The Flying Dutchman

I just wanted to enjoy my spring break on the beach – watching the girls strut. I wasn't looking for adventure, just fun. So how did I end up in this situation?

The Flying Dutchman was a racing boat. It belongs on water bigger than Vaseau Lake. But Vaseau Lake is where Jeff brought his family since their oldest child, now 26 years old, was born.

As often as he could, Jeff took the Flying Dutchman out on the narrow lake. The wind blew enough to have the Dutchman soar back and forth from shore to shore. However, the wind seldom blew enough to have Jeff or a family member strap into the trapeze which counterweighed the force of the wind in the tall sails.

This was the perfect day for sailing. Jeff and his fifteen year old son, Gord, wanted video of the Flying Dutchman in action. The sky was grey, the north wind swooshed down the Okanagan Valley. Rare whitecaps churned on the tiny lake.

Jeff commissioned me to man the oars of the rowboat, and gave Peter the camera. The two vessels slipped into the cauldron of Vaseau Lake.

The Flying Dutchman, with two experienced sailors, crossed the skinny lake in minutes. The rowboat, on the other hand, had a less than powerful energy source – me. I struggled to even leave the dock. My young body urged the tiny craft to the middle of the lake for some action shots.

Gord manned the till and watched the sails. His 55 year old greybeard dad strapped into the trapeze. They sailed within inches of the unsteady rowboat at the speed of a semi coming down from the peak of the Rogers Pass. Peter got some great shots. Another near miss and the Flying Dutchman was on its way to the other side of the lake. More spectacular video.

On the third pass, the Dutchman aimed straight at us. Just as Gord tried to steer around us, a gust of wind pushed the racing craft closer to our path. In a last evasive move Gord kept the speeding hull from cutting us in half. But Jeff wasn't so lucky. The boat missed us, but Jeff did not. His back hit the rowboat and he flew from the Flying Dutchman and splashed into the choppy soup. Peter and I sat in the swamped rowboat but I kept it upright. The Flying Dutchman flipped upside down, mast pointing to the bottom. Peter kept the video rolling.

We surveyed the damage. Peter, and I, and the rowboat, all in one piece. Jeff gave the OK sign as he bobbed in the whitecaps. Gord finally surfaced. He was concerned the mast might sink to the bottom and secured it.

Peter stopped the camera and dived in to help get Jeff to shore. Gord righted the sailboat and paddled to the nearest shore. I sat alone in the middle of the lake with the rowboat and the camera and the strongest wind that Vaseau Lake had seen in years.

With every pull of the oars, I fell back a few inches. When I stopped rowing, I lost a yard. I drifted further from my destination. The waves licked at the bow, but did not threaten to swamp the tiny vessel. I was spent. I couldn't get home this way.

I rowed crosswind to the shore. Then I got out and waded along the shoreline with the rowboat in tow back the two miles to the dock. By that time everyone was safe at home.

Everyone loved the movie. The near misses looked spectacular. The hit looked like a disaster movie. Boat, water, sky, splashes, bobbing bodies. Everything in full view.

I returned to lounging on the beach, continuing my original spring break plan. I was conveniently absent whenever the topic of sailing came up.