Kathleen's Blog

I did something today that feels… wildly off brand.

I am not a “boat person.” I like boats in theory. I like boats in photos. I like boats when I am not on them. Because boats and I have a complicated relationship — mostly centered around me getting seasick and dramatically reconsidering every choice that led me there.

But today, I spent six hours on a sailboat. Not a motorboat. Not a “we press a button and go fast and snacks are stable” situation. An actual, honest-to-goodness sailboat. A wind-powered, tilting-at-angles-that-feel-illegal sailboat. The kind where people casually bark words like “tack,” throw ropes, crank winches, yell “duck” — and suddenly you are questioning both your life choices and your relationship with gravity.

We also need to talk about heeling. Heeling is a charming sailing term for “everything you love is now sliding aggressively to one side.” At one point I was at a 45-degree angle, gripping a rail, making direct eye contact with the ocean like it was presenting a timeshare opportunity I did not ask for.

We were out there to watch my husband and a crew of seven launch their boat at the start line of the Newport to Ensenada Yacht Race — which, small detail, he did not know how to sail a year ago. A year. Twelve months ago, this man was firmly land-locked like the rest of us, and now he is confidently participating in overnight yacht races like he has been narrating sailing documentaries his whole life. Character development. Unhinged, impressive character development.

Meanwhile, I am on the boat like:
“Is this normal?”
“Are we supposed to be leaning this much?”
“Why is the floor now a wall?”
“Is the waiver implied, or…?”

Boats and I have a long-standing agreement: I admire them from a distance; they do not try to take me out. That agreement was broken today.

And yes — because the universe has a sense of humor — I did get seasick.

However. And this is critical. I was not the most seasick person on the boat. I will take that quiet victory, frame it, and display it prominently in my home.

I hovered in the “mildly green but still capable of conversation” zone, which is a massive upgrade from my usual “I will simply pass away here, please tell my family I loved them” level. I even convinced myself I was fine at one point — which is the kind of magnificent self-deception only available after four hours in open water.

Meanwhile, actual sailors were just out there… thriving. Eating snacks. Moving freely. Using both hands. Zero dramatic internal monologues. Not a single existential conversation with the horizon. Genuinely cannot relate.

But as I am watching sails go up, boats dart past, and my husband fully committed to this whole new identity — and honestly? It was amazing. Slightly nauseating, mildly terrifying, occasionally beautiful. Even when your body is filing a formal complaint against the entire experience.

Would I do it again?

Let’s not spiral.

Would I consider it under very controlled conditions — snacks, medication, a firm exit strategy, and a notarized promise from the ocean to behave?

…maybe.

For now, I am back on land, walking in straight lines like a champion, deeply appreciating floors that stay horizontal, and quietly marveling at how I married into a sport that requires this much commitment.

Proud of him. Truly.

Somewhere out there right now, Jay and all the boats are absolutely sending it through the night toward Ensenada—navigating in the dark like seasoned pros, reading wind, stars, instruments… or just having the kind of confidence that says “we’ve got this” and somehow actually meaning it. They’re expected in around 6am, which means he will have spent the entire night on the open ocean doing real, legitimate sailing things while I was home in a bed that remains impressively horizontal at all times.

And honestly? It’s pretty incredible. A year ago, this wasn’t even on the radar—and now he’s out there grinding through the night like it’s just another Friday, chasing a finish line in a different country. So yes, keep Jay in your thoughts—but more in a “this is wildly impressive” kind of way. He’s going to roll into Ensenada at sunrise looking like a slightly sleep-deprived, salt-covered legend who just did something most of us wouldn’t even attempt, and I’ll be here, well-rested, very proud, and still claiming a small but meaningful amount of credit for moral support and my brief but heroic appearance at the starting line.