Perfectly Imperfect

“I am not perfect,” wrote a friend of mine, and I responded immediately with, “You are perfect. Perfectly imperfect, just like me.” By which I mean, to hell with perfectionism. It gets in the way of Happiness, every single time. I know, because I’ve been in the grip of it for decades.

Last Sunday I decided to hoist the mainsail. I attached the blue halyard (rope) to the head of it and proceeded to winch it up. It got stuck at 20 feet. I couldn’t raise or lower it. I jiggled it with the boathook. No joy. I tugged. Nothing. I put my lenses in to better identify the problem. It was caught on the deck light. How to untangle? I spent all day trying different solutions, digging out the mildewy bosun’s chair, climbing as high as I could (not high enough, but too high for comfort). Nada. I stayed on deck, and it stayed stuck, the sail partway unfurled.

The next morning I flipped the breaker for the VHF radio. Somedays there is a Cruisers Net where yatistas check in. But not today. So, “Good morning, Puerto Escondido Fleet,” I said. “This is Habibi in the mooring field. I want a Cruisers Net today because I need help.” Sailing vessel Perspective came on and suggested I host it. So I did, which entailed running through a list: any emergencies or medical problems? vessel check in; any arrivals or departures? anybody got the weather? tides? lost or found? rides or crew? trades or swaps? and, finally, assistance? I explained my dilemma and asked for assistance. And got it.

Turns out I had attached the wrong halyard to the sail. “The green one is what you want,” said Todd. “This blue one is for the genoa.” He then tugged on the sail, which came down easily. Took him five minutes to suss out the problem and solve it. Ah, experience!

I thanked him profusely and he motored back to his boat, across the laguna. Such kindness! Contempt showed up of course, but before she got a word in, I wondered: What if there is no shame in making mistakes? Even big ones? What would it be like if I could not care what others think? 

I mulled. I pondered. Contempt wandered away, muttering about owning a sailboat. I looked at the sail and the green halyard that guides it up the mast. Obvious, now that Todd pointed it out. What if it is okay to NOT KNOW? Well, then, learning would be fun instead of an exam I’ll probably fail. I’m in México, sitting on a boat in the sea. How bad can it be? Why do I have to be perfect? Why?

No reason. And I’d rather be happy. Why not? I am the Captain. Perfectly imperfect.