Sail/Camp Adventure #2: Part 9: Playing With Fire

Eventually it’s clear the burger is neither going up nor down so I might as well sail. I leave the truck in car jail and hike back to the beach. Everyone is pretty much “sailed out”. The sun will set soon. As a Curmudgeon, I decide to give it one last go; solo.

Probably a bad move. The indigestible burger has me in a bad mood and that’s no fit attitude for messing with nature. Also, wind has picked up and the beach is situated so only a few hundred yards offshore I’m out of protected waters. It’s one of those long stringy lakes that’s maybe 3 miles wide and 20-ish long. Sure enough, after floundering around for 200 yards I’m out of the lee of a peninsula. Once I’m there it’s a whole new world. It feels like the fuckin’ jet stream is coming down the lake!

The sail catches and it’s rodeo time!

There’s 10 miles of headwind on one side and 10 miles of getting’ blown out of reach of camp on the other side. What to do? Cross it! I aim for the distant shore and hang on. At this point I’m trusting the design is good and I built it to spec because I’m not really in charge of the situation.

The craft carries a huge sail for its diminutive size and it’s powering through water like a pit bull. If I lean back my weight shifts back, the nose pulls a small wheelie and the flat bottom shouts “party time”. It goes up on plane… holy shit! The difference between a displacement hull and a planing hull is the difference between a mini-van and a dragster. I’ve gone waaaaaay beyond my intended use as a canoe replacement.

Having done something like hydrofoiling a brick, I need to change direction or I’ll never see the beach again. I yank the rudder, the boom swoops over my head like a guillotine, the boat twists around, the sail bursts to fullness, and the game is on once again! Having handled a pretty aggressive 180 degree swirl I’m thinking everything will calm down. Instead, the little monster scoots out of the water and it’s back on plane. All thoughts of wet asses and coamings are out the window. I’m wondering if a bike helmet is in order.

Bit by bit the wind is picking up. The sail is catching tremendous power for such a simple device and the boat charges up over the waves in a way I’ve never experienced before. Unlike a mechanical device it’s surging, pulling, muscling forward faster and faster; like a dog that’s scented a squirrel and it’s going to chase that thing regardless of who or what’s holding the leash.

Even so, the boat is doing well. It feels like the design can handle anything. Whether I should be at the helm in such conditions is another question. I’m approaching the beach like a cruise missile and there’s shelter there so I wisely call it a day.

NOT!

You know me better than that! I don’t get to do this kinda’ shit every day so I decide to take another bite of the apple. Even as I think this, the boat is pivoting. I swear it read my mind. (Likely, I’d subconsciously twitched the rudder.)

Zoom… off we go again. Me and my boat. Psycho-plywood box and the nitwit that gave it life. Back and forth across the lake we go; faster each time.

I have reef points and I should be using them. (Reef points are tie-downs so you can reduce the surface area of the sail. This improves handling in higher winds and reduces the force being transmitted to your craft. The verb “reef” is to use that feature.  I think the term for when you should reef but don’t is “overpowered” or, depending on your luck/skill “capsized”.) Standing up to meddle with reef points in the middle of the lake is out of the question and once I get to shore I’m staying there.

So… I head to shore.

Nope!

Gotta’ make one more run. Why not? I’m talking to the boat now. “You like it rough, don’t you? Hit those waves you saucy bitch!” The boat, thankfully, isn’t talking back, but I’m definitely impressed with the design. Nothing this basic ought to handle the kind of stupidity I was dishing out.

On the last run back toward shore I’m really flogging it. I’ve heard on the internet that this design can “pig root”. That is, it’ll pile up water in front of the wide scow shaped front which builds into a critical mass that shoves your bow into an aquatic faceplant. Supposedly the boat can handle this and stay upright. All you get is a wet captain who might need a change of underwear. Supposedly it only happens if you’re really pushing it (invariably while racing).

The solution is said to require moving your weight as far back as possible. Unfortunately, my rudder handle is inflexible and in the way. I can’t be low in the hull and hold on that rudder while being all the way back. I’m in dead center… which is ideal for most circumstances but too far forward for being an aggressive idiot.

I feel the beast surge into the water. I turn the rudder slightly and it hops up and turbos out. I can feel it. It’s almost like I’m storing enough kinetic energy to somersault. Two more times I get close to the (somewhat mysterious) faceplant situation; both times I edge back from the precipice. I spill wind off the sail and steer into the wave and she settles right back into control.

Finally, reason kicks in. I’m deliberately pushing beyond any definition of a reasonable operation envelope for my little boat and that’s not wise. More seriously, I can barely steer and I’m playing “test pilot”. The time for that is on a smaller lake in the middle of the day. Not in a 20 mile air vortex just before sunset!

Shocked at my own stupidity, I aim for the beach and breathe a sigh of relief when I get back into the protected area. I beach with a crunch and everyone congratulates me. “You were really going nuts out there Curmudgeon!” I’m not immune to flattery. I’m pleased… mostly pleased I didn’t fuck up and create drama. Also, I think I learned some stuff. I’m glad they were watching. They’ve got bigger craft and could have helped if I’d capsized. (Theoretically I can self-rescue, but there’s a time and a place to practice such maneuvers and I really ought to practice them before needing them.)

There’s a nice potluck dinner (I contributed several bags of chips) but I’m pretty dead by then. Between the death burger and my little game of “lets see what physics will do” I can barely eat. An hour later I’m zonked out in the supertent.

(The fat lady hasn’t sung. More to follow.)