Follow the Wake You Lead

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.