Confessions From A Sailboat Snafu Ann Miranda   © Copyright 2025 by Ann Miranda

Photo by Marshall Patterson on Unsplash

“Your other left eye,” he joked when I closed the wrong eye. I watched my siblings squint each appropriate eyeball. None of them had trouble remembering right from left. It was as natural to them as up from down.

Never one to wallow in my problems, I thrust my hand at my mom. “Which hand is this? My right or my left?”

“It’s your right hand.” She looked at me in surprise.

I stared at my little hand. It was the same hand I played ping pong with. That was how I would remember. Whenever anyone asked me to raise my right hand or my left hand, or close my left eye, I pictured that ping pong paddle and lifted the appropriate hand. I was much slower than my siblings, but nobody realized I had a problem.

That is, until Port Aransas.

My sister arranged the trip with her friend Stazia, and there were six of us that piled into Stazia’s Subaru. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t swim — that never stopped me from getting a bronzey tan at the beach.

We lounged on the beach’s gray sands, tanning our belly buttons and licking the salt spray. I waded deeper and deeper into the water, even plunging into the salty waves and letting the warm current stream over my face.

“That’s really brave. If I didn’t know how to swim, I’d never go out as far as you do,” Ellen said to me when I returned, dripping, to the shore. I smiled at her. People didn’t usually call me brave.

On our last day at the beach, Stazia said her uncle’s sailboat was at Port Aransas. He wanted to take us all sailing. Nervously I packed a bottle of water and chewing gum, memorizing all of Stazia’s methods for avoiding seasickness.

“Keep your eyes on the horizon,” she lectured.

I had no idea that seasickness was the least of my problems.

The boat was tinier than I pictured and the day windy, whipping sails and canvas flapping against the boat.

“I didn’t expect so much wind!” Stazia’s uncle shouted. “Wasn’t the best idea to take y’all out…”

Still, he offered us each a turn steering the rocking sailboat.

One by one, each girl stood at the wheel and listened to Stazia’s uncle yell, “Right, a little bit more! Now left!”

I told him that I didn’t need a turn. “That’s okay! You can go!” I said to Michelle. They insisted that I steer, just a minute. “No really, I’m fine!”

Finally, I gave in. The wind was whipping us back and forth like a bucking bronco. Another sailboat pitched too close to starboard — or was it port? I leaped forward, my Converse shoes slipping on the plastic. Finally I grabbed the wheel, which he fancily called “the helm.”

“Hold it here and here,” her uncle arranged my fingers on the spokes.

I grasped the spokes like ladder rungs, pitching forward as the boat rolled. What if I fell over the side of the boat? Stazia’s uncle didn’t look fit enough to rescue me.

“You girls all know how to swim, right?” He turned and cast an eye over all of us.

“I don’t!” I yelled, losing my shyness. I didn’t care if he laughed at me, I just didn’t want to die.

“I’m not the best swimmer either,” my sister shrieked over the wind.

“If the boat capsizes, I’ll know who to save,” her uncle responded. His lips were tight. I looked at Stazia. She wasn’t smiling — was he joking?

“Turn RIGHT!” her uncle bellowed. I pictured my ping pong paddle and pulled the wheel. My sister’s face was white. Ellen was gripping the ropes tightly. Why did she look so scared? She was a paramedic. It was just a sailb—

“Left! Left! Left!” yelled Stazia’s uncle. I gripped the wheel tighter, closing my eyes. Which hand did I NOT play ping pong with? My brain blanked out, and suddenly all I could see was a ping pong ball tattooed on my eyelids. The wheel jerked in my fingers. When I opened my eyes, her uncle had grabbed the wheel and yanked it.

The sailboat pitched violently and the side of the boat veered at the water. Bubbles splashed Ellen’s shoes.

“Why didn’t you TELL ME YOU WERE DYSLEXIC?” he bellowed.

“I’m not dyslexic, it’s called right-left confusion—” I shrieked over the howl of the wind. “It’s actually common — ten percent of people have it—”

“Go sit down!” he thundered. I released the wheel and dropped to my hands and knees. Water soaked my jeans as I crept to the ropes and clung to them. The rest of the girls avoided my eyes, gripping anything on the boat as tightly as they could.

A horizon appeared, a line of boats. Stazia’s uncle gunned the engine. “I think we’re gonna be okay,” he muttered under his breath, not glancing at me.

“You did good,” Ellen said reassuringly.

Was she saying that because I had tried?

Or was she thanking me for releasing the wheel?

We tied up in the port, and Stazia’s uncle asked for volunteers to hose the boat down. I raised my hand. As I swished water down the sides of the boat, thanking God the sailboat was finally still, a sneaky grin appeared around my lips. What a story! Who cared that I almost plunged us into the watery depths of Port Aransas’ unforgiving mouth.

I’d sailed a boat all by myself!

*****

Ann Miranda is a writer and illustrator. Raised in Ohio, she enjoys writing and reflecting on the ways that our environment and hometown shape our life experiences. Her favorite genre for reading and writing is memoir, which she feels is the highest form of writing. When she isn’t writing or painting, Ann can be found birdwatching or drinking a latte at her local coffeeshop. Confessions of a Sailboat Snafu is just one of her self-depracatory stories.