfriends we are, and rejoice in the success of
her bunion surgery. Her husband, Tom Hohler, whose foghorn voice belies his
amiable nature, stands alongside her beaming, waiting for his turn to share a
hug. And so begins the Wife-Husband Flying Scot regatta, the only spouse-only regatta
I know of—no kids, no friends, no girlfriends; it’s married couples only.
A ship’s bell soon rings, signaling the start of the
grill-your-own dinner. There are two sailing clubs co-hosting the regatta on
Deep Creek Lake, a ganglion-shaped lake in the hills of western Maryland.
Friday’s dinner is at Turkey Neck where sailors and old friends greet each
other with hugs. There’s little talk of racing, more of pets, mutual friends, black
bear sightings, and jokes.
The Wife-Husband Regatta got its start years ago at Cowan
Lake, near Columbus, Ohio, home of Flying Scot Fleet No. 1. Sandy Eustis, then
of Cowan Lake, was looking for a novel way to boost attendance at the class’s
30th anniversary regatta. He thought maybe he could lure more people with the “First
Ever Husband-Wife National Championship.”
Seventy-two boats attended, and Eustis had a hit on his
hands. The regatta’s official name —with wife prominently placed first—is
sacred, and Scot sailors fiercely protect it, correcting any newbie who utters husband
first.
Let’s face it: sailing is a men’s sport. Even in dinghy
racing, women are scarce, but the Flying Scot is an exception. Many of the top
teams today are spouses. Take the 2013 North American Champion and 2007 Rolex Yachtsman of the Year, Jeff
Linton, who sails with his wife, Amy Smith Linton.
Diane Kampf’s story is like many others at Deep Creek. “The
first time I went on a boat, I cried when it tipped,” says Kampf. The next time
her husband, Greg, took her sailing on his Scot, Diane’s 65-year-old mother-in-law
came along, too. “She sat there like she was knitting,” says Kampf. “I decided
if she could do it, so could I.”
The Kampf’s first Wife-Husband was in 2000 at Saratoga Lake
Sailing Club, N.Y., which traditionally gave out camp chairs as trophies. For
the Wife-Husband they had camp loveseats. They still have theirs.
“Greg is a gentleman on the boat,” says Kampf, explaining
why she likes to sail with him. “He says please and thank you, he taught me
everything I know. It’s something we get to do together that we’ll always
have.”
When Kate and Roger Sharp were dating, Roger took Kate
sailing in the New Year’s regatta in Manhasset Bay in Long Island, N.Y. They
capsized, Kate in her heavy Irish knit sweater and other cold-weather clothes.
“That’s it,” she said, “I’m never sailing again.”
They eventually married and had two children, both of whom
who sailed with Roger all the time. In 2009, after about 20 years of marriage,
and almost as many years as a junior sailing mom, Kate decided she’d give
racing another try. The Wife-Husband was at her home club and the regatta
offered a non-spinnaker division, so Kate agreed to crew. They won the 13-boat
division, and she’s been sailing ever since.
“I liked the
strategizing with other boats around you,” she says. “It puts a whole new spin
on sailing. Everyone is literally in the same boat. Not everybody here is the
top crew that the skipper can find. Instead, people who live together are now
playing together.”
By 9:45 p.m. on the opening evening, after sailors have had
their fill of brownie fudge sundaes and beer, the party winds down and the clubhouse
is quiet. There’s no barhopping for this crowd. Gray hairs far outnumber perky
butts.
The following morning, the crisp air feels more like April
than July. The skippers’ meeting starts late in the morning and is short and
sweet. Once it’s over, we mill around, hugging, laughing, greeting old friends,
and making new ones. Most of the 42 boats are already in the water.
By the time we leave the dock the air is warm, the sky an
electric blue and the predicted rain is nowhere in sight. The clouds are white
and puffy, and the north wind is gusty. The starting sequence begins. No more
smiling and waving at friends. We’re in race mode. It’s a clean start. We win
the pin, and in just a few minutes, we can clear the fleet on port tack. We savor
our lead until the second downwind of the five-leg, windward-leeward course,
when we see that John and Sharon Wake and John and Lisa Meredith have snuck
past us. We beat back the Wakes to finish second. Then we all head to shore for
lunch.
Like many others here, my husband, Ben Williams, taught me
everything I know about sailing. When I first started racing with him we had a
Lightning, which we sailed together with our then nine-year-old daughter. Very
few men at our club raced their Lightnings with their wives, and I often felt
self-conscious about being one of the few women, not to mention having a
pre-teen on board. I sailed with him, but I wouldn’t say I loved it.
When we moved, our new club didn’t have Lightnings, so Ben
looked into the Flying Scot class. He noticed they had a national event
specifically for wives and husbands, and that alone convinced me that the class
was for us. We bought a boat in
2006 and we now travel to regattas several times a month during the sailing
season.
The second race follows lunch. The wind direction is the
same, but the shifts are bigger. The Merediths win this race, too.
On Sunday, the winds are lighter and shiftier. The Merediths
have a commanding first-place position with two points, and we’re in a
three-way tie for second. The start is postponed several times as the wind shifts
90 degrees or more. The gorgeous weather, with no sign of rain, welcomes the
lake’s powerboat armada, which turns the lake into a washing machine. The Wakes have a masterful race. We are
lost in the back of the fleet. Frustrated I grumble, “look at the wind over
there, maybe we should tack.”
“We just need to keep going this way,” Ben insists. Sure
enough the wind fills in for us and we catch some boats, finishing sixth —better
than I expected.
At the club, while everyone finishes lunch, the results are
announced and the winners troop up for their hammered pewter candy dishes. After
another round of hugs we hit the road for our 12-hour drive home, tired but
jazzed from visiting with and competing against so many friends and great
sailors.
“Sorry I grumbled,” I say to Ben as we pull away. “No
problem,” he says, as he leans over to kiss me.
Even though the Wife-Husband was one of the main reasons we
bought a Flying Scot, it took us several years to get to our first one. Now
that we’ve experienced it, we’ll never miss one. Next year it’s in Sayville. It’s
already on our calendar.
