From Skewed to Smooth Sailing

Roger (helpfully): Hey, do you see those kayakers at one o’clock?

Julie (snarling): Yes, I see them!

My husband and I love sailing. Our first boat was a little 25’ trailerable MacGregor. Yes, you read that right--we hauled a sailboat on a trailer back and forth from our home to Long Beach, California, more than an hour each way.

After selling that boat with its tiny, cramped cabin, we timeshared a more substantial sailboat. The owner was meticulous in his requirements for using his boat. Fine with us—we were just happy to be on a nice boat. Besides, he gave us sailing lessons to ensure we would take good care of his boat.

Finally, we bought our own Wandering Spirit, a 36’ Islander that we thought we just might live aboard someday. We dreamed of sailing through the Panama Canal into the Caribbean.

Wandering Spirit

So we had a lot invested in this boat: ambitions, fun, and experience. Even “dock days” were special, when all we did was repair, repurpose, and remodel—and eat sushi—without casting off any lines.

But one thing we hadn’t yet learned: how to relate well as captain and first mate (you figure out which of us was which). Maybe you’ve seen those pillows that say, “Sorry for what I said while backing up the trailer”? Our pillow would have said, “Sorry for what I said when we were docking the boat.”

Nearly every trip, some yelling happened. Sometimes it was important yelling (“There’s a rock! Go to port!). Sometimes we struggled to use appropriate sailing language—it’s not a “rope,” it’s a “line” or a “sheet.” Especially in urgent situations, it's important to use the right words or you might end up winding the jib sheet around a cleat instead of a winch and be unable to tack (there—can you tell I'm a seasoned sailor?).

But too often we indulged in frustrated yelling—at each other.

So what helped us shift from yelling to calm dialogue?

We had a strained discussion (called a “disgustion" in the Greenwalt household). I’m not going to speak for Roger, but what I discovered was a distorted narrative.

Say I’m steering the boat through the harbor. Roger might want to alert me to a potential obstacle: “Hey, do you see those kayakers at one o’clock?” The story in my head develops in a nanosecond and goes something like this: “He thinks I don’t know what I’m doing.” And that sets me off, because I’m a perfectionist, so of course I know as much about steering a boat and the rules of the water as he does--probably more! How dare he try to direct me like that? You can imagine my tone when I respond, “YES, I see them. Can’t you tell I’m turning away from them?”

During that agonizing debrief, I finally admitted the truth: his questions made me feel incompetent. Of course, that wasn’t his intent, so I had a choice to make: I could trust his motive was to keep us safe and not call me incompetent, or I could continue believing he didn’t trust my boat-handling abilities.

I like to think I’m a reasonable person, but as we all know, emotions can morph reason into muddy thinking. When I decided to trust Roger’s motive and leave emotions out of it, together we came up with a simple new practice. From that moment, our conversations sounded like this:

Roger: Hey, do you see those kayakers at one o’clock?

Julie: Thanks, I see them.

That’s it. No matter how I felt about his tone or word choice, I agreed to always say “Thank you.” Any discussion about competency could happen later. Somehow, that simple script change helped me remain calm and unruffled.

Have you been telling yourself a skewed story? One that generates an alternate reality, and maybe instigates a relationship break? Checking that story with my husband helped me reframe my narrative—maybe you have a friend who can help you do the same. We all benefit from self-narrative adjustments at times. It makes a sailing day so much more enjoyable.