Sara pedaled her bicycle into the Sailing Center, a strong bay breeze at her back. The sun’s warmth on her freckled cheeks, the air’s salt scent, and the steady wind made Sara smile. It was a perfect sailing day!
    
     “C’mon Sara,” called Jenny. “Let’s check the board.”

     Sara shoved her bike in the metal stand at the edge of the parking lot and ran to join Jenny. They had become friends this summer in the Sailing Center’s classes for sailors aged nine to twelve.

     A group of kids gathered around the bulletin board, reading lists of the day’s crews and the boat assignments.
    
     Phil said, “Hey Sara, Jenny and I are with you. You‘re skippering boat number eight today. Our race is first.”

    
     Race today? First? Sara’s mouth went dry and her heart started to pound. Her turn wasn’t supposed to be until tomorrow. She had carefully planned to miss the race days.

     Afraid of skippering a boat in a race because of her terrible eyesight, she started imagining the worst: not setting the right course, not seeing the marker buoys in time to tell the crew what to do, looking stupid in front of everybody. But she couldn’t just turn around and go home. She was stuck. Maybe this time she should tell somebody about not being able to see very well, instead of keeping it a secret.
    
     But she didn’t want to tell. When she told people, they said “Wear your glasses,” without understanding that glasses didn’t help with her particular eye condition. She had been born with optic nerves that didn’t work right; seeing details at a distance was difficult. Even though her eyes looked normal, she always felt like other people saw her differently after they knew about her problem, as if then it was obvious that something was wrong with her. Better to keep quiet about it.

     Jenny shouted over her shoulder as she ran to the dock. “C’mon Sara, aren’t you excited? We can win this one with you at the tiller.”

     Sara had been able to hide her eyesight problem because she knew her way around the bay. If the day’s sail was to Crescent Cove, or past Sterling’s Point, she knew where she was going and could skipper her boat way out in front. So far, she had proved to be one of the better sailors. As long as she didn’t have to spot far-off buoys or unfamiliar landmarks, she was fine. But in a race there were buoys spaced in unpredictable patterns.

     Shuffling slowly down the grassy slope leading to the water’s edge, Sara’s legs felt as wooden as the battens used to stiffen the sails.   

     Thirty minutes later, Phil and Jenny were seated in their crew positions: middle of the boat, across from each other, one on either side, and facing the front. Sara was settled in her spot as skipper in the back of the boat, also facing forward and steering them toward the start.

She maneuvered for the best starting place among the eleven other sailboats.  

     A sharp air horn blast began the race. They glided across the line, just behind Craig and his crew in boat number five and Andrea skippering boat number one. Craig and Andrea were both older than Sara, and had more sailing experience.

     Sara fired off her first instructions to Phil. “Take in the mainsail. Close-haul it here.”

     Phil instantly tightened up the large sail, removing any slack that could slow them down. 

     In the narrow channel bordered by the seawall and the South Shore, her vision wasn’t an issue. Sara relaxed a little and concentrated on reading the wind.

     “Jenny, tighten up the jib,” said Sara, noticing some ripples on the water, a sign of wind coming toward them that was different from the main breeze..

     Sara firmly gripped the wooden tiller. As a strong gust grabbed the sails, she pushed away just enough to take advantage of it without over-steering. The boat surged forward.

    “Woo hoo!” shouted Jenny. “We’re ahead!”

    Craig and Andrea scowled as number eight whisked past. But Sara had been careful to give them plenty of room, avoiding an interference that could have disqualified Sara and her crew from the race.

     Jenny and Phil jumped to obey each of Sara’s commands. The three easily worked as a team.

     But now they were moving into the bay’s wide expanse. Sara searched the fuzzy line of the horizon for the first buoy. There! Not too far out, close enough for her to see this time.

     “Ease the mainsail,” said Sara.

     “Okay.” Phil loosened his hold on the rope.

     With more wind in the sails, they moved quickly toward the buoy. Andrea, Craig, and two other boats weren’t far behind.

     “Ready about!” Sara sang out, warning her crew of a direction change.

     Phil and Jenny ducked as the boom swung across. Their boat rounded the marker buoy in the lead, wave-spray splashing the bow.

     Sara squinted, scanning for the next marker. Unable to spot it, her palms started to sweat. Not sure where to go, she moved the tiller, trying to guess.

     “What are you doing? ” shrieked Jenny. The other boats skimmed by, pointed the other way.

     Sara quickly corrected their position. She could keep behind on purpose, following everyone else for the rest of the race. No-one would know. But that wasn‘t right. Jenny and Phil deserved to win if they could. And so did she.

    “I can’t see the buoy!” Sara blurted out, feeling her face grow hot with embarrassment.

    Jenny pointed. “Over there!”
   
     “I mean I really can’t see it at all! ” wailed Sara. “My eyes are terrible and everything out there is blurry!”

     Phil stared back at her for a moment, then faced front again and yelled “Okay, steer toward ten o‘clock.”

     Using Phil’s numbers and Imagining how they would appear on the face of a clock.  Sara got re-oriented and steered at an angle to their left. They were running before the wind now, sails fully filled, but behind.

     “Everyone else is putting up spinnakers to get all of the wind,” shouted Jenny.

“Shouldn’t we do that?”

     The last buoy took shape in front of them.

     “No way. It’ll waste time taking it down,” declared Sara.
    
     Her next words came out in a rush, as she saw what they needed to do. “Pull the daggerboard!”

      Jenny yanked up the board that rested in a slot at their feet. With less resistance under the boat‘s hull, they picked up speed.

      Just beyond the final buoy, Sara ordered another sharp change of direction and their boat slid ahead. The other crews fumbled with their spinnakers, trying to pull in the bulky yards of nylon sail that were now flapping uselessly after the turn.
   
     Jenny slammed the daggerboard back into position. They were speeding toward the finish. They needed it back in place now to keep their boat from sliding sideways across the water.

     Sara stole a look back at the three boats racing hard behind them.

     “We can do it!” yelled Phil.

     Sara held the tiller steady on a bee-line course dead ahead. Their boat seemed to leap like a dolphin across the finish line.
    
     The referee bellowed through his megaphone, announcing the winner. “Number eight!” echoed across the water.

     Cheering and high-fiving exploded from the crew of boat number eight. Its skipper excitedly wondered when it would be her turn again to handle the tiller on race day.