Today the lake was crowded with more sailboats than I’d ever seen here—sleek hulls catching the morning light, bright spinnakers billowing like scattered laundry. They were celebrating a century of sailing on these waters, a hundred years of wind and canvas and the particular joy of being pushed around by weather you can’t control.
I watched from the shore beside my own boat, her hull turned upside down where I’d left her the day before. Fresh epoxy gleamed over a crack I’d repaired, still curing in the morning air. She’s been patched so many times I’ve lost track of what’s original—fiberglass showing through faded gelcoat, her mainsail sporting three different colors of sail tape. Like her owner, she moves slower these days, creaks in new places, but still gets where she’s going.
The regatta boats moved in formation across the water, their crews calling out trim adjustments and tactical plays. Racing sailors have their own language—port and starboard become battle cries, wind shifts turn into opportunities or disasters in the span of seconds. I used to know that urgency, the way competition sharpens everything until a puff of wind becomes the most important thing in the world.
But today I was content to watch. There’s something to be said for boats that don’t need to win anything, that can take their time getting nowhere in particular. By afternoon, when the racing was done and the fleet had packed up their precision and hauled out, the lake returned to its usual quiet. A few local boats remained—fishing dinghies, a couple of kayaks, the regulars who call this place home rather than destination.
I pushed my old boat back into the water as the sun dropped toward the mountains. No trophies waiting, no committee boat timing my start. Just me and the evening wind and a boat that’s learned, like its sailor, that sometimes the best race is the one where nobody’s keeping score.