In 2014 I was dating an intriguing young woman in Orange County, California. She was privileged (though unacknowledged), highly opinionated and a nymphomaniac. It was an interesting relationship – generally enjoyable and easy going.

Eventually however, an unfortunate rift developed between us. As it turns out, my idea of a relationship was a monogamous partnership, while her ideas were slightly more liberal. You see her approach to sex was much like our government’s approach to religion: ideologically secular but practically intertwined.

In spite of this, we persisted – and as things go she eventually wanted to introduce me to her friends. The girl, we’ll call her Edy (because that was her name), brought me to Long Beach to meet this rag-tag bunch.

The group consisted of three men who were all in a band together (Bob, Bill and Matt), Mary who was in her 40’s and Stefan who was probably in his late 40’s. Stefan was in a relationship with Mary and had terminal cancer.

Born in Sweden, Stefan grew up a diehard sailor. In his younger years he lived and breathed sailboats. At one time he had rented the molds for a 30-something foot hull and built his own racing sailboat, from the bottom of the keel to the top of the mast. Even more impressive than him having started this project, was that he actually finished it! He was by all accounts a remarkable man.

As soon as I met Stefan we began talking sailboats. This was when sailing to me was a mere cursory interest. I enjoyed the idea of it but had yet to initiate the reality.

The bond Stefan and I developed became founded in this. For him, sailing was a past that grew dimmer and dimmer each day as the memories were ravaged from his consciousness by both time and tumor. For me, it was a future that grew brighter with each passing day bringing me closer to sailboat ownership and life on the water.

The first day I ever truly sailed was the last day Stefan did. I rented a boat in Newport harbor and the whole gang came along. All except Edy that is.

One night Edy came to my house and offered an ultimatum: if I could not be having more sex with her always (specifically by neglecting my business), then I would need to accept that she would be having sex with other men. And if that did not work, then we must concede the relationship had run it’s course. I chose the latter, and from that night forward I never saw Edy again.

Back to Newport. The demise of my relationship with Edy had no ill-effect on my friendships with Stefan and the gang. I was eager to learn to sail myself, and likewise wanted to see Stefan out on the water (it had been decades for him).

The rental was a 27-foot Catalina sloop, and it would be ours for three fateful hours. In the beginning things went well. Stefan directed me from the helm to raise the mainsail and then the jib. He told me to pull in the jib sheet (whatever that is) so I did and away we went. Wow, this is easy I thought.

Eventually we made it out to the open ocean, at which point it became apparent that sailing was a bit more involved than the first hour [of sailing downwind] had led on. Almost immediately the rocking of the boat got half the crew sick, including Stefan. Dramamine was distributed to those affected, and pretty soon nausea gave way to lethargy. Stefan went down below to get some rest, and suddenly I was in charge topside to get us back to dock.

We were flipped around and headed for home. All seemed reasonably in control, when the channel forced us to turn directly into the wind. Now, anyone with any amount of sailing knowledge would know that I was to commence tacking upwind…but I did not belong to that category of person yet.

The Catalina began falling off towards a number of moored yachts and a little old woman sailing an 8-foot dinghy. I began trying to start the decrepit 2-stroke outboard that hung from the transom but could not find the electric start button, the seized pull cord being of no useful alternative.

As Bob apologized to the little old woman that was now initiating evasive maneuvers (she was a significantly better sailor than I will probably ever be), I began spastically searching the outboard for the push start. The wind continued pushing us nearer to what was surely a collection of yachts with values that put my net worth to shame. Finally, my finger found the starter hidden in the depths of the lower end which I maintain to this day was an incredibly poor location. One quick depression and the outboard fired up – we were headed for home.

As if on queue, Stefan emerged from the cabin to find a relatively calm scene, as I manned a puttering outboard and Bob sat contemplatively looking out onto the water. We didn’t let on that anything less than stellar seamanship had just occurred.

“Decided to motor us in, huh?” he asked.

“Yep” I responded…a veiled admission that my will had nothing to do with it.

Shortly thereafter we were docked once again, and my first experience sailing was complete.

Weeks later, I received a call from Bob. Stefan had died in the early morning hours. He was comfortable, looking out his bedroom window towards the sea with friends by his side. That same night, I found the advertisement for what would be my first boat:

The Albin Vega is a 27-foot Swedish built sloop. Sloop refers to the rigging, denoting a single mast. There are two sails, a mainsail and a foresail (often referred to as a jib, but that’s not always the case).

To this day I’ve had three sailboats total, all Swedish built and all named Adamek. That is the surname of the best sailor I have known. The man that literally showed me the ropes, and even in his most diminished state could walk circles around me with knowledge. I never did get to take him out on any of my boats. Though I like to think Stefan was very familiar both with the Albin Vega and Hallberg-Rassy 33 Mistral given they were popular models in their (which was also his) time. He never would have guessed however, that one of them would eventually be what took me around the world.

For the last three years I lived on each of my boats in turn. I kept them slipped in Long Beach at a marina near to the apartment Stefan died in. If only he had live a few more days; looking out his bedroom window Stefan would have seen me sailing the first Adamek home to Long Beach from San Diego. The base from which I prepared each to take on the world once again.