Sailing

1980 was a weird year.   I was thirteen, Dan was 11, going on 12.   We had a summertime timeshare at Sweetwater resort at Bear Lake, Utah, which I am certain our Grandpa had financed.  Dad had a hobie cat and had learned to sail.  I had used my personal progress to learn to fish and had already experienced some miracles with my own developing gifts over the past year.

That hobie cat was AWESOME!  Dad would take us out into the wind and blue, and we would all just get lost between the mountains and the endless silver of the sky and the deep blue water of bear lake.  Mother would lose her top and we would admire her beauty.  She was hot, lying there on the mat!  We children would muse, “What if her nipples get a sunburn?”  And paroxysms of giggles would explode on the boat.  I am so fair and freckled,  I wear the highest SPF available, a hat, light long sleeves and socks in the sun.  My breasts have never seen the light of day.  Sweetwater is not the French Riviera, but out in the middle of the lake on the mat of a hobie cat, there is not a single austere Mormon of pioneer descent to disapprove, and we’ve all seen mother naked!  Oh, my Mother was so free, and bold, and beautiful! 

Dad would tack and jibe as all good sailors do, and we would cling to that mat like little rats, often ending up in the drink as the hobie tipped up dangerously on one rail, or sped through the water racing for the shore in the beautiful Utah sunsets; dark black mountains hulking behind us.

I checked every night to ensure the closet doors were all closed, and with not a little fear.  I had been doing little things to throw off the daily fears, temptations and otherworldly harassment I was plagued with most nights;  and felt pretty guilty about it.  I might fib a little to my parents.  Dad would say, “Where are you going”?  And I would tell him I was off to ride my bike, when in fact I was just going to walk across the street to dip my toes in the canal.

The “canal” was actually a mountain creek which, depending on the day of the week might be very high with the runoff from the scheduled irrigation water used by local farmers and other subscribers to the irrigation water in the benches and the valley below.  It has been used since the days of the pioneers to manage and conserve the clean water here.  You can catch trout in the canal when the water is high, and because of my American Indian heritage on Mother’s side, I was exempt from a fishing license until they changed the laws.

We had lived in the Washington, DC area a few years, but moved back to Utah.  We didn’t exactly fit in here.  We were too worldly and ahead of our peers in school.  Things had always been awkward for me in Salt Lake socially.  Now they were downright ugly. 

Music had become very important to me and Dan.  From piano and violin I loved all classical music.  I drove my parents crazy listening to the classical station on the radio after dinner.  Beethoven and Vivaldi were favorites, as well as a few operas, which no one could stand but me.  I had checked out the librettos to the Marriage of Figaro, and Lakmè and read them with utter devotion.  Our chorus class had been invited to the Salt Palace on a field trip to see a one-act  English opera called the “Telephone” which I totally loved.  My choir teacher sang with the Mo-tabs, and it was my fondest wish to join them  when I became old enough, and my voice had matured.  I was still singing a very high soprano, sans vibrato.

Beyond the classical, pop and rock were very interesting.  We spent our allowance on forty-fives, and our “playlists” were stacks of them on the record player.  This mix contained AC/DC “Back in Black”, and Van Halen “Welcome to the Good Time”, and Blondie “Rapture”, which may have been the first rap song anyone really ever liked.   Funny thing is, I still love all of them.  It may be eclectic on an iPod today, but they are all still there. 

The other day, I was listening to satellite radio, and I heard an old song that was on the “playlist” which has been missing.  Tears streamed down my cheeks as I reconnected with it, when I remembered how much my brother hated it.  He took that 45 after I had listened to it once too often, and threw it out in the back yard.  In a fit of rage, he shot it with his bb gun, and then he stomped on the shattered pieces.  It is a smooth overly romantic song which I played over and over again, Christopher Cross, “Sailing”.   It won a Grammy that year.  But I didn’t care about that.  What I cared about was how it made me feel.  For a very lonely, often frightened girl, who loved the wind and water this song was “it”.  I didn’t know it at the time, but things that were only just beginning to stir in me, the very things described in this music would continue to gather power.  I already loved wind and water, because they activated all that Chi.  They still do.  Many of my Christian friends have never accepted concepts like Chi, but it is just a different perspective on the energy of your soul, and all your spiritual gifts.

Of course I downloaded it.  Hearing this song, even though it is sandwiched in with Back in Black and Rapture, reminds me that all I need is a bit of water, and a breath of air, a bit of love and intention to connect with my Maker and all that is good about me.  Makes me want to join the local sailing club and get a little pea green boat for E.  How romantic is that?