Adaptive Curmudgeon

As I sailed back to camp I had a discovery of the “Captain Obvious” sort. What had seemed, in the twilight of the day previous, to be a series of shoreline trails and fishing docks, was actually for boats. Duh! I thought they’d built all that stuff for guys like me to sit at sunset and listen to loons (or possibly for wheelchair accessibility). In better light it was clearly for docking boats. Obviously, this campsite has somewhere near a dozen boats docked near the campsites most of the summer. At this early season, it was abandoned. In fact, the whole lake was empty.

I sailed in like a stud. Then, I ran my mast into an overhanging tree branch like a putz. These things happen. Clearly no sailboat has ever docked at these spots meant for smallish bass-boats. It only took a second to hop out, sort things out, and tie up.

Then it was off to “celebrate”. The Dodge was still back at the ramp. (Where else would it be?) So I hoofed it back there and set out to buy ice. I’d left for this trip in disarray. I’d brought beer but no ice. I’d crammed a frozen pack of brats and a six pack in a little cooler and fled. Now that I’d sailed like a pro, I’d earned beer.

At the park gate there was a kiosk. There was the infrastructure for an attendant; a whole cabin in fact and one of those little tollbooth things where you can pay a human upon entrance. But no humans were present. There was an ice cooler. It was unlocked. I grabbed a bag of ice and tossed it in my cooler and then set about figuring out how to pay for it. Eventually I found a sign on the kiosk and envelopes to pay for the ice. I counted out $4 (which seemed usurious) for the ice, slipped it in an envelope, and stashed it in a theft resistant steel box. There was also camping firewood… which I didn’t need.

Back at camp, waiting for the beer to cool, I reflected on the kiosk. There are high trust societies and low trust societies. It had never occurred to me to steal the ice. Nor would it occur to me to steal firewood. Nor would I trash the place. Such things simply aren’t done. Yet they are done. They’re done all over the world. This campground was tidy, well cared for, and completely abandoned by management. Yet I counted perhaps a dozen occupied campsites. None of us would think of damaging anything.

High trust society; happy little campsite. What would happen to the same infrastructure if it have been established in say… Detroit? Submit your own city for my observation. Would this little camp, which had hardly a pinecone out of place, fair any better in Miami? Paris? Moscow?

It’s mostly cultural and perhaps a city versus rural thing. Would the place be trashed if it was in Appalachia, the Mojave, a Canadian pinery? Nah. I’ve been all those places. None are heaven but all are places where people will dutifully pay $4 for an unattended bag of ice. This is why I say cultural instead of “wealth” or “poverty”. The poorest white trash camped on a Pennsylvania hillside wouldn’t steal ice from the park. But in Detroit someone would have taken a shit in the ice cooler by sunset.

This is a thing to know. People of the high trust societies are unimpressed with low trust societies. Nobody here would vandalize my tiny little sailboat, tied to a dock, unguarded, half a mile by foot from camp. That’s a delightful aspect of civilization which feels like it’s degrading. It’s an aspect with which I’m loathe to part.

Does this mean I’m a chump? A goody two shoes little pansy? A dipshit who’ll follow every rule promulgated by far off management which hadn’t yet staffed the tollbooth to this camp?

Of course not. Stupid rules should be treated with the disdain they deserve. Back at the kiosk I’d read something about banning alcoholic drinks. There was some sort of warning about glass bottles too.

I sipped my ice cold beer from a glass bottle and smiled. The rule is for Paris or Detroit. A place where the bottle might be smashed against a tree. Where drunks might get into fights. When I finished my beer I carefully stashed the empty and fetched a second. The fact that it was banned made it taste better.

What to make of this? I live in a world where people bitch at each other about who will and who will not wear masks. Those who refuse are painted as inconsiderate science denying troglodytes who recklessly break the rules. Yet the place you’re most likely to find a masked face might be where someone took a piss in the collective ice cooler. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure the actual mask rules of the state where I was camping. I don’t know if they’re required or not… only that I’m not wearing one and (with caveats) never will. Also, I clean up my campsite so well that Mary Poppins would approve. Ignore the stupid laws, follow the wise ones even if nobody sees you. Such a concept would once be called “morality”, now it’ll get you deplatformed off social media.

I savored bratwurst and beer after a long day of miniature adventures. That night I slept like a log.

[Where was I before events in the winter of 2022 poleaxed the story arc of memories from the spring of 2021? Oh yeah, I was in heaven; snoozing in the sun on a distant shore to which I’d sailed in my own boat. We begin again…]

I was justly proud of myself. I’d sailed under less than ideal conditions yet had managed enough skill to get by. I’d made the boat go where I wanted, stayed dry, and had fun. The boat had done as instructed; a credit to it’s design and a humble nod to adequate construction. I had maintained control; at least up to some basic definition of “control”.

In hindsight I realize I’d sailed past a stuck canoe and a frustrated motorboat without undue drama of my own. I was miles from my start and had paddled or towed only a tiny bit.

For a novice sailor in a tiny homemade boat, I was doing well.

Way back years ago, when this whole sailing idea took root, this was my plan. I’d sail to where I wanted to be, enjoy nature in some quiet cove or island, and return.

In this, the most pessimistic of times, I have a word of encouragement. Almost everything that matters is just as reasonable and probable now as it was long ago and as it will be years from now. Such it has been since time began. In my case, the day’s journey was about a boat and water… things as old as mankind itself. This is a good thing to keep in the forefront of your mind. One can succeed at a personal goal even as society shoots itself in the foot while shrieking that all is lost. Never forget; you are your own universe.

Also, when you succeed, take time to rejoice. It is just as important to recognize when you have succeeded as it is to acknowledge when you have failed.

Sailboats encourage philosophy.

I’d done what I wanted to do… well not all of it. My initial goal was to sail somewhere and camp there. This aspect seems less important with time. My tent was still back near the Dodge. Once I might have been appalled as the indignity but now I’m OK with it. Regardless, I’d done each part of the challenge.

I may level up to doing them sequentially, and maybe I’ll spend a few days at a time “at sea” while camping; or perhaps not. I certainly appreciate potable water from a tap as opposed to sipping filtered lake water. Further, my fat ass is quite happy with my big American sized cot. Tastes evolve with time.

Still basking in the glory of it all, I sent off a few SATCOM messages. “I’m at location X, all is well.” I snapped a “selfie” with me and my bag of chips. I thought about fishing from shore but the wind made it seem unwise. Maybe I need to carry a harmonica? Could I learn to play one? Do I care to?

Ah the happy thoughts of a happy camper.

Soon I was back to my normal self. There is always “work” to do and things to learn. I never go anywhere without “scouting”. That is, I try to check out things so I have firsthand knowledge for future use. Does this camp have plentiful firewood? Does that ridge have a breeze to ward off mosquitoes?

This campsite was great. It had a lean to… which is sweet! It also had an outhouse which is a good thing. And it’s on a trail. Suppose I nuked my sailboat? I think I could hike my ass right out of here.

I wandered a quarter mile up the trail. There was another campsite, it appeared occupied so I stopped and filtered back into the woods. There are two sorts of people in the forest; the most common sort is the fellow who’ll charge ahead to meet any other person they see, the less common sort will pass by with a polite but silent nod; or without being noticed at all. I didn’t want to disturb people who are having their own fun time.

The trail leading the other way was a bit rocky; “carting” my boat here is an impossibility. Oh well, it was not bad for hiking or backpacking. Within the realm of a macho portage but not for a nutcase with a sailboat. The way here is the obvious one… across two lakes and a shallow winding strait. Good to know. I will return.

A less welcome observation; the trail was infested with ticks. I don’t like those little fuckers. Ticks carry diseases and get a little up close and personal with one’s bloodstream for my comfort. Depending on the location, you might pick up Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever or Lyme Disease or who knows what else. Also they’re, and this is a technical term, “icky”.

Lucky for me I’m prepared for such things. I habitually wear tick-proof clothes. I was wearing treated jeans and socks. Treated clothes are not cheap but they’re not outlandishly expensive either. They’re worth every penny. Several times I saw a tick brush off a twig, land on my jeans, and immediately hop off. It’s like having a magic spell against ticks. Nice! If you can afford them, I heartily recommend tick proof garments.

Even so, the bastards were everywhere. I got two in my beard!

I had plans to hike the whole trail, from docked boat to vehicular access. Instead I recorded the trail on my “don’t hike there in spring” mental list. Back at the campsite I did a tick check that wouldn’t be appropriate in mixed company. You do what you gotta do. Nature is like that. I found two more. None had “bit”, they were still crawling around when I flicked them to their certain doom in the lake. I hope a trout eats ‘em!

I hated to leave. I was at the summit of a proverbial mountain and didn’t relish going back. I took many photos. I dug into my stash of “treats” and ate all sorts of beef jerky and whatnot I save for special celebrations. I even tossed a few bits of cracker to a few fish hanging out in the shade of my little boat. But the sun was heading for the horizon. I couldn’t wait forever.

With reluctance, I shoved off. Something interesting happened on the trip back… nothing. No shit! I can’t remember a darned thing about it. It’s like mother nature threw every sailing lesson at me on the way out but on the way back it was all easy peasy. I don’t remember fretting over reefing the sail. I don’t recall if I kept it reefed or not. I don’t recall a walk of shame in the narrows on the way back. I think I might have sailed right through without ever stopping? Who can say. The only witness was me and I don’t remember.

For the sake of clarity, and because I have no evidence to the contrary, I’ll assume I sailed all the way back like a boss. It’s my memory (or lack thereof) so why not?

At this point in the story I’m sound asleep on a picnic table; miles and hours from the dock where I’d started. I remember nothing of that necessary and appreciated break aside from a feeling of peace and joy. But, and this is very important, I remember the feeling soaking deeply into my bones. It was wonderful and cathartic. Some people take a sip of nature; offering the bare minimum, a tepid spoonful, to a thirsty and impoverished soul. Some never imbibe; poor bastards, chained to LCD screens and led astray by ephemeral notions. Not me. I’d grabbed nature with both hands and slurped greedily. A warrior chugging a drinking horn full of life. I felt the heady rush of the whole damn thing in my belly. I’d earned it. I loved it!

As for my impromptu nap, I assume I was daydreaming of quick deploy fishing poles and beer. I could have been thinking of nothing. There’s no finer peace than thinking of nothing. Through action over thought, I’d created within my heart the right to be free of external concerns.

The thing is, I’m nowhere near at that place as I type this. I’m hundreds of miles away and months in the future. It is winter; not the “softly falling flakes of snow” winter from Christmas cards but the brutal icy “death from the sky” conditions that make living in places like Florida seen wise.

The weather, which has been bad for several days, has increased. It went from bad to “every other concern pales in comparison”. This happens from time to time.

I’ve done all I can do. The mode of “prepare and get ready” is over. It has been replaced by “lets see what happens next”. As my grandmother used to say, “batten down the hatches and hang on to your hat”… she’d have been a fine pirate. Weather like this is never without drama…

Update 1a: Weather reports indicate deep snow on the way. I abandon typing to haul firewood. Blogs can wait when firewood needs attending. Grandma told me to make sure the firewood is in the house early “to let it warm”. I pay attention to the wisdom of my elders.

Update 1b: Our washing machine just died. Ironically, this has absolutely nothing to do with the storm. So much for my worries about the weather. The infernal device has a brain to tell it when to spin and when to drain and so forth. The brain is retarded. The brain has been replaced once before. This, the second brain, has failed just exactly like the first one did. The damn appliance has been a lemon since the day I bought it. It’s less than 1 year old and has been broke as many months as it has been functioning. Odds are it’s 1 day over the warranty and I’m fucked. These days all appliances are shit but this particular item is the worst piece of shit I’ve ever owned. (I’m not going to name the brand but it rhymes with “Girlpool”.) I’d have been better off taking the money spent at purchase and shoving it up my ass. At least then, I’d be spared the tremendous wasted time accumulating from all these breakdowns. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have set the fucker on fire in the parking lot of the store where I bought it and just bought a second and totally different appliance. There are times when twice the cost from purchasing two of something is better than the wasted time and hassle of trying to deal with a thing that was cursed the day it was excreted by the lowest bidder in a far off factory. I wish I’d never bought a single thing from those assholes.

Update #2: Snow didn’t hit yet but the temperature is dropping. Glad I’ve got firewood.

Update #3: Holy fuck!

Update #4a: Snow’s deep and drifting. We’re literally snowed in. I’m warming up the tractor so at least I can plow access to the dirt road. When possible, I like to maintain things so a fire truck could get to my house… though I suspect all they’d do is preserve the foundation. Shortly after I plowed a half assed trail to the road the UPS guy dropped by. He looked frazzled; I’m not the only guy working hard this week.

Update 4b: Chickens are hardly laying eggs, I don’t blame them. Most of the eggs this week were frozen anyway. I’m glad they’re still alive.

Update #5: I forgot all about blogging. Cleared enough snow to get out and no more. I don’t like running my equipment in the very worst conditions unless it’s necessary. In the “it’s necessary” category, I started and warmed up my Dodge. I don’t like starting diesels in this kind of weather but it had to be done for various reasons. Once it was running, I decided to use it. I zipped to the nearest town to top off with some #1 diesel and by a jug of fuel for the tractor. Storms this long come in waves, best do what I can while I can do it.

Update #6: Everything is hard work and chaos! Blogging is out of the question. I’ve practically forgotten about literacy in general. There was a second quick break in the weather after some drifting flurries, so I hurriedly plowed the living shit out of everything once again. (You have to push back the snow as far as you can because it forms great immovable mountains. The mountains grow. Space you “preserved” in January will keep things workable in March.) I wish we had a UPS delivery just so the driver could enjoy the righteously plowed driveway. I hear the mating whine of snowmobiles in the distance. You go guys! This is your time to shine!

Updated #7: Hauled more wood. It’s getting much colder out there. All is well but it’s the kind of temperatures where shit starts breaking. I’m trying to do as little as possible and just letting equipment ride out the cold. It must be very cold out there because the snowmobiles have gone silent.

Update #8: Wife’s car broke. Now she’s driving a loaner from the stealership. That, like the washer, was not weather related. Just bad timing.

Update #9: Generator is still functioning but failed to kick in when it was supposed to for a testing cycle. I put a call in to the electrical company on that. Its on warranty. Also it’s no big deal. We have power and civilization exists. I’d like to run some clothes through the washer but it’s dead. I’m a big fan of using lots of hot water during cold snaps. It’s unthinkable to go to a laundromat in this weather. I’ll just wear old clothes and smell bad.

Update #10: -37 this morning. So far so good.

Update #11: Pipe burst in the laundry room. Guess I should have run water through the utility sink. Even when the washer is dead, the pipes need love. Rookie error!

Update #12: Shut off water to the whole house. Damage is minimal but a lot of my camping clothes got wet and are slowly turning to ice. I’m working on that. Nothing too grim, the laundry room was due for renovation anyway.

Update #13: I’ve drained, disconnected, and capped the pipes for the laundry room. The fucking washer doesn’t run anyway so it won’t miss the water supply. This allowed me to turn on water to the rest of the house. I deserve a fuckin’ medal for keeping the rest of the house standing.

Update #14: Low on firewood but we haven’t run out. It’s supposed to warm to +20 in a few days. I only need enough in the house to make it to the next warm spell. It’s -16 right now which isn’t awful but it’s very windy. Rather than start my tractor, I’m just going to haul a couple hundred pounds of firewood in my jet sled. I need the exercise anyway. (Minor update, a man can haul a shitload of wood with a sled if the snow’s mostly plowed. I rock!)

So where was I? Asleep at a beautiful campsite two lakes away from my tent? Wearing shirt sleeves and eating a bag of chips? Resting happily in the shade of tall pines? Oh yeah, bring me back to that place.

Time to return to my story of springtime…

Deeply nestled in the inlet, all was calm. Too calm in fact.

My map told the story of two lakes joined by a narrows. A long sinuous shallow affair connecting two mostly independent bodies of water; easily traversed by a canoe, an impenetrable wall for a regular motorboat, not quite impossible for a shallow fisherman’s skiff, and… what of me? Impassible? Impossible? Improbable?

Fuck it, I sailed right into the narrows.

The wind died to nothing. I slowed to a walk, then a saunter, then a bar crawl. No worries, I enjoyed soaking up the sun. I peeked over the edge looking for fish. I had a snack, drank some water. I kept fiddling with the sail and gaining ground a foot or two at a time.

Then losing a foot or two at a time. Damn.

A heron landed not 20’ off my bow. I thought about my fishing poles. They were still packed away. I was tangled in sailing lines and the boat was drifting more or less randomly. Nah, better not risk it. The heron nailed a minnow and gulped it down. It eyed me as if to mock my undeployed fishing rod.

I tried for an hour or more. Sailing wasn’t doing it. Finally I hoisted the sail (double reefed) over my head, and tried to row. Rowing with all the sailing shit (“rigging”) in the way is a fuckin’ mess. Lifting it over my head is better but only if the wind is absolutely not a single molecule of air. Meanwhile the rudder keeps flapping around and screwing up everything. To row I need it to point straight. I’ll eventually figure out a better approach.

Finally, I stepped out into the shallow water. It was maybe 6” deep. I paid out some line and kicked the boat back. Then I led it like a cow on a leash around some shallow spots. There was no current. Wind had no effect. It was dead calm. Walking the boat (“the walk of shame”) is a muddy annoying clumsy way to go… but it’s not stupid, because it works.

Splashing thought the mud and rocks I covered about 100 yards in less time than I’d spent trying to sail and half assed row to cover 40 yards. I’m probably a punchline in a heron’s story.

The new lake was long and narrow and looked both deeper and colder. The wind was whipping down the length of the lake. I don’t know how I got the vibe “cold” but I did. It was still early spring I guess. The lake just had “hypothermia” written all over it for unknowable reasons.

There were a few campsites on the opposite shore; accessible by water or possibly by a dotted line I interpreted as a hiking trail. They were maybe a couple mile’s hike from a dirt road. I have considered building a second cart for my boat. It’s pretty light, just unwieldy. My first cart never made it to the lakes. It was killed right on my lawn. So sad. That’s a story for a different time. Maybe I’d check out the “cart-ability” of the dotted line?

So I pushed off shore with the sail double reefed and lowered to its proper height. I had plenty of trepidation. Indeed, the lake was like a wind tunnel. This wasn’t particularly fun but the boat could handle it and I knew what to do. It felt like I’d dipped that mast directly into the goddamn jet stream but the forces were at least predictable in direction and force. I went straight for the middle of the scattered campsites and progressed fast. One was occupied so I veered away. One wasn’t in accordance with the wind. One had a little sheltered cove and after an hour of beating through wind and waves it looked like a marina to me. I scooted in to land like a boss.

I retracted the rudder & daggerboard, dropped the sail, tied it down stoutly, and went to the campsite. (About 50’ distant and well above lake level.)

I’d been afloat for many hours. I was tired. Surprisingly, the campsite had a nice big picnic table. I’d brought food and water but first I stretched out on top of the picnic table and promptly fell asleep. It had been both good fun and hard work getting there.

As soon as I got out in the breeze, the reduced sail inflated and it didn’t look so bad. It pulled me forward but much more gently. Also I began to plow sideways through the water! After a second’s head scratching I put down the daggerboard and it “bit” the water. Viola! Like magic, the sail above and the keel below balanced out. The boat moved forward. A few seconds later I remembered to drop the retractable rudder and steering went from “basically a suggestion” to “laser focus”.

I left my little protected area and entered the lake proper. The first few lessons of a sailboat are “make it move” and then “survive” but the next step is “make it take you somewhere you want to go”. This is a big ask but I diligently pursued the new goal.

Maps told me there was a campsite far across the lake; accessible only by water. When planning this trip I’d considered sailing out there with all my camping gear. I’d bailed on that idea and camped within sight of my Dodge. Oh how glad I am that hadn’t been overconfident. The launch had been messy and the sail across the lake had been anything but dull.

At the middle of the lake, the waves were choppy. The wind was uncertain. Also, the lake was bigger than I’d thought. Regardless, I crossed and approached with the wind blowing me into shore. There was a little dock there. I wanted to practice “approach a dock without banging into it”. As I got closer I noticed a tent. I veered away.

If some canoe camper was there, I’d harsh his calm just barging in like that. (These spots were meant for canoes and kayaks. Very few motorboats were out there and only one maniac had a sailboat.) So I swooped past the dock with what I like to think was a semblance of control. I was 6’ off the dock, moving at about 2 knots, and more or less in control of events; call it a “touch and go” practice landing.

No sign of the camper though.

A quarter mile later I found him. There was a wide muddy reedy bay and the wind was pushing right into it. Stuck in that mess was a fat fiberglass canoe with two paddlers. They were arguing. Clearly the wind had blown their ass into the mudpit and they were weighing options. Or rather, they’d chosen the option of bitching at each other.

“Need help?” I shouted, despite having no idea how I could sail into that mud, toss them a rope, and then sail back out against the wind.

The woman looked hopeful but the man scowled. (Need I mention who was bitching at whom?)

“Nah, we got this.” He grumbled.

Relieved, I turned to tack into the wind; narrowly dodging my homicidal boom and also smartly starting the passage away and back upwind. I might have looked pretty cool. I like to assume so. I can’t see myself sail so how would I know?

I didn’t know about this when I made a sailboat but yes, they can indeed sail towards the wind. Not well though. You go against the wind by taking it at an angle, using the sail above and the keel below to harness the wind to go precisely where the wind doesn’t want you to go. (This is absolutely unlike the reliable solution of using a motor.) It’s a skill I didn’t initially have. I’m starting to get the hang of it. I tacked into the wind for a bit then flew downwind to start the process again. Each repeat was a change to improve.

With a few nautical successes under my belt I was feeling like a pirate viking. I did a triumphant orbit of the lake (which took an hour or more) and then headed for the direct center of the lake. I saw some fishing boats (motorized) out there and thought I’d do a fly by. This didn’t end in tears… but it did tempt fate.

The wind was strong and unpredictable, as always. But the waves got much higher. I had no idea why. Then I realized my daggerboard and rudder were plowing through a sea of submerged weeds.

Shit! It must be shallower in the middle than the periphery of the lake. Who plans for that? Hastily, I retracted both daggerboard and rudder, but only partially; I still needed control. This did wonders. My boat has a “shallow draw”. (Meaning it needs hardly any water to float.) This allowed me to zoom right over a mess that would mire a deeper keel sailboat. I also squished across stuff that would hopelessly tangle a motorboat’s prop. Cool!

I zipped right across the little Sargasso Sea happily peeking over into the water looking for fish. I saw a few and desperately wanted to invite them to lunch.

I really miss fishing! I haven’t yet gotten so bad ass that I can sail and fish simultaneously. I thought about my anchor. I could drop it and then pull down the sail. Presumably, the anchor would hold me in position. Perhaps, I could somehow cast a line from within the wet crowded laundry basket of an 8’ boat filled with sail. With luck I could catch a fish, reel it in, re-hoist the sail, and head for camp.

Suuuuuure.

I could also spin a top on my nose while riding a unicycle.

On the other side of the Sargasso Sea the fishermen were reeling in gobs of weeds. They looked disgusted. Also, they looked a little harried. The wind and waves were beating them pretty hard.

I emerged in deep-ish waters and immediately put down the daggerboard and rudder, causing the boat to behave a lot better. Then I tacked into the wind, dodged the boom that tried to kill me, pointed back across Sargasso Sea, and managed (barely) to retract most (but not all) of the daggerboard and rudder. Slick! (I take no credit for the design. I just followed the directions. But it is fun to enjoy the smug feeling of having built retracting stuff in advance. It saves my bacon every time I use it and I’m like “man, I’m glad I built that!”)

As I came crashing back into the shallow stuff the wind picked up and things got messy.

The fishing boat cast right in my path. (I was still a long way off.) I wanted to veer away so as not to spook their fish. However, with shallow rudder and daggerboard the boat was like “huh?” and just kept doing whatever it was already doing.

The wind picked up more and now I was going almost sideways. Whoops.

“Sorry if I disturbed the fish, I can’t steer too well in this wind.” I apologized.

“It’s fine. Neither can we.” The fishing boat people replied.

Indeed we were both going sideways, more or less playthings of the wind.

“This is bullshit!” One of the fishermen complained. The other was busy with a knife, cutting weeds off a hopelessly bound prop.

“Yeah, it’s a challenge.” I agreed.

By this time one fisherman’s cast had reeled in another harvest of weeds, while the other was angry at the prop and swearing. We passed, both of us sideways and out of control. I shrugged my shoulders; at least it wasn’t just me.

Once outside of Sargasso Sea, having arrived there mostly by chance, I dropped the daggerboard and rudder. Once I’d regained control I pointed for my inlet/safe space and tried to outrun the treacherous wind. Not long after, I heard the motor fire up and the fishermen tore off for the safety of the nearest bar stool. I never saw the canoe again.

The first thing about sailboats is that sails are not motors. Mine has tremendous (for the size of the boat) square footage. When the wind is strong, all that area is pulling too hard. I believe the word is “overpowered”. Overpowered may look cool on the label of an energy drink or some dude’s GoPro video but that’s not my game. An intelligent sailor reduces sail area until the power provided by nature matches what the boat (and in my case, its chichkenshit operator) can manage.

There’s a way to do that. A “reef point” is a series of tie points you use to make the sail smaller. The sail, once it is “reefed”, is smaller, and thus produces less power. Depending on where you manage the boom and an array of other ropes, this lesser area can be balanced lower in height above the hull. Thus, reducing the force trying to tip (“heel over”) your boat. Thus, reducing the risk of a capsize. Win, win!

A wise sailor would’ve read the conditions and “reefed” before leaving the dock. A skilled sailor would “reef” right in the maelstrom. A schmuck like me looks for a good place to hide from the wind and ideally beach somewhere safe for an epic bout of knot tying.

Like a social justice warrior overwhelmed by reality, I needed a safe space. The lake was oddly shaped with a very narrow inlet (or outlet, depending on your point of view). The narrow spot was crosswise with the wind, which was good. If the wind was blowing into it, it might shove me into a spot from which I can’t return and I’ll run up against rocks at the shore. It the wind was blowing out of it, I’d never be able to get in there. Instead it was just right. I shouted “hard a starboard” (there was nobody to hear but I earned the right to say it), shifted my weight to the opposite side of the small boat, yanked the rudder, brought up my arm to catch the boom which would certainly try to guillotine me, and pivoted the boat in its own length.

I’d executed not just a 90 degree turn but more like 120 degrees. I’d done this in a fluid medium with the speed that usually involves screeching tires, yet the boom just sat there. WTF?

Only then did I realize the wind had stopped dead calm. Off like a light switch.

“What the…” Crash!

The wind reappeared, the boat lurched wildly, the sail reinflated in the exact opposite side it had been before I executed the maneuver and the boom came at my lead like a Louisville Slugger.

My arm was still extended. I had no idea what was happening but the lizard brain knew what to do. On instinct I caught the boom like a boss. Wasting no time, I ducked a bit, flipped it over my head, and the sail inflated behind my back. The boat charged into the outlet.

I had no idea where this would lead. It was a long sinuous affair; a couple hundred yards wide when I entered but narrowing to 60’ in a matter of seconds.

Lucky for me it was deeply wooded on both sides. This cut the wind and now my boat wasn’t overpowered. In fact, it was perfect. I flitted about like hummingbird, circling great rocks in the narrow passage like a barrel racer. Sailing in thin (shallow) water that would eat a deep keel boat is risky but fun. Nothing was affecting my 3’ daggerboard (“retractable keel”) so it might as well be a mile deep to me. For about ten minutes I zipped back and forth like a fool; whooping and laughing.

Of course, the narrower it got, the more I was playing with fire. With less room to maneuver, the odds I’d Titanic my ass into a glacial erratic began to increase. (A glacial erratic is a big ass boulder sitting where the ice left it. Picture a boulder the size of a garbage truck sitting in 4’ of water in the middle of the lake where there is no reason for a rock to exist. Also note, there have been big swings in climate in the past. Chicago was once under a mile thick sheet of ice. This is why I don’t lose sleep when some global warming headline announces the sea is now three millimeters higher.)

Eventually, I pulled up the keel (“daggerboard”) and also the retractable rudder and drifted into the dead calm in the lee of a little granite cliff. I was in a foot of water a mere 10’ from shore. It was a gorgeous spot. It smelled of pine and adventure. I glanced at my fishing gear but the boat was already pinwheeling out of control. No keel and minimal rudder will do that!

Bravely, I untied the halyard (“a line that lifts the “yard”) and dropped it and the boom and the sail, on my shoulders. (The “yard” is a mini-boom that supports the top edge of my sail. In my case, the sail is a quadrilateral, the yard holds the upper edge and the boom the lower.)

No longer a sailor in a tiny but wickedly exciting craft, now I was a chump beneath a pile of wet laundry in a floating box. It was time to reef the sail.

When you “reef” a sail there’s the extra fabric that can no longer be free to catch the wind. If it catches the wind you screwed up the reef! You are supposed to “flake” this material in an elegant zig zag pattern and tie it up with the ropes at the “reef point”. I tried to “flake” but I really just wadded it up like a cheap sleeping bag. Nonetheless the reef point knots (several of them) seemed to hold it secure.

Some boats have no reef points (God help them!), some have one, some have more. Mine has two, which is (in my humble opinion) NOT too many for my diminutive craft.

After doing all the hassle of one reef I did the next. I don’t think you have to do it in two steps but I did. Now my boat was “double reefed” and the formerly massive (in my eyes) sail was a tiny little table cloth strapped to a beefy boom that looked like I’d tied a messy fabric anaconda to it. I hoisted all this back up the mast but not (as I initially expected one would) to the top. I’ve learned I can keep the tiny reefed sail much lower. This means any wind is much less aggressive on the boat’s tilt (“heel”) and also I preserve the delightful option of getting walloped by the boom. Wouldn’t want to lose that feature!

By my reckoning, I’d cut the nuts off my own boat’s power source and it looked pathetic; like removing a mighty flag and replacing it with a pair of underwear. But the goal is control not speed.

Deep breath, sip some water, and back at it. I used an oar to shove off and drifted back out of the little safe zone I’d been using. I hated to go. There might be fish there!

Did I mention I don’t know much about sailing? I’m living proof one can build things which they cannot operate. (Though I’m improving.) This wasn’t obvious at first but now I understand it deeply. Building a boat (even a small one) is one set of skills but operating a boat (especially a small one) is a totally different set of skills. The two are utterly unrelated! I barely managed the former and I’m still working on the latter.

But that’s why I was there. Nature would provide. I’d just signed up for an advanced self-taught pass/fail course in sailing tiny things.

The winds were awful. They’d appear out of nowhere and shit would get crazy. In a flurry of incompetence I’d pull lines and shift weight and fiddle with the rudder. I’d finally get boat, rudder, and sail all configured at whatever angle was right. Once that happened I had lightning in my hands. The tiny boat would surge with far more power than a sheet of fabric ought to harness. It would zip over the water like a skipping stone while I mumbled obscenities and clung to the tiny hull. Well before the boat was on its ragged edge, I’d be on mine. I’d let off the sheet to reduce power and that’s when things got fun. I could settle in, grin like an idiot, and wonder what would happen if and when I hit the opposite side of the lake.

Then, the wind would die. I’d sit there like a crouton in soup… wondering what it all meant. Until it appeared again without warning from a random direction.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

My start had seemed competent. I’d rigged and untrailered (if that’s a word) my boat like a boss. Things went downhill after that fine start. I’d launched into a dead calm and faffed about like a moron; tracing hopeless circles until I got taken by surprise by a sudden gust and wound up charging across the water like a human avalanche.

Power is a relative thing. I don’t need much. I don’t want much. My boat is tiny, it needs but a hint of an idea of a breeze to make it move purposefully. That’s exactly what I wanted in a boat. It will sail on the blown kiss of a faerie; perfect.

Unfortunately, the boat’s a bit aggressive. In my eyes, it punches above its weight class. It sticks a large (relatively) sail into the sky as if the entire planet’s atmosphere is its plaything. This may very well be true for the boat, but not so for it’s sailor. The boat can and will do shit that scares the hell out of me.

Well into that first run, I did the sailor’s version of “cry uncle”. I gave plenty of slack to the mainsheet (that’s the line (rope) you hold to keep the sail’s boom where you want it). The boat’s fully capable of riding the surf like a flea on a charging bull. I’m not leveled up for that and I don’t like the premise of the game.

In theory the slack puts the sail in a less advantageous angle to the wind… wasting energy as wind slips past, or in my case giving me a change to catch my bearings because there’s less energy pushing the boat toward its (my) limits. It helped but wasn’t a full solution. The sail took up that slack, billowed just fine in its new suboptimal but still mighty position, and kept on truckin’. I, the dipshit clinging to the boat beneath the sail, was nowhere near the kind of control I’d like.

The boat was still surging ahead but at least I had some confidence in it. I was fairly convinced it wasn’t near it’s capsize point. (Honestly, the boat is stable as an aquatic brick shithouse. It can capsize, as can any craft, but it would take a whole lot of stupid to get it that far. Well before that point I’m squealing like a scared rabbit and trying desperately to get to shore.)

Under the new conditions I had a lot better control. In fact, the rudder, which was ineffective only a few seconds ago, gave me precise control. It’s the first rudder I’ve ever made and it took some learning to make a nice wing shape. I’m rather pleased with how well it came out. Even if it’s not perfect, it’s awesome for its intended use. I pointed in a direction and the boat was happy to comply. I pointed to an angle that gave plenty of lake to think about my fate.

“Curmudgeon you crazy bastard,” I thought in third person. “learn to sail. NOW!”

And so I did.

[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.

There is a theory that’s popular among physicists, writers, and lunatics. Supposedly, we inhabit just one of an infinite arrays of universes. Multiverse theory serves more purposes than a device for sci-fi writers. It’s a way to make sense of the insensible.

I feel like we passed from a tense but logical world into a new and far more illogical one. Do you feel it too? This universe, where I seem to have landed by chance, lacks the bounds within which I grew up. Did an unfortunate phase shift send my presence from a stable Republic to a chaotic oligarchic mess? What really happened at roughly at 3 am EST on November 4th, 2020?

How often has this happened; both for good or ill? Haven’t I benefited from the occasional shift from one inescapable path to another, entirely unexpected, new world? Who, mired in the mindset of the Cold War, expected it to end with the dissolution of the mighty USSR? Hardly a shot fired to resolve a stalemate that had been dragging us all, inch by inch, toward total thermonuclear war.

Mutually assured destruction didn’t happen. Rejoice! It was a bullet dodged!

What about the karmic balance? If a bullet can be dodged, can’t we also stupidly leap into the path of one? We certainly have done so. Is that not what vexes me?

Yet, is the balance worthwhile? Who am I to fret that the universe tilted on its axis? It put a potato in the big chair but in my youth it let us duck the noose on complete and instantaneous radioactive annihilation. Not such a bad bargain.

Furthermore, didn’t we know this was coming? Who didn’t glimpse this reality on the horizon? Wasn’t it always at the very least a possibility? I feel like I was thrown bodily into the pit of sketchy votes and a puppet president run by God knows who, but I should have seen it coming. The hints were always there. Nobody has believed vote counts in Chicago since Al Capone walked the earth. More recently, didn’t we go through a trial run on this very thing with words like “hanging chad” and “determine voter intent” in 2000? Didn’t Hillary scream bloody murder and agitate for “faithless electors” in 2016? Everything flows downhill into 2020.

Nor do presidents emerge from the mess looking clean. Didn’t we have an impeachment process in 1998? Why wouldn’t this lead to two or three more shots at the same thing in 2019 and 2021? Nixon’s issues are minor compared to the stink of the last few decades. We have chosen as a society to deliberately obfuscate the voting process. We have chosen to resolve political differences with lawfare. Was 2020 when it really hit the fan or just the moment it was so tainted that nobody seriously denies it. Polls say roughly half of Americans have the same concerns as I. There aren’t enough deplatformed Twitter accounts to put that genie back in the bottle.

As you can tell from my writing, I was still out of sorts. I’d barely ventured from my remote homestead back into a sliver of multiverse assigned me and it had been both good (happy people at a bar) and bad (a rough night’s sleep).

I imagine a loop and I’m in it. A reliving of past misery. Carter’s Malaise Version 2.0. The year dawned with inflation, Iranian expansion, and gas shortages. The parallels abound. Will Kabul become Saigon? Will there be price controls at the pump? Why the fuck not? Might as well start listening to disco, revert to making gutless cars that rust out before the payments are done, and turn all video games into pong. Yuck! All that stuff sucked. I don’t want to do it again. Then again I’m not in charge of such things.

I reflected on my bad, jittery, unsettled night. Somewhere there’s a Curmudgeon in another universe. That fool never left the bar. He went for it. He didn’t coyly take a mere sip and then slide into his tent like a cautious exhausted geezer. He was full on dancing on tables and getting into fights until he was kicked out at 1:00 am to vomit in the grass by a desolate ATV trail. He crawled off to lay in misery until the dawn found him; human wreckage lying in the grass. I know that guy. I’ve been that guy. He’s a damn maniac.

That was my explanation! I had a bad night because the son of a bitch in another universe drank so hard his hangover bled across the cosmic realms! Somewhere he was sleeping it off the mother of all hangovers! I, having carefully chosen the path of a milquetoast, was suffering indirect second order effects of his wild indiscretions.

Asshole!

My defenses were low. Civilization, or want of it, had worn me down. Lest I overindulge, I fled the happy bar and arrived at my campsite 10 minutes later.

I loathe reservations. I loathe online reservations. I’d much prefer free dispersed camping. But I had to admit reservations were handy this time. I rolled past the unattended gate booth, ignored a complex self check-in kiosk, and drove straight to “Tent Site 11B” on the “Forgettably Named Campground.” It was one of two campgrounds in “Generic State Park”; nestled in the embrace of “Average National Forest.”

It took me a bit to back my huge truck, with it’s tiny trailer, into the spot. A kid on a bike pedaled down the road I’d blocked. “I can wait.” He cheerfully offered while I maneuvered.

Such patience! Would that all adults emulate such civility.

By now I was really dragging. I felt like lying on the dirt right then. The mosquitoes would’ve liked that!

12:26. That’s pretty good! As an experiment, I timed myself setting up camp. Just under twelve and a half minutes to setup a Gazelle T4 tent (full rainfly installed, staked every possible point) and furnish it with a Teton XXL cot, Teton XXL mattress, and a sleeping bag. That’s “no bullshit” setup time. It was prepared like a hotel room, with a pillow and everything. I could have done it faster if I’d been in better condition.

Essentials managed, I stumbled down to the lake. En route, I found potable tap water and marveled at the ease of “mellow camping.” I was a bit embarrassed that I hadn’t imagined on-site water. I had a water filter in my pocket. I’d been planning to drink lake water like a fucking animal.

The lake was gorgeous. Sunset was nigh and it was “smack me on the forehead and call me uncle Mike” pretty. I sat there until it was dark.

Back at camp the mosquitoes were heavy. Of three Thermacells, only one functioned. Luckily, one was enough.

I took one sip… I mean it, just one sip of whiskey. Boom! I was done. All the accumulated stress was coming out at once. 2020 was a bad burrito I can’t digest.

It hit me like a baseball bat to the head; 2021 is five months into not being any better than the shitstorm that proceeded it.

This isn’t getting better.

Sitting on my chair, watching a little fire of processed pallet stock I was like “come up or go down, but do something.” I ditched dinner plans and opted for a self-heating MRE. It tasted fine and I even liked the enclosed lemonade mix. Nothing came up. Nothing went down. I turned in soon after.

The campsite was silent. Loons on the lake cried in lust. My cot was pure luxury (as always). Yet, I suffered. Stress worked through my system. Mind racing, stomach weak, sore back, aching legs, knotted shoulders… all of it simply the stress of a shitty experience. It started when “two weeks to flatten the curve” unleashed witch hunters in my world and it hasn’t yet ended. The nation didn’t just fail a “Jews in the attic” experiment; it gleefully ratted them out and shot itself in the head during the celebration.

Uneasy rest led to uneasy dreams which led to a quiet dawn. I hadn’t slept well but I awoke with greater peace. Perhaps I’ll never digest the whole thing but I suppose every dawn is a new life. At the very least, I’d seen joyous mask-free revelers and subsequently laid still. A bad moment had passed.

I spent all morning percolating coffee over pallet wood and thanking my lucky stars I wouldn’t have to return to “society” for a while.