Whitecaps began to form off the wind-swept shores of Jericho Beach. The smell of salt air and the sight of sailboats drenched me in a wave of memories.
Memories. That's all they were. In 1979, a serious car accident confined me to a wheelchair. My doctor told me I'd never walk again, and sailing, for me, became a spectator sport.
Today would be different. Today I would relive those memories. At last, I was joining those boats on the water. The best part—I'd be in full control. I was about to feel the freedom that had once been a big part of my life. Today it was me and the sea.
The year was 1989 and it was the first test sail of the Sunbird sailboat since it was donated to the B.C. Mobility Opportunities Society by Rick Hansen. I remember when I saw the boat on display at Expo '86. Little did I know I'd be here, three years later, sailing solo in English Bay.
"I brought that survival suit I was telling you about," Tony said. "It should keep you dry in case you dump it." These words would have kept most people on dry land but I had known Tony for most of my life and I knew safety was his primary concern. Besides, as an officer with the Canadian Coast guard, he was well prepared for any emergency situation.
I climbed out of my wheelchair and was helped into the cockpit. I checked the rudder and sheets. I cleated the boom-vang. Halyards secure. Everything ship shape.
The winch hardly made a sound as it lowered me down the ramp and into English Bay. Tony jumped into the boat and cranked down the centerboard. Designed for stability, the three-hundred-pound weight at the bottom of the centerboard prevented the boat from capsizing. I felt safer knowing the centerboard was in place. Winds today were expected to gust to 20 knots.
As Tony lowered the centerboard, I held the rudder steady. My heart was fluttering faster than the sails above me. "You're secure," he shouted. "Have fun."
I pulled on the jib sheet. The sail in front of me filled with air and I began to move. Deciding to add to my speed, I reached for the mainsheet. I had the sail in half way when the force of the wind became too strong. I let go of the tiller and reefed on the rope with both hands. It didn't help. I had to head up wind.
I veered to port, sails flapping furiously. Reaching for the mainsheet, pulling it tight, I gained at least a foot. I quickly cleated the rope, and turned the boat away from the wind. My speed jumped by a couple of knots. The boat began to heel sharply.
I was now 500 meters offshore. The swells were getting bigger. I felt the bow rise, and then drop quickly into the trough of an oncoming wave. Any second now, I was going to get soaked. The boat plunged through the crest of the oncoming wave, water surging over the deck. My body was drenched. I tried to wipe the spray off my glasses. No time.
I looked down. The water in the cockpit was up to my waist, but I was still dry. The survival suit was working. Still, I had to get the water out. I reached for the bilge handle and began to pump. The suction that kicked in was stronger than I expected. I looked over the starboard rail to see water streaming from a small port hole.
Once I cleared the cockpit, I began reviewing the things I had to do to make my first tack. It had been a dozen years since I made my last tack, but it felt like riding a bike. I cranked the tiller hard to port. The boat bobbed like a dry cork as the bow swung into the wind. The boom snapped across, clearing my head by less than a foot. That was easy, I thought—didn't have to move at all. Didn't even have to duck for the boom.
I decided to bear off from the wind and head toward Locarno Beach. I set the sails for a broad reach. The waves now tossed me from side to side, but the boat refused to tip. The centerboard was working overtime.
The broad reach got me back to the beach in no time. I decided to change tack and run down the beach to Jericho. I turned the boat 90 degrees and set the sails wing and wing. Piece of cake! I glided back to the launching ramp and ended one of the most memorable sailing trips of my life. It only lasted an hour, but I knew that I had finally returned to my first love. I had returned to the sea.
That summer Rick Hansen joined Sam Sullivan at the Jericho Sailing Center to officially launch western Canada's first disabled sailing program. In the five years that followed, many people with disabilities experienced the freedom of sailing, a feeling that is now much more than a distant memory.
