Episode 2 On Being The Boss

It is a dangerous fact that people take comfort in being told what to do.

Before I get accused of undermining the very foundations of democracy in favour of an authoritarian dictatorship, I should qualify my observation by saying that the reality is more fluid than you might think. If you were to press me, I'd probably respond with some waffle about reciprocity and that authority and submission have to cooperate for either to work, and how we are both products and creators of our environments. I'd probably end up with some ethereal metaphor about how a river cuts its own channel so that it both shapes, and is shaped by the landscape that it runs in.

What this has to do with boats is something I have observed on being the boss. Its a scary thing when you realise that people are trusting you to know what you're doing, and they are quite happy to let you tell them what to do.

I first noticed this in skippering the catamarans for Sails at Bayside. What we would do is set up four catamarans on the beach, each with its own skipper, and we'd take members of the public, or of groups of refugees or vulnerable people, out for a spin. So, I would be the skipper and have charge of two or three people with no sailing experience, and they would be quite happy to let me tell them what to do (sit there, pull that rope, don't fall off, etc.) Universally, they would have a wonderful time, but it is their contentedness that strikes me, as if their inner voices were serenely reassuring them that the skipper (me) would competently protect them from all injury and mishap. The logic behind this is alarmingly tautologous - I am the skipper because I know what I'm doing, and I know what I'm doing because I am the skipper. Of course, the knowing-what-I'm-doing is partly true and, as I mentioned earlier, no one has actually died on my watch. But, its not as certain as my on-board guests might believe. Anyhow, the absolution they get from all authority and responsibility brings them to a place of profound inner peace, which could be how some meditation practices work.

In the opposite direction, inner peace becomes more remote with more responsibility. At least with Sails at Bayside, I was sailing someone else's catamarans. I wasn't irresponsible, but I had the psychological safety net of knowing that it something were to go wrong, the team would share the response. I had no such comfort in owning and sailing my own boat. I was the boss, skipper, owner, slave, curator, navigator, grease-monkey and whatever other title you could bestow on me. Curiously, whenever I took other people out, they too would fall comfortably into that Zen-like mind-set of trusting the skipper. If only they knew him better! While their inner voices happily pom-pom-pommed along to the gentle rhythm of the waves lapping on the hull, mine would regularly ramp up to OhShitOhShitOhShit. Needless to say, these were the times when I would think that self-expression is not the highest virtue.

There was the time when I had just cast off from the pontoon in Manly Harbour, and the outboard decided to stop, leaving us to drift between the sharp rocks on one side and the expensive moored boats on the other. My crew, a father with two young boys who had walked up for the day looking for a sail, gamely jumped into the water to fend the boat off the rocks. Meanwhile, I panicked with the pull cord. I had forgotten the briefing given by the previous owner about connecting the fuel line the right way round. There was a helpful arrow on the rubber line that should have pointed to the outboard, but I had ignored it and had got it pointing towards the fuel tank. There had been just enough fuel in the fuel pan to get the motor started, thus allowing us to cast off, but when that ran out less than one hundred years down the channel, the non-return valve in the fuel line ensured that the motor came to a resolute stop. After internally repeating a large number of OhShitOhShitOhShits I discovered my mistake, reconnected the fuel line, and started the motor without a hitch. We then blithely chugged on, arriving at the start line for a race about an hour late, and had to give up a short while later. To top it off, one of the kids lost a shoe overboard and entered into a prolonged period of inconsolable, noisy grief.

Fuel line. Don't ignore the arrow, it should point towards the outboard.

Pain, I have decided, is a great teacher. I'll never put the fuel line on the wrong way around again. I hope my guests enjoyed themselves that day, but I never saw them again.