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Time to launch, and Franco lets me pick up the boat. It’s light, only 70 pounds, and easy to carry toward the water. We have a chase boat, a hard-bottom inflatable with a 40-horse, so we hang a wing of the moth over the side and motor into the bay. In open water, Franco hops onto the Bladerider, making it look easy, then hands over the reins.
The problem today is that there’s almost no wind, and that’s the most difficult way to sail a moth. Ten knots would be perfect; it takes five for the craft to rise up on its foils. Right now we have three. So I climb on this trampoline that’s sinking and tilting and has a mind of its own. It’s not a boat. It has a sail and a rudder, and it moves quickly in almost no wind, so technically I’m sailing. But I’m always dragging one trampoline in the water. First one, then the other. Flip-flop. I’m scrambling back and forth to learn the balance, and I can tell that sailing this boat is a leg workout. Franco assures me that in higher winds it would be more stable, easier. Right now it feels like ballet. Or wrestling.
What I like is that the moth doesn’t give in easily. It’s as skittish as a racehorse. The smallest movement in any direction has an effect. It’s a full-body, full-attention sport, the kind of thing you can get lost in easily, and those are among the best things in life.
“Tack?” Franco asks me from the chase boat. He doesn’t speak much English, and I don’t know any Italian, so the instructions are minimal, but this one is clear. I turn the boat into the wind, and as I come around, I scramble to the other trampoline. It works. I’m sailing in the opposite direction. But it was far from graceful: I’ve already skinned both knees.
Next I learn to jibe, turning downwind, and that’s easier. Then I focus on gaining speed in a straight line by not letting either trampoline drag. I’m getting better. But there’s not enough wind, so Franco takes over.
We search up and down shore for wind, and later in the afternoon we find a bit more. Franco is able to rise up on the foils, and it’s awesome to watch. Bill Beaver, of Annapolis, Maryland, who built his own moth, the Hungry Beaver, puts it this way: “The acceleration is huge, and it gets eerily quiet up on the foils, unlike most boats, which have wave slap and noise. On a moth, it’s a cross between sailing and flying—it’s a huge rush.”
Franco hands over the reins again, since we have about five to seven knots of wind, and the boat really is more stable. It feels good, and I finally fly. The moth rises up bow-first, then the hind legs, a horse getting up off its haunches, and then it transforms into a bat. A shape-shifter with two natures. Suddenly a slight rudder movement makes the boat dart right, and I dart back. I feel a swooping sensation like when a small plane catches an updraft. I feel pitch and roll. I’ve never felt anything like this. Then I pull in the sail a bit too much and tilt upward. The foils catch, the bow plunges, and I’m somersaulting into the water.
My couple of flights up on the foils are short but very sweet. I need the candy now. The next day, I discover I’ve sprained or broken one of my toes, I have those skinned-up knees, and I can hardly move—my legs, my back, everything hurts—but I’m hooked. The bat is out there, in impossible flight, and I want another ride.
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