Week 12: in which I meet the bottom of the reservoir, by Joel Andersen

An original contemporary blog.

Regular readers of this blog (hello, Mum) will know that last spring I decided, at the age of thirty-four and with no experience of anything nautical beyond a pedalo in Torquay, to learn to sail. Twelve weeks of evening lessons at Hollins Water Sailing Club later, I felt ready. I had a certificate. I had a second-hand dinghy called Persistence, bought from a retired dentist for £600. I had, in short, absolutely no idea what was coming.

Saturday was the club’s summer regatta, and I had entered the novice race. Eighteen boats. Three laps of a triangular course around orange buoys. The forecast said ‘light winds, chance of a shower’. I packed sun cream.

The start went beautifully, by which I mean I did not hit anyone. For the first lap, Persistence and I were in eleventh place and holding steady. I remember thinking, with a smugness I now deeply regret, that sailing was not as difficult as everyone made out. I even waved at the committee boat.

Halfway round the second lap, the sky to the west turned the colour of a bruise. The surface of the reservoir darkened, ruffled, and then seemed to shiver. Somebody on the bank blew a whistle. I had time to think ‘that looks interesting’, and then the squall hit.

I have tried many times since to describe what happened next, and the best I can do is this: it was like being punched by a wardrobe. The wind slammed into the sail, Persistence leaped sideways, and the boom swung across with a crack that I felt in my teeth. I let go of the mainsheet, grabbed the wrong rope, leaned the wrong way and, with a kind of slow, dreamlike inevitability, fell into the water. Persistence followed me in, lay down on her side, and stayed there.

Reservoir water in June is not warm. It is also, I can confirm, very, very wet. For a moment I hung beside the hull, spitting and gasping, with my buoyancy aid riding up round my ears, and felt more foolish than I have ever felt in my life.

I was not alone. Looking round, I could see sails lying flat across the water like fallen washing. Eleven of the eighteen boats had gone over. Among them, I noticed, was the dinghy of the club commodore, a man who has sailed for forty years and who was now standing on his centreboard in a state of furious dignity.

The rescue boat reached me in four minutes. Its driver, a calm woman named Bev, talked me through righting the boat: stand on the centreboard, lean back, haul. Persistence came up, full of water and weed. I climbed in on the third attempt, in a manner I hope was not photographed.

I finished the race. Last, obviously, about half an hour after everyone else, but I finished. As I came ashore, cold, sore and smelling of reservoir, the commodore walked over, shook my hand and said, ‘Welcome to sailing. The water always wins in the end. The trick is to keep coming back.’

So I will. The next regatta is in August. I have packed sun cream. I have also packed a towel, a flask and, this time, a great deal more respect.

Dinghy racing is described as a humbling experience. How does the writer try to show this?

You should comment on:

• what is said
• the use of language, tone and structure
• other ways the writer tries to show that dinghy racing is humbling

You must refer to the text to support your comments, using relevant subject terminology where appropriate.