Vitamin S: Surviving Cancer Through Sailing

For years I did bow on various race boats. Once you’re flagged as competent on the foredeck, it’s practically impossible to move into other positions. As my 20-something knees and back became a 40-something set of aches and pains, the loss of agility was becoming a problem that could only be partially offset by technique and a regular yoga practice. When I was diagnosed with colorectal cancer in the spring of 2015, I’m ashamed to admit part of me was relieved to have an excuse to sit out the sailing season.

However, my fellow wind fanatics weren’t willing to give up on me so easily. Sure my racing season was over before it started, but the logic was this freed me up for cruising. And that’s how I found myself, several doses of chemo and radiation under my belt, crashing through the waves at the helm of my friend Mike’s Catalina 38. Relishing the play between the sail and the keel as I feathered into the wind, my spirit did a little jig. The next day my radiation oncologist, also a boater, noted my healthy glow, and quickly prescribed more “Vitamin S.”



A jaunt around the salt pond

Six weeks later I was done with the first round of treatment and desperately in need of a vacation. Normally I assist my sailing “godfather,” Agu, on his annual passage from Annapolis to Block Island aboard his New York 40. My diagnosis came two months before the departure, and he was one of the first people I told. While the gang was disappointed that I couldn’t go, they encouraged me to come up for a visit, even offering shoreside accommodations so I could stay out of the sun (a necessity after radiation).



Henry, my local host, has a quick, responsive Soling that we took for a jaunt around the Great Salt Pond nearly every day. We’d hitch a ride to his mooring, rig the boat, and sail over to pick up Agu.



Henry enjoys testing the limits of his boat, and sailing around the island in 20 knots with the spinnaker up is not out of the question. I admit to being nervous the day we headed for the channel leading out to Block Island Sound. The breeze was decent, a good 12 knots, with some lumpy chop, but we were well under control. After sailing about a mile and a half from the entrance to the Salt Pond, Henry handed me the tiller and instructed me to bear off so he could rig the pole and set.



In all my years of sailing, I’d never done the honors of driving a boat downwind with a kite. I didn’t do too badly. The hardest part was staying focused on driving. It was tough to ignore problems with rigging and sail trim that arose in the process of getting settled. I had to fight the urge to “help,” because every time I looked away from the horizon, the boat would veer off course and we’d start to lose our chute. One thing I wasn’t thinking about was cancer.

After my sojourn on Block Island, I came home feeling invincible. Chemo and radiation were a mere memory, and my fears about the future were suppressed, allowing me to focus on the day-to-day joys of summer. I even managed to make it out for a couple of Wednesday night races. 



Soon enough the reality of my illness reclaimed center stage. I had a major surgery scheduled for early September, and things were about to get ugly.

Long road to recovery 

Unwilling to let me go under the knife without a proper send-off, Agu and his daughter, Vanessa, organized a family sail with our spouses and kids. I arrived that morning tense and filled with dread about the upcoming procedure. Then we left the slip. It was puffy, with fingers of breeze blowing across the South River. The sun was warm on our faces, and the children were busy toying with the blocks and winches and pointing out birds and other boats. Vanessa deftly threaded her way across the lulls, finding just enough wind to pick up speed. I felt that familiar thrill as the boat heeled a bit and pointed upwind.



Two days later I woke up with a remodeled colon and a temporary ileostomy. The surgery was a success, but I had a long road of recovery and more chemo ahead.

As soon as I was physically able to step off a dock, I was back on the Bay with Vanessa and our families. There was no wind, but we had four boys under six who were having a ball, so we motored out, drifted around, and ate lunch. My incisions were still healing, and I could barely negotiate the companionway. Feeling like a shadow of my old self, I half-heartedly picked up a mop and attempted to swab the deck.



Three weeks later I got an invite to sail with Mike. Things weren’t getting any easier for me. I’d had my first chemo treatment earlier in the week. My IV port was sore and my ileostomy was a constant bother. It was October now, and the air was chilly. I was worried about the weather, since the drugs made me extremely sensitive to cold. I couldn’t race, because I had lifting restrictions and had to avoid activities that could damage my stoma. The only job I could do was drive.

Deciding to forgo the GPS, Mike got out the chart and we practiced navigating the old-fashioned way. In keeping with our low-tech vibe I resisted the urge to check the many weather apps on my phone and instead scanned the clouds and noted how they were divided into two banks of overcast with a clear blue stretch in the middle. We were right on the trailing edge of the cloud cover, and it provided good pressure until the clear skies caught up to us. The wind died, but not enough to justify using the motor. We were forced to put up the spinnaker, or face a painfully slow ride home.



Again I found myself at the wheel on a run. This time I was more prepared. I kept my focus on our course and was ready for the wind on the other side of the blue sky calm. When it was time to douse the kite, it came down without a hitch.



Back at the dock I carried myself differently. My posture was looser and more upright. My stride had a new confidence, with just a hint of swagger. I didn’t feel like a sick person anymore. I was a sailor, a navigator, a tactician, and a helmsman.



That was my last outing of the season. The winter months passed in a blur of chemo infusions. Soon enough it was spring, and my treatment was done. One more surgery to reverse the ostomy, one more procedure to remove the IV port, and voilà—time to put my life back together.

A gloomy spring and then…

Easier said than done. The weather wasn’t helping. We were having a gloomy spring, with constant rain and colder-than-normal temps. The usual sailing deadlines came and went, but I barely took notice. Adrift and disconnected, I existed in a fog of fatigue and numbness that left little room for anything else. I couldn’t imagine returning to a normal life, much less stepping foot on a boat.



Eventually the sun came out, and an invitation to crew in the Annapolis YC Annual Regatta landed in my inbox. The new, cruiser-friendly distance format sounded like a primo opportunity to re-enter the racing game. The day was bright and hot, with a forecast of 10-15 knots. As we motored out to Tolly Point, I noted how at home I felt back on the foredeck.



We didn’t get first place, but I jumped the main halyard, rigged the kite, un-fouled the furling line, and trimmed the spinnaker: all things I hadn’t been able to do in over a year. My body held up admirably. Obviously, all I needed was another dose of Vitamin S. 

--by Leslie Toussaint