Copyright 2015 by Kenneth Van Camp, all rights reserved.
I learned an important lesson while
taking a wild and exhilarating ride in the Chesapeake Bay area
recently. My excursion began quietly enough on a Friday morning in
early April, when I trailered my Islands 19 to the Franklin Street
boat ramp in Cambridge, Maryland. Cambridge is situated on the
Choptank River, some 17 miles from where it empties into the
Chesapeake Bay. From Cambridge downstream, the Choptank varies in
width from 1-5 miles, enough to make it a major body of water in its
own right. With its many smaller rivers and creeks feeding into it,
it makes an excellent sailing and cruising destination for the small
boater.
After casting off about 2pm Friday, I
sailed at a leisurely pace downriver. Winds were light so progress
was slow, and I finally reached La Trappe Creek, only 5 miles
northwest of Cambridge, by 5:30. There I dropped my anchor in a quiet
cove shared by one other boat.
The night was peaceful, and Saturday
promised light winds of 5-10 knots, so after a quick breakfast I
struck out to do some exploring, and check out potential anchorages
for my next night. First stop was the Tred Avon River, another 5
miles northwest of La Trappe Creek. One mile upriver on the Tred Avon
is the town of Oxford, which my cruising guide says was once a major
seaport rivaling Annapolis in size and maritime traffic. No timeframe
is given for this comparison, but I presume it was a very long time
ago, as the town of Oxford today is a small fraction of the size of
Annapolis.
The town was still much too big to be
my quiet anchorage, so I quickly rounded and headed back out to the
Choptank in search of greater seclusion. My next stop was Irish
Creek, a couple of miles further northwest. No Irish pubs in this
creek, but also no unspoiled wilderness – just mansion after
mansion lining the creek retaining walls. “Lifestyles of the rich
and famous” was not quite what I was looking for; I had in mind
something more like “Lost.” Or somewhere in between would
probably work.
By the time I got back out into the
Choptank it was 3:00 and the wind had died, so I was forced to fire
up the outboard and think seriously about where to spend the night. I
headed back southeast to check out Island Creek, a small tributary I
had bypassed in my initial quest for the Tred Avon. ActiveCaptain had
identified an anchorage on this creek, but it was several miles
upstream and I didn't really want to spend that much time motoring.
Fortunately, only a mile upstream I found a small cove that was
protected, quiet, and uninhabited, and dropped the hook. The good
thing about cruising in the early or late season (aside from the
absence of bugs) is that there's little chance of being presented
with a “no vacancy” sign at your favorite anchorage.
Overnight the wind built steadily, and
by Sunday morning NOAA had declared a small craft advisory in the
area. My schedule required me to head back home, so I changed out my
genoa for the small working jib and put a reef in the main, and
headed out.
I was alone on the Choptank River as I
exited Island Creek. There were occasional whitecaps, but the waves
were small and progress was good. In less than an hour I was
approaching La Trappe Creek, where I saw my first – and only –
companion of the day on the river. A sailboat, about 30' in length,
was exiting La Trappe Creek under sail, about a half mile ahead of
me. It is interesting that this lone sailboat, which lifted my
spirits by bringing companionship, would later lead to my frustration
and the lesson about which I write.
But for now, I was happily sailing a
course that followed the larger boat on about the same heading. The
wind and waves were building as I cleared Howell Point, where the
river widened. Seas were now running 1-2 feet, and it was becoming
difficult to read the puffs among the near-constant whitecaps. The
pounding waves were also beginning to slow my progress as I beat to
windward.
Ahead of me, I watched my leading
companion sail a course that brought him close to the shore on the
downwind side of the river. He tacked close to the headland, then
beat a course on starboard tack across the wide part of the river.
This allowed him to clear both Howell Point and Hambrooks Point, the
next point of land that jutted into the Choptank River.
After another half hour of slogging
against the building seas, I reached approximately the same point
where the larger boat had tacked, and I did the same. And that is
when my troubles began.
The first thing I noticed on starboard
tack was that my larger companion's course was at least 15 degrees
closer to the wind than mine. On port tack, I had been following
directly behind him, but on starboard tack I was heading far off the
wind. I checked my sail settings: the jib sheet track, the sail trim.
I experimented with different settings, to no avail. Could it be that
the wind up ahead was coming from a different heading? It didn't seem
that way.
Several more experiments with sail trim
later, I had made no improvements in my heading. What's worse, as I
cleared Hambrooks Point, it became obvious that I was not even going
to clear the upwind Howell Point on a single tack. I would need to
make a few short tacks, instead of the long starboard tack made by
the larger boat ahead of me.
The waves had grown larger too, running
more than two feet pretty consistently now. Each time I seemed to
gain some momentum, a large soaking wave would bring us to a near
stop.
A few tacks later, and with the other
boat appearing to be a couple of miles ahead of me, I finally gave
up, put the motor on, and took down the sails. Motoring was much
wetter and more jarring than sailing, as I didn't have the sails to
stabilize the boat, and I didn't have a high rail to sit on. I
regretted my decision almost as soon as the sails were down, but I
was frustrated and anxious to bring the trip to a conclusion, so I
motored for the final hour as I inched my way back to Cambridge.
Once back on dry land, I have time to
reflect. What had gone wrong on starboard tack? I was certain the
boat hadn't been sailing as well as on port tack. Was my main sail
reef unbalanced? Was the whole boat unbalanced due to how I had
stowed my anchor and gear? Or was it just me that was unbalanced?
In retrospect, my greatest enemy on the
river that day had been my expectations. So what if I couldn't make
the same heading as another boat? If I'd been alone on the river, I
may have never noticed anything wrong, and rode the exhilarating ride
all the way to the dock, in my blissful ignorance. I'd have been
sailing my own route, not someone else's. And that seems like the
better course.
