Stay of Execution

Why I Care About Coaching

I emerged from college more broken than I went in.  I said that to my housemate last night, in a rare dinner together.  I was trying to explain why coaching feels really important to me.  Why should it matter if kids at an elite college get better at making small sailboats go around buoys faster than other kids at other elite colleges? 

I can't explain that part very well except to tell you that I am certain that it does matter.  Sailing matters, just because it's worth doing.  That's so innate to me and who I am that it's like asking me how to read, or why be interested in people.  I lack the vocabulary to break some things down into smaller parts.  The best stab I can make at explaining sailing is that to be good at it, you have to notice invisible things.  You have to get really good at tuning in to subtleties, to things that haven't happened yet: a wave that is rising and about to change, a windshift that's ahead, a puff that will change all of the forces on your boat.  I really do believe that getting good at noticing makes you happier, and makes you a better person.  It lets you live in the moment.  It lets you use all of your senses, and many of your muscles.  It lets you lose your rational mind and experience flow and response, the bodily sensation of being connected and tuned in to the world around you, water and wind and sky.  I think that's fundamentally worthwhile, as an experience and as a habit.

And I know what a watershed time college is.  I am not sure I have the answer to my question, but I think what college was about for me was understanding hard work.  I saw and learned what it meant to work hard, at school (I didn't do much of that, but I witnessed it, pretty close up), in a sport, and in relationships with people who were different from me.  I didn't always work hard but I learned the difference between working hard and not working hard, and I generally saw a payoff when I worked hard.  But I limped out of college.  I came out convinced I wasn't very smart, and wasn't particularly anything else, either.  Anything I might have once thought I was good at, or distinctive for, I'd met people who were way more accomplished at than me.  I didn't know how to feel okay about myself if I wasn't the best at anything.  I scuttled off to the middle of nowhere to spend a lot of time outside and lick my wounds. 

I love college students.  I like watching them.  They're smart, and they're open-minded, and the world is still new.  They're very funny; I'm always laughing.  They don't have the masks that adults have, so you can see emotions play out on their faces.  And I want, fiercely, to help them feel more sure of themselves than I felt about myself when I was in college.  I am not sure I can do that; I'm not sure anyone could have done that for me.  But maybe I can.  And that, more than anything else, is why being a coach matters to me. 

Question

What is college for? 

Another way to ask the question: by what measure should those connected with a college determine whether it is providing its students with a good experience? 

Confidence

Yesterday I had a third short story due, and I was panicked and blocked and my mind was blank.  So I read everything on my hard drive to see if I could use any of it -- nothing, nothing.  And in desperation I went to my file cabinet and looked at some of the things I wrote back in college.  I found an old short story.  There's a lot wrong with it, but there was some good in there, too.  Some of it was terribly embarrassing but changing the point of view and eliminating a couple of scenes and trashing the tortured dialogue gave me something to work with.  I've loosened up as a writer, I think, and this weblog is one reason why.   

But the interesting part wasn't the old story or what I did with it.  It was a letter I had written to a trusted reader, paperclipped to the story.  I read that and found myself really surprised by it.  In the letter I wrote with confidence and direction about my own writing, my aspirations, what I thought my own strengths were and what I still needed to learn.  I wrote, "I still don't know how I want to be as a writer, but I know I want to do it; I know I need to do it."  This was in 1992.  1992, people.  And yet, in 2004 and 2005 it took all of my nerve to say the same thing; I still feel wavery and unsure and brave and scared for saying that I want and need to write.

So what happened to me?  What took away that confidence?  Where did it go, and how did I lose hold of it for so long? 

Admissions

Part of my job as a coach is recruiting.  This first year, my approach is very much reactive.  It's hard to get into the college, and I haven't yet developed instincts about which prospective sailors are long shots and which sailors can probably get in.  Although my support and endorsement for an application can help in the admissions process, it's far, far from determinative.  I'm still figuring out whether or how much my support can tip the scales for a particular applicant who might be on the borderline.  I don't think it's ethical to recruit over-aggressively and have kids pining for the college who may not be able to get in.  And although I want admissions to smile on the sailor applicants, I don't want kids to be admitted who will struggle academically or be in over their heads. 

On the other hand, I want to make sure the sailors who are thinking about this college know about our program and the opportunities here.  Basically, my goal is to have those sailors who are already thinking about this school have it as their top choice.  I spent the fall asking the current students, "what kind of person might think they want to come here, but would be happier at a different kind of school?"  The answers have been consistent (someone who wants a big-city, hipster experience will get restless here) and gave them a chance to tell me in a variety of ways how this school suits a range of students and interests.  I always speak highly of the other schools with sailing programs that prospective students tell me they're thinking about, but it's easy to speak with sincere praise about this school and our sailing program.  I've been very impressed with the college. 

In my contacts with students and parents I've been reminded of what a pressure-filled and mysterious process applying for college can be.  I want them to think of me as a friendly resource to whom they can direct questions they might be shy about asking admissions.  Students sometimes freeze up, afraid that somehow they're going to blow it if they don't call me "Ms." and don't say the right thing.  I like the moment that they start to relax, and speak more freely about sailing and what they want from college. 

There's lots to say, but talking about this part of my job is a landscape littered with mines.  An imprecise turn of phrase might give the wrong impression about the college's admissions process, which I don't understand all that well but is obviously a matter of tremendous interest to lots and lots of people.  I wouldn't want any prospective sailors to think I was writing about them, or to fear that I would (I won't).  One of the most interesting things to me about talking to sailors and parents is what I learn about my colleague coaches at other schools, as seen through the eyes of people considering those colleges.  None of this belongs on the Internet, particularly. 

Ghosts

I spent the weekend with seven college sailors, and a dozen or so ghosts.  We were up in Castine, Maine, a landscape that has many layered associations for me.  As I drove the twelve passenger van around curves and looked out at the brown-green fields and the sweeping views of the bay, I smiled at the memories that came back to me.  I remembered sailing there on big boats when I was in high school, sitting up late with the crew of the J/35 I sailed on, and kissing a boy on the dock one long summer night eighteen years ago.  I remembered driving up there in an old minivan when I was in college for a regatta fifteen years ago, and thought about the team members who were on that trip with me, and laughed at the memory.  I still remember the music we listened to on that drive, and where we stopped for dinner, and where in the van I sat.  I remembered moving to the area after college with my schooner captain boyfriend ten years ago, and driving to Blue Hill to see friends, coveting all the homes for sale along the way.  I remembered being there this summer, with my long distance sweetie, eating muffins from the bakery he loves and watching a family attempt to launch a Herreshoff 12 1/2.   On the dock, I overheard fragments of conversation of the sailors from thirteen colleges, and a door in my memory vault swung open and let out the echoes of conversations my younger self and my college friends had had years ago. 

Indeed, I even saw a ghost.  He was sitting at a picnic table on the town waterfront, looking out across the harbor at the cove where the college racers were sailing.  I was in a big launch with one of my sailors, returning to the race course from a bathroom break ashore.  My chest constricted for a moment when I recognized him, and I felt glad and sad at the same time, surprised to see him and not surprised all at once.  I lifted my arm to wave to him, and the sailor who was talking to me turned her head to see who it was.  He waved back, and I watched him get smaller as my sailor turned back to me and continued the question she was asking, and the sturdy launch droned us across the harbor, back to the racing.

Trip Hazard

I was walking across the Bowdoin campus yesterday for something.  There was a sort of broadening of the path, an intersection of two paths and a platform, with a stone circle in the middle with plants in it.  The sidewalk was big concrete blocks, wide and squarer than those on the sidewalks around here.  Between and surrounding the squares were small strips of cobblestones -- a swath about two feet wide consisting of four inch rough cut granite cubes surrounded by sand and dirt, a few small weeds growing between them here and there. 

A workman was on his knees straddling one of the cobblestone strips, a pile of those small granite blocks stacked beside him.  "Are you taking them out or putting them in?" I asked him.  "Both," he said.  "I'm pulling them up and raising them so they're all even, and even with the sidewalk.  So they don't present a trip hazard."  Indeed, I noticed that one of the strips was freshly levelled, new brown sand packed around the cubes, which were tidy and straight.  The strips that hadn't been replaced weren't wildly uneven, just a little unruly, the way cobblestones get. 

I wished the workman a good day and walked along, looking at the ground.  I thought about the students, who will be back in a few weeks, and wondered if any of them will notice how exactly the cobblestones are laid, or even that they don't ever trip on that plaza.  I thought about stewardship, and the special places that we want to take care of.  The slanting summer afternoon light was on a backhoe and some construction fence on the other side of campus, and as I looked at it and wondered what was being built or renovated I hardly noticed a second workman, pulling up cobblestones. 

On Campus

Yesterday I went to a human resources thing at Bowdoin.  I sat in a meeting and filled out some paperwork, and was directed to and from various buildings to get keys and a parking sticker.  Helpful people pointed at buildings on a campus map and gestured their arms out to the street to direct me.  I squinted at brick buildings looking for the names of halls: Rhodes, McLellan, Morrell.  The day was sticky and hot and I could feel sweat on my back.  I kept having to ask for people to repeat things, because they were speaking in University code: "you'll need to go to communications for that," or "Just ask residential life about that part, see if the upload has been done," rattling off buildings or extensions as though they were a part of the context of everyone's life.  I kept having to stop and ask what felt like dumb questions: is that a department?  If I'm not calling from a university phone, what do I dial?  Are those the same people who have the keys?  Will I need the ID before I get the email address? 

The trees are tall and green on campus and there was a slight breeze in the otherwise humid day.  I puzzled my way through my errands, back and forth, stopping to peer at the map and looking around with wide eyes, and I felt just like an undergraduate again: sweat on my back, notebook in hand, and a mysterious and promising campus all around me.

Announcement

I have just accepted a position as the head sailing coach at Bowdoin College. 

I'm delighted.  They have a great facility, motivated students, and strong support from the athletic department at the school.  The program is poised to move to the next level; it will be great fun to be part of this next stage.   For me, it's ideal.  It's a part time position with benefits that will give me a platform and stability from which to develop my writing.  And, alongside writing, my constant lifelong passion has been studying and communicating the ways to make good sailors perform better.  The opportunity to do both at once feels like a gift. 

It means I'll be very busy from late August to late October, and from March through May.  I'll have mornings to write, and my afternoons will be spent running practices, fixing boats, and giving chalk talks.  I'll be spending most weekends through late October in Boston.   

Request Day: Where Should I Go To College?

I get inappropriate requests for advice on all kinds of topics by email more often than you would think.  I don't mean inappropriate as in dirty or insulting.  Just as in, why would you imagine that I can help you?  Still, I chime in with my not-terribly helpful opinion when I think I've got something to offer. 

An email came the other day that I've been stuck on for a while.  It's from a rising high school senior, and it's long, but here's an excerpt:

my dilemma now is whether or not it is worth it (financially) for me to pursue an undergraduate premed degree from a prestigious (and expensive) university. i am willing to pay back all 11-or-so years of debt i may accumulate, as long as going to a prestigious undergrad school will help land me in a prestigious med school. i am determined to enter a prestigious med/grad school, so paying for that is out of the question: i will. my main question is whether or not you, personally, believe your education from yale undergrad better prepared you for whatever exams law school requires, as opposed to an education from a state school.

Additional info: the questioner feels his grades and scores put him in the range for some of the Ivies, but not the most competitive Ivies.  And the questioner's family probably can't offer any financial support.  My response is below the fold, but I hope you will chime in in the comments with your advice, too, because I think this fellow deserves more wisdom than I can provide. 

Comfort Zones

I was at a board meeting of the Portland Yacht Club last night.  I confess to zoning out for a little while.  The day had been very hot, the kind of thick mid-eighties unstable air that means a thunderstorm will probably move through at the end of the day.  It hadn't come yet, and although the fan was on the air in the boardroom was uncomfortably warm.  During the treasurer's report or the Food and Beverage committee report or maybe a discussion about mooring insurance but I kind of mentally left the table, and stared out at the anchorage.  I was looking south and noticing the boats, all their bows pointing northwest, their sterns swaying a little bit to one side or the other.  I noticed a boat I hadn't seen before, and as I looked at it I thought about how much I like looking at boats.  And the thought slipped across my mind, "I would feel completely at home anywhere where I was looking at an anchorage full of boats."  For a moment I imagined being picked up and dropped into a board meeting at the San Diego Yacht Club or the Chicago Yacht Club and looking out at their waterfront and, yep, I felt pretty sure I would feel right at home there.

And as soon as that thought struck me I thought how peculiar that was.  I thought about what a strange and privileged and incorrect comfort zone that is, the sense that I could find safety and belonging at any yacht club I wandered into.  It made me feel a little bit sheepish, and it reminded me of something that happened to me in college.