(circa 1972)

“Bii-iiii-iiiillll!” the single syllable name somehow stretched into three, “We have to go get him…!” My mom wants to come get me.

“Well Carroll, first I need to get the boat back up… My hands are a little full right now…”

I am laying on my back and I am wet and I am all bulked up with some weird puffy jacket that they make me wear sometimes. I am four years old. Or maybe three. I think that they are fighting.

“What am I supposed to do, I’m all strapped in… I need to go get him” my mom says plaintively.

We are on the “hobbycat”. It’s a sailboat. My dad always seems mad at the hobbycat. Sometimes my dad gets mad when we drive the car too, but not like the hobbycat. It runs on the water and it’s blue and I like it because my sister is not allowed and it goes really fast. I don’t know where my sister is.

Blue is my favorite color, I like to go fast.

Today we brought the hobbycat behind the car and my dad drove it down into the water and almost drove the car into the water.

It leans though. I don’t like it when it leans. Also I don’t like this jacket, they only make me wear it on the hobbycat.

When it leans a lot my dad gets really mad and my mom screams.

Just now we were going really fast it was leaning really far and then it tipped over and now I’m laying on my back and it’s wet. And my dad is really mad.

“Fine, Carroll, you hold the halliard and I’ll go get him…”

Amongst my earliest lucid memories, sailing or more correctly capsizing the family catamaran, (a blue 16’ Hobie Cat) in Marina del Rey. This particular gusty day, I was laying on the mainsail on my back in a stiflingly huge life preserver after the boat capsized. My parents were arguing about whether they should unstrap from their harness and come get me or right the catamaran first.