Le Ponant

The formative years of a young pirate

I remember the first time Dad bought a sailing dinghy — a 1950s French design, a seventeen-foot Ponant. He’d learned to sail near our hometown. One of his friends had a Ponant and needed a teammate to race with at a nearby lake sailing club.

Every summer, my parents rented a different vacation home for July, August, and the first two weeks of September. They chose tiny coastal villages with sandy beaches and a children’s beach club nearby.

By the time my Dad bought the Ponant, our family had grown to five children, and that boat was perfect for taking the whole family out on the water. I remember the time we all crossed the bay to picnic on a tiny island — a place with nobody on it.

I devoured books like Robinson Crusoe and The Count of Monte Cristo, so going to a deserted island felt truly magical.

The Ponant had a tiny forward storage area — just big enough for me and my younger sister to squeeze in and pretend we were in our own cabins. The fiberglass was very itchy in there, I remember. I also peed in it once, figuring nobody would notice in all the standing water.

I must have been seven or eight during that first excursion. I was too young to go sailing much after that because my Dad liked to race, and my older brothers were more useful to him as teammates — their weight made a difference in balance and stability.

A few years later, Dad bought a beautiful 470, an Olympic-series sailing dinghy. I was now old enough to sail with him or, when he was back home working, to take it out by myself. At the time, it was one of the fastest production dinghies available.

Then came the 505 — a step up — and later the Hobby Cat.

Every summer, my father would drop off the family and the boat at a new vacation rental in Brittany, on the Atlantic Coast or the Mediterranean, and then return home to work for the rest of the summer.

During that time, I had the boat all to myself. My older brothers were gone, and my younger sister hadn’t fallen in love with the water the way I had, nor did she enjoy my sailing style (fast and faster)!

Not only did I conquer wild conditions — strong winds and heavy waves — always testing the limits of a superb sailing machine, but I also used the dinghy on calm days to explore hidden coves, dropping a tiny anchor and spearfishing for hours.

My Dad liked to race and kept his 470 in his workshop back home when it wasn't in use. I may have been 12 or 13 when we started to sail together regularly. I was a bit of a twig back then — not much help on the trapeze — when a crew hangs off a cable outside the hull to keep it from capsizing.

In heavy wind, I was handed the tiller, and my 170-pound dad provided ballast on the trapeze. So from a very young age, I was helmsman, barking orders and making decisions during regatta maneuvers — when to launch the spinnaker or jibe safely around a marking buoy.

At home and elsewhere, my dad was often yelling at me for something — for being a wild and rambunctious kid — but at the helm of a race boat, I came alive, a miniature Jack Sparrow, boldly in command.

These were formative years for me.

I was entrusted with a boat.

I never got into trouble — except for the time I went sailing solo, raised the spinnaker, hopped on the trapeze for a wild ride, and capsized. I fell into the sail and spinnaker, and got all tangled up. As I drifted dangerously toward the reefs, I must have spent an hour freeing myself and untangling lines. Eventually, by leaning on the centerboard, I righted the boat. The damage was minimal — a broken spinnaker pole and a small rip in the spinnaker — but it could have been much more serious.

Pushing the edge… always.

When I was about to turn 18, my Dad sold the 470 and bought a Finn — another Olympic-series sailing dinghy — but this time a single-hander. My Dad had reclaimed his own “boat turf” and had a few more years of serious sailing.

The freedom I experienced — having a boat all to myself for 4–6 weeks each summer starting at 13 — was remarkable. I was captain; I was free to go wherever I wished. Sometimes I’d be gone for hours, exploring the coastline, spearfishing, or sneaking close to private coves where rich women were sunbathing nude.

My Dad — however rigid and controlling — trusted me with his beautiful boat, just as he later trusted me with his car.

Now, reflecting back after his death last year, I realize what a huge step it must have been for him to let his 13-year-old son take the boat and disappear for hours on his own.

I was proud then to raise the sails, push off from the shore, and let the wind carry me away.

What a feeling of freedom it was.

As I write this, I’m letting it sink in.

I’m sending waves of gratitude to my Dad, wherever he is now. May all that held him back be gone with the fresh wind of karma. May we meet again someday and sail together, this time with more laughing than yelling.

You left without saying goodbye.

You cursed me many times during our disputes.

I came to see you a few months before you passed.

I held your hand and stroked your hair.

I pushed you in a wheelchair.

Not sure you recognized me.

But you seemed at peace with me being there.

I’m glad I came from far away to say goodbye and wish you safe travels.

I am grateful you brought me into this world, fed me, clothed me, and taught me to strive for excellence.

It takes time to digest these things, and I always think of you when I dance, repair my truck, or build and fix things.

I appreciate bugs, cows, berries, flowers — and all kinds of beauty.

Like women.

We were so much alike.

Except I like to let my hair — and sometimes my beard — grow wild…

Thanks, Dad!

I’m carrying the torch now!

I am a good captain of my life…