It looked like a gentle evening for a sunset sail, just us two. We've had our boat a half dozen seasons now, and I finally decided to hang out an ensign flag. We lake sail, and there is no real doubt about country of origin. But it is coming close on the 4th, and I thought it would look fine waving on the backstay.
And it really does. The boat has white topsides a blood red boot stripe, and navy blue bottom paint that rolls up as she heels to the wind. The whole effect with the flag was very nautical. I never realized how much I would like a tell tail. Our new flag flapped gently in the direction of the wind and made sail trim so much easier. The wind almost died completely several times, but the light little flag would jump up and point the way in the slightest rising puff.
Suddenly around 6pm the wind kicked up fiercely, rushing from 4 knots to a howling 25. We still had all our canvas up and struggled to get room for adjusting sails. Just before we had been shouting to a tiring cross-lake swimmer, offering a float or a tow, but he would take no help. We got quickly into open water, the boat heeling over violently. I was glad we had installed a downhaul line for the jib sail out front. The foredeck is no place to be when the boat is pitching in the waves. We downed the jib, which helped a good deal, but were unable to round up to wind which would give us the slack for reducing the main sail to the first reef point.
We struggled against the full wind in the sail to get at least part way down and secure the reef nettles, binding up the unused sail. We had enough control by then to finish the first reef and haul in to the second. When I built two reef points into the sail (I lofted the sails at home on our livingroom floor and stitched them on our little Kemore portable.) I thought it overkill, but was glad to have the second reef that day.
Now, finally, with no jib up and flying just a quarter of the main, the rest reefed in, we were able to take a tack back towards the rock levee. We could see the swimmer had made it to shore and was walking back along the levee road. Despite the howling wind and the boisterous waves, she was now sailing upright on her feet and making good progress. It was good to be in control again.
And we might have spent the rest of the evening jousting back and forth down the length of the lake, but the wind was whistling in the rigging and the waves topping whitecaps. We were starting to get wet and cold. We decided to turn in.
This was mistake number one.
Turning for the docks, we prepared the docklines and tracked our progress, sighting against the rocks on the levee. We were sailing level and well, but coming in too fast. It would be a sudden stop at dockside. So we took down yet more sail.
This was mistake number two.
When the wind is driving straight toward the docks, one can take down all sails and come in at a gentle pace on bare poles. You have enough forward motion to use the rudder to bring yourself alongside the docks, crew steps out and neatly cleats off the boat. This is poetry to behold. On this day the wind was not driving straight toward the docks. By the time it became apparent that the wind was coming from too far off the port quarter it had pushed us outside the docking area approach. Hastily trying to rehoist the main sail and cut right, rounding up for another pass only saw us driven past the willows, past the concrete spillway, and driven onto the rocks of the levee. The gusts held us pinned against the shore. One brave soul tried to come to our aid, but didn't have the horsepower to pull both himself and us off the lee shore. He barely made it back out himself.
We secured the boat as best we could to the fences and posts along the shoreline. The waves were now grinding the hull against the rocks. Lines to shore would at least localize the damage. We stepped ashore and met the sheriff's man who offered to get the powerful patrol boat and haul us off the rocks and back to the dock. A night on the rocks would surely have ruined the hull.
While waiting for the rescue, my attention came back to the brave little flag beating furiously against the gale screeching through the rigging. It had ridden the wind and waves with us the whole way, and now, sole occupant of the stranded vessel, held forth as if to say, "Take heart, this is nothing so terrible. Have courage, I've seen a lot worse. Iwo Jima was windier than this. So was the smoky breeze topping the Twin Towers. Omaha Beach was a bigger challenge, so was Bull Run, Gettysburg, Bunker Hill. Think about Oklahoma City, the Nairobi Embassy, or the base of the US Marines in Kandahar. No, I've seen a lot worse. This is nothing to be concerned about. Take courage."
The Sheriff arrived in short order and hauled us off the rocks and soon we were tied off at the dock. Another few moments more had her safely aboard the trailer and snug in the parking lot. The damage is cosmetic, a little fiberglass, a little paint. A little of the kind of effort that endears a boat to her owner and gives her name meaning. Our girl is named Amada, "Beloved" in Spanish.
And the little flag is stowed safely below waiting our next outing, confident of whatever comes our way, full of the boyant spirit that floats aloft on every evening breeze. Or gale.
Fair winds and following seas.
And it really does. The boat has white topsides a blood red boot stripe, and navy blue bottom paint that rolls up as she heels to the wind. The whole effect with the flag was very nautical. I never realized how much I would like a tell tail. Our new flag flapped gently in the direction of the wind and made sail trim so much easier. The wind almost died completely several times, but the light little flag would jump up and point the way in the slightest rising puff.
Suddenly around 6pm the wind kicked up fiercely, rushing from 4 knots to a howling 25. We still had all our canvas up and struggled to get room for adjusting sails. Just before we had been shouting to a tiring cross-lake swimmer, offering a float or a tow, but he would take no help. We got quickly into open water, the boat heeling over violently. I was glad we had installed a downhaul line for the jib sail out front. The foredeck is no place to be when the boat is pitching in the waves. We downed the jib, which helped a good deal, but were unable to round up to wind which would give us the slack for reducing the main sail to the first reef point.
We struggled against the full wind in the sail to get at least part way down and secure the reef nettles, binding up the unused sail. We had enough control by then to finish the first reef and haul in to the second. When I built two reef points into the sail (I lofted the sails at home on our livingroom floor and stitched them on our little Kemore portable.) I thought it overkill, but was glad to have the second reef that day.
Now, finally, with no jib up and flying just a quarter of the main, the rest reefed in, we were able to take a tack back towards the rock levee. We could see the swimmer had made it to shore and was walking back along the levee road. Despite the howling wind and the boisterous waves, she was now sailing upright on her feet and making good progress. It was good to be in control again.
And we might have spent the rest of the evening jousting back and forth down the length of the lake, but the wind was whistling in the rigging and the waves topping whitecaps. We were starting to get wet and cold. We decided to turn in.
This was mistake number one.
Turning for the docks, we prepared the docklines and tracked our progress, sighting against the rocks on the levee. We were sailing level and well, but coming in too fast. It would be a sudden stop at dockside. So we took down yet more sail.
This was mistake number two.
When the wind is driving straight toward the docks, one can take down all sails and come in at a gentle pace on bare poles. You have enough forward motion to use the rudder to bring yourself alongside the docks, crew steps out and neatly cleats off the boat. This is poetry to behold. On this day the wind was not driving straight toward the docks. By the time it became apparent that the wind was coming from too far off the port quarter it had pushed us outside the docking area approach. Hastily trying to rehoist the main sail and cut right, rounding up for another pass only saw us driven past the willows, past the concrete spillway, and driven onto the rocks of the levee. The gusts held us pinned against the shore. One brave soul tried to come to our aid, but didn't have the horsepower to pull both himself and us off the lee shore. He barely made it back out himself.
We secured the boat as best we could to the fences and posts along the shoreline. The waves were now grinding the hull against the rocks. Lines to shore would at least localize the damage. We stepped ashore and met the sheriff's man who offered to get the powerful patrol boat and haul us off the rocks and back to the dock. A night on the rocks would surely have ruined the hull.
While waiting for the rescue, my attention came back to the brave little flag beating furiously against the gale screeching through the rigging. It had ridden the wind and waves with us the whole way, and now, sole occupant of the stranded vessel, held forth as if to say, "Take heart, this is nothing so terrible. Have courage, I've seen a lot worse. Iwo Jima was windier than this. So was the smoky breeze topping the Twin Towers. Omaha Beach was a bigger challenge, so was Bull Run, Gettysburg, Bunker Hill. Think about Oklahoma City, the Nairobi Embassy, or the base of the US Marines in Kandahar. No, I've seen a lot worse. This is nothing to be concerned about. Take courage."
The Sheriff arrived in short order and hauled us off the rocks and soon we were tied off at the dock. Another few moments more had her safely aboard the trailer and snug in the parking lot. The damage is cosmetic, a little fiberglass, a little paint. A little of the kind of effort that endears a boat to her owner and gives her name meaning. Our girl is named Amada, "Beloved" in Spanish.
And the little flag is stowed safely below waiting our next outing, confident of whatever comes our way, full of the boyant spirit that floats aloft on every evening breeze. Or gale.
Fair winds and following seas.
