The next day dawns cheerfully. I’ve slept like a baby in my supertent (probably because I was totally exhausted). Everyone at camp is happy and my coffee is exceptionally tasty. I can’t stop smiling. My boat did well and I did OK (I cop to some lapses in judgement related to safety). I’ve gained tweaks to my rigging, experience, and confidence. I’m somewhere between justly proud and insufferably smug. This trip has been a success!
Someone shows up and there’s talk of “going out for breakfast”. I’m inclined to park my ass by the fire and stay put. I’m certainly not motivated to drive all the way to town just to eat at Perkins. I’m out.
It dawns on me that “go for breakfast” means “sail to somewhere that has a restaurant”. Ooooohhhhh yeah! I guzzle the last of my coffee and hustle for the beach.
At the beach I’m confused by vague navigation instructions. I’m expecting GIS coordinates, or maybe a dot on a map. Could I even hope for a bearing taken from a cool brass compass? Instead I get this:
“See that church steeple waaaaaay over there? Aim for it.”
Really? That’s it? I’m a naturally cautious sort and I’m used to working without a net. I don’t get lost in the woods because I make a point of knowing where I am and where I’m going. [Editorial note: I never get lost in the woods but sometimes I come home a day late. It’s not lost if you get home under your own power… eventually.]
I press for more details but don’t get much:
“When you get near to the other side, you’ll see a beach. It’s at a campsite. We’ll park at the beach and walk through the campsite. The restaurant has pancakes.”
Might as well tell me “Second star to the right and straight on ‘till morning.” But there’s no reason to be a buzzkill so off I go. Everyone launches faster than me. (First Mate catches a ride on a bigger boat with a real seat and I don’t blame him.) I flounder a bit until I get out of the sheltered cove but in the open water I pick up a steady and manageable cross wind. I aim for the church steeple and…
DAMN THIS LAKE IS BIG.
I’m not sure why it didn’t sink in last night, but I’m on a sheet of plywood crossing a little over 2 miles of open water. That seems nuts. I mean… it’s working and I’ve got things well in hand… but it just sounds crazy because it is crazy.
Then again risk is the price of awesome.
Far ahead I see a little cove where the beach must be. It looks like the outlet to a pleasant forested stream. I wish I’d brought my fishing pole.
One of the boats inexplicably zigs and zags just in front of the cove. Is there a sandbar or something? Finally, he plunges in a gap between the trees. Cool. Now I know where the stream leads.
When I get there I don’t see the sandbar that was causing the other boat issues. Fuck it, my boat is meant for shallow water (part of its design specs) so I sail straight over whatever was causing the problem. Trees arch over the water, it looks like how I’d picture a Louisiana Bayou. Nothing to do but keep sailing. The wind is mixed up by the trees and I can’t steer very well.
There are a few pipes sticking out of the water. And some sort of little pylons.
DING DING DING… REALITY INTRUDING.
The pipes are the top two feet of a swingset! The pylons are waist high 50 AMP power connection plugs for RVs. They’re only a few inches above the waterline. The campsite is flooded and I’m sailing right over it! I wonder if those power stations are disconnected at the pole? Then I sail past a pole and wonder if my sail is tall enough to hit the line.
I’m alive so nothing touched nothing and all was well. I’m appreciative of my short mast.
I look over the side. I’m sailing in maybe 3′ of water over mowed lawn and campground paths. Then I see big rocks like you’d put at the edge of a parking lot. Panicked I yank up the retractable daggerboard. (A daggerboard is a fin that sticks down in the water to counteract the sail and make all the magic of sailing work. Some sailboats have a deep keel and can never go in shallow water. Most of us little guys have retractable keels or daggerboards.)
My boat floats right over the rocks and I feel super smug… until the rudder slams into the rock. Whoops.
I yank up the rudder and all is well. Well, not really. With no keel and no rudder, I’m drifting wherever the wind pushes me… which is everywhere.
I have no control. I see where everyone has parked and try to navigate toward it. It’s no use, I’m momentarily helpless. (There are kinds of rudders that have adaptations to being useful while retracted. I didn’t make that kind of rudder.) I start to drop the sail, to keep from getting shoved to and fro but that’s a dumb idea because there’s no room in a 8′ boat for a 9′ boom. How would I row? So I leave it loose but hanging overhead and out of my way. Since it’s loose it’s not catching (much) wind, but I hate to have it flapping stupidly like that.
Check this out: there’s a term for what I did. I loosened the sail so it couldn’t catch the wind but I did so in a haphazard manner (unlike having it neatly tied up in a bundle). The term for that is scandalized. No shit! Look it up y’all. I think it’s an appropriate term. Bobbing around like an idiot on a flooded parking lot and bouncing my hull into trees(!) is absolutely scandalous. On behalf of all cool sailors I apologize for my moment of disorder.
At first I’m drifting sideways like a car on ice. Then I use my oar to push off a tree and pivot like a spaceman in zero G who has farted asymmetrically. I commence to an undignified session of flailing about with my oars and it takes a bit to pull out of various orbits and spins. Eventually I got close enough to the group to toss a line. Someone reeled me in. Whew!
Standing on the shore I chuckle and the weirdness of it all; I just sailed over a flooded campground! The pancakes had better be delicious.
[Update: the pancakes were delicious.]