The kite being hoisted. you can see the cooling in the right hand side of the sail

Level 3 is all about the spinnaker—or “kite,” as it’s more casually called. The spinnaker is a massive, lightweight sail that comes out when we’re sailing downwind in light wind. Think of it as the drama queen of the sail wardrobe: beautiful, unpredictable, and capable of absolute chaos if not handled correctly. There are three different types, each suited to a different wind strength. Choosing the right one is important. Choosing the wrong one is… memorable.

Before any of them go up, they’re carefully prepped. This process is called wooling—which, frankly, sounds far more comforting than it is. Wooling brings to mind something cozy and domestic, like knitting a scarf by the fire. In reality, it involves tying dozens of tiny pieces of wool around an enormous sail to keep it bundled in a tight, sausage-like shape so it doesn’t tangle with every line and stay on the boat during the hoist.

If the kite gets stuck, it needs to be brought down fast and shoved down the forward hatch before it has time to inflate again. Because once it fills with wind, it becomes less “sail” and more “giant flailing parachute,” capable of dragging a crew member halfway to France if they hold on too long. It’s exciting in the way accidental skydiving might be exciting.

Once below deck, it’s a group effort to sort out the mess. The sail comes down in a heap—usually wet, twisted, and resembling a giant collapsed jellyfish—and needs to be detangled, dried if possible, and tied back up in its sausage form, ready for the next hoist. This part always feels a bit like folding a fitted sheet with three other people who also don’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. But eventually, it gets done.

Handling the kite feels a little daunting at first, but over time, it becomes one of those oddly satisfying rituals. There’s even something meditative about wooling—at least until the next hoist, when all hell might break loose again.

Once the kite is wooled and packed away, it waits—silent, contained, and slightly smug—until the wind shifts in its favor and it’s time to fly. That’s when the real fun begins.

Flying the kite isn’t a “set it and forget it” situation—it needs constant attention. The person in charge of that is the trimmer, whose job it is to stare fixedly at the edge of the sail (the luff) and decide, second by second, whether it needs to be let out or pulled in. This involves a lot of squinting at a slightly flapping edge of fabric and pretending you’re confident about airflow.

When the sail needs trimming in, the trimmer calls out to the grinder, who stands at the ready by the winch—known affectionately (and somewhat optimistically) as the coffee grinder. As soon as the call comes—“grind!”—the grinder leaps into action, spinning the handles with all the enthusiasm of someone starting an emergency backup generator.

But just as they get going, the inevitable next call comes: “Hold!”
Grind. Hold. Grind. Hold.

This can go on for what feels like forever, a kind of slow-motion cardio routine fueled entirely by indecision and wind shifts. By the end, the trimmer has a stiff neck and a solid sunburn from staring at the sky all day, and the grinder’s arms feel like they’ve aged several decades. Neither of them is having a great time, but they pretend otherwise—because kite work, for all its drama, somehow becomes addictive.