With numb, blistered fingers, I grip my seat as a cold spray of water slaps my face. I can feel the wind, even though I am wearing three layers. The boat is tilted: I am almost parallel to the sea, which feels close enough to touch. Every now and then, the boom swings over my mother and me, and we duck down. My father shouts instructions over the roaring wind, which I follow, shivering.

This is sailing: uncomfortable, exhausting, and unromantic. It’s like riding a roller coaster with no seat belt while operating the ride.

“Is this right?” I ask, indicating the way I’m tightening the sail.

“No.” My father corrects my mistake. “You wrapped the rope around the winch in the wrong direction.”

He gets up to fix the jib, which is the foremost sail, and I take his place at the wheel.

My mother is sitting down, huddled. She slips her hood on, looking uncomfortable, and grasps her seat tightly as the boat tilts closer to the dark, surging waters beneath us.

Climbing back to us, my father wears an expression of utmost excitement. This is his kind of family outing. He’s always looking for an adventure, sailing into the ocean on a kayak, riding a motorcycle to work, booking ziplining for the family on trips.

Clearly, my mother doesn’t share his sentiment. As I sit back down, my mother whispers to me, “Can we do something else instead, next time?”

Teeth chattering, she asks my father if we can slow down somehow, and my father responds that the only way to do so would be to rotate the boat against the wind, which would mean turning back.

To be sure, my mother isn’t faint of heart in the least, always calm when we manage to get ourselves lost in the middle of nowhere on vacation, but this is too much even for her.

The boat rocks back and forth, nauseating. More water splashes onto us, and we all wince, its bitter, salty flavor in our mouths. Eyes watering, I squint against the icy wind and cross my arms, which proves to be a mistake when the boat lurches again. I reach out to catch myself just in time.

There’s a moment of calmness when my father shouts that he can see Alcatraz. We stop to appreciate the view: the fog over the bay, just thick enough to beautify the horizon, yet thin enough to allow for safe sailing. After taking some pictures, I sit back down. I can feel the sun on my face now that we aren’t moving with the wind, and it’s pleasant. The sound of the ocean seems calmer now, less threatening.

I smooth my hair, knotted from the whipping wind, and take a sour candy from my mother’s outstretched hand.

“Can we turn back?” my mother asks aloud. My father obliges, and tells my mother to take the wheel while he fixes the sails.

When I step back onto dry land, I sigh with relief, all too ready to immerse myself in the safety and comfort of home.