Look at this scar! Guess how I got it. I capsized my boat and tangled my line with the floating ball!"

On the side of my ring finger and pinky, there is a darkened strip of skin. I would not stop hyping my daring adventure to everyone I met, as if the scar was a trophy I had won instead of an ugly mark. Even after six years, the scar's distinct color hasn't faded, nor has my enthusiasm for sailing diminished. It is a constant reminder of my magical transition from fear and resistance, to loving the mysterious ocean and sailboats.

It was not until 5th grade that my mom finally convinced me to follow in the footsteps of my adventurous brother and join the sailing camp. This was to be my first trip away from my mother for two weeks, and I was well aware of its potential to be an unforgettable experience ... but only due to its undesirability. Would I make new friends? Would people like me? Would I miss my mom? Would I enjoy sailing? Before boarding the train, I again asked my mom
for reassurance.

"Mom, are you sure that you’ll take me home if I don't like it?"

"Yes, of course, but I’m sure that you’ll like it."

"You promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

However, despite my mom’s optimistic support, my sailing non-adventure confirmed that my worries were not baseless. If, in the summer of 2016, you had had a chance to visit the Bohai Sea, just three hours away from China's capital of Beijing, you would have found a group of sailors with orange lifejackets and red helmets standing in a line, ready to start their journey. Pulling the boat carriers with all of their might, the sailors dragged the heads of the Topaz boats onto the sandy beach two at a time and parked them at acute angles to the horizon. One peculiar sailor would have grabbed your attention, appearing immature and mostly confused. She, too, was turning around on the sand, yet turning only her body. You would see her holding her hand out, closing her eyes and circling, desperately trying to feel the direction of the wind but only finding
herself getting dizzier. That sailor was me – someone who couldn't tell where the wind was coming from.

The abstract concepts of wind direction and where to place the sail respective to the sailor never made sense to me. When the sailboat is going in a windward direction – making a 45-degree angle with the direction of the wind – the sail should make a 22.5-degree angle with the hull, or be positioned 1⁄4 of the way in. When the sailboat attains beam reach – running perpendicular to the direction of the wind – the sail should make a 45-degree angle with the hull. When you are going
in the close-reach direction ... You get the idea! The concepts are not designed to be something that can be easily grasped, especially for a sailor who could not discern the direction of the wind.

It was impossible to memorize all the numeric values before experimenting with the boat and learning through trial and error. I did, however, remember some words of wisdom: "Pull the sail!" On windy days, the hysterical calls of "Pull the sail!" echoed throughout the vast, empty sea, and they stuck in my head. Then, believing that I had found a quicker path to success, I would use my last bit of energy to pull the sail parallel to the hull of the boat, the boom touching the tip of my helmet. I later learned the hard way that sailing was not that simple.

Along with my unpolished skills, I was also an ambitious sailor. Believing that I had "learned a lot," I aimed to win a medal in the weekly races that were run on Fridays, but it was always just a fantasy for me during that first year. During my very first race, the wind was really heavy.

"This is the time when you can prove yourself," I said to myself, pulling the sail toward the middle of the boat as the coach
blew the whistle, announcing the start of the race.

I had to use all my body weight to prevent the boat from tilting, with my entire body reaching out of my boat and leaning backward. My right hand clutched the sailing rope tightly, ensuring that I would not lose the sail and have the boat come to a sudden stop. My left hand clutched the rudder equally as tight as I made my way out of the "boat cloud" in front of me.

I could have simply loosened the lines at the cost of lowering the boat's speed, but I chose not to. By the time I was aware of the consequences of my decision – waves splashing onto my face, my mouth filling with cold and salty seawater, the sail
flapping with a strange sound signaling a dangerous and awkward situation – I had already lost my balance. Remembering the "words of wisdom," I pulled the sail closer to my body but only found myself getting closer to the roaring ocean. The freezing water drenched my lifejacket and filled in my shoes; the sail already hovered over me, seawater ceaselessly flowing into and crushing my nostrils.

I was almost drowning in the ocean. I yelled hysterically for a coach to help while employing my last bit of strength to pull
myself onto the centerboard during my final attempt at turning the boat right side up.

Had it not been a requirement to finish the race, I would have gladly sailed back to land.

By the end of the day, I was determined to have my mom pick me up, blaming everything on my decision to go to the camp. If I hadn’t gone to the camp, I would not have almost drowned in the ocean. If I didn’t almost drown in the ocean, I wouldn’t
have lost the race. If I didn’t lose the race, I would not have wasted a single week of my summer, accomplishing nothing but watching every other person surpass me as I tried to right the capsized boat.

This was, of course, not the end of my journey, for sailing is now a key component of my identity. However, as I reminisce about my transition from a novice sailor to a more proficient pilot of the boat, I find it indescribable, difficult to put into words. I will, of course, not tell you that the experience was not inspirational: I did not spend hours watching online sailing lessons, nor did I read textbooks about how to become a better sailor. Rather, the transformation was nearly magical, as if some force had enchanted me and I suddenly became a gifted sailor.

The following year, finally convinced by my mom that I should overcome my failure, I found myself, for the second time, boarding the train with my brother, heading toward the Bohai Sea. I was not expecting any huge improvements in my skills, self-mockingly telling my brother that I should prepare to meditate daily to combat the anticipated mental breakdowns.

However, seemingly magically and to my great surprise, all the concepts suddenly made sense; my memories of salt-drenched clothes were replaced by joy and a sense of community.

As I became a more experienced sailor, I developed a stronger connection with the charm of sailing. When the wind was calm, I lay calmly inside the hull and watched the coaches lead the younger students to align their boats, reminiscing about the days
when I was one of them. But windy days brought great fun, as they allowed me to adjust my sail and centerboard and enjoy
the excitement of sailing at a faster speed. The more competent I became, the more I loved sailing, as I shifted my focus from keeping the boat from capsizing to trying out more advanced sailing techniques.

Though Covid-19 has stopped me from boarding the train to the Bohai Sea, it has not stopped me from exclaiming, "The wind today is perfect for sailing!" It has not stopped me from being involuntarily pulled to sailing venues. It will also not stop me from appreciating the beauty of nature and the rewards of teamwork.

However, I still haven't figured out whether to appreciate my mom, my grit, or my courage for the joy that sailing brought me. I stopped trying to identify the strange force that made sailing a magical experience. Instead, I tried to imagine myself as the force – the source of it all. Carrying my suitcase and my magic, I board the train every summer and wait for the enchantment to come.