[Warning: This and ensuing posts have nautical language when I do nautical things. This is necessary. There are things on a boat which simply don’t exist elsewhere. Sorry if the vocabulary is weird. It simply has to be. Outside of universities and socialist economic theory, one must use the right words to describe things as they actually are.
Rest assured, I’ll do it as little as possible. If an audience (or I) cannot picture the meaning of “a tender craft on a broad reach”, the story dies. Nor should we get pedantic about technical verbiage. I’m trying to share my experiences; not maintain a concise Captain’s journal. I’m a novice. I only know the words I needed to know to have built what I’ve so far constructed.
So let’s all chill please. If you’re a true sailor, please forgive that I use “rope” and “line” interchangeably and sometimes mistake a “tack” for a “jibe”. I know it hurts if you’re a pro, but either remark in helpful kindness so we can all learn or pack that shit up and flush it so the rest of us can have fun. As always, thanks for understanding.]
It’s true that I woke up shaky, but it’s also true that fire heated, percolated, coffee cures all. My little folding campstove simply shines at this task. It was my first test of the secret fuel which would never cause me trouble in a State park; pallet wood.
State Parks frown on importing wood for the very good reason that you’re hauling all sorts of tree pathogens to the camp along with your firewood. Pallet wood, being kiln dried, is pathogen free and perfectly acceptable. A note about pallet wood: process it first so you’re not filling the firepit with nails and shit. Show some damn class!
With kiln dried wood, cut to length and placed lovingly in my fold up campstove, I can regulate the percolator’s temperature like a boss! If I do my part, my percolator never makes bad coffee.
Three cups, sipped slowly and with great relish, cured all that ailed me. I made and sipped a fourth for good measure. I refused to hurry. I was there for a purpose and the purpose was not served by faffing about. It was a fine morning to sit still and let the soul heal.
Then came the fun part; sailing! It was a true adventure. They say “small boat = big adventure”. I don’t have much sailing experience so I don’t know for sure. I default to assuming I’m a whiny little bitch. Regardless, every time I sail on my tiny homemade boat I have butterflies in my gut as I leave shore, there are invariably a few moments of near terror, and I return feeling like I climbed Everest, flew to Mars, and fought an ice giant! Adventure indeed!
The boat ramp was empty; which is good because I took my time. As I sorted ropes (lines) and fretted over my lost bailing sponge, I was approached by a husband and wife. The fellow had been pondering building a “Puddle Duck Racer”. Mine was the first and only one he’d seen in real life. I sympathize because the first one I saw in real life is the one I built.
People who build boats are an odd breed. I have barely scratched the surface of this particular madness and I can see the rabbit hole goes deep.
I’m a loner in the hinterland. Fate has kept me isolated from the like-minded madmen with whom I’d like to share my halfwit novice theories. Yet here one one such fellow. Happy to have met one of the species, I shared all sorts of ideas about epoxy, wood selection, and the curse of “brightwork.” He was having fun too. Eventually his wife looked bored and we quit talking. Shame, because I was ready to break out the campstove, brew up a pot of coffee to share, and settle down to talk all day. So was he.
They left, him reluctantly and her eagerly. I returned to my efforts. This was the springtime shakedown cruise for my little boat. I critically assessed the cumulative effects of four year’s wear and tear. I was pleased. I’ve beaten the hell out of this little ragamuffin of a craft and it looks more or less fine. I’ll do a bit of sanding and painting sometime soon and she’ll be “like new.”
I mounted the mast (“stepped it”) and rigged everything that needed rigging (mostly that means dragging the sail out of the roof mounted sewer pipe I use to carry it on my truck and trying it to the mast). I backed my old utility trailer into the water, floated the boat off the trailer, tied off to a little dock, and parked my truck. That alone encompasses like 200 ways you can fuck up. I did it all with a minimum of fuss; though slowly.
There was a mild breeze as I launched onto “Soon To Be Renamed By SJW’s Lake” so I had high hopes to sail right off the dock with some level of style. I kicked off hard but all of the sudden the wind died.
You might not know this but sailboats are a fuckin’ mess without wind. No wind… no no force. No force… no control. They don’t just stop moving, they stop making sense. You might as well be a leaf in a pond. Almost uniquely, I sail completely without a motor. Most boats are motorboats and even most sailboats have motors; which would graciously restore motion and therefore steering. It must be a very handy crutch. I hoisted the sail but the boat just spun around in circles 50’ from the dock.
I cursed and reached for the oars. (Oars will propel the boat well but deploying 7’ oars in an 8’ boat with a sail/mast/boom in the way is a royal hassle. Try to build a model train while sitting in a bathtub that’s slowly spinning. It’s like that.)
Drifting in dead calm water, I pondered “I wish I had a better oar plan.” Then boom! Poseidon whacked me like Mohammad Ali slipping a jab to the ribs. The sail inflated, the whole boat pivoted wildly. I dropped the oars to grab the mainsheet (that’s the rope that controls the boom which controls the sail’s position). I got that under control but the boat inexplicably went into a wild spin. Eventually I realized my ass was pushing the rudder hard to port.
For a moment I thought I’d lose it. The boat had a grip on the wind and was trying to tear a hole in the lake. However, once I got the rudder under control with one hand and adjusted the mainsheet with the other, everything came into focus. The boat blasted across the waves like a charging rhino.
Jesus but what there’s a lot of energy to be had with a simple sail! Accustomed to big trucks and motorcycles, I’m no stranger to managing pure power, but a sail is a whole different animal. Power doesn’t come to you like the controlled throttle of a motor… it comes at you cold and hot. Silence, the chirping of a bird, then you’re teleported into a Metallica concert that’s trying to drown you.
It took all my point headed skills to adjust to a very fluid situation. Sometimes the air is a slippery cube of ice sweetly chilling your drink. Other times it’s a blast furnace coming for your face.
Eight feet is a small boat. Shit gets wild.