Sailboats can’t tow a waterskier, jump swells, make loud noises, nose into a beach, go tuna fishing or outrun pirates. Given these limitations, they’ve never much interested me, but nevertheless I ended up aboard a sailboat for the first time a few weeks ago. I was visiting my old stomping grounds in Maine, and my friend’s father offered to take us to watch the Pemaquid lobster boat races aboard a 32-foot sailboat. The prospect of seeing 900-plus horsepower fishing boats scream past at 50 knots always warms my heart, so I agreed to put my anti-sailing prejudices aside and come sail away.
    Puttering out of the glassy Bremen harbor early in the morning, the sailboat made a good first impression. The birds were chirping, the air was crisp and our leisurely pace seemed appropriate. I was surprisingly content.
    That is, I was content until Canadian Mist, a brawny diesel lobster boat, motored past us, causing me extreme boat envy. I too wanted to billow black smoke into the air and make a big wake and frighten the marine wildlife. I too wanted to skipper a boat named after a powerful liquor. The sailboat’s name? Hatsy III. The third in a notorious line of fearsome Hatsys.
    Being a former lobsterman, I don’t get seasick, so the queasy feeling that came over me once we were out of the harbor had to have been sailboatsickness. I clung to the bow while we lurched through the swells, the feeble engine barely making headway against the incoming tide. It’s ironic that the sailboat, the ultimate expression of disdain for the internal combustion engine, relies on a stinky little motor most of the time. We couldn’t sail out of the harbor because there was no wind. Out on the ocean, we couldn’t sail because we had a mere three hours to reach the boat races. If we had to tack out around Pemaquid Point under sail, I’d probably still be on the boat, wrapping the anchor line around my ankles and contemplating the smothering release of the sea’s icy embrace.
    We did, eventually, sail for a bit. Once the sail is up, you can’t sit anywhere except the little stern cockpit without fear that the boom might swing around and (if you’re lucky) knock you overboard. You also can’t see where you’re going very well, which is probably one reason why sailboats have right-of-way over motorboats—Judge Smales at the helm has half of his field of vision obliterated by the billowing sheet in his face, which, coupled with the sailboat’s inherent hippo-on-ice maneuverability, produces a vessel that needs an entire ocean to avoid hitting anything. Not that a .2mph impact would damage anything other than the skipper’s ego.
    So what are the advantages of sailboats? Argument No. 1: You can hold a conversation without shouting over a loud engine. Well, the only conversation I was ready for most of the time was a chat with God on the big white phone. In the words of Elvis, a little less conversation, a little more action, please. All this sailboatin’ ain’t satisfactionin’ me.
    Argument No. 2: Sailboats are more in tune with nature, as they don’t spew hydrocarbons into the air or make manatee puree with their props. It is true that I did have an encounter with a seal, who swam up and examined us at close range. His contemptuous expression seemed to be saying, “Hey buddy, if I had opposable thumbs, you can bet I’d have one of them wrapped around the throttle of something that goes faster than I can swim. I hope you’ve got a few harpoons on that bath toy, ’cause Moby Dick didn’t sink no motorboat. See you at the races.” Then he dove, little bubbles of laughter marking his descent.
    Argument No. 3: Sailing is relaxing. Some people might find it relaxing, but I found it psychologically debilitating to be able to see my destination 10 miles distant and know that I wouldn’t get there for hours. I can’t imagine how the Europeans ever made it to North America. If I’d been a Pilgrim back in England, I definitely would’ve chosen iron-fisted religious oppression over sailing.
    Once we finally reached the lobster boat races, the torment intensified. I participated in these races several years ago, steering my father’s Novi, the Ann Marie, to fourth place in her class (the Anne Marie’s 4-cylinder Volvo was a little overmatched in this crowd). Now I was relegated to standing on the bow of a sailboat, watching the real boats roar past on their way to the finish line. It was sheer torment.
    I ended up hitching a ride to the dock from a guy in a skiff, as I’d rather have been keel-hauled than return on the sailboat. I don’t smoke, but my day of sailing confirmed that I’d really like a Cigarette. *