Sailing school lasted two weeks – ten mornings in all. We spent nine of those days practice rowing. I dutifully went through the same exercises I had learned at Minnehooha. On the final morning, all nine of us climbed aboard the Sea Snake, a sixteen-foot sloop, and putt-putted out to the open Long Island Sound, leaving the many pleasure craft on Five Mile River behind peacefully bobbing at their moorings. Nobody but kids ever went out during the week. Besides Captain Bill and his “mate,” a nineteen-year-old boy who had obviously given up a Supreme Court summer clerking job for the adventure of the unbridled sea, the eight other young people aboard were all twelve or thirteen. My mother believed in sending me forth upon the world for experiences way before other parents thought their children were ready for them. Much later I suspected this had a lot more to do with her need for time and space than my particular need for these experiences.

“This is the tiller.” Capt. Bill thumped the wooden handle with the palm of his hand. “It attaches to the rudder.” He pointed down toward the water.

“By pushing the tiller, I can make the boat change direction.” He pushed and we swerved to starboard. Another push sent us in the opposite direction. We weren’t sailing yet, you understand. We were still underway courtesy of the small outboard motor mounted at the stern of the intrepid Sea Snake.

“This is the mast.” Capt. Bill pointed at the upright wooden pole in the middle of the boat.

“And this is the boom.” He touched a horizontal wooden bar lashed to the sides of the boat so it wouldn’t swing wildly and hit any of us.

“The sail goes up the mast and along the boom and catches the wind.”

We putt-putted toward a dock not far from the mouth of Five Mile River.

We tied up at the dock.

Capt. Bill took out a cooler. He handed out sandwiches all around and opened some Cokes and passed these around also.

“Being on the open water makes you hungry,” he told us.

We ate our sandwiches. When we had finished, the mate collected our wrappers and cans and tossed them in a trash can on the dock, then hopped back aboard and pushed us off. We putt-putted a few hundred yards from the dock and, miracle of miracles, Capt. Bill unfurled the sail and hoisted it up the mast. Then he unlashed the boom sheet (this is a line that ties onto the boom allowing you to guide the boom against the wind) and the sail puffed out to one side. The boat rolled over a bit.

“This is called heeling.” Capt. Bill told us as we all tried to sit upright while the rest of the world tilted at an increasingly uncomfortable angle.

Soon we were going at a pretty steady clip, headed straight down Five Mile River and back to our starting point. The whole trip took about an hour. We tied up at the dock and our mothers were all there waiting. In those days no mothers in our world worked. They all carted kids around all the time. Except that sometimes the maid would cart the kids around while the mothers went to “the club.”

“Bye, Captain Bill,” we sang out.

Capt. Bill waved at all of us and said he hoped to see us next summer.

I hope my mother didn’t pay much for that camp. It should have been called rowing camp.