I stepped out the passenger side of my dad’s truck as we reached behind the seats for our life jackets and supplies, as we passed through a narrow path in the woods with branches brushing our shirts as we went by. “Mind the branch”, my dad would say, before it would fling behind him and slap me in the face. We emerged from the woods to find our oasis: the Rustico Bay. There was no beach this side of the bay, only weeds and seaweeds, rather, it’s where we keep our 15-foot plexiglass Albacore sailboat. Nothing fancy; just a hull, two sails, a keel and a rudder, but that’s all it takes to sail around here.

My dad loved to sail. He never explained why. Perhaps it was the feeling of freedom on the water. Perhaps he liked where the complexity of harnessing the power of wind met the simplicity of floating. Perhaps it was the bond it made with his children. I, too, found peace in the Bay. As we walked down the narrow beach to the water, we felt the weeds brush up on our legs, mimicking the sting of a hundred mosquitoes. The first steps into the water are always cold and muddy, as the water turns the sand to mud. There’s no wooden dock of any kind, just a cinder block and a rope. As we walked toward the boat, the water rose to our waists. The waves of the boat rolling up and down revealed a change in the bright blue colour of the hull, that weeks of still waters had washed away; so much for “waterproof paint”. We pulled it back to shore to retrieve the rope and sails to begin the stressful task of putting up the sails. The metal mast squealed with a shriek as the rope inside the shaft was pulled down, pulling up the sail itself. We felt the jolt from the sail catching wind already, so I sat on the opposite side to my dad to even out the weight on each side of the boat. Meanwhile, my dad had attached the rudder (the steering mechanism) to the rear of the boat. It was ready to take off.

Next, we untied the boat from the anchor and pushed her out from the shallow water to make our way. As we distanced ourselves from the trees, the sun started to shine upon us. It heated us up like an ant under a magnifying glass, and the shining waters casted a glare into our eyes. Looking anywhere felt like a flashlight to the eye. After a few minutes, we started to pick up speed. I was on the rudder, while my dad manned the sails. That day was more windy than usual and so, it was perfect for sailing. The heat of the sun balanced out the cool breeze from the ocean. I sat at the stern of the boat – despite it being so small, made barely a difference – and this gave me an exceptional line of sight for the whole bay. I looked back and saw the shoreline shrinking, where an older couple walked along, with a dog jumping happily through the thorny grass. Along that same shore, staircases here and there rolled down the eroded cliffs from cottages. I could see the mouth of the bay opening out to the sea. Dead ahead, I saw the whole of Robinson’s Island and the causeway that led to it from the mainland. The island was comprised of trees squished together, with a thin shoreline all around. I picked up the binoculars my dad had brought and tried to observe the island in greater detail. It didn’t work. The swaying of the boat and my unsteady arms made it impossible to focus on one place. I put them back in the case, and looked with my eyes.

I left my phone in the truck; I didn’t need it. No pictures, no videos, no concrete memories on a hard drive. Instead, all I did was observe. I observed the seagulls diving in and resurfacing with fish between its beak, I observed the erosion causing trees to stand crooked toward the water, I observed the moss in the water floating and waving like an inflatable arm-flailing tube-man, and I observed my dad with a giant smile on his face, gazing at the sea and humming the last tune we heard exiting the truck.

My dad tossed a Nature Valley bar over to me. I peeled the wrapper and half the bar crumbled away, as they always do. With each crunch, more crumbs would trickle down to the floor. He sliced an apple and handed me a few slices. They had a salty taste since our hands weren’t clean. I gobbled them up nevertheless and directed my attention back to nature.

A gust of wind hit the sails, and we felt a small shove as we picked up speed.  We angled the boat to the wind perfectly so we’d get the most speed, and my dad pulled the sails tight. The boat began to tilt while the sail captured more and more wind, so I sat beside my dad opposite to the sail to even it all out. We strapped our feet to a belt along the side of the hull, like a seat belt for our feet. We leaned back over the side of the boat to level it out even more. Our bodies became horizontal extensions to it with nothing but our feet still attached. Our cheeks rippled in the wind, and our mouths felt cool as the wind rushed inside. My heart was racing as my abs tightened from leaning over so far for so long. Hiking, as it’s called, gives a nice adrenaline rush and excites me a lot. It’s always a fun time.

I inched my feet out of the belt to lean as far as I could until only my toes strapped me to the boat. The splashing water from waves pulled at my hair. Suddenly, the gust of wind passed and the boat slanted toward me, plunging me into the water, head-first. I was forced into a backflip while I clenched my eyes shut to keep them free from salt. I heard the swooshing of the splash I had made from falling in become muffled as my ears dove under the surface. I instantly smelled the salt from the water as it rushed up my nose and tasted it soon thereafter. Disorientation overcame me, I was spinning around trying to swim up.  As I rose from the water and wiped my eyes, I struggled to see through my soaked glasses that managed to stay on my face throughout. The boat was turning around to come pick me up. My dad worried for my safety when he saw, the awkward way in which I had fallen out of the boat. However, I could see him in the distance cracking up like a drunken sailor.