A Girl, a Hobie, and a Gust of Wind

Copyright 2016 by Kenneth Van Camp, all rights reserved.

“Most people assume it is far more risky to cross oceans on a small boat. In fact, it is the bigger boat, with its lethal swinging spars and highly loaded lines for sails, anchors, and towlines, that is more likely to maim or kill you.” - James Baldwin, Bound for Distant Seas

Hanging on to a capsized Hobie Cat with my ankle stuck three feet above my head was not quite the way I expected this sail to end. The ropes that hold my ankle in a secure grip are chafing with each passing wave, and I'm beginning to lose feeling in my foot. Thankfully, I am wearning a life jacket and I am in no danger of drowning. A passing sailor has gone for more help to try to right the Hobie, which will hopefully free my foot.

My survival instincts kick in, along with my pride. I want to untangle myself and emerge, saying, “no big deal,” and “I got this.” I pull myself up, searching for the end of the rope that is holding my ankle. I feel for it with my hand, but it is nowhere within reach or sight. There is nothing to do but wait for help to arrive.

It all started with a beautiful girl, a boom to the forehead, and a ride to Southampton Hospital with the Bay Constable... but that was 35 years ago, so maybe that's going back a little too far.

Today's adventure began on the unthreatening, Caribbean beach of the Sandals Grande Antigua resort, with my even-more-beautiful wife of 31 years decourously lounging on a beach chair while I confidently strode to the water sports desk to take out a Hobie.

The wind was initially light as I took off from the white sandy beach without a care in the world. With the warm turquoise waters passing harmlessly beneath my pontoons, how could there possibly be any risk? As patches of darkening ripples preceded the occasional puff of wind, I leaned out farther over the side and hooked my foot under the hiking strap. The Hobie was really beginning to fly now.

A big gust brought the windward pontoon high above the water, and I realized the boat was overpowered. I've been sailing small sailboats all my life, so I know the first step is a quick jerk up on the mainsheet to release it and spill wind from the sail. Of course, this isn't my boat. On the Hobie, the mainsheet block is reversed, so the jerk to release the mainsheet has to be down. Or should I say, the jerk pulling the mainsheet the wrong way was me? Lesson one: know your equipment.

The second step when sailing all alone on a small boat like the Hobie in a non-hostile environment, if you can't spill wind from the sail, is to try to climb over the windward side of the boat before it passes the 90 degree tipping point. When I was a kid sailing a Minifish, I had gotten so used to the feel of my boat capsizing that I could almost always get a leg over the side and onto the centerboard before the sail barely touched the water.

But this, of course, was not my boat and I didn't know the feel of it well enough to anticipate the capsize. Lesson two: see lesson one.

The worst part was the foot hooked under the hiking strap. This foot was now supporting my weight as it slipped down the trampoline-like material I was sitting on and came to rest in the center webbing that held the two halves of the tramp together. The hiking strap, meanwhile, was now over my shin. As the boat passed the 90 degree mark, my last thought was, “Something's going to break, and I doubt it will be the boat.” My ankle and tibia seemed the most likely candidates.

Fortunately, the Hobie design is forgiving. The trampoline material stretched, and although my ankle became firmly gripped between the tramp ropes and hiking strap, nothing broke as I tumbled into the water. After spending the next 10-15 minutes in the water with my foot extended a few feet over my head, the Sandals “red shirt guys” quickly righted the Hobie, I was able to extricate my foot before all feeling was lost, and I escaped with nothing worse than an ugly bruise and minor abrasions. (Those of you who are Star Trek fans know the “red shirt guys” are expendable, and one of them got trapped momentarily under the Hobie because he was trying to pull me up at the same time he righted the boat. I saw him come sputtering to the surface moments later.)

For me, I'm not sure which was bruised more: my ankle or my pride. The nurse's recommendation was to keep the foot elevated, out of direct sun, and a warm bath in the evening. (“Uh honey, I'd get it myself, but the nurse said...”) Could've been worse. Actually, it could have been a lot worse. Lesson three: never underestimate the importance of your support network. We all need help sometimes.

The next time I took a Hobie out, I brought my “movable ballast” to help keep the windward pontoon down on the water. Lesson four: Don't call your crew “movable ballast”, even if it's preceded by, “Honey, in all the Caribbean, you are by far the most beautiful...”

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.

I Almost Didn't Go Sailing Today

Copyright 2012 by Kenneth Van Camp, all rights reserved.

I almost didn't go sailing today.

The sun was too hot,

And the wind was light,

And an insistent IRS 1040 was blocking my way.

But I heard in my yard the whisper, the pleading,

Of a halyard slap

And a pennant flap,

And a sail getting creased from being folded too tight, instead needed sheeting.

So I rolled out Bright Eyes and put the hitch on,

Loosened the chains

But held tight the reins

As off we went to Lake Nockamixon.

O crystalline waters! O gentle embrace!

Cool water on skin

Bringing blood from within,

O how did we 'ere stay so long from this place?

We set full all cloth to catch a miserly breeze,

With no destination,

No schedule to meet,

And an elderly mallard outpaced us with ease.

Round the point then easily canter,

A meandering tour

Of the opposite shore

To the unsteady rhythm of a bullfrog's banter.

How measure the hours, whether surging or lulled,

Of a boat and her rider

And a feeling inside her,

A fullness procrastination foretold?

We almost didn't go sailing today.

Almost missed the gentle laughter

Of what the egret had sought after,

Almost missed the wispy clouds

Drifting slowly past our shrouds,

But we didn't – instead my Bright Eyes had the final say.