Four days of adventure lay ahead for Dan and I, as we embarked on our Labor Day holiday weekend sailing trip. It was the first opportunity we had all summer to sail with just the two of us. The route we planned took us across the bay on the first evening to a quiet, little creek near Rock Hall. The second and third harbors would be Annapolis and Baltimore, where we would experience much busier city port activity. We would be averaging 20 miles a day and the weather forecast was favorable.
In the past, I have always written about the wonderful experiences we’ve had sailing. I’ve described the euphoric feeling the wind, sun and water have on the very fabric of our souls. I’ve written about the magical effect sailing has on the people around us, and how the cares of the world melt away when experiencing sailing. There is, however, the other side of the story. There can’t be smooth sailing, all of the time. There can’t be sunshine, gentle breezes and perfect harmony and agreement, 100% of the time.
The first evening we pulled in to find a spot to drop anchor in Swan Creek, we had a brisk wind carry us across the bay and arrived in 4 hours, and 3 tacks, to our destination. The sailing is the easy part. Maneuvering into a spot and dropping a secure anchor, is a little bit trickier. Fortunately, we’ve had quite a bit of experience anchoring, but one never knows what new obstacles you might encounter. For instance, the first night of our honeymoon in the BVI’s 30 years ago, we chose to anchor in a harbor whose steep volcanic sides made it virtually impossible to secure an anchor in 30 knot winds. We spent all night, drifting, resetting the anchor, and desperately trying to get the anchor to stick so that we might get a few hours sleep. This anchorage, was not nearly as challenging, and we motored in between several other sailboats, dropped the hook, and in a matter of minutes, felt it take purchase and hold fast. The situation around us, however, revealed noise and activity within a stone’s throw of our cockpit’s sanctuary.
On one side of us, was a 40 some foot boat, well equipped with all the gadgets, bells and whistles for comfortable cruising. The middle-aged couple on the boat, seemed experienced and comfortable, however the dog they also brought along as a passenger, took his duty of guarding the vessel, way too seriously. It was a small, poodle-like yappy thing, and the couple didn’t find it offensive or annoying when the dog barked at everything that moved, beyond his boat. Trust me when I say, there was a lot of activity in the harbor that evening, from paddle boarders, passing fishing boats, and a variety of other aquatic traffic. Not once, did I hear a, “shhhhh, be quiet, stop barking,” from these people. They simply let the little bugger voice his opinion that any movement within his eyesight range, was reason to raise the alarm.
Okay, so a little barking is annoying, but doesn’t really hurt anyone; not like smoke. The boat upwind of us, a few yards on the opposite side of the boat from the yapping dog, fired up their grill. What they used to fuel their grill, I will never know, but the billowing, dark, funnel of fumes, found their way into our cockpit. Dan says, smoke follows beauty, so one of us must be gorgeous. As we struggled to light our grill and cook our evening meal, we were accompanied by smoke from our neighbor’s grill, which to say the least, put a dark cloud over our happy hour, literally.
The sunset was spectacular, and despite the barking and smokiness, our grilled sausage and potatoes were exquisite. Finally, the barking sentry went to bed, the wind shifted, and the ember’s of the neighboring grill died down and became less toxic. True to a sailing timetable, we settled in for the night, just after sunset. There was just one problem. The wind had died and not a breath of wind funneled through the cabin despite the wind sock we installed above the forward hatch. It was humid, hot and sticky. The stars were brilliant and the air was a bit cooler and more refreshing in the cockpit, so I got the grand idea so sleep up on deck, under the stars. Exhausted from the day, I grabbed a pillow, a sheet, and lay down on the vinyl deck cushion, wearing a short, thin, nightie. I fell asleep immediately, noting that Dan had adopted the same plan and had crashed on the other bench. It was probably 2 or 3 in the morning when I awoke the first time and tried to roll over. I had pulled the sheet over top of me, and had been sleeping, skin against the cushion. Wow! Who would have though skin and damp vinyl have such adhesive qualities. I tried to roll over to sleep on my back, but 90% of my body was glued to the cushion. Painfully, I ripped off several layers of epidermis trying to roll over. Afterwards, I peaked over at Dan and noticed he had cocooned himself with the sheet, thereby making no skin contact with the cushion. Thank you sweetheart for the warning. I flipped over onto my back and tucked the sheet underneath me.
Apparently, I am a restless sleeper. The sheet somehow slid from underneath me, and when I awoke in another hour and tried to roll back over to my stomach, I found the other side of my body now glued to the cushions. With great consternation, I peeled myself once again from the powerful grip of the cushions and actually wondered if my tan was removed in the process. I lost that much skin. When I looked over to see what position Dan was in, and if he was still safely wrapped in comfort, he was gone. That’s right, disappeared and nowhere in sight. As I felt the part of the sheet wadded on top of me, I realized it was soaking wet with dew. My guess was Dan had fled the cockpit to drier and less sticky conditions; I was correct and found him a few minutes later, sound asleep in the V birth.
Ah, the V birth. It is not a roomy area in a 30ft boat and is lined with a shelf that protrudes around both sides of the sleeping area. Trying to shove my body next to Dan without waking him was impossible, so I wrestled over him and wedged myself between him and the bulkhead. This process was neither delicate nor graceful, and I kicked and kneed him several times in the process. Sorry honey (secretly, I felt he might have deserved some of this after abandoning me in the cockpit). After successfully burrowing into my spot, I raised my knee to sleep with my leg against the wall of the birth, and kneecap and shelf collided violently. In the dark, I misjudged the height of the shelf and proceeded to painfully bash my knee. As I lay there groaning, in the heat and stifling air, skin burning and knee cap throbbing, I knew that our future boat was going to have to have a queen sized birth.
Next morning, we motored out of the harbor as the sun peered over the horizon, welcoming us to the glorious new day. We had our breakfast and morning tea, and were ready for the next leg of our adventure. We cleared the marker around the point and were ready to put the sails up for the 20 mile leg to Annapolis. I couldn’t wait to get there for happy hour and sit on the dock, drinking a Pain Killer, my favorite beverage. The wind was building, a strong 15 to 20 knots. We rounded the buoy and headed Dove upwind to put up the sails. I have to flashback before I continue this part of the tale for some background information about our sail.
Dan is a planner, a thinker and a mastermind in many ways. He is always thinking ahead to our future voyage around the world, and in his infinite wisdom, decided we needed to be able to repair our own sails. Since he can rebuild any diesel engine from scratch, repair any part of a boat, it made sense to me that he wanted to buy a heavy duty sewing machine and learn to repair sails. Dan researched machines and found a used one on Ebay, and it seemed perfect for him to undertake the craft of sail repair. The machine arrived, it was a black monster. I saw evil, just looking at it and Dan spent the entire winter finding parts for it because it did not work. Dan can fix most anything given enough time, and by spring he was ready to try sewing a new UV protective strip to our jib. It would be his first project and a test of his self taught sewing skills, straight from Youtube videos.
To say that sewing a sail is difficult would be to say Mount Everest is a tough hill to climb. It took no less than 5 people at a time to feed the sail through the machine and stitch that unwieldy piece of material. It was a nightmare, with lots of cursing, swearing and sweating. People kept abandoning us and we spend many evenings recruiting new victims until the project was finished. However, each time we pulled the machine out, moved all the living room furniture, and spread the sail out the length of two rooms, Dan’s stitching got better. There was a significant learning curve and finally, we had a complete line of new protective cloth lining the sail. The purpose of the strip, is when the sail is rolled up and left on the front of the boat, the sun will only shine on it, and not damage the sail.
As we motored out and headed into the wind, I happened to glance up at the jib, so proud of our first sail sewing feat. The sail was furled tightly against the forestay, and I smiled proudly at our handiwork. One small problem, as I stared at the sail, before pulling it out, only I couldn’t see the strip. “Dan”, I yelled back to him as he concentrated on avoiding other boats, steering into oncoming wakes, and keeping us in the channel. “Shouldn’t I be able to see our new UV strip?”
“What the heck are you talking about?” he said, not really concerned. “Of course you should be able to see it.”
“Well,” I said, cocking my head and looking from a different angle, “It looks a lot like the rest of the sail.”
Dan strode forward, abandoning the helm, and walked up for a closer look. “Mother *&^#%$%@^, son of *&^&^&#, and a few other expletives later, we discovered that the strip was indeed on the wrong side of the sail. When the sail rolled up, the strip lay where no sunshine would ever see it. Dan claimed that he put the strip on the same side we had taken the old one off, but something had gone wrong. The good news? We know how to do it now. Second time will surely be a charm.
The wind was amazing, the sky sunny and despite a rough evening and disappointing start, the rest of the day promised wonderful things. We raised the mainsail, rolled out the jib and started to fly. The boat danced across the water, promising to get us to Annapolis well in time for happy hour. After a brief sail across the channel, we needed to come about and change tack. Well rehearsed in this drill, I knew exactly what to do and prepared the windward sheet, winch handle in hand. Dan gave the order, “Coming about,” and released the jib. She flew across the deck and came to grinding halt half way across. The jib line caught on the hatch cover that had been inadvertently left open when we left the harbor. I sprang to action and launched myself forward to release the tangle. The sheet was thrashing wildly in the strong wind but I knew what needed to be done. Dan heard me scream in pain, as the force of the wind had such a tight hold on the jib, that when I used my hands to try and pull the sheet up and over the hatch, it pulled me forward violently. The sail was free, however, and floated over the other side of the boat and I bounded back to the cockpit, limping, bloody, but I hauled the jib in tight and tied it to the cleat.
“What did you do to yourself?” Dan asked, looking at the huge strip of skin missing from my shin.
“It was the spaceship!” I blurted out, not knowing what else to say.
“Spaceship, what the hell are you talking about?”
A sliver disk, screwed to the deck, with small holes all around it, resembling a miniature UFO, was the culprit. I described the fixture to Dan, who promptly explained it was a vent cover for the head. Whatever the heck it was, when I was pulled forward by the force of the tangled lines, my shin grazed the metal object and it sheared a strip of skin off my shin. It really hurt.
The rest of our voyage we had other small incidents that were not entirely pleasant, like rain squalls, reckless motorboats driving dangerously close to us, and other anxious moments. I could probably write 3 or 4 more paragraphs about them. But you know what? Other than the scab on my shin, when I think about our 4 days of sailing, I only remember the good things. When I came up with the concept of writing about the negative aspects of sailing, I really didn’t think I would have enough material for one post. As you can see, I had plenty of material, but none of it was in my mind until I really thought about it. And when anyone asks me how my Labor Day sail was, I answer with complete and utter sincerity, “Fantastic! Absolutely loved it.”
The moral of this story? There is no bad day sailing.