Something I'm rather fond of doing with my daughter Abby is wandering around to a few "beaches" in Annapolis in search of, well, stuff. Driftwood, shells, and various bits of flotsam are our usual haul. But one recent Saturday we came across something a bit bigger.
We pulled up to the Ellen O. Moyer Nature Park at Back Creek, which has a little cove off of Back Creek where things tend to wash up, near dusk. There's less driftwood and more trash this far up the creek, but it's still fun to check. But this time what we found wasn't trash, it was a derelict dinghy. It was half-deflated, only barely floating, and judging from the amount of accumulated dirt and grime had been adrift for some time. It still had a painter* that was within reach of the shore, so I pulled it in out of the water.
My immediate concern was to prevent it from becoming a hazard to navigation, but there wasn't anything sufficiently heavy to anchor it. Given enough time I likely could have improvised something, but since it was going to be getting dark soon I had to settle for pulling it ashore and hoping that the tide didn't carry it out of the cove. My other concern was seeing if I could identify who the owner was and possibly returning their lost dink to them, so I took several pictures of the craft, including its Maryland registration number, while I still had light.
The next morning, I returned to the cove with some equipment in order to properly secure the wayward dinghy until I could identify its owner. As I had suspected it would, the tide had shifted its position but fortunately it hadn't gone far. Now it was on the opposite side of the cove very near to the A-dock of Port Annapolis Marina. With a little effort (and only a slight bit of cold water down the top of one waterproof boot), I managed to get the dinghy ashore and properly secured so that it wouldn't drift out into the creek and become a nuisance.
On Monday, I contacted the Maryland Department of Natural Resources to inform them of the situation and ask for assistance with contacting the owner. Shortly thereafter, the owner called me directly to confirm the condition and location of the dinghy.
I guess now I can add Amateur Dinghy Salvage Artist to my resume right beside Amateur Salvage Diver.
*In nautical terms, a painter is a long bow line attached to a dinghy or other small craft. There were no paint-brush-wielding people attached to the dinghy.
As is wont to happen to a sailor who doesn't own their own boat, I have spent most of the latter half of 2015 on dry land. I've still been posting photos on Instagram, learning how to turn driftwood into something resembling art, and I even had a random dinghy salvage adventure that almost got its own post (and probably should have now that I think about it), but I haven't actually been sailing or doing much sailing-related stuff*. Such a pity.
Well, fortunately that will be changing in the near future. I'm in the process of booking a charter sailing trip in the BVI for Sara & myself and her mom Cathy for this coming April. I've been taking notes as I go along and plan on 'blogging the entire process from booking, through travel preparations, and the trip itself. The Annapolis racing circuit should also be getting back into gear around that point, so I'm looking forward to a very eventful 2016.
*Note to self: I posted back in July about having time to process a bunch of pictures and videos. July. Half a year ago. I must remedy this....
I am below deck in the cabin of a gently rocking sailboat. On the table in front of me is a chart, an array of plotting tools, a calculator, and a stopwatch. My only information regarding the outside world is coming to me via the companionway from our helmsman, Andy. He reads me off our speed, heading, and depth sounder readings intermittently and lets me know if he can see anything within 100 yards or so in the water. On deck, assisting Andy in keeping watch, is Mark.
My task is simple: navigate a 37' sailboat up the South River without grounding us using only a 100 yard sphere of information from the outside world, a chart, some basic tools, and my skill as a navigator.
Courtesy of NOAA
At the beginning of this exercise, the Fl (2+1) R 6s* buoy off of Saunders Point was directly off of our port beam and we were in 18 feet of water. Our boat draws about 6 feet of water, so my goal is to keep us in waters deeper than 10 feet; this not only allows me some margin of error, it also allows me to roughly follow the 12-foot depth contour on the chart if need be. I spend a moment looking at the chart and devise a plan. I need visible landmarks to verify our position, so I decide to plot a course that takes us close to navigational markers as we move up the river.
My first waypoint is the #4 red buoy (Fl R 2.5s), which is to our north near the mouth of the river. The water shallows up very quickly beyond the buoy so to allow for some margin of error I plot our course to pass slightly west of the buoy. According to my calculations, it should take about 9 minutes until the buoy is visible.
With our course plotted and the instructions relayed to Andy, all I can do is wait. To help pass the time, I inquire occasionally as to our depth but in this region the bottom is relatively flat so it varies little as we progress. 9 minutes come and go and there is still no sign of the buoy. My heart starts beating a little bit faster and I quickly review my calculations. Had I forgotten something? Were we off course?
Before I start to doubt myself too much, Andy yells down to me that he sees the buoy just off of our starboard bow, right where it should be. I make a quick mental note of the extra time it took; was that due to tidal currents, which I hadn't accounted for, or was it just an error in estimating our initial position? But those matters would have to wait because I needed to relay our next leg to Andy, which takes us northwest straight to the #5 green buoy off of Turkey Point.
There is a shallow bar between our current position off of red #4 and the next waypoint. My first instinct is to plot a course around the bar, but instead I plot a course right over it. Placing faith in our depth sounder and the quick reflexes of our helmsman I decide to use the bar as a way of establishing our position. We are only making about 5 knots through the water, so once our depth sounder reads 10 feet Andy can simply turn us to starboard to clear the bar. After we round the bar we'll have a reasonably good fix on our position.
At least, that's my plan.
Andy steers his course to the Turkey Point buoy, and I wait. After a few minutes, the water beneath us starts shallowing up.
14 feet.
12 feet.
10 feet. As per my instructions, Andy turns us 10 degrees to starboard to clear the bar.
9 feet. I have Andy turn us another 10 degrees.
8 feet. I have Andy turn us another 10 degrees, and I start to wonder if my plan to use the bar as a fix was too bold of a move. If we are further south on the bar than I planned we would have to make a much larger course correction than I had allowed for.
8 feet.
9 feet.
10 feet.
12 feet. I have Andy begin to turn us to port to resume our course to the Turkey Point buoy and breathe a quiet sigh of relief. My plan had worked, we were back on course, and I now had a much better fix on our location.
This goes on for another several legs and we make it about halfway from the mouth of the river to the bridge at Edgewater. Over time, Andy & I fall into a steady rhythm and sailing the boat blind seems almost natural. My calculations get more and more accurate so that we hit our last waypoint almost exactly when I think we should. At this point, Mark comes back the cockpit from his position on the bow and congratulates both of us on a job well done.
It's not actually foggy out; it's a perfectly clear day and Mark & Andy both had well over a mile of visibility and access to a GPS chartplotter in the cockpit. Mark isn't just a crew member keeping watch, he's a Royal Yachting Association sailing instructor and Andy & I are his students. This whole experience had been a teaching exercise meant to simulate sailing under poor visibility conditions with limited outside information. I can't speak for Andy's experience on the helm, but this certainly increased my confidence as a navigator.
If you are a sailor and ever have occasion to try blind navigation under good visibility conditions, I highly suggest that you try it. It is a bit stressful, but also very rewarding.
*This is nautical chart lingo for a buoy with a flashing red light that repeats a 2 + 1 flash pattern every 6 seconds.
I realized today that it's been almost a month since I published a post. In my defense, this has certainly not been due to lack of interest, instead it has been due to a decided lack of down time. Since my last post I have:
1. Turned 40 and celebrated appropriately.
2. Done an overnight distance race on the Chesapeake (The Race to Solomons) and the return sail back to Annapolis.
3. Spent a week on a boat on the Chesapeake (including three separate races) earning my RYA Day Skipper practical certification.
4. Spent a week in Pensacola (my second this summer), including a short trip to New Orleans (my first time there ever).
5. Chartered my first sailboat less than a week after being properly qualified to do so.
6. Managed, somehow, to squeeze in some work and sleep.
At the helm of my very first sailboat charter. Note the massive grin.
I have a lot of pictures and video footage to process and post, along
with stories to write up. Fortunately, I have no special travel or
sailing plans for August so I'm hoping to use the time to play
catch-up.
The Princess Bride is one of my all-time favorite movies, and I have yet to meet anyone who has seen it and not at least liked it. Most folks I've talked to about it love it just like I do. I grew up watching it and was mesmerized by the story, the adventure, the swordplay, and the witty interludes between Peter Falk and Fred Savage.
But upon further reflection, I've also realized that it may also secretly be one of the best sailing movies of all time. How so? Just look at the plot in summary form:
1. Boy finds girl
2. Boy goes sailing
3. Boy gets lost at sea
4. Boy becomes a pirate
5. Boy finds girl again
6. Boy saves girl
7. They live happily ever after
Tell me that there isn't a sailor out there who hasn't dreamed of living this out at least once? Finding true love, going off to sail the world, coming back to said true love and living happily ever after? The only thing that would be better is if the true love came along with you to share in your adventures, but I think that would have made for a less compelling movie.
I'd say that makes for a great sailing movie, even if only in an abstract sense. If I ever buy a boat, I'll almost certainly keep a copy on board to watch after a tough day storming the castle.
My trip sailing from Newport to Maine was fantastic, but it was also educational. I learned a lot, and also got some old lessons refreshed or reinforced. In no particular order, here is a sample of what I (re)learned.
1. Clothing is critical. On land, I'm a huge fan of cotton clothes. They're soft, comfortable, inexpensive, stretch just enough, and can be pretty durable. However, they have one critical shortfall that makes them far less ideal when on a boat: they hold onto moisture like a sponge. Once cotton gets wet, it stays wet for a long time. And since everything gets wet on a boat on a long passage, this means that if you wear cotton you'll likely be wet all the time. I switched over to various microfiber/polyester/spandex for sailing blends before this trip, and I was quite satisfied. (And dry) But even with quick-drying, moisture-wicking, breathable poly-blends, after 24 hours of wearing the same clothes, especially if you're moving around on deck a lot or otherwise working up a sweat, you'll start getting a little raw in spots. After we arrived in Provincetown, I definitely started noticing this so I picked up some baby powder while we were ashore and, after judicious application to the affected areas, had no more chafing problems. I plan to pack baby powder on overnight passages from now on. And finally, dress in layers. You want to wear the minimal amount of clothing necessary to keep you warm and dry because being hot and sweaty under a too-heavy winter coat will serve you almost as poorly as being cold and wet under a too-light windbreaker. My primary foul weather jacket is windproof and waterproof, thin enough to not be hot in warm weather, but big enough for me to layer up to keep warm if need be. A great combination in my (limited but still growing) experience.
2. Every boat owner should buy a GoPro and a good, sturdy selfie-stick. No, I'm not assuming that all boat owners are vain, selfie-obsessed millennials. Being able to jam a GoPro under water and look at the hull while still on board, or even at dock, makes diagnosing potential problems below the waterline a far easier task. This is especially true if you're in New England without a wetsuit and the water is only 50-ish degrees. Even if you're in the tropics and would love to take a swim in the warm water, you still don't want to go swimming in marina water if you can help it because many places don't bother with holding tanks for their heads. (Yes, they pump their poo straight into the water. Yuck.) In addition, if you need to get a look at something on the other side of that transmission or just beyond where you can reach your head in a lazarette, a GoPro could be very handy as well. Oh, and it's great for taking video and pictures of you actually sailing as well.
3. You can't do it all, so do what you can. On this trip, I was by far the least experienced sailor of the three people aboard. I knew it and they knew it. I didn't try to do anything that was beyond my abilities, and they didn't ask anything of me that I couldn't handle. This meant that I ended up with a lot of seemingly menial tasks like repeatedly stowing and unstowing all of my gear in my berth, tidying up lines when they weren't in use, and crawling around the lazarette to the very stern to inspect some bolts for tightness and leaks. Note, I said "seemingly menial" because in reality each of those tasks was important. My bunk was in the central part of the main salon, so if I hadn't regularly stowed my gear, it would have been all over the place getting in the way and possibly getting damaged. Same with tidying the lines; if we had needed to reef sail in a hurry and our lines had been a tumbled mess, that could have been tragic. And those bolts? They were holding the rudder on and after sailing through rough conditions before arriving in Newport, Beth wanted to be absolutely certain that they were on solidly. By taking care of the little stuff, I freed up Beth and Michael to handle the big stuff. Stuff like plotting our course, navigating us through a few tricky channels, and comforting me as I hurled my guts out over the rail shortly after leaving Newport*. Yeah, that happened.
4. Sleep when you can. When doing overnight sails, you need to set up a watch schedule in advance and stick to it as best you can. For this trip, we settled on 3-hour watches. In anticipation of my watch the night after departing Provincetown, I took a short nap during the day once we were underway. As this was the first night sail for "the new guy", Beth and Michael kindly agreed to stay up with my on my watch from 9-midnight; Beth stayed up for the first half as she was just coming off watch and Michael the second half as he was on after me. After my watch, Beth was still sleeping and the visibility had deteriorated considerably so I stayed up with Michael to serve as a second set of eyes to watch the fog and our sails. I would snooze for 10-15 minutes in the cockpit, poke my head up and look around, check with Michael for anything unusual, then close my eyes again. The nap I had taken earlier proved invaluable at this point. When Beth came on at 3, Michael stayed up with her and I went below to sleep for a few hours. After all was said and done, I had slept about the same amount as I would have in the same period on land, just broken up into multiple smaller segments, so when we arrived in Camden I was wide awake. 5. Modesty on cruising boats isn't really a thing. While some newer boats in the 30-40 foot range will have two or even three enclosed cabins, most older cruising boats that size only have one, and it's usually the V-berth at the head of the boat. Solstice (A Tartan 37) falls into this latter category with an enclosed V-berth forward, three berths in the main cabin, and a double berth (technically a double, but the smallest double I've ever seen) at the port quarter behind the nav station. As the skipper and owner, Beth claimed the enclosed berth forward. Michael took the quarter berth behind the nav station, and I claimed the "pilot's berth" amidships starboard. While my berth was surprisingly comfortable given its small size, it afforded me zero privacy, and neither did Michael's. Changing in the head, while possible, was complicated by its cramped size, especially in rolling seas. Fortunately, while underway there where usually two of us on deck so whoever was below would have the salon to themselves. In spite of this, I'm pretty sure we all saw each other in our skivvies at one point or another, and nobody seemed to mind. We're all grownups, right?
6. Every serious sailor needs a good head lamp. Preferably one with both a red night light and a white spotlight. If you're busy sailing a boat, chances are that you're using both hands for something so having a hands-free source of light in dark environments becomes essential. But a good head lamp is just as useful in the less obvious situations, like when you're hanging upside down in the lazarette trying to grab something at the bottom or reaching around to the side of the engine to check fluid levels.
7. Foulies aren't just for foul weather. A good set of foul weather gear is essential for any sailor for obvious reasons: you can't control the weather and sometimes you it will be cold and rainy. But, in addition to that, foulies are great to wear if you're cleaning the topsides and hosing things off zealously, and if you're feeling the urge to identify yourself as a sailor when you go ashore wearing your foul weather jacket is a sure-fire way to do it.
There is much, much more that I learned that I can't really condense into text, but this was a pretty good summary. I hope you enjoyed reading about it because I certainly enjoyed living it.
* I am 85% convinced that this was the result of me drinking coffee that morning and not purely sea-sickness, but the only way I'll know is to go out again....
Imagine that you are on a sailboat at night. The seas are rolling, but not too roughly, the wind is blowing, but not too strongly, and rain is falling, but not too harshly. The sky is overcast so there are no stars to navigate by nor moonlight to illuminate your surroundings. The only light that you can see is the dim glow of a few instruments in the cockpit and a steady stream of tiny, white-blue flashes of light cast by bio-luminescent sea life in your wake.
Gradually, the wind shifts and lessens and shortly thereafter a thick fog besets your vessel. This fog, aside from reducing your visibility, has the singular effect of blurring the horizon as it blends in with the clouds overhead. Instead of a clean transition from sea to sky, it now appears as if the water you are sailing on is gradually evaporating and encompassing you. For all you know, the world beyond the several hundred yards that you can see has ceased to exist.
No horizon.
No sky.
No land.
Just a dark sphere of water and vapor punctuated by brief flashes of light.
The effect is not frightening. On the contrary, it is rather calming. Your entire focus is centered on you immediate proximity. No thoughts of work, nor home, nor missed loved ones. Your only thoughts are of sailing your vessel and keeping to your course.
It is surreal.
If you can picture this in your imagination, then you have a pretty good idea of what I was experiencing at roughly 2AM on Saturday, June 13th, 2015 somewhere in the Gulf of Maine.
*I'd have asked you to close your eyes, but that would have made reading the rest of the post rather difficult....
