My father entered me into a regatta over the Easter break. I was ten, maybe eleven. I remember wondering if it mattered that I hadn’t, in fact, ever sailed before. If my ineptitude was cause for concern then surely my father — who, in my qualified opinion, was certainly the best sailor on the Gippsland Lakes — would have said something. I knew how to tie a bowline knot and I had a new life jacket. I also had a boat. It was a cadet — a standard boat for Australian youth — called Windquest. I hoped it knew what to do.
I was sitting in a room with all of the other young sailors. An adult, who seemed to be in charge, was drawing the infinity symbol with a marker on a whiteboard. Apparently that was the course: infinity. The girl next to me looked up, nodded and drew the course with her finger in the air, memorising it. I had been hopeful up to this point, but now I was utterly confused. Then we left the room to get race ready. Some kids stayed back to study infinity.
We launched the boats. There was not much wind. People were so helpful on land (a kid I befriended pretty much rigged my boat up for me) but now I was alone, bobbing on open water. Flags went up and down, someone signalled at timed intervals with an air horn, boats converged, the race was imminent. The next bit happened way too slowly.
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