Issue 5 : Mar/Apr 1999
The race started when Linda said, “Isn’t that blue boat catching us?” I put down the book I’d been reading while I steered and began to pay more attention to sail trim and heading. The increased murmur of our bow wave and the hiss from the dinghy told me we had picked up speed. Dawn Treader, our Tartan 27 sloop, was reaching down the Potomac toward the long run up the bay to Solomons Island. It was a perfect day. The crisp fall weather cleared the bay’s ever-present haze. There was enough air to keep the boat moving well and the prospect of a pleasant marina and hot showers at day’s end. And now we had the challenge of an impromptu race to help pass the time.
When we rounded Point No Point, the wind obligingly went around to the west and permitted us to continue reaching up the bay. Everything would have been perfect except for the blue boat dogging our wake. I just couldn’t put his hull down under the horizon! As the day continued, I kept trying to sail as fast as possible until, at last, we were overtaken by the sleek blue yawl named Djinn. She caught and passed us at the mouth of the Patuxent River, when we both hardened up for the beat upriver to Solomons Island. Once past Dawn Treader, Djinn received some close attention from a Southern Cross 39. With a flurry of activity Djinn’s crew dropped their centerboard, hardened up another 5 degrees or so, and out-footed the contender into Mill Creek. We followed in their wake.
The barometer had begun to drop, and the VHF forecast a storm with high northerly winds in the early morning hours. I grumbled to Linda that I wasn’t looking forward to spending the night in a marina but warm showers and the chance to have a night out “on the town” prevailed.
Looking ahead to the marina, I noticed Djinn taking the last good berth at the gas dock. The dockmaster asked us to tie alongside a bulkhead farther up the creek. It wasn’t a bad berth, other than being on the northern side of the dock. I anticipated an unpleasant night if the storm arrived. After securing our docklines and fenders, I placed an anchor to windward, and used it as a breast line to keep us from slamming against the bulkhead. As I climbed back aboard from the dinghy, a short gray-headed man of about 60 ambled down the dock. “Hi, I’m Harry,” he said, “I wanted to say I’m sorry we took up the whole area by the gas dock. If you’d like, stop by for a drink.”
Later in the evening he commented, “You gave me the fits all day trying to catch you.” We had spent several hours becoming acquainted and looking over their Pearson yawl, a 39-footer that seemed like a palace next to our little 27-foot sloop. Evelyn, Harry’s wife, chuckled as she recounted the other side of the day’s events. Harry was frustrated with the “good wind shifts” that I was getting and with our holding off his advance for much of the day. Harry and Evelyn had been cruising the bay for many years. We spent the evening discussing our favorite anchorages and how an interest in sailing had grown and deepened over time. While none of us were long-distance cruisers, we clearly enjoyed our time on the water, and viewed our lives as enriched through sailing.
Later, after we were back aboard Dawn Treader, the anticipated storm came rolling through. The pleasant feelings from our evening’s conversation quickly dissipated as the hull magnified the sound of the waves slapping against our quarter. While clearly in no danger, thanks to the breast line holding us off the dock, we still had a fitful night due to the noise. Harry must have realized how unpleasant the night had been, because the next morning he came to tell us about a slip that had just opened up. After we moved, we toured the enchanting small-scale maritime museum located a short walk from the marina, and did some much-needed provisioning. That night, the four of us had drinks and dinner in a small restaurant overlooking the creek and watched the family-oriented Wednesday night races. In deference to the high winds still pounding the bay, they raced in the creek. We chuckled as we watched one family intently trimming their sails. The youngest crew member in the stern, happily towing a series of toy boats, certainly was a contrast to the rest of the serious crew!
Conditions hadn’t changed much by the next day, but I was getting itchy to leave and managed to convince Linda that we should head out. Our next destination was the Rhode River, about 35 miles north, and a day-long beat was not a pleasant prospect. The radio forecasted small craft warnings, with winds of 25 to 30 knots, so I reefed down at the dock and hanked on the storm jib. Tying the dinghy to the coachroof, I waved goodbye to Harry and Ev as they eased Djinn away from their slip.
An hour later, we cleared Lookout Point and took our first tack up the bay. Ahead, Djinn was down to jib and jigger as she beat across the bay. Conditions were clearly worse than they were in the shelter of the river. The unpleasant chop and overcast sky combined to make a miserable day. In the short choppy bay waters, sailing close hauled, the Tartan 27 is not at its best. The chop literally stopped the boat in its tracks from time to time. Crew morale was not high and quickly deteriorated when we came about. We discovered that our leeway, combined with an ebbing tide, placed us only several hundred yards to weather of our departure point. While I argued that we should try several more tacks, Linda pointed out that Djinn had fallen off and was returning to port. That did it: if Harry and Ev in their larger boat weren’t making headway, why should we try? They had clearly been pointing higher than Dawn Treader, but they decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. After all, we were on vacation and had the luxury of waiting for better conditions, so why bother?
We eased sheets, and Dawn Treader quickly picked up speed as her heel decreased and we reached up the river. I didn’t want to return to the marina, and considering that we had just purchased a week’s worth of supplies, Linda quickly agreed. Upon entering Mill Creek, we noticed Djinn anchored in a small cove, with Harry standing in the stern waving us over. Fenders were hung on the starboard side, and Ev was waiting to take our bowline. Once rafted up, we shared some hot soup Linda had made and resumed the conversation of the past several days.
Although the wind continued, the skies cleared and it became a beautiful clear, crisp, September day. A ring of high trees sheltered the calm anchorage, although their top branches bowed to the pressure of the norther that still scoured the bay. Several other yachts, tired of the conditions out on the bay, anchored nearby. Most of the boats showed the evidence of a hard day, with foul weather gear and life jackets drying on the lifelines.
We watched the crews’ reactions as we deployed crab lines around the boat. As retribution for delaying our northerly progress, the bay began to give up its bounty. We must have anchored over a mother lode of crabs, for within an hour we had netted over 30 jimmies . . . so many that we stopped trying. Harry and I were musing about how we were going to prepare them when I noticed several low-slung oyster boats heading into port. “Hop in!” Harry yelled as he climbed into his dinghy and began pulling the outboard’s starting line. Shouting to Ev to give him some money, we cast off and skimmed up the creek in the waning daylight. Soon we were next to a workboat negotiating for oysters. Much to my surprise, the waterman quickly agreed to $10 for a bushel, which he dumped into the dinghy!
Back at the boat, Harry and I unloaded the dinghy and cleaned out the mud and shell left from our purchase. Down below, Linda and Ev had started steaming the crabs. Harry then proceeded to motor around the anchorage inviting everybody for drinks, crabs, and oysters. Fortunately, everyone came, because we clearly had too much food for us to eat alone. Perhaps more to the point, the crew of a Westsail 32 from Virginia opened oysters like I shell peanuts. They tried to teach their technique, but none of us could master their speed and deftness. The shells just seemed to pop open when they settled in the palms of these experts. A fair division of labor evolved: Harry and I scrubbed the mud from the shells and kept our guests supplied with beer while they opened oysters for all of us to eat!
Laughter and good tales rang through the anchorage as each of us shared the day’s events, and our pleasure with the outcome of “turning back.” As I watched more workboats returning to the harbor with their crews silhouetted by the evening sun, I realized Harry’s outgoing nature had created this pleasant afternoon. Without his enthusiasm, each of us would have hunkered down on our respective boats, without the diversity that other people bring to any gathering. Our guests left at nightfall, and Harry produced a giant steak that we proceeded to devour in spite of the quantities of seafood consumed earlier. After a pleasant dinner and cockpit conversation, we watched the sky clear and agreed that we would meet the following evening in the Rhode River.
We got an early start the next morning, and although the wind was still strong, it was from the west as we reached up the bay. The wind strength decreased and the temperature rose as the day progressed. We finally ghosted into the anchorage dressed in shorts and T-shirts and rafted with Djinn.
That was just the beginning of our sailing friendship with Harry and Ev, one spanning several years. Although their home port was on the bay’s western shore, we quickly found that we shared a fondness for out-of-the-way anchorages and often unexpectedly met them on weekends. As they lived near Annapolis, they extended hospitality during the winter months when we traveled from Philadelphia for a “sailing fix.” They surprised us with a visit on the day we took delivery of our new Crealock 37 cutter, Simple Gifts, and traveled with us on her shakedown cruise. We had often talked with Harry about “the next boat,” and this was our step up from Dawn Treader.
These fond memories are more poignant when I think about Harry’s prolonged bout with cancer. Several years after our initial meeting, Linda and I were fortunate to be asked to crew on a friend’s boat along the Yugoslavian coast. Harry had loaned us a duffel for the trip, and we arranged a rendezvous to return it. We rafted in Swan Creek on the eastern shore, and as we took our customary place alongside Djinn’s starboard rail, I noticed that Harry looked thin. Settling in the cockpit, he told us of his illness. And then, before we could become despondent, he quickly turned the conversation to our recent trip. He said he planned to “lick this thing” and continue sailing. Harry mentioned a new boat he wanted to buy, once his health improved (Ev said nothing, but I could see in her eyes the hope that it would). We talked the night away, roaming over those impromptu topics that friends weave together into a conversation that fills the soul and the evening.
Harry fought a good fight, never mentioning to us the depths of his illness. It lasted several years, and although he became thinner, he always spent some time on their boat. Clearly, he and Ev picked their weather carefully. Djinn was too large for her to handle alone, and in the end, I guess that they spent more time at the dock than out on the water.
Once again, other cruising friends asked us to crew for them, this time to Turkey. We looked forward to seeing them. They had been full-time liveaboards for several years, and we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to broaden our skills with them in such an exotic locale. The pleasure of that wonderful trip and our homecoming diminished when Ev called to tell us that Harry had died while we were gone. Linda and I spent the evening reminiscing about the times we spent with Harry and Ev aboard Djinn.
While we mourn his passing, we take pleasure in our shared experiences. Too often we cruisers overlook the friendships that can be gained from a simple “hello.” If Harry hadn’t walked down the dock to invite us for drinks, we probably would never have been friends. Thinking about how his cancer snatched away Harry’s dream cruise helped us resolve not to wait until “someday” to go on our own cruise. Linda and I carry these lessons with us as we head south, fondly remembering Harry’s gentle impact on our lives.
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