{"product_id":"second-wind-isbn-9780143132097","title":"Second Wind","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA charming memoir of midlife by the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMayflower\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eIn the Hurricane's Eye\u003c\/i\u003e, recounting his attempt to recapture a national sailing championship he'd won at twenty-two.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There had been something elemental and all consuming about a Sunfish. Nothing could compare to the exhilaration of a close race in a real blow—the wind howling and spray flying as my Sunfish and I punched through the waves to the finish.”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the spring of 1992, Nat Philbrick was in his late thirties, living with his family on Nantucket, feeling stranded and longing for that thrill of victory he once felt after winning a national sailing championship in his youth. Was it a midlife crisis? It was certainly a watershed for the journalist-turned-stay-at-home dad, who impulsively decided to throw his hat into the ring, or water, again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the bemused approval of his wife and children, Philbrick used the off-season on the island as his solitary training ground, sailing his tiny Sunfish to its remotest corners, experiencing the haunting beauty of its tidal creeks, inlets, and wave-battered sandbars. On ponds, bays, rivers, and finally at the championship on a lake in the heartland of America, he sailed through storms and memories, racing for the prize, but finding something unexpected about himself instead.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSecond Wind\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Describing his races tack-by-tack and gust-by-gust, Philbrick crosses the finish line with sure-to-be satisfied readers interested in sailing and the personal life of this highly popular author.”--\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eValiant Ambition\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"May be one of the greatest what-if books of the age--a volume that turns one of America's best-known narratives on its head.\"--\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A suspenseful, richly detailed, and deeply researched book about the revolutionary struggle that bound George Washington and Benedict Arnold together and almost disastrous dysfunction of America's revolutionary government that helped drive them apart.\"--\u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Clear and insightful, it consolidates his reputation as one of America's foremost practitioners of narrative nonfiction.\"--\u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Philbrick is both a meticulous historian and a captivating storyteller. The book has unforgettable novelistic details [and] also contains much astute historical analysis and argument. Philbrick sees Arnold not as the man who almost lost the war so much as the catalyst that helped to win it.\"--\u003ci\u003eChristian Science Monitor\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eBunker Hill\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A masterpiece of narrative and perspective.\"--\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A tour de force . . .\"--\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Popular history at its best--a taut narrative with a novelist's touch, grounded in careful research.\"--\u003ci\u003eMiami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A story that resonates with leadership lessons for all times.\"--Walter Isaacson, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eNathaniel Philbrick\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eIn the Heart of the Sea\u003c\/i\u003e, winner of the National Book Award; \u003ci\u003eMayflower\u003c\/i\u003e, finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; \u003ci\u003eBunker Hill\u003c\/i\u003e, winner of the New England Book Award; \u003ci\u003eSea of Glory\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eThe Last Stand\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eWhy Read Moby Dick?\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eValiant Ambition\u003c\/i\u003e; and \u003ci\u003eAway Off Shore\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cb\u003eThe Race\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I should have known better. You can't just \"get\" a life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Six years earlier Melissa and I had tried to do exactly that by      moving to the island of Nantucket, twenty-four miles off the New      England coast. We had grown tired of living and working around big      cities; we wanted more time with our children and with each other;      and besides, back then we had both hoped to sail again. Perhaps on      Nantucket, once the mother ship of American whaling, we could      create an environment for our children in which we were all,      figuratively, if not literally, in the same boat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But it didn't start out the way we had planned. Melissa soon found      that life as an attorney on a real-estate obsessed island was as      demanding as it had been in the city. For my part, being a      housebound writer and parent on relatively tiny Nantucket was even      more claustrophobic than it had been in the suburb we had      previously called home. An island is a tough place to be      landlocked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But there was more to it than that. Something dark and disturbing      would occasionally punch through the surface, reveal just a hint      of its massive, lugubrious bulk, then vanish again, only to      reappear at the strangest of times. I began to sense that      something weird, huge, and scary was, well, out there. And then      one February afternoon I saw it-a whale.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It had been back in the days when Ethan still fit comfortably on      my shoulders. We were on one of our daily walks along the south      shore of the island when the kids and I found ourselves on a bluff      overlooking a winter beach and a crowd of people clustered around      the black lifeless shape of a young humpback, less than twenty      feet long. In her death spasms she'd vomited her stomach lining,      and the placenta-like mess floated in the waves beside her. Two      men with clipboards and waders measured the carcass and took      notes. Children clambered over the whale's smooth, rubbery body,      bouncing on her upturned belly as if she were a trampoline. That      February afternoon, with my daughter beside me and my son perched      on my shoulders, I first realized that it was time for a change.      Like that youthful whale, I was stranded. At some point, I would      have to return to the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By the spring of 1992, I was working on a history of Nantucket      that gave me a renewed appreciation for the island's maritime      traditions. And even before I'd made that America's Cup-induced      resolution to get back into serious racing, I found myself making      another sailing-related commitment: I had agreed to run the      sailing program at the Nantucket Yacht Club. I'd always assumed my      days as a sailing instructor were behind me. But Jennie and Ethan      were growing up, and as a seasonal position, the job dovetailed      nicely with my life as a writer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That summer Melissa and the kids were given the opportunity to      race a borrowed Beetle Cat (known as a Rainbow on Nantucket), the      same kind of boat in which Melissa and I had had our first date.      Although I was happy for them, it was also frustrating. As they      won an impressive number of blue first-place flags, my yacht club      duties required that I remain rooted to an NYC support boat. I      felt left out of my children's introduction to the sport that had      been so important to my own coming of age. And what about me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As the summer passed, the conversation around the dinner table was      becoming unendurable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jennie: \"How many flags have we won so far?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ethan: \"Four.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jennie: \"But they're all blue.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ethan: \"I know. I'd like a red one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jennie: \"Or how about a yellow one?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ethan: \"Mommy, can we come in third next weekend, please?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was clearly time for someone to put my wife and especially my      children in their place. By the end of July, I'd come up with Plan      Gordon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gordon was new to the sport. A marathon runner and bike racer, he      had purchased a Beetle Cat only the year before. Although he was      obviously in tip-top shape, he lacked the experience to race      competitively and was becoming frustrated. He needed some tactical      advice and instruction. What he needed, I decided, was me. One      Saturday morning I happened to run into Gordon on the yacht club      lawn. It was soon agreed that I would crew for him in the first      race after I had assisted my staff in setting up the race course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Part of the beauty of Plan Gordon was the element of surprise.      Melissa and the kids would have no idea what they were up against      until the last possible moment. And, as luck would have it, they      were over on the other side of the harbor when I jumped from the      yacht club's mark boat into Gordon's Beetle Cat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With only a few minutes before the start, I fiddled with the      various adjustments to the sail in an attempt to optimize its      shape. As I stared up at the flapping panels of Dacron cloth and      tugged on some lines, Gordon questioned me about what I was doing.      Although I tried to answer as best I could, I found myself      irresistibly looking out for the competition: a white Beetle Cat      with a green sail and three members of my family on board.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An air horn sounded, indicating that we had three minutes before      the start. With a familiar rush of adrenaline, I reached      involuntarily for the tiller, but there was Gordon-and he needed      some pointers. I told Gordon to sail over toward the committee      boat. That's where Melissa and the kids were hanging out, their      sail luffing lazily as Ethan dangled his hand in the blue,      sun-glinting water. These guys wouldn't know what hit them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On my cue Gordon tacked, turning us so that we crossed into the      wind and ended up beside Melissa, our sail also luffing. The rest      of the fleet of about five other boats was behind us, which was      good-as long as we didn't cross the line too early.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hey, Daddy!\" Jennie shouted. \"What are you doing out here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I chose to ignore her. I did notice, however, that her mother was      looking straight at me. Melissa knew exactly what I was up to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We were down to the last thirty seconds, the most critical time,      with that green-sailed Beetle beside us. Ethan, the collar of his      yellow lifejacket pressed up against his chin, looked under the      boat's sail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Hi, Daddy!\" he called out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Once again, I chose to ignore him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Daddy!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What?\" I finally said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How ya doin'?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm doing-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The starting horn blew, and in a blink of an eye Melissa and      company were off. Okay, so I was a little late pulling in the      sail, and maybe that's why they were able to surge ahead of us,      but if Ethan had just not distracted me . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Since sails flutter uselessly like flags when pointed directly      into the wind, a sailboat must approach the first \"upwind\" mark      indirectly, tacking back and forth across the course. And where a      Nantucket whaleman thought in terms of weather systems and      continental currents as he navigated the oceans of the world, a      modern small boat racer approaches each momentary change in the      wind as if it were a storm front, each point of land as if it were      Cape Horn. This hypersensitivity to the elements means that the      first leg of a typical race becomes a panicky, zigzag quest for      the fastest path to the windward mark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And as it so happened, halfway up the first leg we caught a nice      wind shift on the right-hand side of the course and were suddenly      back in contention. Gordon was doing an excellent job of steering      the boat, and yet I found it impossible not to be a micromanager,      offering a continual stream of advice: \"Toward the sail a little      bit . . . now away from the sail . . . that's it!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first mark of the race was a torpedo-shaped buoy anchored in      the harbor channel, not far from the long barrier beach, known as      Coatue, that forms the outer edge of Nantucket Harbor. Since the      entire, seven-mile length of the harbor empties and fills around      the end of this giant sand spit, the current there is usually      quite fierce, as much as three to four knots. But all concern for      the current was temporarily suspended when I realized that we were      battling for first with Melissa and the kids.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The conservative thing for us to do would have been to duck behind      Melissa and then tack, essentially following her to the mark. But      I was not about to yield. It was all or nothing. I told Gordon      that with one perfectly executed tack we could knife in between      Melissa and the mark. He looked underneath the sail to see what      lay ahead. What he saw obviously worried him. \"Are you sure?\" he      asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But by then it was too late. \"Tack!\" I shouted. As Gordon jammed      the tiller over, I realized that I had made a terrible mistake.      The tide was rushing in much faster than I had realized. Try as I      might to get us moving forward instead of  sideways in the      current, we were soon wrapped around the buoy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is nothing worse than being pinned against a mark in a      strong tide. It's humiliating, particularly when your wife and      children sail past singing \"Found a Peanut.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There are no referees in sailing; it's up to the competitors to      discipline themselves. If you commit a foul, by hitting a mark or      another boat or by getting in someone else's way, you can      exonerate yourself by sailing one or two complete circles      (depending on the seriousness of the transgression) as a penalty.      It is not a fun maneuver, and after disentangling ourselves from      the mark and doing our penance, I apologized to Gordon. To his      credit, he seemed completely unflustered by the incident. Who      cared if we were now in third? We were still in the hunt, with      plenty of race left to sail.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The wind was now from behind, putting us on a broad reach to the      next mark. It turned out that Gordon's boat was fast on this point      of sail, and we were able to round the next mark in second.      Melissa and the kids were still quite a way out ahead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then it happened. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, that      green-sailed Beetle turned around and headed right for us. I could      see Jennie up on the bow, her long blond hair flowing back in the      breeze as she pointed at something in the water while Ethan      shouted excitedly from the cockpit. Then, just before we came      abreast of them, Melissa spun the boat around, the sail swooping      across dramatically as Jennie plunged her hand into the water. The      kids began to cheer. What was going on?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Waving a sodden baseball cap in the air, Jennie explained: \"I      dropped it overboard and Mommy went back to get it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Melissa smiled and shrugged. I didn't know what Gordon was      thinking, but this was more than I could stand. This was a race.      To turn back for a stupid hat was unthinkable, particularly when      you were in first place. The implication was clear: I can do      almost anything and still win.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The gloves were off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We rounded the last mark with Melissa less than a boat length      ahead of us. With one, relatively short upwind leg before the      finish, it was time to make things happen. So we tacked in an      attempt to find a shift of wind that would help us. But Melissa      wasn't about to let us get away with it, tacking almost      immediately to position her sail between ours and the wind. So we      tacked again-as did, of course, Melissa. It was, in the parlance      of the America's Cup commentators on ESPN, a tacking duel to the      death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beetle Cats are too heavy to tolerate too much tacking, but we put      our boats through their paces. Luckily, the boat in third was      unable to take advantage of our infighting, and we were still neck      and neck going into the finish. On board our boat, the tension was      palpable: my hands trembled with excitement; Gordon's eyes blazed      with competitive fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was a replay of the first leg. Melissa was approaching the      finish line on one tack; we were on the other. The plan, once      again, was to suddenly tack just ahead of her, shoot up into the      wind, and grab the victory. If it was close, I figured my boys on      the committee boat would give us the nod, knowing that their jobs      depended on it. I warned Gordon of the impending maneuver, and      both of us were glancing toward that green-sailed menace when      Gordon laughed. He laughed!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Will you look at that!\" he cried.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What?\" I shouted. \"What?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Look at your son!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I squinted through my salt-spattered sunglasses. Ethan was leaning      against the combing of the cockpit, his head wobbling drunkenly      with each bob of the boat. My God, the kid was asleep! Asleep? At      a time like this? Didn't he know he was in the midst of a tacking      duel to the death?!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That, I must admit, took the stuffing right out of us.      Slam-dunking a mother and her sleeping babe is a difficult thing      to do, even if you are the husband and father. By the time Gordon      and I pulled ourselves together, it was too late. The moment to      pounce had passed, and when we did eventually tack, Melissa walked      right over us and took the gun. The worst part was that she and      Jennie didn't cheer; otherwise they might have disturbed Ethan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Up a Creek\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before I knew it, Labor Day had come and gone and the kids were      back in school. Time for me to leave the waterfront behind and      become a writer again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But after two weeks researching old documents, I was thinking      about sailing again. The Gordon debacle still stung, but I knew      that there had to be more appropriate ways to work out a decade      and a half's worth of stifled sailing frustrations than taking on      my wife and kids in a Beetle Cat. I knew that relief could only      come in a Sunfish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By the end of September I'd learned that the 1993 Sunfish North      Americans were to be sailed on a man-made lake in Springfield,      Illinois, in July. Illinois? In July? Wasn't it kind of      ridiculous, venturing to the Land of Lincoln from the Island of      Ahab?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For me the site had one undeniable advantage, however. Lake      Springfield was notorious for its light winds. Since I was no      longer in the physical condition I'd been in fifteen years before,      the lighter the wind, the better. But there was another      consideration. By traveling to Lake Springfield I would be, in a      sense, returning home.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301388734693,"sku":"NP9780143132097","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143132097.jpg?v=1767736260","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/second-wind-isbn-9780143132097","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}