Wind is Free
By Ellen Sollinger Walker
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
When I left home for Oberlin College in 1976, my dad became obsessed with sailing. Mom said he went out and purchased a brand new fifteen-foot Sunbird sailboat. They admitted their goal of sailing around the world on their own boat some day. “It’s the cheapest way to see the world,” Dad told me. “Wind is free, right?” In their early-50s, they were already thinking about the freedom of retirement from their public-school music teaching jobs.
Once, talking to my parents on the phone from the dorm, Dad said, “I’ve been practicing celestial navigation out back with my sextant, just like the ancient mariners!” Then Mom chimed in, “Chuck, do that jazzy “parts of a sailboat” thingy for Ellen,” and I heard wooden spoons drumming on the kitchen counter as Dad riffed like Louis Armstrong, “boom-a, jib, boom-a, jib, keel, scup-per, bilge, rud-der,” and then, in triplets, “spin-na-ker, spin-na-ker…”
“What if you guys die?” I asked dad. “What if you drown out in the middle of the ocean during a big storm or thugs rob and kill you both, thousands of miles away from me in some seedy foreign port?”
“Ellen, you always were a worrier,” dad said with a chuckle.
Only children like me got a bad rap for being spoiled but we could also be the loneliest people on earth.
Who would remember us, this close-knit little trio of Sollingers, Mom, dad, and me? Who could talk about Dad’s light switch, jury-rigged with string and metal pulleys; or remember him practicing his violin in the basement, Bach floating up the stairs to the kitchen; or recall Mom’s penchant for party planning, my mother, a brilliant creative.
Home on summer break from Oberlin, dad was anxious to take me and mom out in his brand-new Sunbird on Lake Ontario. Sporting his “Tilley” hat, apparently the mark of a true sailor, dad showed off his new boat like she was a prize filly. Her red hull glistened in the sun, her mast reached up into the bluest sky.
We packed sandwiches, cold drinks, binoculars, extra jackets. I cautiously climbed into the little bobbing boat, almost losing my footing. When securely positioned on the hard settee, I said, “This is pretty cool, Dad.”
“You’ll love it once we get out on the water,” he said. Mom sat across from me, rolled her eyes at Dad’s excitement but she was as thrilled as he was.
Dad winched the puffy mainsail up the mast and it snapped in the breeze. Without a motor, Dad caught the wind, expertly maneuvering the boat out the channel from Wilson’s Marina, just east of Niagara-on-the Lake. The wind easily swept us into open water and then, Dad raised the jib. It billowed out in front like an air balloon.
Myriad sail and motorboats buzzed or glided past us and the sky was so clear, we could see the CN Tower, a good 40 miles away in Toronto. A fresh breeze filled my lungs as we bounced over the waves. It was exhilarating!
“Isn’t this fun?” Dad asked.
“Yes!” I said, feeling the cold spray on my face.
As we sailed, we caught up on the news, my parents’ jobs, my college classes, gossip about hometown friends. We drank sodas, shared a tuna fish sandwich, passing it around between the three of us. Just a relaxing sunny afternoon out on the lake.
The breeze began to pick up speed. Dad, with his hand on the steering bar, he called it “the tiller,” corrected our direction to get the most from the strengthening wind. The boat tilted hard to the left.
“Should we be leaning like this? I feel like we’re gonna to tip over,” I yelled over the wind, grasping the side of the boat.
“The boat is heeling,” he said with a smile. “Perfectly normal.”
Dad explained how the wind on the sails and the weight of the keel created the exact angle to achieve maximum speed but also kept us safely upright.
“It’s like a cork with a nail pounded into the bottom.”
“Huh?” I didn’t understand.
“We can’t tip over, see?” he said, holding an imaginary cork in his hand. “All the weight is in the keel under the water.”
My fears abated somewhat, the sting of the water on my face was as thrilling as a carnival ride.
As we sped along, we could no longer see the shoreline. Dad commented on the many sails of the 4th of July regatta flashing white against the blue horizon. A few times, race participants sailed past us and we all waved to each other.
“Look,” Dad pointed to one large sailboat, “look how they’re heeling like we are!” Yes, I could see that this tipping thing was perfectly normal. Nail in the cork and all that.
The wind blew harder and, with his left hand, dad gripped the tiller to keep us on course. Loosening the sail’s rope from its holder with his right hand, dad shouted, “We’re coming about! Watch your heads!” Mom and I bent down, thrusting our heads between our knees and the boom whipped over top of us, almost grazing our backs.
Sitting upright again, I yelled, “Wow, Dad, this wind is really going crazy!”
“Makes it more exciting!” Mom yelled back.
A huge gust blew my dad’s “Tilley” hat off his head. When he reached out to grab it, he let go of everything he’d been holding. Like an escaped caged animal, the boom swung violently toward me, hitting me in my chest. I slid off my seat onto the damp floor. The wild uncontrolled sail flapped like laundry on a line and when it caught the wind, it knocked the boat on its side.
“Oh my God,” Mom screamed as the Sunbird rolled over, smacking all three of us out into the cold water. A freezing shock as I gulped a mouthful and then, I was trapped beneath the boat. Holding my breath, my long hair floated around my head, blocking my view. I swam furiously, the Sunbird’s upside-down mast and sails pulsating back and forth by the underwater currents. Now free of the boat, I worked to locate the light of the sky above me.
Finally, breathless and shaking, I found the surface, gasping for air. My parents were already holding onto the edge of the overturned boat. I joined them.
“Thank God,” my mom said. “Thank God.”
“Yeah,” I said, gripping the edge, still out of breath. With almost nothing to hold on to, my fingers kept slipping off the side of the overturned boat. My feet paddled to keep my head above the water.
“What do we do now?” Mom shouted at Dad.
“Someone on one of these boats will spot us,” Dad yelled back.
We bobbed up and down as the wind continued to strengthen. Waves grew into foamy whitecaps. Jeans were heavy around my waist, bare toes frozen stiff. Muscles began to freeze, becoming numb. I tried waving at boats in the distance but no use.
No one saw us. My frozen fingers slipped off the edge of the hull. Grabbed it again, as tight as I could.
Hold on, hold on, how deep is the lake? What if I lose my grip? What if we all become...?
Grasping the boat’s edge, mom’s fingers were boney sticks, dad’s face, bloated, cheeks red, his voice shrill. I couldn’t hear much, the strong zephyr in my ears.
Fingers slipping, body shivering, ceasing to function, everything in slow motion.
“Just think,” I said to my parents, my lips numb, hard to move them, “how nice it’ll be when we’re home and warm again.” My words, far away, echoey, maybe I didn’t say anything.
Alone, freezing, unseen, falling into dozy sleepiness...paralysis, cold, numbing, nodding...terror...
...terror...
body didn’t function, unable to grip, dozing, eyes closing...
bobbing, floating, unable to grip, unable to...
two hours...
teeth chattering...
two hours...
unable to...
unable to breathe...
closing eyes...
freezing...
sinking down...
unable to breathe...
not breathing...
water flowing into my mouth...
eyes closing...
unmoving...
sleeping...
water flowing into...
flowing...
sleeping...
dying...
“They see us!” I screamed over the wind and waves. My body buzzed, frozen but awake. A large sailboat was heading in our direction.
Mom and Dad began to move, opened their eyes. Excruciatingly slow, the boat inched closer. They pulled up beside us.
“You folks look like you could use some help,” one man said, sunburnt, smiling, beer in hand. There were three guys onboard and they reached down to haul us, one at a time, into their sailboat. Mom and Dad were lifted to safety first as I still gripped the side of the capsized boat. A young man placed his hands under my arms for leverage and hoisted me into the boat. They wrapped us in towels, warming our shivering and shaking bodies.
We pulled away from the inverted sailboat, its red belly glistening in the sun like a dead whale.
The trip to shore was steady, but slow. The sun warmed us as we sat silently, in shock.
“What happened?” one of the men asked.
Dad tried but couldn’t articulate an answer. Mom, wrapped in her towel like a mummy, stared at her bare feet.
“Dad lost his hat,” I said. Our rescuers looked at me, then at Dad, puzzled.
“How long were you in the water?” another guy asked.
“A long time,” Dad said, still dazed. “I don’t think we know how long.”
On the trip to shore, the waves were easier to manage in this large sailboat.
They offered us beers but we declined. I shook so violently. I couldn’t control the shaking, my teeth chattering. I thought I’d be catapulted back into the freezing lake again.
Finally, finally, as we made our way to shore, my body began to warm in the glorious sunshine, my body revving up again with life.
Back at the marina, the men helped us step off their sailboat and onto the dock, our muscles starting to work.
“How about we treat you to a nice steak dinner?” Mom offered.
“Naw, you woulda done the same for us,” the older guy said.
“But we made you lose the race,” Dad said.
“We weren’t gonna win anyhow!” The younger guy laughed. “It was just great to be out there on the lake today.”
“Thank you,” dad sputtered, pumping each man’s hand. “Thank you … thank you.”
We trudged to the car, relieved Dad had kept his car keys zippered in his pants pocket. The drive home was somber and silent. We were exhausted, in shock, nothing much to say.
The rest of summer passed quickly. We never talked about what happened over the 4th of July on Lake Ontario. Never, not even once. As if it had never occurred. Our family was like that. We didn’t discuss personal feelings or our failures or bad luck or terrible crises. If we didn’t talk about it, it never happened.
I got a cashier’s job at Tops Market, Dad grew tomatoes in the backyard and mowed the grass, Mom read books and baked pies.
I secretly prayed they would give up their dream of sailing around the world. Mom and Dad didn’t know enough to keep themselves safe.
At the end of my second year of college, dad purchased a bigger sailboat, a 22-foot Morgan day-sailer. A few summers after that, he traded the Morgan for a 27-foot Hunter sloop.
I earned my master’s degree in piano performance from Carnegie-Mellon University, my parents flew to Saint Croix and bought an ocean-going, 36-foot Tiburon ketch named VIKI. They took two months sailing VIKI north on the inland waterway and spent their final year of teaching living on her while docked on the Buffalo River.
When I married Jeff and, in the Fall of 1986, gave birth to my son, mom and dad had sold their house near Buffalo and were headed south again—further away from me--to the arc of the sparkling Caribbean islands. My baby was colicky, screamed for hours, day and night, wouldn’t drink my breast milk. I wanted to ask Mom what to do. Should I give up and buy formula? Was I doing something wrong? Was I a bad mother?
They continued sailing on to South America and the distance between us widened. Mom and Dad telephoned once a month, usually from a crackly, hard-to-hear-them pay phone.
By the time my son was walking and talking, my parents were half a world away, traversing the Panama Canal. We were no longer a close family.
My son started kindergarten in 1990 and that Fall, my parents pointed the bow of VIKI west and sailed her out into the vast Pacific. As they crossed the ocean, close to 5,000 miles, I was worried sick. Thirty-six days passed before a staticky call from the Marquesas Islands confirmed they had landed safely.
My parents would be gone ten years. Sure, my husband, son, and I flew to see them for two weeks in the summers, Tahiti, Fiji, Australia, Thailand, Cyprus, Spain. But their focus on seeing the world created a huge chasm between us. We weren’t on their radar much anymore.
When they returned to the states after circumnavigating the globe, they sold VIKI and bought a little house in Florida. My parents had changed, becoming one impenetrable edifice that I could not break into. They were no longer the parents who raised me, never the grandparents I wished they had been for my son.
One time, when visiting them, Mom asked if I felt they had abandoned me for those ten years.
Yes.
Of course, I felt they had abandoned me, selfishly leaving me alone to figure things out on my own.
“No, Mom,” I replied, “I think you guys are amazing! What an achievement that you and dad sailed around the world!”
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Ellen Sollinger Walker holds graduate degrees in music and psychology and worked as a professional classical pianist and psychologist for over forty years. Her work can be found in a wide range of literary journals and anthologies including Storytellers Refrain, Change Seven Literary Magazine, The Whitefish Review, The Dillydoun Prize Anthology, (Vol 1) and, The Book of Life After Death published by Tolsun Books. Ellen’s debut novel, The Music Between (literary fiction) will be published in Fall 2026 by High Frequency Press. Ellen lives on the Gulf coast of Florida with her husband and enjoys foreign travel, (especially Italy) boating, and camping.
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Author’s Note:
“Wind Is Free” is a true story and swirled around in my head for half a century. The incident occurred at an important turning point in my life. I left home for college the year before and my parents were soon to be free of work and parenting responsibilities. The belief my parents were infallible was shattered that day and I am lucky to be alive to tell this tale.