I crack open a celebratory cold beer that has been waiting in the galley cooler. Another done day of sailing with Roger. We both collapse into our cushion seats on either side of the captains wheel lucky to have some late afternoon shade under the dodger.
Last year at this same small bustling harbor of North Haven on Deer Isle, Maine, there was a small bad pizza take-out place and a pretentious vacation restaurant just beyond the docks. Neither a great choice, but our provisions had dwindled and Roger was not happy about the prospect of my version of tuna patties and beans. So, after the beer and some freshening up, we clambered down into the dingy and rowed for shore.
Once ashore, we were delighted to find the bad take-out under new ownership. We both enjoyed upscale hamburgers while watching the summer vacationers gather at the community center across the street for a band performance. The server was kind enough to bring us a phone to call the one open grocery on the island. They would send a car to bring us to the market and back, so we could replenish the boats provisions. They are used to boaters without wheels. We stocked up on our essentials, potato chips, chocolate chip cookies ("Chips Ahoy"), and coffee, and gathered a few incidentals like milk, bread, chicken and green beens.
The Joshua Coit is a 35 foot sloop (single mast) of 70's vintage; a big, old, heavy, slow, vessel. My friend Roger, the skipper of our sailing adventures, moans about this boat's stodgy performance compared to the more svelt younger models that often sail by, but I'm happy that it takes waves steady and even. It can sleep four, but most comfortable (and private) for two single people. The alcohol stove in the galley is old fashioned and occasionally catches on fire, but otherwise manages to fry up some pretty good grub. The "head" or bathroom has a new pump flush toilet, a welcomed refurbishment after the old toilet had to be gerry-rigged (by moi) several years back to keep working.
The boat is owned by Bob. Roger and I deliver it by sea from it's winter home in Gloucester, MA to its summer home in Rockland, ME. In return, we get to sail about off the coast.
The winds during this ten day trip (from which I just returned) were not very cooperative, so we motored much of the time. There is a diesel engine below deck that will pull the boat along at five knots, but it makes an incessant noisy chugging and vibration. Roger, as the more experienced sailer, mans the wheel and I, as the less experienced crew, trim the sails. When we motor, the sails are in and there is not much to do but take turns at the wheel and keep the prop from getting tangled in lobster pots.
The surprisingly stiff breeze from the south west delivered us from the emotional doldrums that two men in a boat can suffer after days of motoring. In fact, the wind, as we sailed into our destination harbor, Rockland, almost proved our undoing. The white-caps started sending up spray. The full jib and mainsail (there are two sails, the "jib" at the front of the mast and the mainsail that extends from the mast toward the stern) pulled the boat to a sharp heel causing sea to run along the leeward gunwale (pronounced "gun-el").
"Shorten the jib!" Roger barked. "Shorten the jib?", now this was a new command. "Putting in a reef" is normally what is done when the wind is too strong for full sail, which means to pull the mainsail part way down, and fasten it with a couple of dedicated lines. This is a somewhat complicated operation that requires heading into the wind to take pressure off the mainsail for loosening. There was neither the time or space for reefing. To take in the jib, you would also head into the wind and then pull the line that would wind the jib up like a window shade around a forward cable. This heretofore unheard command, "shorten the jib" suggested that I wind up the jib part way to make it smaller, but without first having the pressure eased by heading into the wind. I loosened the jib halyard that holds it tight and began pulling the line that would wind the jib. It wouldn't budge.
The wind whistled by my ears and Roger had to yell to tell me to use the spare winch to haul the line. I wrapped the line around the winch, grabbed the winch handle stored in a pocket nearby and crammed it in the hole at the top. Roger was manning the wheel and holding the end of my line so I could use both hands to crank. With the boat in a strong heel, I had to keep my balance while using all my might to crank. "Phew!", finally made the jib shorter and the boat slowed and straightened a bit.
But only for a minute. Roger exclaimed, "Why is the jib full out again!?", which, sure enough, it was. I had forgotten to fasten the line after winching, so it simply let itself back out. No time for that operation all over again, we just kept the boat straight as possible until far enough in the harbor for the protection of trees to reduce the wind to manageable. I'm thankful for Roger's skill, and also thankful that he never suggests that I'm a knucklehead when I mess up and almost cause us to be tossed to the sea.
2 comments:
That sounds like such an adventure, but terrifying to me! Do you find this restorative, renewing, refreshing?
Melanie,
As a close friend says, "you're a Jewish altercacker (sp?) what are you doing out sailing?!" Good question. I mean, I would normally prefer a sharp stick in an eye to an out of doors activity. I guess its akin to a good slap in the face. It wakes me up, causes a sharp pain, but puts a glow in my cheek.
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