I love conspiracy theories but I’m not an idiot. Skepticism and common sense matter; fake moon landings and flat earths are dumb.
The only fun conspiracy theories are the ones that turn out to be true.
Recently, I made an error. I underestimated conspiracy.
History is awash in conspiracy. Weird shit happens and, faced with change, the populace (or establishment) denies it. The new situation remains a conspiracy theory until it becomes “common knowledge”.
To avoid getting in the weeds of modern politics, I use hindsight to mock fifth century Romans. They thought (or acted like) a buildup of barbarians (Vandals and such) was no big deal.
I’m from the future so I know that happened. Undocumented migrants on the far side of the Rhine river were fleeing Huns. These “refugees” demanded entry into Rome; politely and with armed incursion. Rome didn’t have resources to handle all of them. “Please go somewhere else.” The situation deteriorated.
On December 31, 406 the Rhine froze. A flowing river was a barrier but frozen ice wasn’t. Lacking a barrier, the military was spread too thin. The Vandals (and others) simply walked into Roman territory.
Once there, the refugee/undocumented migrants settled and contributed to the peaceful and wealthy Roman society which they’d entered. Ha ha ha… no way! People be crazy! They rampaged across Gaul. Rome, arguably the most successful empire in human history, collapsed.
That’s history for ya’. I know shit that Romans didn’t. You know it too. We’d have been, at the time, conspiracy theorists.
December 30, 406:
Maximus the Conspiracy Theorist: “The border situation is in crisis! Stock up on MREs and fortify your domus. The government can’t save us!”
Sheeple: “Poor gullible Maximus, you’ve had too much vinum.”
January 1, 407:
Everyone: “That sucked!”
Maximus: “They stole my MREs and set my domus on fire. I told you guys…”
Sheeple: “Shut up Maximus. You’re still a weirdo.”
Fast forward 1600 years. Rome’s gone, how’s America? One month ago, I wrote that America is in a “cycle of greater corruption than some unremarkable baseline”.
I hypothesized about “the madness of now” was not a conspiracy so much as events that were hard to see in proper scale. One cause is corruption supplanting the rule of law. Another is the effect of social media.
Social and manipulative media is the main destabilizer. Let’s avoid today’s myopia by another trip through history: in 1454 the Gutenberg press changed things. Plentiful German language pamphlets and Bibles(!) let everyone see the world’s secrets. Rare Latin illuminated manuscripts had formerly kept a lid on things.
New information! The gatekeepers have been lying! Freak out time!
The firmament shifted and Medieval social coherence a thousand years old imploded. Other influences played a role too (like plague ebola). There’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube, so Medieval gave way to Renaissance.
We’re another Gutenberg generation. Media corporations intend to change our thinking. They’re succeeding. They “nudge” us to act in certain ways. We do it. Here are things that would be unbelievable to a person in 1990: People interrupt conversations in real time for a text. They’ll post on Facebook while taking a dump. They’ll binge six seasons of a TV show. At historic monuments they’ll take a photo of themselves. They have political discussions about sneakers. They vote their degree of approval (“like”) for other people’s activities.
Ominously, raw information is censored. It doesn’t carry the desired signal so containment is implemented. Deplorables in flyover country should shut the hell up while our betters read to us from the illuminated manuscript. Should we speak certain ideas it’s hate speech. Disagree with certain ideas and you’re racist or Hitler. Push your luck and you’ll be deplatformed or doxed. That’s what censorship looks like. It’s nothing fifteenth century Gutenberg pamphleteers wouldn’t recognize. 2019 is only a few pitchforks and bonfires from 1450.
The cell phone in your pocket is doing to you what Gutenberg’s press did to peasants of the 15th century.
That said, I’m more interested in corruption than media. So here’s the corruption part:
The opposite of corruption is rule of law. America was once big on it. Jeffrey Epstein was a chance to redeem some of it. I imagined it might.
Epstein was a rich influential pimp. Rich or not, he was arrested. Rule of law!
Nobody considered it a simple criminal matter. (Not even me.) The press tried to tie him to Trump. Others pointed to Clinton. Arresting a pimp was all about election cycles? That’s what widespread corruption looks like.
Nobody thought Epstein was arrested just because he was committing crimes. It was about connections and names. I’d have been happier if he was arrested because he was a criminal but you can’t always get what you want.
I had an optimistic thought; regardless of why he was arrested, I hoped Epstein would get a fair trial. I wanted something that followed rules. I wanted a sober judge and hard working lawyers and proper evidence and juries that seriously deliberate. It could have been an antidote for the last few years of flaky performances like the Mueller Report or Kavanaugh Hearings.
I wanted rule of law.
When everyone joked about Arkancide I held back. This was an opportunity. I believed our system of rules could handle it. We have (had?) a decent legal system. Among the best on earth. Our evidentiary rules, when they’re followed, are good. If everyone behaved and there were no “lost files” or “secret agreements”, we’d have a clean example of laws that apply to everyone.
Each challenge is an opportunity! Everyone was watching. Time to shine! Do it by the book; like competent adults in a modern democracy!
Ugh… you’re probably laughing at me as you read this. I’m such a schmuck.
THEY. FUCKED. UP.
The system, and everyone in it, failed. My freezer has toaster waffles that lasted longer than Epstein in jail. What a mess! Failure this huge is for fiction; not real life.
The only facts we know are the timeline:
July 6th: Epstein was arrested. Jokes about his impending suicide circulated immediately.
July 24th. Epstein was found injured in his cell. 18 days?!? WTF! A kid can keep a goldfish alive longer than prison protected the highest profile defendant of the decade? Whether suicide attempt or prison beating is immaterial. The whole point was to keep Epstein alive. Nobody trusted any information; which makes sense, since they’d already done an untrustworthy job.
But maybe they could still do the right thing? Stumble out of the gates but do it right in the long run…
Nope!
August 10th. Epstein died. He lasted a measly five weeks. THEY HAD JUST ONE JOB: KEEP THIS BASTARD ALIVE. There is no worse or more obvious failure. Whether it’s suicide or murder is immaterial; he died when they were in charge of not letting him die.
I was the last Boy Scout. I believed in rule of law. I saw a glorious chance to do it properly. The bar was set low and they dove into the dirt beneath it. Fuckers!
Was it Arkancide? I don’t know. I don’t care. It was their job to keep him alive. He’s not. They blew it. It’s a disaster. I had hope and I’ve been wrong from day one.
They blew it; just as everyone (but me) expected.
Clintonite mob hit on the rich and connected? Jailers that shouldn’t be trusted to keep a hamster? Some combination of the two. Which is worse? Which is better? Why?
Argentina used to toss dissidents out of helicopters. They knew it was wrong and carefully hid their shame. Epstein died right out in the open.
This matters to you and me both. A system that killed a lawyered up billionaire can do the same to anyone on earth. He was the most famous defendant on earth, everyone assumed he was at risk, there are thousands of jokes and memes about it… he’s dead and we’re fucked. Nobody is safe.
The whole thing is tainted. We can’t trust information that oozes out of this mess. Is it the truth or what they (whoever they are) wants us to hear? Chalk it up to another thing we may never know.
The dude was picked off the street and dead in a month. Nobody is safe without the rule of law.
This galactic cock-up worries me. I underestimated the systemic failure at play. Suicide, Arkancide, or some clever secret escape to a tropical beach… choose your conspiracy theory; to me they’re all the same. No proper criminal trial = no rules.
Jokes about Epstein’s impending suicide went for silly to true. It sucks.
I found an interesting article on Quillette. I encourage you to check it out. Here are a few snippets:
I’ve noticed the effects of this without pondering the cause. There’s never a media presentation of someone who’s happy with a blue collar job. It’s all about how much it sucks. Whether it’s an article about truckers, farmers, Walmart greeters, baristas, teachers, or farmers, journalists invariably play up the toil and suffering.
This, of course, is bullshit. Anyone who’s been around blue collar work knows it’s a mix of good and bad just as it is for white collar. Work is work but it isn’t like we’re galley slaves. Life for blue collar workers has gotten better with time too. A harried Amazon warehouse worker in 2019 may bitch about his or her job but it’s not like they’re a coal miner in 1907.
I hadn’t paid much attention to the pattern. I just chalked it up to clueless journalists having no experience whatsoever about the actual world of work. Us nobodies often have pretty great lives but “journalists” are initially too busy preening to notice and, in the long run, too arrogant to learn. But to the author has a more realistic explanation and it makes sense. Why the “short and sad” narrative all-pervasive? It’s the approved narrative:
So there you have it. Every article about blue collar work blathers on about how miserable we are, and now we know the source of it. Kevin Mims, the author of the Quillette piece, has made a clear observation of truth. He’s onto something. Well done sir!
I almost never link to a YouTube channel. The main reason is that I prefer the medium of text to video. I read fast and don’t usually need imagery to keep my interest. Also, YouTube itself is run by duplicitous shitweasels and I don’t want that nest of biased deplatforming malfeasance to put down roots in my world. However, video’s a thing and two sites are so good they merit attention. If you want to wander into occupied territory, take a gander at these two… then run!
The first is CGP Grey who picks a topic and rockets through it with intelligent precision. He moves at warp speed while offering humor and thoughtful analysis. How he does all this in 3-5 minute videos is a miracle of pacing and what I can only assume is an immense amount of prior research. It’s entirely unlike the repetitive dumbed down bullshit that characterizes documentary TV. I highly recommend CGP Grey.
The second is The Emporium Outdoors. This could be one of those boring “camping gear review” sites but instead it’s delightful and relaxing. Michael, the Canadian outdoorsman host, plays second fiddle to his charming dog Esme as they wander about deploying whatever gear Michael chooses to present. Unlike CGP Grey that fires data like a machine gun, Michael stops to smell the flowers. Sometimes there’s no gear at all and they just go for a walk. Drone footage and long shots of campfires abound. When I was in the throes of cabin fever this winter, Michael’s purchase of an Argo was so fun to watch that I nearly went nuts and bought one for myself. I’m a guy that thinks twice before ordering a soda instead of a water at a restaurant and I was seriously pondering “the cool ATV that the cute dog likes”. That’s damn impressive showmanship! I highly recommend The Emporium Outdoors for when you don’t have time to go camping but really wish you did.
Want a taste? OK, here’s one where CGP Grey crams half a semester of United Kingdom history and geography into 5 minutes. Watch it twice and you know more UK stuff than anyone but English geographers:
Are ya’ exhausted by CGP Grey? OK take a break and watch Michael and Esme wander around Canadian forest. It’s about a thousand times slower and relaxing and… damn I want an ARGO!
Inspired by Canadian camping, I decided to link to CGP Grey’s discussion of the Canadian/American border… you know… the one that isn’t pissing off all the politicians.
Whew… that was fast. Time for a chill out video. How about Michael camping in the snow with the same cot I recently purchased but with a different tent. (He’s the one that inspired my purchase of the cot.)
Have fun y’all.
Cat Rotator’s Quarterly has a short fiction post I heartily recommend (hat tip to Bayou Renaissance Man). Here’s a clip to whet your appetite:
Gina, holding her breath, watched as the wild pizza rippled toward the trap.
“Quiet,” Lui hissed. “Don’t spook it. We need it all the way in the box.”
It acted suspicious, moving slowly between the spiny, stunted trees. She couldn’t tell what kind it was yet, but she really hoped it wasn’t another black olive. No one had managed to find an olive breed that didn’t squirt foul smelling brine when they got mad or scared. The pizza fluttered along, closer and closer. It stopped flat, studying the box, then eased part of its crust in. Gina exhaled as quietly as she could, then inhaled. She caught a bit of spicy red scent as the breeze puffed across the trap. Now half the pizza lay in the box, and she eased her finger back, taking the slack out of the trigger. The last bit of crust flopped into the box.
“Snap!” She pulled the trigger and the top of the flat box dropped…
With a start like that how can anyone not read the rest?
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.
