Going are the sails... Chapter 3

There is something magical about the east coast of
Singapore. One feels like it is a gateway to something
grander and more beautiful beyond the horizon. If I
did not know the strait leads to South China Sea, I
would have thought it leads to another world, where
the sky is azure blue and the seas glimmer with
dancing light of multiple hues. Not everyday though
feels like paradise. Each day brings a different sea
reflecting a different sky. The morning, noon, and
evening evoke different emotions.So does each mood of
the sea attracts each type of sailor.

I first met Mr Foo, a bespectacled elderly man, during
the early hours of a Sunday morning. This tanned
Chinese man wears a frayed cap and can be found
rigging his boat alone when the beach is quieter. He
would mind his own things, setting everything in
orderly fashion-the mark of an experienced sailor. If
you greet him from a distance, he might ignore you as
your voice is too soft for his hearing aid to amplify.
I used to worry about him whenever a pouring
thunderstorm crept over east coast. I would scan the
sea for the black-colored hull of his dinghy. But the
lifeguards never broke a sweat over him. Din once
remarked that Mr Foo is a smart sailor and would be on
shore before bad weather comes. True indeed, this wily
man told me he was enjoying hot coffee with his
sailing mate in a beach stall on that day of mad
weather. Like any sensible sailor, Mr Foo would never
take the challenge of bad-tempered seas. He prefers to
wait for the tantrums of foul weather to abate and
sail on its gentle breeze.

Yet, I prefer darkened skies and howling winds. The
tumultuous sea that flails its arms over my puny boat
delights me. It is a secret delight of challenging
myself to think calmly during stressful dangerous
situations. The delight of making calculated moves, of
focusing my mind on the adjustments of rope, rudder,
and body weight against the might of the wind on the
stretched sail, as I hover over the rowdy sea. These
are moments when you find the true equanimity of your
spirit. These moments you remember because they make
you smile quietly when you recall them on land.

When the sky unleashes its fury on the waters below
with fierce winds that send tall waves crashing on the
shore, no one dare venture out except a few. Catching
the might of nature in your sail and riding its breath
that send you skidding across the waves at high speeds
is an indescribable thrill of the windsurfer. There is
an elation of spirit that erases memory. The thrilled
windsurfer forgets himself, what work he does, where
he stays, his past and even has to take minutes to
recall his own name, for that thrilling moment is
almost transcendent. You can feel your feet slide
across the sea and you have wings to fly over it. You
manage to find a way to bridle the wild wind so all
you care is to maintain the hold on the boom of your
sail till your hands blister. You will even forget
that you have to eat and drink. And that is how Norman
would windsurf for hours until complete exhaustion. He
got his tone up body from that “kick” and Sharif hopes
to trim his paunch in that manner too. Sharif receives
phone calls from Norman whenever the prospects of
windy weather are good. He will then abandon his nasi
padang business to good hands and careen down to the
beach, all the way from River Valley Road.

Hence, you will see this blonde curly-haired Dutch,
Norman, chatting away on the beach with Ben, Loh,
Sharif, TC, June and the rest of the thrill-seeking
windsurfers, when the big white flag on the pipeline
is flapping nicely but not tautly. Windsurfers who had
ridden strong gales get stirred only when the trees
are plucked bald by the wind. And there were such
days, like 9/6/2005, when the waves rolled on the
shores at heights of 1.5 metres because the wind was
mad. It was a fascination to watch how petite June
could handle a towering huge sail as she sped beyond
the farthest buoy. She said it was all technique but I
think it takes more than that.


-adam