I grit my teeth and sharply turn left, jamming the rudder ten degrees to the port side. The numbers continue to scroll right.
Maybe no one will notice. My fingers strum the helm as I consider bringing the rudder to fifteen degrees. The mains'l begins to luff.
"Shhhh!" I jerk my head upwards and glare at the sail. And of course, this is the moment the mate decides to emerge from the doghouse.
"Mark your head?" she asks me.
"Uhhh two nine zero but I was just at two seven five a moment ago and I'm trying to get back there." Obviously the coy numbered sphere bobbing in a glass dome of water is culpable yet somehow the blame is always put on the helmsperson with a tiny portion set aside for finicky winds and currents.
The compass, suspended in liquid to account for the boat's constant motion, turns its body to face magnetic North. A thin, white, cylindrical magnetic strip sticks up from the spinning black hole, remaining constantly firm in the middle of the doghouse doorway and determining the gravity of my errors. The numbers she reads are not even entirely reliable, since I have to convert from magnetic to true North before I plot our dead reckoning position on a chart. Still though, I stare at her unblinkingly for the allotted hour until I, relieved, am relieved.
The mate stands beside me and tries to give me tips, ones I have heard many times before. Wait twenty seconds before correcting again. Do not correct more than five degrees. Watch the bowsprit, mainmast, wind, current, JT sheet, birds, clouds, wave bubbles. Begin steering the other direction before the boat is done turning. Let Cramer steer herself. See what direction the boat is leaning and put the rudder a bit in the other direction to even out the course.
But the moments in which I am steadily on course are not due to these tactics but simply because the compass has decided to be generous. She taunts me, making me feel like I have finally mastered the helm and staying on course for just enough time for me to think it is safe to drink some water or adjust my ponytail. Then without warning I am off course and frantically pleading.
What a conniving little bitch! I have done nothing to deserve this.
Helmsperson is the position of most obvious power on the boat. The fate of our direction relies on the innocent helmsperson and this small object, which travels from 000 to 360, glorified on its own pedestal. I loathe its tick-marked, white numbers and the triangles that signify the direction points. I loathe the way it dances mockingly before me. I loathe its minion of luffing sails, banging sheets, clanging jiggers, screaming winds and boisterous currents. Even after eighteen years living in Brooklyn, I have never encountered a more terrifyingly powerful gang.
Before embarking on the SSV Corwith Cramer I joked that there was a strong chance I would be responsible for the boat hitting an iceberg. "But you're sailing in the Caribbean," my friends would remark. "There is no ice there."
"Exactly," I would respond.
Now that I am finally sailing, it is no longer a joke. If we were to end up in freezing waters, I would not be surprised. And it would all be the compass's fault.
But I was just at two seven five. I promise!
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