Sailing,Tin,Can,first,time,sai sports Sailing a Tin Can - My first time sailing a canoe: the naïve

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It has been almost40 years since I first sailed a canoe, and now is the time to share theexperience. I’ll ask the reader to do the same when the time is right,especially if it’s a good story. Iwas with my Boy Scout troop out of Miami. We went for a canoe trip intothe 10,000 Islands area of Florida, a place where the land and seafight for preeminence over the very southern tip of the state. Wepaddled a mélange of canoes out to an island, maybe just a couple threemiles or so. We made camp on ground barely above the high water mark,scattered with coral and transient soil. Plants consisted mostly of seagrape and whatever weedy stuff grows in such inhospitable conditionsgood only for crabs, mosquitoes and the ubiquitous sand fleas. Bythat age I had pretty much reached the point where I was tooindependent to be a Scout anymore and this would prove to be my lasttrip hanging off the umbilical of a Scout Master, especially one who(in my youthfully arrogant thinking) was better off sitting in front ofthe tube watching a Dolphins game than trying to lead a hardenedoutdoorsman like myself. I had already spent many days in theEverglades and practically lived in the drained-swamp pine barrenssurrounding our southern Dade County home by then. (Within a coupleyears of this trip I would find myself held by the foot by trap inalligator-infested, chest-deep water in the Big Cypress Swamp; butthat’s another story.) Duringone of the many lulls in the camp action, I took off with the canoeassigned to me and my tent mate, a Grumman, if memory serves; aluminum,for sure. Packing a spinning rod and a mullet gig, I went in search ofadventure, and maybe some fresh fish for dinner. After sticking myselfa black mullet and baiting a hook, I settled down in the bottom of thecanoe in my usual repose: horizontal—napping. After a bit, I had astrike. Shark! It pulled hard and began swimming to deeper water with atin canoe and teenager attached. I hung on and adjusted my rod angle sothe boat would stay inline with the fish, knowing a broach would beuncalled for when a shark is on the line. He pulled.                         I pulled.He pulled harder.                         I hung on, (harder). And then the line parted, but not until after he pulled me and the canoe into open water. (Could I see Cuba from here?) How cool. I paddled back to camp with an air of success having caught, and released, a huge shark. Well, so the story went.The next day weheaded home. As we broke camp, I noted the wind was in just the rightdirection. Having sailed a little on my Uncle Carl’s boat I had alittle familiarity with the whys and wherefores of sailing. Not much,mind you, but it was that little bit of knowledge that engendered theidea—sail—don’t paddle. I convinced my tent mate (smaller than me) thatthis was the way to go. We lashed two sticks—probably two tentpoles—together, square-rigged, and tied to them an Army poncho. Welashed the mast to the forward thwart and he would have to act as thestep to keep it vertical. Withsteering paddle in hand, (now, I’d never seen this before, onlysurmised it) we left the beach, hell-bent for leather. Well, not rightaway. For awhile we sailed while others paddled ahead of us. Theylaughed. I knew better. Tentmate/mast step complained that we’d get introuble. I assured him we were being good Scouts and told him to stopbawling and just hang on. Then…we got wind…. Itwasn’t much, but we started accelerating, leaving the paddlers behind.He held on for dear life, I held onto the paddle and steered. Wow. Theflapping poncho filled and tightened as the wind picked up. The soundof water rushing over tin and rivets increased as the mast step gotlouder in his complaints. We were leaving a wake...the paddlers fellbehind. I heard not a word from Scout Master, who was probably aghastat the site of two of his young troops showing him up in such anobvious (and plainly heroic) manner. Iguess we beat the rest of the Troop by close to an hour. Tentmate wasscared we’d be in trouble and he complained about being held hostageand I reminded him he wasn’t a hostage, but Pressed, like the Britishdid to American sailors, and should be proud he was part of a grandadventure. ScoutMaster was mad we’d left the others behind and castigated me for beingirresponsible and what would have happened if we wrecked and all Icould think was he was better off living indoors with others of hiskind and he was red in the face and I was sure it was because he wasshown up by a boy not yet old enough to drive who was twice,no—thrice—the outdoorsman he’d ever be. And, that, my friends, is how I came to sail a canoe the very first time...and things haven't been right since....