“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” -Mary Oliver

When I was a kid, we used to go to a waterpark near our house that had one of those log rides. It’s half rollercoaster, half lazy river, and it ends with a big splash that leaves everyone in the log-shaped car soaking wet. Sailing upwind in 25+ knots of breeze is a lot like experiencing that final drop over and over again for three hours. 

When I tell people that I’ll be spending my summer vacation sailing, I know what they picture: me, in a bikini, working on my tan while we sail romantically around Lake Erie under happily luffing white sails. What they don’t picture is me, in head-to-toe foul weather gear, soaked to the bone with braids dripping, looking remarkably like a cat who was just dunked in a bathtub. 

Sailing is almost exclusively what some call “Type II Fun”. I can’t remember where I first encountered this categorization method, but its truth has been helpful in contextualizing the intense and often unpleasant experiences that bring me such paradoxical joy. One definition, found on the REI website describes the three types of fun as such:

Type I Fun — Enjoyable while it’s happening. Also known as, simply, fun.
Type II Fun — Miserable while it’s happening, but fun in retrospect.
Type III Fun — Not fun at all. Not even in retrospect.

Balancing on the fiberglass edge of a sailboat with legs hanging over the side, hiking out over the thin wire lifeline while being repeatedly doused by rolling waves of angry lakewater is not fun. It’s even less fun when after two hours of this, the wind and water combine to induce shivering that makes it difficult to complete the spinnaker hookups at the jibe mark. And yet, when the downwind leg finally stretches towards Buffalo, and the fleet is small in the distance, and the final horn blasts from the committee boat, ecstasy is the only word. 

Skiing is much the same. There are nights of patrolling where we are so busy that my base layers are soaked through with sweat from hauling toboggans and lifting patients and pulling signs and I question why I volunteer my time to do it each week. And yet, when the mountain is quiet, and final sweep is done, and I slip each foot from its stiff boot, there is a deep and peaceful satisfaction that quiets my quaking and fills my soul. 

Hunting, hiking, barn chores, even a good workout—all the same: Type II Fun. 

In my own life, and maybe because of my particularly intense disposition, I find Type II Fun to be the most personally fulfilling and the most valuable to my mental and spiritual health. Willingly and patiently enduring discomfort is a valuable practice. By committing to regular experiences of strenuous fun, we can build trust that in other areas, where the payoff may be less immediate, we will eventually see good fruits from our toil. The nausea, exhaustion, and stress that I feel for a few hours every Wednesday night lead directly to an icy rum, a spectacular sunset, and the deeply satisfying camaraderie of a team that chooses togetherness in the discomfort and in the joy. 

Last week our crew covered 240 miles criss-crossing Lake Erie, with over 114 of those logged as racing miles. Our earliest boat call was 4:45, while our most civilized muster was a leisurely 8:30. Our first morning of “racing” turned into several hours of bobbing through the fog before the race was abandoned for a motor crossing to Port Dover. Our second day brought more light air but welcome sunshine as we worked around the long legs of our course in Long Point Bay. On Monday morning we made the long reach along the Canadian shoreline to Port Dover, outrunning an ominous cloud bank for several hours before it shrouded us in a miserable, soaking rain that lasted through the rest of evening, making it impossible to dry ourselves or our gear. At the end of racing we quietly ate our soggy cold cuts on rye and tried to mop up as much water as we could from the floor in the cabin. That night I called my parents and tried to make it sound like I was having fun, when I really just wanted a dry place to sleep and a few moments to myself. 

The next morning we donned our wet gear for another long day that took us out into the middle of the lake before making a big left turn towards Buffalo. The upwind leg was punishing and cold, but we had a great race and feasted on roast beef sandwiches and chicken wings when we docked at our home club. The last day of racing was a tough one for us and we lost our first place standing, which stings after literally living and breathing sailing for five days. It’s painful to work so hard only to slip at the end, but isn’t that just life? The gift isn’t all in the victory, it’s mostly in the striving. 

And so another Erie-Dover comes to a close, and life churns back towards office work and grocery shopping and cleaning the bathroom. Even still, these small tasks of everyday monotony have Type II potential. Is there anything better than conquering a big project at work, or filling fridge and pantry with delicious meals or a clean shower first thing in the morning? It’s no fun to get there, but gosh it’s worth the work. The only alternative is to live a life so small that we avoid the discomfort of work, and with it, all meaningful joy. Our self-preserving bent towards inertia will convince us that this is the way, but I’ve been on a sailboat with a bunch of soaking, exhausted shipmates when we open the rum, and I’ll take that kind of magic over warm, dry comfort any day of the week. 

7 Comments

  1. Carol Ann Gleason

    I so enjoyed your writing. I could relate and I found myself enjoying and reliving my past sailing and skiing days.

    Reply
    • Ansley Kelly

      I’m so glad you enjoyed it! That’s the whole reason I write ☺️ I hope you have a wonderful holiday!

      Reply
  2. Bob Adler

    So Ansley, I just completed my 26th ED race and I found your insights on. the experience spot on. I was born not far from Port Dover and to say it is one of my favorite places is an understatement – we celebrated my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary at the Erie Beach Hotel in the 1970s – they were born in Germany in the late 1800s, we ate perch throughout my childhood and it is still my favorite meal.
    I loved your insights as to sport – one of my current favorite movies is “Sea Gypsies” available on Amazon Prime – where the narrator says “when everything goes wrong – then adventure begins”. My pics for this year’s race is on Facebook. Thanks for sharing.

    Reply
    • Ansley Kelly

      Wow—That’s a lot of racing! Thank you for sharing that experience and for your wonderful photos! I’ll see you out on the water ☺️

      Reply
  3. Dean D. Ziegler

    Ansley, the fruits borne of your striving are evident to those of us who have known you. I’ve read your prose these past years and watched you develop into as fine a writer as you are sailor, skier, and seeker of the highest and best. I read somewhere a line that has stayed with me to this day: “She possessed a faith that could not be shaken, because it resulted from having been shaken.” That woman is you!

    Reply
  4. Tom Jackson

    What a delight to read a beautifully written piece like this from a young person. There are lots of crusty old sailors who know about Type II fun, but not so many your age. There is nothing like offshore racing. Thank you for sharing this with us. BTW there is also Type 2.5 Fun: Challenging, mostly miserable, more than a little frightening, long lasting – but great to brag about later.

    Reply
  5. john

    As my father once said while racing a dinghy in the pouring rain in Hamilton Harbour: “Has it stopped raining or have we just gotten used to it”.

    Sounds very much like your adventure – keep doing it.

    Reply

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