Drive Like a Duchess

Drive like a Duchess with an entourage. The words appear in my brain as I’m taking the inaugural trip with my Tiny House on Wheels. I’ve had one lesson in towing from a kind employee of the RV seller, and now I’m on my own.

Cannot speed with a travel trailer, even a cute silver-and-yellow one. Besides, the brand-new SUV I’ve hitched it to is not a sportscar. After I drive away from Eugene, Oregon, I carefully pull into a rural grocery store parking lot and find space in the back. Whew. Parked. First time. I am hyper-alert to every sound, smell, feeling, and visual, as is my wont in new situations. It’s exhausting, but that’s how I’m wired.

I buy myself a Mexican dinner and flowers — my first home! It’s August 2017.

Now in my second home — sailboat Habibi — the advice still holds, so mostly I drive like a Duchess: slowly, calmly, sometimes proudly. I’m doing it! But Anxiety is a constant companion, hyper-alert to this new environment and experience.

I’ve been out of the crowded marina for five weeks, practicing sailing and anchoring. But I am daydreaming about running water, laundry, showers, and copious food. Before entering a marina again, I play with the engine for a couple of hours — forward, throttle, idle, neutral; reverse, throttle, idle, neutral. I must learn how to stop when I want to stop. I must control this 37-foot fiberglass longboard in order to dock safely. In reverse, Habibi kicks to starboard, and I want to learn how to compensate for this so-called prop-walk. And I want to get it “right.” Oh, perfectionism. Will you ever leave me?

Enough. I enter the channel on a rising tide. The marina doesn’t answer my hail. No matter, there’s a white-shirted guard. “¡Diesel o muelle?” he calls. 

“¡Muelle!” I yell. I want to dock.

The radio crackles to life, and I’m directed to Dock A. Where the hell is Dock A? Oh, just passed it. Heckamo. I have to turn around. Good thing I practiced. But now there are other boats — an awning’d water taxi crossing the channel, a fishing panga zooming up, powerboats and trimarans in nearby slips. And it is our first time in this marina. Hyper-alert.

Drive like a Duchess with an entourage! screams Panic. Do not hit anything! I remember to breathe.

Fortunately, four folks are now at the end of the dock where I’m supposed to park. An end-tie, so no need to maneuver Habibi into a narrow space. But the wind picks up, she kicks to starboard and floats away before they can grab the lines. Take two … four — I persevere. Time slows.  

Finally, a man directs me straight ahead, as if to T-bone the dock. For some reason, I trust him, and when I approach — so close! — they push Habibi around to the right so she’s parallel. My brain is mush. Yikes, most of the fenders are on the wrong side. Once I’m certain we’re not crashing, I rapidly untie them, then race to the other side to protect the portside hull. Cannot remember a single knot. Not one. Okay, granny knot. Done, Granny Captain.

Once we’re secure, I hug everyone. I give the two employees many pesos. I’m over the legal limit of cortisol, body shaking. It will be many hours before I can relax. My inner critic is having a field day: Worst docking ever! You’re not a sailor! You’re not a captain! What the hell were you thinking, buying a boat?! 

But something interesting happens during the onslaught of contempt. My inner Capitana disagrees. Habibi is unhurt. The other boats are unhurt. No one fell in the water. You didn’t run over anyone or anything. This is just another learning experience. You have plenty of time to practice. There is no disaster, no catastrophe. You are safe. Everyone is safe.

Eventually I believe her.