Freshwater sailors need just as many skills as their briny counterparts
Issue 18: May/June 2001
When the subject of sailing arises, one thinks of great vistas of blue water with endlessly marching crests of waves, and wind-blown foam and froth beneath skies stretching to the limits of one’s imagination. Tales abound of the morning watch hauling that sheet and tweaking that sail and dressing those lines on a well-found vessel tracking toward that ever-distant horizon.
Tales don’t abound of the inland sailor moving out from Gus’s Marina, Bait Shop & Fender Repair, out of the creek and onto the lake where points and peaks, surrounding hills, spiny ridges, and vegetation twist and turn, swirl and funnel every gust and cat’s-paw into a puzzling panorama to befuddle the unwary sailor. Even the skills of Sinbad would be challenged to still that rattle overhead and to keep those telltales flying aft for more than the time it takes to open that next beverage of choice.
“Now wait a cotton-pickin’ minute,” say members of the Greek chorus of briny tars at the other end of the smoky bar, “if it ain’t salt, it ain’t water!” Yes, and most inland sailors agree with eyes downcast and mutterings humble as they concede the inherent superiority of those cruising sailors who go down to the sea in their sailboats. But is it so . . . and is it so for all the skills of the sailor? Must one ride brine in order to be the Compleat Sailor and earn that respect which comes only with challenging experiences? I think not, say I defiantly!
You probably already know I’m not talking about those Great Lakes . . . that water’s pretty blue, even if it don’t taste funny. Nope, I’m talking about them more mediocre lakes, even those teeny lakes, where bunches of sailboats live . . . big ’uns and little ’uns.
These inland cruising sailors could probably tell you much about their demanding avocation, and they probably would love to, but they are too distracted, having to stop so very often to tend that rattling sail or to tack to avoid running into the shoreline. There’s little time to finish the thought, thus much of this wisdom has never been shared outside of those land-locked marinas deep in the heart of the hinterland.
Let’s take a moment to review the skills needed by those humble sailor types who challenge the inland freshwater lakes, and see if their inventory of tasks and skills is indeed different from those displayed by their salty mates, so very much higher up in the food chain of those who sail.
Provisioning. For a 60-day passage at sea, one should probably take enough food, spares, clothes, and recreational materials. The tanks should be topped off and the batteries hot. Now for a weekend on the lake, let’s see . . . there’s food, recreational materials, clothing, recreational materials, food, recreational materials, and maybe even some spares. The tanks should be topped off and perhaps the batteries will be hot.
Well, that all seems pretty much the same. It certainly looks the same as one observes family crews trudging down the dock, wheeling cartloads and armfuls with coolers, sacks, and bulging bags. “Yes,” cries the chorus, “but this is not the same planning nor the same amounts.” Well, true the planning is frequently a bit skimpy, but as for those amounts . . . did I mention the cluttered burden of those families trudging down the docks? After making the third trip to the family vehicle and having been below when the Horn of Plenty is upended over the open companionway, I wonder if the volume is indeed all that different.
Initial boarding and inspection. Now, boarding and inspection of the boat is certainly important. I’ve seen those detailed inspections both on that drinkable body of water and on the briny stuff: “Boat wet . . . feet dry . . . OK, cast off dem lines,” and the adventure begins anew.
Leaving the dock and rules of the road. Well, how about boat-handling in the marina and in the road (“. . . and wave at the nice man blowing that horn”)? I’m sure we agree a competent sailor needs to know these rules. In ports, harbors, marinas, and anchorages along the coast, one can see the oh-so-very-orderly movement of ships and boats all carefully orchestrated by the Rules of the Road and choreographed with a discipline that inspires awe.
Yeah, right! From the very first, tentative movement of the throttle, the frantic outward-leaning glances starboard and port, and the anxious “Are we clear?” shouted to anyone who cares to answer, getting out of that marina is an iffy proposition. This is both high drama and high adrenaline stuff. No marina, coastal or inland, was laid out with any intent of having those boats ever move again. The intent was to park the most rent revenue into the most constricted space, allowing for the most photogenic brochures (in the better marinas, of course) and, as an afterthought, let’s put in a fuel dock, too.
We pretend there is never an errant gust of wind in the marina and that we have full control of that bowsprit at all times. Sure! Not much difference here between salt and fresh water, at least not to these strained eyes. And even after exiting the marina, after safely reaching the road, we can — seagoing and inland sailors all — feel secure in our knowledge of the ever-present Rules of the Road, can’t we?
Sailors need to know those rules . . . primarily so we can anticipate how others will probably not act. This is what I understand to be the essential guts of the Rules, the living, breathing core of the intent. In synthesis, there are three: Rule-1, The Big boat rule (biggest boat has right of way); Rule-2, The “Don’t steer close to nuttin’ ” rule; Rule 3, “Don’t forget Rules One and Two.” These simplified rules seem to work whether the sailor is a salty type or a freshwater denizen aspiring to sail.
There are tricky and dangerous conditions encountered only on the coast. “For example,” the salty sailor asks, “how about the danger from tows, barges, and tankers? You guys inland don’t have to contend with that, do you?” “Sure that’s bad,” I answer, “even worse at night, but have you briny tars ever tried to evade a big, I mean really big, houseboat lit up like a shopping mall and being steered by Ralph Roadrage who can’t understand why those darned sailboats keep going in front of him?” Houseboat owners seem to feel that light arrangements and wattage expended are both opportunities for self-expression and indices of success in life. “Reason ain’t in it,” I say, “and rules seem more a suggestion than a fact of life out on the water, regardless of that water’s chemistry.”
Buoys and marks. Here the salty dogs have it. They see them, may even recognize them and know that such things direct boats to go this way or that (“Myrtle, are we red right returning or going?”). Most of the time, the saltwater sailors respect those buoys and markers, and they don’t even run into them very often. We know they respect them . . . seaborne sailors never get out of the channel and never run aground, do they? The freshwater boys just don’t see many of these marks, and the ones they do see say “Shallow Water” in very small print or “No Wake Zone,” which is seldom very important in a sailboat making 3 to 5 knots as it races across the water. Interestingly, the shapes and colors are the same for both of the above examples. The marker invites caution, but you must closely approach in order to discover the threat you are being warned about. Hmmm . . . ?
Sail selection and trim. OK, we’re out of the harbor now and into the road. Time to make this boat into a sailboat. The salty version of sailing has the captain carefully reviewing the sail inventory, today’s likely weather, and the boat’s sailing characteristics, right? Decision having been made, the seagoing captain announces from the quarterdeck, “Get those sails up, turn into the wind.” Sails are raised, sheets tightened, and lines dressed. All aboard share a contented smile, perhaps a chorused “All right!” and then lounge in the cockpit, just like all those pictures in the sailing magazines, while awaiting colorful lunches served on beautiful china by gorgeous people, accompanied by the wine of their choice.
If it’s true that we get better at anything practiced over and over again, then it must also be true that the lake sailor has extraordinary skills in sail trim, well beyond the experience of those of the typical saltwater sailor lulled by the simple routine above.
The inland lake captain announces from the quarterdeck, “Get those sails up, turn into the wind.”
“Oops! There’s a mess of trees growing right there,” says the mate.
“OK, turn starboard,” says the Captain.
“Oops,” says the mate, “another land mass. In fact, captain, we seem to be surrounded by those pesky things.”
“OK, OK. Try a neat circle, and we’ll mill about smartly while I pull on this thingee here.” Finally got them up and trimmed. Where’s the telltale? “Quick, tack! Ready about (puff, puff, puff). Gotta get back on that Nordic Track,” says the captain under his breath.
“Good,” says the mate, “they’re trimmed now, but don’t we need to tack again?”
Finally, on a reach with wind steady, well mostly steady. “Come up some . . . there . . . no, too much . . . fall off . . . yes, I know the wind is shifting.”
“We just passed that point where the tall trees block the air,” said the captain, who also knows that within 20 yards the next point will lead to a veer of at least 90 degrees and is already loosening that sheet for the sail so perfectly trimmed just moments ago. “Now meet it,” he urges, as the predicted shift occurs. Again, the satisfaction, admittedly fleeting, of a perfectly trimmed and balanced boat until that pointy hill with the bare rocks on top passes to port, and the gusting, swirling wind backs the headsail and rattles the main. “OK,” he calls, “that was fun . . . ready about!” No one has time for lunch and the beautiful people are now looking decidedly harried.
Navigating and piloting. At sea, especially coastal sailing, you have to stay alert and keep a good running plot. On inland lakes, the same skill is necessary so you know whether you can go 30 or 40 yards this time or must tack immediately. There’s also the intended course, of course. Have to watch those landmarks carefully. “Turn left at the third ramp on the right where the blue Chevy truck usually parks,” is essentially the same piloting process as “Come right to 045 after taking the sea buoy on our starboard side.” No real differences there. “Honey, isn’t it getting pretty shallow here?”
“Oops, turn quick . . . tacking!”
Anchoring (and don’t forget retrieval). Now sailing isn’t always about moving across the water. There is a set of skills associated with getting the hook down and up again, although the latter seems more optional on many boats. The saltwater sailor has to know the ground tackle is balanced with the boat, know the bottom structure, tide, and current, and he has to take this into consideration along with the weather when anchoring. The holding characteristics of various anchors in various conditions are endlessly discussed and so they should be given their importance.
Well, inland sailors also have to know their ground tackle is balanced with the boat and it is, of course, else why would the captain have it on the boat? Inland sailors also must take into consideration the bottom structure and current, if any. But more frequently the crucial issue to consider inland is whether their scope will still allow the Jet Skis and waterskiers enough room to circle the boat freely, effectively creating their own maelstrom of converging wakes from 360 degrees simultaneously. Now what sort of anchor and bottom structure best tolerates that abuse?
Any discussion of anchoring, or its mate, docking, would not be complete without a discussion of the communications so necessary to conning the boat in these circumstances. Consider, if you will, the calm, authoritative voice of the captain announcing, “Let go the anchor,” or “Secure the forward lines,” as the crew scurries about doing the captain’s bidding in a thoroughly seamanlike fashion. Now forget that picture and instead consider the “Haven’t you let it go yet?” followed by “What?” followed by “I said let it go!” followed by “Don’t talk to me in that tone of voice.” All this, of course, is closely followed by the inevitable audience of surrounding sailors with knowing glances exchanged all around.
But wait a moment. That experience clearly does not distinguish the inland from the saltwater sailor. In fact, it probably affirms the essential fraternity, the inherent commonality, of all cruising sailors everywhere. In the final analysis, I guess we really are much more alike than different and perhaps most clearly alike in our love for those boats with the rags on top.
Bill is a former marine and naval reservist and a retired clinical psychologist. He and his wife, Shirley, were most recently located in Arkansas. However, they have escaped the tyranny of the inland lakes and are cruising the Southeastern U.S. and the Caribbean on their Lord Nelson, At Ease, which will be featured in our July issue.
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