My Adventures as a Female Captain
It's still the Mad-Men era in the world of vacation boaters. PLUS: The word "brave" has come to describe anything but...
September, 2022
“Believe me my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.” ~ Ratty to Mole, from Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame
EVER SINCE I was a kid, I’ve loved messing about in boats. I spent summers in northern Ontario, Canada, canoeing, kayaking, sailing, and power-boating across dark lakes and weedy rivers. Few looked askance at a skinny, pint-sized 10-year-old commanding an outboard motorboat by herself, tying up at the town dock, and heading up the hill to buy comics, candy, and sodas at the general store. On my way back to our small cottage, I’d find secluded bogs where I could shut down the engine and float amongst lily pads and hovering dragonflies. Hours would pass as I caught up on the romantic antics of Archie and Veronica while sucking on a good supply of black ball jawbreakers from a paper bag, occasionally pausing to remove one from my mouth to check the progress of its changing color.
Fast forward to a decade ago, when I finally prevailed on my non-nautically inclined husband, David, to purchase a powerboat to use near our Canadian cottage.
For years we’d been day-renting aluminum fishing boats to take our kids to the large sand dunes that projected into mighty Lake Ontario. This, I argued, was simply not enough boat for the Great Lakes — or “grand freshwater seas” as Herman Melville called them. David enjoyed but never felt at ease boating. After the mighty pull of the starter cord on the rented outboard, he left the piloting to me and my able crew of children. As the kids grew bigger, they longed to waterski or be pulled about in a water tube. Then suddenly, the village where we rented our fishing boats closed up shop. We could no longer rent any boats to mess about in.
The day at last arrived when I met our very own boat at the village dock. It was (is) a beauty: sand-colored upholstery on the seats up front and back; a swimming platform by the powerful engine; and — so exciting! — a steering wheel for me to maneuver the boat’s 18-foot length.
But it was on this day too that I first encountered something I’d never experienced in my entire, post-Second-Wave feminist life: a Mad-Men-era attitude towards women and boats.
The trailer driver who delivered the boat stepped out of his cab and looked past the mother and 10-year-old daughter who greeted him. Once he realized I was indeed his customer, he looked uneasily around for someone else. Such as a husband. Or a male partner. Anyone, in short, who could reasonably be entrusted to unload and dock a boat.
After it became inescapably apparent that he was stuck with me, he gamely backed the trailer down the public launch until the boat floated into the shallow water. He came aboard to instruct me on the operation of our new vessel. I took it for a quick spin, then docked it in its new summer berth. When the driver left, you could see the thought bubble forming above his head: “I guess you can teach some dogs to walk backwards on their hind legs.”
Since that day, my family has enjoyed ten glorious summers of messing about in the boat. We’ve sent advance forces of teenagers ashore to claim uninhabited picnic spots, taught Labrador Retrievers to jump from the bow, waterskied, tubed, dived off the sides. At one point, we had to call the Canadian Coast Guard, when the boat’s engine failed on a heaving lake and we were washed up against a rocky island. Throughout all this I’ve been captain, and yet the attitudes of onlookers hasn’t changed.
Even amongst people we know! We’ve invited many, many friends along for outings over the years. Unfailingly someone unfamiliar with our naval hierarchy will side-eye David as we pull out from the dock, as if to say, “Are you okay with this?” A few guests have not themselves been okay with it. They - male “they” - nervously offered obvious tips as we plowed gently through still waters. “You might want to cut through the middle where the there are fewer weeds,” one suggested as I cut through the middle where there were fewer weeds.
I was never offended by this attitude, just startled. They wouldn’t question my ability to drive a car, I don’t think, not even if my husband were to sit in the passenger seat. But for some reason when a man takes the role of “First Mate” to a female “Captain,” he’s inevitably seen as emasculated. It’s a relief that David robustly doesn’t care. As he leans back into one of the upholstered benches, pops on his sunglasses, and unwraps a sandwich, he counters any skepticism with the answer, “Did Aristotle Onassis drive his own boat?”
This past summer, the two of us decided to do something more adventurous than we’d done before. We took a river journey down the St. Lawrence to the Thousand Islands, 75 nautical miles from our starting point in the town of Picton. Although our route lay along a channel protected by islands from the open waters of Lake Ontario, I was nervous about our boat’s (and my) ability to handle the voyage.
In the days leading up to our departure, I scanned digital maps, marked fueling stations, and noted marinas along the way should we have to pull in due to weather or mechanical problems. We were going to overnight in waterside motels rather than sleep on a boat that had no cabin, no toilet, and only a notional canvas roof. Every day of the month before departure was hot and sunny. Then the forecast abruptly changed to rain and thunderstorms.
Our trip had been planned around numerous family schedules, guest visits, etc. To delay would mean cancelling the adventure entirely. The morning of departure loomed gray but dry. My first mate said, “Let’s do it.”
We stored our bags under a waterproof cover in the front of the boat. I’d bought rain suits from the local hardware store, “just in case.” So off we went. The water was mercifully calm. But within a few minutes the sky began to spit.
We glanced at each other. I gunned the engine.
It was, I’d estimated, about 90 minutes to our first overnight. I was hoping we could do it without having to refuel. If we made it there, we could sit tight for a whole day waiting for the storms to pass.
Soon the sky’s spitting turned into full-on retching. It was like boating through a waterfall. Every few seconds I wiped the water away from my eyes. I mopped the windscreen with an increasingly sodden towel. David’s cheap rain suit was already ripping and blowing off him, but he stood up beside me, watching for hazards and markers.
“I think we’re going to need a bigger boat!” I yelled to him at one point.
The water remained fairly calm, thank God, with no signs of lightening, so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past…
Well, actually, finally, into the marina of our first stop. It was attached to a Marriott where we would stay the night. The rain now eased a bit. We puttered around, looking for a place to dock. We spotted an opening and got into positions for our usual routine: I guided the boat in and hooked up to the side while David leapt ashore and knotted the bow rope around a cleat.
Later, sitting in the hotel bar that overlooked the marina, we watched boat after boat glide in. Most were crewed by vacationing couples like us. Unfailingly, every vessel was captained by the man. It didn’t matter how small or large the boat. We watched one especially impressive multi-tiered cruiser execute a three-point turn in a narrow passage: at the very top, wearing a little skipper hat, was the 60-something husband navigating the wheel. Below him, his diminutive wife holding a boat hook. She was anxiously poised to leap onto the pier and somehow pull in this massive boat by herself while the man shouted commands at her from on high. It could be assumed that she’d also be responsible for fending off the cruiser from a hard landing if her husband in any way miscalculated the approach. It didn’t make a lot of sense.
Later, when David and I returned from dinner, we passed by their snugly zipped-in living space above deck. We could see her clearing up their meal by herself.
THE WEATHER GODS shone upon us after that first day, and the rest of the voyage went well. (Fun fact: Some of the earliest speedboat racing took place in the Thousand Islands where, at the turn of the last century, the American nouveau riche industrial barons snubbed by Newport society built huge mansions and even castles in the St. Lawrence River. A couple of heiresses at the time, including Clover Boldt — daughter of George C. Boldt, who built the grandest of the river’s castles — became competitive racers.) At the end of the week, as our home marina loomed back into view, David conveyed to me some nautical knowledge he’d gleaned from a recent visit with our son to the WW2 flagship, The New Jersey, now docked in Philadelphia as a floating museum.
“A flagship has two commanding officers: the captain who is in operational command of the vessel -- and the admiral who thinks grand strategic thoughts about the whole fleet.”
“Uh huh.” I was checking our boat’s position in relation to the upcoming starboard and port buoys.
“So basically, while the captain is taking charge of the flagship, steering it and so on, the admiral has to worry about the upcoming battle maneuvers, enemy positions. coordinating with central command …”
“I see.” My glance dropped to check the depth finder. Sometimes the water here appeared to get shallower but it was usually a misreading because the bottom weeds had grown much taller by August. We were good.
“I like to think that you and I have perfected a similar division of responsibilities ...”
A very large, triple-masted visiting yacht was partially obstructing the entry to our dock. This might make things tricky.
“Watch your side as I come around,” I instructed.
Gathered along the shore was the usual collection of retirees who liked to sit and watch the boats coming in and out. They made for an awkward audience if you botched your landing — which I’d done, right at the beginning of the season. We’d had friends aboard, too, so it didn’t enhance my reputation as a female captain. There was a bit of wind and current and I spun around like a top before crashing first bow then stern up against our berth. Fortunately the boat was fine but my ego was bruised. I’m sure they were thinking: See what happens when a husband lets his wife drive?
This time the boat glided into place and we tied up without incident.
“So what you’re telling me,” I said to David, now able to concentrate on what he’d been saying, “is that while I’m the captain, you’re the admiral.”
“Yes.” He was grinning.
“You worry about the big picture.”
“Yes.”
“Strategy. Movements.”
“Exactly.”
“In that case, Admiral,” I said respectfully, “would you mind deciding who is going to carry this heavy cooler to the car?”
Meanwhile, Can We Stop Abusing the Word “Brave”?
A woman is “brave” when lets her hair go gray. She is “brave” to upload a photo of herself in a bikini. She is “brave” when she goes on abusive Twitter rampages against her bosses and colleagues (as opposed to complaining about incompetent people in real life. Then you’re a Karen). She is “brave” to love herself for who she is. Meghan Markle is “brave” to trash the Royal family for not wanting to conform to her ways.
Even being patient is now considered to be an act of bravery. According to Inc. contributing editor Jeff Haden, not losing your cool is towards the top of “11 Habits of Genuinely Brave People” :
When things go poorly, giving up or making a change is often the easiest way out. It takes more courage to be patient, to believe in yourself, or to show people you believe in them. Showing patience in others also shows you care.
The other ten “brave” habits? You’re “brave enough to believe the unbelievable.” You’re “brave enough to say No.” You’re “brave enough to take an unpopular stand.” You’re “brave enough to ask for help.” You’re “brave enough to show real emotion.” You’re “brave enough to forgive.” You’re “brave enough to stay the course.” You’re “brave enough to lead with permission.” You’re “brave enough to succeed through others.” And: “You’re brave enough to say you’re sorry.”
Why does this overuse of the word “brave” bother me so much? Possibly because we are living through a time which requires — sorry Jeff! — genuine genuine female bravery. “Brave enough to take an unpopular stand” can be, I agree, an act of courage — but those who applaud the bravery of “speaking out” often have very selective standards for what is to be spoken.
Feminists who are trying to preserve the integrity of women’s sports and even abuse shelters are subject to extraordinary levels of online trolling and canceling. Academics who criticize sloppy, politicized history that would erase the gender of female heroines, such as Joan of Arc, are deemed hysterical. (In this case the Globe theater in London is launching a production called I, Joan in which the sainted lead is portrayed as non-binary and uses “they” and “them” pronouns.)
And of course this view leaves nothing left to describe women who are showing actual, astonishing bravery: from those who risk death in Afghanistan for standing up to the Taliban’s rollback of their freedoms to the female soldiers in Ukraine fighting to preserve their democracy.
I don’t wish to detract from the more ordinary struggles of those trying to overcome personal demons. We just need to restore proper adjectives. A woman comfortable in her body is “well-adjusted.” A woman who is patient with others is “considerate.” A woman who stands up for herself and what she believes in, shows “integrity.” A woman who confronts her anxieties and insecurities is “taking charge of herself.” A woman who is able to handle office politics without resorting to slash and burn social media warfare is “professional.” A woman who bounces from palaces to Californian mansions and endlessly complains about her lot in life is “insufferable.”
And so on.
What’s important is that we suddenly face genuine genuine women’s rights issues in our own country. Never in my lifetime have I witnessed such populist misogyny being rolled out across the land, whether it’s the Woke ambition to erase women as a sex or the right’s desire to deny us the most fundamental medical care*. For this we will need all hands on deck. (And yes, genuine bravery.)
*I’ve hesitated to write about the reversal of Roe v Wade, only because I’d just be re-stating what others have said. And like most Americans, male or female, I support abortion in most cases, up to a point. I’d been hopeful, in fact, that the Supreme Court decision might at last lead to some sort of popular resolution of the issue. You will never satisfy the minority life-is-sacred-from-moment-of-conception or abortion-should-be-legal-for-any-reason-right-up-to-birth sides, but you might come up with laws similar to those in Europe, where abortions are legal for any reason within a certain time frame (14 weeks in France and Spain, 18 weeks in Sweden, etc.). Beyond those limits, allowances are of course made for the health of the mother and fetus. But who would have expected how swiftly women who miscarry would no longer have access to D&Cs for their self-aborted children or when a 10-year-old rape victim would be forced to cross a border to have an abortion? Naive of me to have expected otherwise?
Long ago, there was another Duke who quit the Royal family to spend his life with an American divorcée. They were subsequently no less resentful or publicly complaining about their soon-to-be-regretted decision— but give Harry and Meghan this, they haven’t supported a fascist regime.
The outcast, desperate to impress his wife, actively conspired with the Nazis and even entertained the idea of returning to power, his beloved by his side, as the Nazi-backed puppet king. The book is full of jaw-dropping revelations about the couple’s traitorous machinations, dodgy friends, shady finances & sexual weirdness. But Lownie is a meticulous & responsible researcher —so the revelations compel belief. What could be better? What’s better (or at least as good) is Lownie’s other book on another famous royal couple—The Mountbattens: The Lives and Loves of Dickie and Edwina Mountbatten. They are more accomplished and sympathetic than Wallace and Edward. But Lownie is too conscientious to hold anything back. And oh boy.
From our summer issue about “Karens,” the delightful Helen Pluckrose — author and Editor-in-Chief of Areo — offered this observation from her British viewpoint:
Ha! One thing I find very amusing is that this is so culturally specific. By this definition, there aren't a lot of Karens in England. I have just been reading Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behavior, by Kate Fox, which goes into detail about our dread of making a scene. Our national stereotype would be A on all of those except the one which involves asking a stranger to hold our place in a queue, something that most Brits would rather die than do. Fox correctly points out that the only time it is acceptable to ask someone to hold your place in a queue is if you are queueing for hours or even days for a concert or something and even then you have to be as quick as possible and apologize extremely effusively. One of her rules of Britishness is moaning a lot but never to the people who could actually do something about it. i.e the manager. To them, we have to pretend everything is fine. The Twitter account @SoVeryBritish points out the same thing.
Those of us in London sometimes see these American visitors who try to resolve problems of bad service by speaking to the people in charge of the service and pointing out to them that it is bad and we are filled with a mixture of admiration and horror while pretending not to see them.
This extremely counterproductive politeness and horror of making any kind of scene applies to about 95% of British interaction. At this point, I would like to apologize to the rest of the world for our football (soccer) fans.
Helen, Canadians are culturally similar. Virtually all the American friends who have visited us in Canada always exclaim, “Canadians are so nice!” And I always reply, “We’re not nice, just passive aggressive.” You don’t want to know what a Canadian is thinking of you when you queue-jump but let’s just say it’s a good thing we don’t have the same lax gun laws as the U.S. ~DC
I hope everyone had a wonderful summer! It’s lovely to be back. Look forward to seeing you again next month.
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