I remember the GSL Yacht Club, my dad the harbormaster and the one to beat in all the sailing races on the weekends.
When all the colorful spinnakers went up, it looked like hot air balloons on the water.

I remember eating sardines in mustard sauce atop saltine crackers.

I remember riding on the hydrofoil boat we picked up in San Francisco.
It lifted off the water a good foot or two, riding on top of the lake on the metal skis.

I remember my brother speaking into the intercom system, letting everyone know the history and ecology of the lake.

Praise the sound of the lap of the water on the bow of the boat.
Praise the sound of the metal sailing lines clanging against the mast in the wind lulling me to sleep in the cabin, waves rocking me like a baby in a cradle.
Praise the smell of the salty air. The salt crystals drying on my skin.

I remember the many times my dad rescued people out in the lake
when a Tooele Twister came up and caught them off guard.
I remember watching millions of pink and white brine shrimp in the water, floating along like tiny jellyfish without stingers.
I remember getting out of the water after a refreshing swim, brine shrimp clinging to my skin.

Praise the overnight boat races to Antelope Island,
sleeping on the boat anchored just off the island and sailing back to the main marina the next morning.

Praise the enormous, brine fly-fed spiders and their giant webs all over the boats.

I remember sailing our tiny two-person boat to black rock with my brother,
the Robinson Caruso thrill of being old enough to sail to an “island” without our parents.

Praise the sound of the wench clicking to pull the sails tighter.
Praise getting every ounce of wind off the sails that we could.

Note from the poet: I spent my teenage summers sailing and working out at the GSL marina with my father who was the Harbormaster. I have many fond memories growing up at the GSL.