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| Barb Polan Barb's Recovery |
Last evening, Tom and I went on a sail on the Gloucester-based schooner Ardelle. The Ardelle was built in nearby Essex last year, and its launch and subsequent sail around Cape Ann into Gloucester Harbor was front-page news here. She is used for charter cruises, and the captain had offered to take members of the rowing club for a sail, so we signed up and went. It never occurred to me that there could be a problem with me going. As we approached the ship, though, the floating dock rocked side-to-side, which made me anxious to start with; and ahead, at the end of the long dock, was the set of stairs I had to climb to reach the gunwale, then I would step down two steps onto the deck; the set of stairs was not attached to either the dock or the ship, simply standing on the dock next to the ship, with a nearly 10-inch gap between stairs and ship. And the rail on the right-hand side (ship-side) had rotted off. That made the gap between the stairs and the Ardelle a 10-inch-wide chute ending in water, and there was no rail to catch me the whole way up the 6 steps; it reminded me of the gap between platform and train when I take the commuter rail into Boston - being afraid of heights means that every time I step over, I look down and imagine my footstep falling short and me falling into the gap. Tom walked up the stairs to my right, one step below so that I could use him as a rail and that he could grab me if I stumbled. The captain was at the gunwale helping people on board, so he reached out a hand to help by grabbing my left arm as I climbed. Worried about my shoulder becoming dislocated, I asked him not to hold onto my arm; he asked if he could grab onto my jacket at the back of my neck, which was perfect, like a kitten carried by mom. In addition, two big, strong rowers who ALWAYS help me out stood on the ship ready to get me on board. Each person suggested a different technique for getting me from the steps on the dock to the steps on the deck; plus I was formulating my own way. One of the rowers on board kept offering to just throw me over his shoulder and set me on the deck; I insisted that I could step over the gap onto the gunwale as long as someone ensured that my right foot made it over okay. It was the first time since having the stroke that I was scared enough that I thought I might be gravely injured. I have never been that afraid climbing onto or off of a boat/ship before. Once on board, we found a place to sit and Tom and I both relaxed - despite the fact I had to eventually get off the damn thing too. The sail was lovely - with a wind that carried us right along. One of my saviors was talking about sails with another rower. Although I once spent a semester aboard a 100-foot schooner studying marine biology, there's a world of info I don't know about sailing vessels. Now, the savior told the other rower about the short lines hanging in rows across the sail. First he called them "tails," and explained that they should be blowing back parallel to the sail to indicate that the sail is trimmed (positioned) properly; the second time he referred to the strings, he called them "tell tails." I love that - it made it clear what the expression "telltale" means and comes from, although it is spelled differently, in a way that has always made me think it was related to "story." Anyway, I disembarked safely, again with each helper suggesting his own technique. Again, crossing the gap scared me, and I think I even whimpered. As we walked up the hill to the road, the fling-her-over-his-shoulder rower told me I was brave; because of my sheer terror, I told him I didn't think so - that he didn't know how scared I was, that I thought I was a chicken and it had gone much more easily than I expected when I saw the steps. His reply? "Well, it was a lot easier than trying to get you out of the water between the dock and the boat." So, despite his bluster, he had thought dropping into the chute was possible too; no wonder he thought I was brave to try. When we reached Tom and the car, he told Tom that I don't know how to take a compliment. Guilty as charged. THEN Tom and I relaxed, returned home and fell into bed.
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