Adaptive Curmudgeon

At the flooded campground (sheltered by trees) the wind is whipping; the lake looks worse. This seems like a good time to shit myself with fear.

Instead I start “reefing”. To “reef” a sail is to reduce its surface area. Thus, the wind transmits only as much power as the sailboat (or its captain) can handle. My Puddle Duck Racer sail (a component shared in common with the 12’ Oz Goose) can reef down to a postage stamp. In fact, I have two sets of reef points; one reduces the sail some, the next reduces it more. I apply both. Let’s hear it for advanced planning!

As with everything I’m not a pro at “reefing”. [Insert “Reefer Madness” joke here.] My only knowledge is autodidactic experiments and YouTube videos. On my last outing I bought some cheap rope at WalMart and carefully installed little 2’ hunks of line in all 8 “reef point” grommets in my sail. I’m glad I did that!

When I fiddle with the yard to get to the reef points, I let the end of the halyard go through the block (pulley) at the top of the mast. Whoops, now I’m holding a rope that doesn’t go anywhere. Down goes the mast to re-thread it…

Not so fast landlubber! A downhaul is a line that pulls the boom (and thus the sail) down toward the deck. (Halyard pulls up, downhaul pulls down, sail is taut-ish in the middle. Capisce?) When I try to lift the mast, the downhaul stops me. Quickly I undo the downhaul, pull down the mast, re-thread the halyard through the block, tie it off again at the yard, and soon the mast is up again.

[Warning, nautical shit: skip if you wish] In my haste, I forgot to run the halyard around the mast before I retied it. With my setup, the yard is just a loose stick on the top of the sail. The boom is a loose stick at the bottom of the sail. Nothing but loops of rope on the boom and yard holds the sail to the mast. I’ve forgotten one of two.

There’s a right side and a wrong side to a balanced lug (sail). It extends out on both sides of the mast; some to the left (port) and some to the right (starboard). It flips those two sides back and forth depending on which direction I’m going. If I’m going one way, the sail pushes against the mast. It looks slightly uncool (looks wrong) but they say it’s a non-issue and that’s just how this kind of sail works. Under those conditions the loop is pointless. If I’m going the other way the sail pulls away from the mast. It looks gorgeous and photogenically “right”; but I’m not sure what would happen without the upper loop. Probably, nothing too catastrophic.[/nautical]

One of the guys is inspecting my boat. Finding little flaws.

“Why’d you tie this important thing with only 3/16” line?” I saw some dude in a YouTube video using 3/16” line. I think it had to do with keeping the cost of the boat down for folks in the Philippines? I shrug. “Next time use ¼ inch.” He suggests. Noted!

“Is that your downhaul?” My downhaul is 4’ chunk of 3/16” line that starts at a ring tied to the deck. I loop it around the boom and back through the ring, repeating 3-4 times, before I tie it off. (Same video.) Doubling & tripling all that line makes it strong but it looks dumb and it’s a PITA if I want to tweak it while underway. Everyone else’s boat has arrays of lines and blocks (pulleys) to do what I’m doing with loops of rope. I file that away for future reference.

I hope he doesn’t see the rod which holds my rudder to the boat. (A rudder hooks to a boat with hinge thingamajigs called a pintle and gudgeon. I couldn’t find ¼” rod for the “hinge pin” so I hacksawed a bit of “all thread” and put a locknut on the top (so it won’t fall out). The all thread is not easy to slide through the holes and it gets bent from the forces exerted on it. It hasn’t mattered yet.

When reefed, I feel armored for battle. The reduced sail is at the bottom of the mast (not the top) to keep the center of gravity low. It’s so tiny I imagine a tornado would hardly push the boat.

Let’s do this!

With a surprisingly small amount of flailing, misdirection, oars, scraped bottoms, and the like, everyone heads out. Crafts with motors have a clear advantage and one of them tosses me a line. I grip it like I’m hanging from a cliff.

Two hundred yards out, the lake is definitely different than the manageable experience of the morning. My little double reefed sail balloons in the wind. It takes a nice sail-ish shape. I must have done “reefing” correctly.

I’m waiting for a signal to let go of the line. Now we’re 400 yards out and my tow craft is bobbing in the waves as he raises his sail and shuts down his motor. I’m not sure what to do.

My boat has an opinion. It’s telling me; “do it!”

Who am I to question the wisdom of my plywood creation? I cast off the line.

Having crossed a personal Rubicon, I give a jaunty wave and turn with the wind. The boat is happy. It knows what to do. I adjust the sail and aim for the ramp invisible at this distance but said to be some 3-4 miles away.

Swoosh! The other two boats in the “go with the wind” cohort sweep by. One is the 12’ OZ Goose. It’s running the same sail as me and it’s not reefed; which means he’s got lots of power shoving against an almost weightless hull. He knows what to do with it too! He’s skittering on the tops of the waves like a happy otter. Right behind him is the long sleek sailing canoe thing that arrived with the Prius. Both captains are whooping and cheering with joy. I’m have a huge grin but I’m too scared to do any whooping.

They’re changing directions and zipping back and forth. I’m riding flat and conservative and not taking any chances. I glance behind. The tow boat is already in the distance and fading. I shift the rudder to get a better view; I’m going to take a photo.

Except the boat isn’t turning. WTF? The “all thread” rudder pin has come partly out.

I’ve got no steering. I’m drifting out of control in a plywood box, miles (literally) from land in all directions in a strong wind. Once again, I’m struck by how utterly mad my activities seem to the rational mind. Then again I’m starting to get used to it.

My boat is happily going with the wind so I’ve got time. Quickly but not in a panic, I plunge my hands into the water and wrestle the shitty bolt material back into position. The rudder starts working again.

Yeah baby! Repairs while under sail… I’m a damn pirate!

Then I notice the halyard isn’t looped around the mast. Shit! One option is to drop the sail and re-tie the halyard (again!) while in motion. I weigh my odds. It could be the beginning point of a failure cascade… or not. Another option is to ignore it. I’m on the tack that pushes the sail against the mast so it’s not an issue until I switch tacks. I decide to stay on the same tack all the way to shore. Two bullets dodged in 2 minutes.

Thankfully there’s no more drama.

“Apparent wind” is the wind as experienced relative to the craft. If you’re standing in the back of a pickup that’s going 70 MPH down the highway it will feel like a 70 MPH blast to the face. If your truck has a tailwind going 70 MPH too, it would feel dead calm. (And you’d get epic MPG!)

I think of this apparent wind as riding peacefully in eye of the storm. Me and my plucky craft ride it straight down the middle of that big ass lake and it’s glorious! It’s fun and I’m smiling like a lunatic. Orbiting me, the other two boats are surfing and swooshing and like slalom skiers. They’re having a blast.

This is it! This is what it’s all about! This is the whole point! I get it!

Too soon we get to the other side. We all beach without issue and the carpool arrangements work out fine. An hour later I’ve retrieved my truck, trailered my boat, packed up my campsite, and I’m on my way home.

I don’t know how much awesome can be crammed in a short trip but I’ve done well. It was a great time.

A.C.

P.S. A few days after getting home I pondered what I’d learned and sketched out ideas to improve my little boat; minor stuff you couldn’t know without experience. Operation “level up” is already in progress.

Having done absolutely everything I wished to do I can be forgiven for assuming the excitement was over. After breakfast I’d sail back across the waters, get my truck out of car jail, trailer up, and head home. Easy peasy.

Nope.

As I’m powering down food, I notice everyone glancing at a nearby flagpole. There’s nary a hint of breeze at the outdoor table where we’re seated but the flagpole is above the buildings and tree canopy. The flag is standing straight out.

Meh. I’m sure it’s normal.

“Have we told you about the curse?” Someone asks. “Every time we go here for breakfast the wind picks up and it’s a mess getting back across.”

La la la… I’m not hearing this!

Others join in; happily sharing stories about other times they’ve sailed here. Apparently, on the last such run “the fleet” got dispersed on a dramatic sail back and wound up scattered all over the 20-mile lake.

My truck and trailer are at car jail… almost perfectly due west of my position. If I end up somewhere else, how am I going to load up?

“Ha ha ha… remember that one time when your wife had to drive all the way around the lake? Man was she pissed…”

I’m missing the thread of the story but I get the idea. If it takes 25 miles to get to the nearest bridge and a couple miles across the bridge and then 25 miles back on the other side of the lake… someone’s wife drove 50-60 miles just to get to a rescued sailor and then 50-60 miles just to get back. I’ve got nobody to call. Mrs. Curmudgeon is several hundred miles away and doesn’t take kindly to such shenanigans. (I pretty much always get home on my own resources.) I think about the SpotX Satellite Communicator I’m carrying. It’s a very nice piece of kit, but this is a situation better served by an Uber account and a smartphone. What’s the over under on landing randomly at a car rental place that offers one way 50-mile rentals?

While I’m in space cadet mode, the boat guys have already come up with a plan. The wind is from the north, the ramp is to the west, most of “the fleet” is going to go directly across. They will fight what everyone assumes will be very strong winds; tacking into the wind just enough to get back to their original point of departure. A smaller contingent is going with the wind, planning to cross the lake but beach at a ramp much further south. [Upon reflection, “plan” is misnomer. It’s more like “each man does what he feels best for his craft and skills”. Are sailors libertarians?]

I’m asked my opinion; will I go with the wind or across it? I’ve got smaller fish to fry: “Can anyone tow me out of the campground and into the lake?” Everyone agrees that bouncing about the tree studded, too shallow for the daggerboard, winds too messy to use a sail, flooded campground is an issue. They all planned to “muddle through”. I opt to pansy out and beg a tow. One guy (with a bigger boat that sports the technology called “motor”) offers to tow me out of the mess. (So much for feeling cool about not having a motor.)

From there it’s obvious. I will go with the wind and hope someone has figured out the carpool scenario. If they haven’t. It won’t kill me to hike a few miles.

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.]

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.)

A small short boat (all other things being equal) is slower than a big long boat. We’re the shortest, smallest boat in the “fleet”. About this I give not one fuck. This is my canoe replacement mini-expedition craft and it travels faster than canoe, in bigger water than canoe, and carries more shit than a canoe.

SUCCESS!

Waddling to and fro amid boats large and small (all bigger than mine) I’m super happy. The craft works! Everything seems under control and I’m not completely left in the dust by the big boys either. Moreover it’s handling “big water” that would eat a canoe. It’s doing exactly everything all the voices on the internet promised and more. I didn’t expect the pipsqueak design to live up to the hype, but it did.

If we really wanted to push it, the buoyancy tanks are designed so you can sit on them and hike your mass outward to counterbalance the sail. (The design had “hiking straps” but I didn’t build them.) The Curmudgeon doesn’t roll that way.

I park my ass low, sitting right on the hull; center bottom. You can’t erase a lifetime of “canoe” experience and sitting on the edge of a canoe will flip it faster than you can say “dumbass”. It just feels odd to sit outside a perfectly good boat. First Mate stays low in the hull too, likely because it’s a small space and we’re crammed in there like sardines.

Even so, we bounce through the waves like a champ and everyone takes photos of everyone’s boat. Lots of blurry cell phone snapshots are made and hearty waves are exchanged. I get to say “ahoy”, which is worth the price of admission. No motors needed for all this fun. (A few bigger boats have motors but most of the small ones don’t. I think that’s pretty bad ass.)

There’s a 12’ variant of the 8’ Puddle Duck Racer called the OZ Goose. The OZ Goose seems to have hit a hydrodynamic sweet spot but I’d never seen one in real life. Then a guy zooms by in a Goose build so fresh and new you’d swear the paint was still drying. It’s a clean and gorgeous construction. Very sparse and nicely done. He slows down and cruises a few feet away and we chat. I’m nervous handling the rudder. It would be uncool to crash. The other guy has it totally in hand. After a while he waves and leans into a turn. The thing pirouettes like a Lipizzaner stallion, whips the sail around, and rockets off like an improbably square falcon. It does shit no boat that simple ought to manage; some of this is due to the excellent operator but also the 12’ hull matters.

We’re sailing more aggressively than I’d dare alone. Each wave throws up a little splash and a few drops hit the deck each time. They roll from bow toward stern and wind up in the cockpit. The plans had mention of a ¾” coaming for this purpose but I never installed one. Strictly speaking it’s not necessary. (A coaming is like a little gutter that routes splash water back into the sea instead of into your boat.) Whoops.

I’ve got my ass perched on a drybag stuffed with a sweatshirt and emergency gear. It keeps me vaguely elevated but it’s only a half measure. My bailing sponge isn’t adequate to stem the accumulation. Eventually it’s a couple inches deep and it gets to me.

“Wet ass! Break time?”

First Mate concurs and we head for the beach. The boat is not even remotely swamped and my whining about a few quarts sloshing in the hull doesn’t mean we had to stop. However, everyone is either beached or heading there. Pulling in to the shallows I flub the daggerboard retraction and land like a turkey dropped from the WKRP helicopter. Actually, that’s probably all in my mind. Nobody seems to notice my flailing about.

We’ve been on the water several hours. Both First Mate and I are pretzeled from the sitting arrangement. Everyone is happy with their sailing and comments about boatbuilding are bandied about. My little boat is simple but appears somewhere in the middle of the bell curve for build quality. Not bad for my first (or third) try! One boat pulls up that’s a wooden masterpiece. Others have haphazard paint because who gives a shit about paint? I scope out every build looking for hints and tips.

Several people head for camp to cook hotdogs but I deserve a treat. I hitch a ride from car jail to the ramp where I abandoned my Dodge. From there I sneak off to town.

At town I order a huge burger and it’s a mistake. Goes down like a brick. Oh well.

Sailing is hard. It looks like you’re just sitting there but it’s really aerobic yoga with the potential to drown. I can feel my joints seizing up. So, I drink a couple beers; not because it loosens joints but because I have the righteous tough guy aches and pains that go well with a beer.

After a few hours of this I’ll get stupid. Stay tuned.

Other folks showed up. Some locals had been snug in their homes during last night’s storm. Others had been at anchor, either sound asleep or getting battered… I’ve no idea.

There was pressure in the air. Like a species waiting to migrate; we needed the signal.

I was nervous and mentioned it:

“I get all jittery before I launch. Like I’m going to screw up and wind up swimming. I can’t wait until I get a little more experience so that goes away.”

One of the more nautical looking guys replied:

“That never goes away.”

I picked this as a mellow replacement to canoes? Shit!

Then everyone headed out. I don’t know why at that particular moment. Maybe it was a change in the winds? For all I know it was pheromones and hand signals. My new “first mate” showed up, we hiked to car jail, and carpooled to the ramp.

[Note: I use the term “First Mate” with respect and kindness, I don’t want to violate someone’s privacy by using their name. If “First Mate” is insulting or a euphemism for something they do on Epstein’s Island (egad!) that’s not my intention.]

My intended design specs for my boat are “from driver’s seat to sailing in 15 minutes”. This is, apparently, a tall order. I think I’ll get there though.

[Note: My nautical terms are meant for a blog reader and not Popeye. If I’m misusing vocabulary don’t dogpile me.]

Rigging a boat is a flurry of knots and lines (if a rope is nautical it’s a “line”) and a dozen minor but required tasks. I have to affix the rudder, raise the mast (by hand, it’s pretty light), throw in various gear, unstrap from the trailer, remember the oars, find my life vest, tie on the boom and yard (a boom is the pole of wood on the bottom of the sail that will hit you in the head, the yard is a diagonal boom at the top of the mast/sail), etc…

Then comes the haulyard. The haulyard is the thing that hauls the yard up the mast. Clever name eh? When you pull it, you get to say “hoist the mainsail” non-ironically. [For the knowledgeable readers, I’m rigged with a balanced lug.]

When I’m ready to pull the haulyard I discover I screwed up. Every time I forget to thread the line through the block (pulley) at the top of the mast. Down comes the mast, the line goes through the pulley, through a ring that has been recently relocated, around the mast (to keep the sail from shifting too far away from the mast), and stoutly tied to the yard’s outer end. Bowline… rabbit comes out of the hole, around the tree…

Meanwhile me and First Mate were having a verbal dance of politeness. My rigging was out of whack. I knew the sail wasn’t rigged quite right. It looked weird but I couldn’t say how. The positioning and tensioning of knots is something of a trial and error situation.  First Mate knew what was wrong but deferred to me because it’s my boat, I built it, and possibly because I look like a serial killer. I deferred to First Mate because I know jack shit about rigging and am not a slave to ego. I was there to learn! End result: there was a lot of deferring going on.

Him: “Um, I don’t mean to be rude but why did you tie the ring there?”

Me: “I picked an arbitrary spot somewhere in the middle of the yard. The instructions said ‘tie a ring on the yard’ but had no measurements.”

Him: “I think it would be better over there.” (He points to a place 10” up the yard.)

Me: “Awesome.” I untie it, move it, and re-tie it with an incredibly bad knot.

Him: “Um, I’m sure it’s OK but why did you tie that knot?”

Me: “Because it works on a tent. Please show me how to do it better.”

He undoes my mess and reties with a much cooler knot. It simply shines with awesome. He’s worried about annoying me but I’m delighted. This continued all through the process. In the end it takes at least half an hour but the sail is a zillion percent more awesome.

This is when I learn you can “hoist the mainsail” in a parking lot. Who knew? Every launch I’ve ever done has been a floundering mess as I drift helplessly around the ramp/dock trying to hoist the sail while already afloat. That’s how Jack Sparrow does it so I assumed it was necessary.

I back it down the ramp (with glorious sail already hoisted!) and…

STOP THE PRESSES! IS THAT A SUNK SAILBOAT JUST OFFSHORE?

Yep, there’s a 25’ fiberglass sailboat lying on the bottom. It’s in shallow water so about 1/4 of the front deck is above water. It’s probably holed. Nobody knows why it’s there or where it comes from. I have terrifying visions of some poor bastard dealing with huge expensive repairs. The sails are not deployed so there’s conjecture it blew away from a marina during last night’s storm? That’s better than a dramatic “All Is Lost” situation. There are no bodies floating about and no sign that it’s that sort of scene. Everyone shrugs and ignores it.

I’m pondering the spiritual ramifications. Launching my homemade craft within sight of a vastly more impressive and yet totally fucked boat seems arrogant: “Hey, Poseidon! I see you ate a 25′ commercially made sailboat for breakfast but I’m going to launch this tiny plywood box anyway. Bite me.”

On a more practical lever, all is well. For every other launch I’ve floundered helplessly at first, but this time the sail is ready to go. A quick tug on the mainsheet (the rope you use to position the sail) and it catches the wind. We sail away from the dock like a boss!

Launching is more a matter of “getting the boat going” than anything else. We’re gently underway but not fully deployed. That said, it’s already working smoother than me splashing about with oars. Our controlled motion gives me plenty of time to put down the daggerboard and rudder. (In earlier launches I tended to get blown to land before the sail was doing its thing.) Once the boards are down, we make a quick turn (either a jibe or a tack?) and boom… we’re in business! Thanks to the new tweaks the sail has a nicer curve than usual. Huzzah!

Impressively, my little craft is perfectly happy with the weight of two full grown men. First Mate handles the sail, I handle the rudder. Secretly I’m calculating the mass of First Mate. Imagine all the cool camping shit that would fall under his weight limit! Is ballast a good thing? Soon I’m daydreaming of sailing home with a deer after a nautical big game hunt.

How fanciful the mind wanders when it’s happy!

It was a leisurely morning. I didn’t expect that! I assumed rugged macho sailor types would be sail at dawn; either with or without some nautical rationalization.

I’d mentally steeled myself for an early morning. All my life I’ve been surrounded by morning people. As a night owl I’ve accepted my lot in life; 300+ days a year (year after year) I’ll be dragged out of bed by some social norm that doesn’t give two shits if I’m groggy and miserable. Then someday I’ll die.

I fuckin’ hate mornings.

Well aware that I’m the odd duck, I darted out of my tent as soon as I heard voices. Indeed, everyone was up and fixing breakfast and so forth. I did my level best to be polite and be ready. I didn’t want to be left behind. (This is unusual for me. 99% of the time I’m doing my own thing and don’t give two shits about sticking with any group.)

I was ready but nothing happened. WTF?

Folks hung around the sopping wet campground. Everything was listless. If I’d known I could have slept another hour! I coaxed a smoldering fire to life (barely) and settled in my chair (which was bone dry!) to percolate pot after pot of coffee. (I down coffee damn near as fast as the old-style percolator brews it. First cup is a mite weak, but the latter ones have a deep and rich taste. I’m slowly mastering the art of making perfect coffee and keeping a steady supply at the ideal temperature. If you meet someone with this skill, congratulate them.)

Eventually, the truth dawned on me. Getting up early and fixing breakfast wasn’t a sign they were early risers; it was a matter of everyone’s tent leaking. Once again, my supertent had shined. My tent floor was bone dry. Also, my cot is something like 19” high. It could have been ankle deep water and I’d have slept through it. All hail the raised sleeping cot!

From time to time someone would stand up, turn their back to the fire, and stare at the waters. They did this with a cool photogenic pose… pensive… deeply observing the situation. It was majestic as fuck.

I had no clue what they saw. Nor did I have any idea what would happen next. Nautical words were spoken. Was the wind too light? Would it build during the day? What about the fog? Would the wind become a broad reach from the south? Was the chop short? I have no idea what a short chop on a broad reach means but it sounded like serious shit.

Frankly I didn’t care and it was a nice break. I’ve spent too much of my life leading the way. I was absolutely basking in “being a follower”. I would follow when they walked toward the boat trailers. No need for me to worry my pretty little head about the chop on the reach. Is this how most people live their whole lives?

Thus, I had plenty of time to drink coffee while smarter people than me pondered the day’s events. Nice break for the Curmudgeon. (More to follow.)