Perhaps it is my rear end that was designed by a lunatic. Or, to put it another way, perhaps if my rear end were designed in the 1980s, it would conform better to the popular concept of that era, which was apparently the presumption that yacht owners would sail 90 percent of the time close hauled, heeled way over with spray flying.
I don't sail close-hauled and heeled over all that much. If you count time on the boat overall, it is probably 3 percent of the time. My helm seat is pretty clever for that. The other 97 percent of the time it is trying to kill me.
Perhaps, as I say, it is my rear end. But if I don't watch what I'm doing when I sit down, the helm seat becomes a funhouse slide. If I walk on it without looking, it pitches me off balance. If I kneel on it, the result can rival the grand finale of Cirque du Soleil. So I do the only thing I can do: I hate it.
I hate it because it looks cool and doesn't work. Because it was an idea that sounded good, but wasn't. Because it is an unnecessary complication in a place where complication requires solid justification. And mostly because it makes me look like an idiot every time I sit down and suddenly fall over like a rug-pull victim in a Three Stooges movie. And because it is trying to kill me.
The bright idea of a roller coast under your butt was not confined to Ericsons. How'd you like walk the stern of this Baltic?
All right, you love your helm seat.
Still, be careful back there.
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