Lucky Dawg
05-27-2009, 07:33 AM
My mom and step-dad sail from Brooklyn, ME in their 31' Cheoy Lee Bermuda Ketch "Orient Star" My mom sent this out following a "learning experience" sail on Monday. I suggested she submit it to Good Old Boat or the like...
_______________________________________
HOME FREE
Memorial Day 2009 dawned brilliant blue, breezy enough to discourage black flies, and temperate—Maine at her spring best! The garden begged for a day’s worth of activity, but Memorial Day was pre-determined--“The First Sailing Day of the Season” and a check of web weather confirmed that conditions were “Go”. With back-and-forth bag packed--Triscuits/peanut butter/cheese/jalapeños, two cold Geary’s for the captain, garbage bags, extra fleece layers, spare parts, spare tools, spare everything (it’s boating), we eagerly arrived at the town dock. Friends were there rigging Allons—no sailing planned today—and the breeze was lively as we put-putted away in our “toy” dinghy—waves sending cold spray over the bow.
Approaching Orient Star is always a pleasure--like proud parents, we are—but anticipation of sailing after a long winter AND extensive rebuild in the cockpit made her look even more beautiful to us. Boarding was routine—the checklist, as always, included tying the dinghy to the mooring, stashing the bring-aboards, snapping on the cushions, positioning the flag, removing sail covers, and hoisting the sails. The captain signaled from the stern that he was ready—engine purring—and I cast off the bow line and tossed the mooring stick into the water with dinghy painter attached.
We motor-sail out the channel and observe Carter Point neighbors—the Williamsons —boaters—lounging on their lawn with the paper. The Keyes and their guests are not in evidence, and Prep doesn’t even venture out on deck to wave. With sails already up, Don cuts the motor in front of Follweiler’s dock, and we glide out into the Reach. Two things become readily apparent—there are few boats on the water, and the wind is significant enough to require bracing my feet against the companionway. We continue across the Reach—I’m “standing” on the companionway in the straight winds and leaning hard to starboard on the gusts.
Don offers, “Maybe this was a better gardening day.”
I suggest, hopefully, “We could just sail over to Deer Isle and return.”
Don agrees, but once in the area, he suggests that we “sail just a bit toward the bridge”. As conditions are at least predictable and the sun is shining through a hole in the clouds, I’m happy to oblige. I bring up our old favorite boat snacks and sit on the cockpit sole where I can wedge peanut butter jar, cheese and jalapeño containers, and Triscuit box into the corner, and I assemble tall stacks and alternate one for Don/one for me.
Don changes course slightly, heading out into mid-Reach, and the bridge rapidly approaches—due to a surprising increase in wind and accompanying white caps. We quickly conclude that the jib should be doused, but, given wind strength and the inherent negative characteristics of the furling mechanism, this isn’t the place.
I check the chart for depth and suggest, “How about the cove beside the Causeway?”
Don agrees, but even pointing as high as possible, he’s unable to make the cove on this non-negotiable course. Tacking, also, is now a requirement for successfully crossing under the ever-more-quickly approaching bridge.
After a binoculars-enhanced look at conditions down-Reach—no better than where we are—we decide to run for home. We tack—jib flapping noisily--and find ourselves on an exhilarating 8.8 mph run up-Reach. No fear of accidental jibe on this course, as the mainsail is at a right-angle to the boat! However, we’re too close to the shore for comfort, and, as we survey the water around us, prior to altering course, I notice an area astern that resembles liquid in a blender—churning, frothy—angry! Simultaneously, we change course and encounter a blast of wind energy that whips us around 180 degrees, so that we’re bridge-bound once again. The wind is fierce, the gusts are ferocious, and we’re not headed home anymore.
As we’re considering the options, we see a break in the wind pattern—a space between gusts that allows us to once again tack to starboard and achieve a downwind course we can hold all the way to the Benjamin River. As we make the turn into the river, we see Prep waving from his deck—no doubt watching for us to come in—and we’re ready to relax on a quiet beam reach to our mooring. It’s been a strenuous two-hour first sail of the season! So--we’re now home free!
But, no!
We quickly realize our SW wind adversary has backed to become our new NW foe—now once more on our nose. The sails must come down, but the jib always rolls too tight in this much wind, so four feet of flapping sail remain unfurled. I take the tiller and Don engages the whipping main and mizzen, and we motor into what is usually our home port refuge.
“I can’t get the stick!” I’m yelling and gesturing to Don on our first pass of the mooring. Our usually upright stick lies horizontal on the water—completely below my reach. I go below to get the boat hook and, on the second pass, am successful in picking up the mooring line. However, the wind is so strong that I can’t secure it to the Samson post. Don puts the engine in neutral and comes to help, but the two of us together can still make no gains on the wind and waves, until a slight swing of the bow allows us a split second to pull and drop it over the post. Ah—at last--home free!
But, no.
The unfurled jib is still to be addressed, or the sail will tear itself to shreds. The wind in our safe “hurricane hole” seems to have increased. We can see it on the water—steadily approaching bands of churning, followed by unsettled, water. We try unsuccessfully to unfurl the jib and re-furl during an “unsettled” band, but we’re not fast enough, and the jib line continues to prevent a successful furling.
An hour passes filled with futile attempts. We consider leaving the mooring to find a quiet spot in the harbor, but none exist. The wind continues to blast toward us. We wonder if dusk will bring wind abatement and prepare to wait it out. Meanwhile, Orient Star is swinging violently, responding to the small bit of jib doing its wind-catching job.
A nearby sailor securely on his mooring has offered gestures of help during the interminable hour. We indicate we’re okay, but he, no doubt seeing a need, rows (and blows) over, rafts onto our dinghy, and crawls aboard. Dave (no last name offered) suggests tying the undisciplined jib, instead of continuing to hope the furler works, and he nimbly hops up on the pulpit to wrestle it into submission. It works!--briefly!—until the wind gets purchase in a fold of sail, and it balloons like a bubble—beating, thumping, flapping. We locate more line, and Dave and Don together manually wind the remaining jib backwards, until they can hold it still and securely bungee and tie a three-foot column. It holds! Not pretty, but secure.
The wind hasn’t stopped for a second—and Dave can’t row back to his boat against it--so we all hold tight and crawl the boat, re-flaking the main and mizzen and attaching sail covers. Thirty minutes later and a slight lessening of the wind gives hope to Dave, who departs, rowing hard and fast. We watch, and when he safely boards Quest, we also prepare to “get outta Dodge”. Wow! Finally! Home free!
But wait—
“WHERE THE HELL IS OUR DINGHY?”
Don shouts—and we both circle the perimeter of Orient Star, like looking for a diamond just flushed down the drain. The dinghy is not only GONE—we see it merrily bobbing along the Brooklin shore—carried half a mile in minutes by the relentless wind!
Two choices present—our new best friend, Dave, in a rowboat located between us and the town dock………….or Richard Holk in the other direction on board Allon-- with engine-powered tender--half-way between us and our Brooklin-bound dinghy. Don shouts at Richard—the wind miraculously carrying his stern-to-bow “captain’s voice” across the water--and Richard sees the dinghy, comprehends the problem, and leaps into action. We briefly lose sight of him behind Allons and the working barge, but our next glimpse is of Richard leading our wild child home on a leash. Bad dinghy!—no clue how it got loose, but once unfastened, it was ready for adventure.
Don makes sure the propeller is still intact and functioning after scraping along the beach, and we quickly load up and plow into the wind toward Quest and our Good Samaritan rower. Boats linked together with Dave’s painter, we slowly and wetly pull him behind us into the calm lee of the town dock.
Don’s watch says 5:00—two hours after turning into the Benjamin River—and only four hours from launch. Seems like days! Ahhhhh--NOW—we’re really home free!
Truly.
_______________________________________
HOME FREE
Memorial Day 2009 dawned brilliant blue, breezy enough to discourage black flies, and temperate—Maine at her spring best! The garden begged for a day’s worth of activity, but Memorial Day was pre-determined--“The First Sailing Day of the Season” and a check of web weather confirmed that conditions were “Go”. With back-and-forth bag packed--Triscuits/peanut butter/cheese/jalapeños, two cold Geary’s for the captain, garbage bags, extra fleece layers, spare parts, spare tools, spare everything (it’s boating), we eagerly arrived at the town dock. Friends were there rigging Allons—no sailing planned today—and the breeze was lively as we put-putted away in our “toy” dinghy—waves sending cold spray over the bow.
Approaching Orient Star is always a pleasure--like proud parents, we are—but anticipation of sailing after a long winter AND extensive rebuild in the cockpit made her look even more beautiful to us. Boarding was routine—the checklist, as always, included tying the dinghy to the mooring, stashing the bring-aboards, snapping on the cushions, positioning the flag, removing sail covers, and hoisting the sails. The captain signaled from the stern that he was ready—engine purring—and I cast off the bow line and tossed the mooring stick into the water with dinghy painter attached.
We motor-sail out the channel and observe Carter Point neighbors—the Williamsons —boaters—lounging on their lawn with the paper. The Keyes and their guests are not in evidence, and Prep doesn’t even venture out on deck to wave. With sails already up, Don cuts the motor in front of Follweiler’s dock, and we glide out into the Reach. Two things become readily apparent—there are few boats on the water, and the wind is significant enough to require bracing my feet against the companionway. We continue across the Reach—I’m “standing” on the companionway in the straight winds and leaning hard to starboard on the gusts.
Don offers, “Maybe this was a better gardening day.”
I suggest, hopefully, “We could just sail over to Deer Isle and return.”
Don agrees, but once in the area, he suggests that we “sail just a bit toward the bridge”. As conditions are at least predictable and the sun is shining through a hole in the clouds, I’m happy to oblige. I bring up our old favorite boat snacks and sit on the cockpit sole where I can wedge peanut butter jar, cheese and jalapeño containers, and Triscuit box into the corner, and I assemble tall stacks and alternate one for Don/one for me.
Don changes course slightly, heading out into mid-Reach, and the bridge rapidly approaches—due to a surprising increase in wind and accompanying white caps. We quickly conclude that the jib should be doused, but, given wind strength and the inherent negative characteristics of the furling mechanism, this isn’t the place.
I check the chart for depth and suggest, “How about the cove beside the Causeway?”
Don agrees, but even pointing as high as possible, he’s unable to make the cove on this non-negotiable course. Tacking, also, is now a requirement for successfully crossing under the ever-more-quickly approaching bridge.
After a binoculars-enhanced look at conditions down-Reach—no better than where we are—we decide to run for home. We tack—jib flapping noisily--and find ourselves on an exhilarating 8.8 mph run up-Reach. No fear of accidental jibe on this course, as the mainsail is at a right-angle to the boat! However, we’re too close to the shore for comfort, and, as we survey the water around us, prior to altering course, I notice an area astern that resembles liquid in a blender—churning, frothy—angry! Simultaneously, we change course and encounter a blast of wind energy that whips us around 180 degrees, so that we’re bridge-bound once again. The wind is fierce, the gusts are ferocious, and we’re not headed home anymore.
As we’re considering the options, we see a break in the wind pattern—a space between gusts that allows us to once again tack to starboard and achieve a downwind course we can hold all the way to the Benjamin River. As we make the turn into the river, we see Prep waving from his deck—no doubt watching for us to come in—and we’re ready to relax on a quiet beam reach to our mooring. It’s been a strenuous two-hour first sail of the season! So--we’re now home free!
But, no!
We quickly realize our SW wind adversary has backed to become our new NW foe—now once more on our nose. The sails must come down, but the jib always rolls too tight in this much wind, so four feet of flapping sail remain unfurled. I take the tiller and Don engages the whipping main and mizzen, and we motor into what is usually our home port refuge.
“I can’t get the stick!” I’m yelling and gesturing to Don on our first pass of the mooring. Our usually upright stick lies horizontal on the water—completely below my reach. I go below to get the boat hook and, on the second pass, am successful in picking up the mooring line. However, the wind is so strong that I can’t secure it to the Samson post. Don puts the engine in neutral and comes to help, but the two of us together can still make no gains on the wind and waves, until a slight swing of the bow allows us a split second to pull and drop it over the post. Ah—at last--home free!
But, no.
The unfurled jib is still to be addressed, or the sail will tear itself to shreds. The wind in our safe “hurricane hole” seems to have increased. We can see it on the water—steadily approaching bands of churning, followed by unsettled, water. We try unsuccessfully to unfurl the jib and re-furl during an “unsettled” band, but we’re not fast enough, and the jib line continues to prevent a successful furling.
An hour passes filled with futile attempts. We consider leaving the mooring to find a quiet spot in the harbor, but none exist. The wind continues to blast toward us. We wonder if dusk will bring wind abatement and prepare to wait it out. Meanwhile, Orient Star is swinging violently, responding to the small bit of jib doing its wind-catching job.
A nearby sailor securely on his mooring has offered gestures of help during the interminable hour. We indicate we’re okay, but he, no doubt seeing a need, rows (and blows) over, rafts onto our dinghy, and crawls aboard. Dave (no last name offered) suggests tying the undisciplined jib, instead of continuing to hope the furler works, and he nimbly hops up on the pulpit to wrestle it into submission. It works!--briefly!—until the wind gets purchase in a fold of sail, and it balloons like a bubble—beating, thumping, flapping. We locate more line, and Dave and Don together manually wind the remaining jib backwards, until they can hold it still and securely bungee and tie a three-foot column. It holds! Not pretty, but secure.
The wind hasn’t stopped for a second—and Dave can’t row back to his boat against it--so we all hold tight and crawl the boat, re-flaking the main and mizzen and attaching sail covers. Thirty minutes later and a slight lessening of the wind gives hope to Dave, who departs, rowing hard and fast. We watch, and when he safely boards Quest, we also prepare to “get outta Dodge”. Wow! Finally! Home free!
But wait—
“WHERE THE HELL IS OUR DINGHY?”
Don shouts—and we both circle the perimeter of Orient Star, like looking for a diamond just flushed down the drain. The dinghy is not only GONE—we see it merrily bobbing along the Brooklin shore—carried half a mile in minutes by the relentless wind!
Two choices present—our new best friend, Dave, in a rowboat located between us and the town dock………….or Richard Holk in the other direction on board Allon-- with engine-powered tender--half-way between us and our Brooklin-bound dinghy. Don shouts at Richard—the wind miraculously carrying his stern-to-bow “captain’s voice” across the water--and Richard sees the dinghy, comprehends the problem, and leaps into action. We briefly lose sight of him behind Allons and the working barge, but our next glimpse is of Richard leading our wild child home on a leash. Bad dinghy!—no clue how it got loose, but once unfastened, it was ready for adventure.
Don makes sure the propeller is still intact and functioning after scraping along the beach, and we quickly load up and plow into the wind toward Quest and our Good Samaritan rower. Boats linked together with Dave’s painter, we slowly and wetly pull him behind us into the calm lee of the town dock.
Don’s watch says 5:00—two hours after turning into the Benjamin River—and only four hours from launch. Seems like days! Ahhhhh--NOW—we’re really home free!
Truly.