Growing up, I was a lucky lad. I rode my bike.
I hit, chased, and caught a ball on grassy playing fields. Then one day in 1961, when I was eight years old, my dad – an aeronautical engineer, a former U.S. Air Force navigator of a B-17 Flying Fortress, and a WWII prisoner of war in Germany – brought home a 14-foot fibreglass sloop. I didn’t know what to make of it. A boat?
Soon we were out on our first sail, my dad, mom, and older brother and I seated on the windward side in an 18-knot sea breeze. I had the jibsheet in my hand, my dad had a grip on the mainsheet. “Now we are going to tack,” he announced. We, the crew, exchanged glances and…