. . . means coping with the occasional nightmare
Issue 112: Jan/Feb 2017
What happens when someone who has discarded a dream, a dream clearly beyond reach, meets a dreamer? Possibilities germinate. You know the dream. It was the “sailing away someday” dream and it was deeply rooted, sparked in my childhood.
One of the highlights of my youth was summertime crewing for a childhood friend in a Bluejay. The dinghy was aptly named Mosquito, in honor of the critters so well known to those of us in northern Ontario, the same critters that surely tormented the girl’s father as he’d lovingly crafted it.
A decade later, backpacking through Australia, my husband and I hitched a ride with a friendly liveaboard for an offshore passage of a few weeks along the Great Barrier Reef. That experience turned childhood fantasy into an adult goal: one day I would have a boat of my own and pursue sailing adventures.
Fast-forward another decade or so. We had settled in Haileybury, Ontario, a scenic lakeside town, where we put down roots as we raised our family. Our home’s front balcony offered a lovely view to the east, where we watched with longing the sails that graced Lake Temiskaming.
Then Mother’s Day weekend of 2001 arrived. I do not recall what errand took me by the still-bundled boats at the marina — call it serendipity — but I clearly recall being hit with the jolt of possibility when I noticed a “For Sale” sign on one. We phoned the owner, who arrived minutes later to offer a tour of a charming Tanzer 7.5 named Scallywag. Throwing caution and my logical research-based approach to decision-making to the wind, I listened to my heart, secured an agreement from my somewhat hesitant husband, and signed the check. We had a boat. What a perfect Mother’s Day gift it promised to be.
Scallywag brought lots of happiness and some heartache. I treasure the memories of day outings and overnight campouts at anchor with our children. On the other hand, tension between a couple with divergent perspectives grew. One desired peacefulness, solitude, and the challenge of honing skills while exploring the far reaches of the lake. The other craved motor outings to raft up and enjoy beer with friends. Even my rose-colored outlook could not disguise the obvious. Our partnership was not suited to realizing the dreams of future sailing adventures. The onboard strains were symptomatic of deeper relationship fractures that grew beyond repair. The incompatibilities became insurmountable and Scallywag was one of many casualties of the marriage’s end.
New partner, new potential
A few years later, new love struck in the form of a gentle, caring guy, passionate about nature, mechanically skilled, and living a self-sufficient lifestyle. Tim Martens had only modest sailing experience from the distant past, but it was enough to plant intentions of someday doing more. He had recently acquired a fixer-upper Cal 21. Casual conversations in our early dating days fanned the dying embers of my sailing-away-from-it-all dream. Soon, the dream evolved into “someday” plans of cruising together.
We considered our options for making this a reality. Tim was self-employed and his usual pattern of seasonal work lent itself to such adventure. My full-time employment was an obstacle. Perhaps I could get an extended leave from work? How could we augment our limited sailing skills? What would it take to sail from northern Ontario to the Caribbean and maybe beyond? The tropical waters and breezes and the allure of living in the moment seduced us. The challenges we would face excited us. The experiences promised by new lands and people inspired us. We recognized the hurdles in our path: knowledge, skill, finances, and time, not to mention finding the right boat!
Our dreaming led Tim to fall in love again . . . this time with an Alberg 30. It did not take much to convince me that this graceful lake-sized, but ocean-worthy, beauty would be ideal for us. If Yves Gélinas could accomplish his solo circum-navigation in one, certainly we could manage some coastal cruising in one. Easter weekend was just ahead and we had no plans. At that time, there just happened to be three — yes, three — Alberg 30s for sale in Ontario. With inspection checklists firmly in hand, we set off on a weekend road trip around the province.
We first checked out a very discouraging specimen. This Alberg was still on its cradle in ill-fitting winter garb and had not been opened since fall. When we climbed the ladder and stepped through the companionway, we were shocked to step into water. We were able to verify that the cockpit cushions were indeed buoyant and we figured that the engine was likely spic and span, having enjoyed a long submersion bath. This boat had suffered too much neglect and the refit she required was beyond our current means.
The next Alberg had been relatively well-cared-for and was a delight to tour. We thought perhaps this could be ours, but it was a little pricey and some of the modifications, though well done, were not what we were looking for. Besides, this was, after all, just a reconnaissance tour. Work commitments precluded us from getting on the water that summer and we had no intention of actually buying a boat.
Just right
Our final stop was a well-cared-for, reasonably priced 1971 beauty sitting high and dry on a trailer. Cue the Goldilocks syndrome: the first too wet, the second too pricey, and this one . . . Well, with this one, which bore the melodious name Ariose, we tried to feign disinterest. But Tim’s whistling snips of “Halleluiah,” from Handel’s Messiah, may have given us away. As soon as the owner was out of sight and, we hoped, earshot, we let our enthusiasm bubble over and agreed this was it!
A few weeks later we were back, a long day’s drive from home, with a surveyor at our side. Once he confirmed that nothing daunting seemed to be lurking, Ariose was ours. We hooked her up and cautiously hauled her to her new home eight hours north. Her first summer with us, she sat on the hard at Haileybury Marina, overlooking Lake Temiskaming, her future waters.
Haileybury is a two-part marina and we chose the southern section, which has wider berths, fewer boats, lots of maneuvering room for learners to navigate, and more privacy for overnighters. By some geological quirk, building a stone breakwater proved impossible, so the eastern portion of the south marina’s protective breakwall is a floating structure. Although not as effective as solid stone, it does calm incoming waves. For the coming season, we chose the slip farthest from shore, where the effort of the longer trek when laden with gear was more than rewarded by the spectacular eastward view toward the shores of neighboring Quebec and by the illusion that we had the marina and lake to ourselves.
Finally afloat
It was a long year’s wait to spring 2015. Crane day finally arrived and, as proud and nervous new owners, we secured lines where it seemed they would balance all 9,000 pounds of her. The crane lifted her gently and lowered her into the water. We resolved to spend as much time aboard as we could squeeze into our precious, limited northern season.
Our first weekend on Ariose we addressed rigging challenges. After accepting a tow from the launching dock to her berth, we spent our time unravelling the mysteries of blocks and lines and the jib furler and the art of getting comfortable on board. It was all new. Next weekend we would get out and sail. We were sure of it.
On our second weekend we focused on the engine. We figured out what went where and, step-by-step, with the Yanmar diesel manual close at hand, we completed the regular servicing and reassured ourselves that it — and we — were ready to go. We approached everything cautiously, enjoying the building anticipation of getting out for our first sail. Sunday evening arrived far too quickly, as ends of weekends are prone to do, and the demands of Monday’s work called us away. Next weekend nothing would stop us. Our adventures would begin.
Our first adventure was closer than we realized. Saturday arrived and our final preparations occupied us all day. We enjoyed dinner on board at the marina and turned in early. That night, tucked in safe and sound, we slept well, lulled by thoughts of heading out on Lake Temiskaming with the rising sun for a gentle maiden sail.
We did not expect our first sail to bring with it severe heeling. Nor did we expect to be thrown about in our cabin, surrounded by the sound of flapping sails. We had no experience of heavy weather sailing and were in over our heads. Then the haze of sleepy confusion lifted and we realized we were not, after all, under way. It wasn’t even first light, we were still tied to the dock. What the heck?
One small oversight
We thrust our heads up through the hatch and peered through the driving rain. Our situation immediately became clear. The weekend before, we had been so pleased with ourselves for finally figuring out the workings of the jib furler it never occurred to us to secure its line. Ariose was showing her determination to set sail!
How big is a 150 percent genoa? Anyone watching would say it was definitely too big for a couple of novices challenged to an unexpected middle-of-the-night wrestling match. Make that a World Wrestling Federation-worthy match between half-naked participants competing against the backdrop of the flogging sail, whipping sheets, and the wind’s thunderous roar. Add in a slippery heeled deck and lines straining against a heaving dock and all the elements were in place for imminent disaster or an entertaining show. Our greenhorn egos were grateful that others had headed home to sleep in drier, more stable conditions and were not witness to our blundering. Then I remembered the season-opening marina meeting where municipal staff proudly announced upgrades. Yes, security cameras had been installed this year and the whole marina was now in view. This match could soon be on YouTube!
In the end, we underdogs triumphed. We tamed and untangled the sheets, re-rolled the foresail, and secured the lines. Did I mention that we secured the lines? We crawled back into our cozy V-berth and eventually the adrenaline coursing through us subsided enough for us to be rocked back to sleep. We overslept our intended sunrise departure and, when we woke, the lake still looked far too angry for a first sail. It would be another day in the marina.
Déjà vu?
Our third weekend arrived and we were ready! The forecast wind was strong but within our capability. We overnighted at our slip (as was becoming our routine) and planned to get an early start the next morning, determined to spend the full day on the water at last.
You can imagine our alarm when we were rudely awakened that night by our bodies being tossed violently port to starboard and back in the confines of the V-berth. The immediate fright was further fuelled by the soundtrack of crashing and ramming with taut lines screeching their protest. We jumped up, ready to reef the main, or bend on our trysail, or heave-to . . . something! (Yes, after the previous weekend we had checked to see what Google could teach us about storm tactics.)
But wait, this felt like déjà vu. We had yet to leave the dock. Hurricane-force winds are a rare event in northern Ontario, but surely, we thought, this gale must be up there on Mr. Beaufort’s scale. We peeked out the hatch, startled to see a starry moonlit sky, no storm clouds in sight, and only a fresh breeze.
But strangely, the protected waters of the marina were whipped up with whitecaps. All the docks and their partnered boats were engaged in a raucous groaning and clanking rock ’n roll dance. By 0500 the sky brightened enough for us to make sense of the mystery. Haileybury Marina’s floating breakwall had let go and swung into the marina, narrowly missing our stern. Our slip was now exposed to rolling surf driven by the easterly winds.
Not only had our sleep been interrupted, but our maiden sail was once again foiled. The breakwall now acted as a closed gate, trapping us in the marina. It would be days before equipment could be brought in to reset it. The harbormaster thought there might be 5 feet of depth at the breakwall opening and, with our Alberg’s 4 1/2-foot draft, we did consider an escape. But visions of grounding on our first sail — in the marina no less — caused wiser thoughts to prevail. We would not further tempt our fate.
Subsequent to that unfavorable start to the season with Ariose, the tide, so to speak, turned. We spent almost every weekend of the summer sailing gorgeous Lake Temiskaming — 30 days and nights in total — getting our sea legs, figuring out Ariose’s quirks, and beginning to set her up to suit ours.
Those someday dreams are now within reach. We have a winter filled with several necessary — and some nice-to-have — upgrades and general restoration. Future drama awaits, at dockside and beyond.
Shirley Jones, now that her three amazing kids have left the nest, is taking a break from her career in the mental health field to focus on making more of her dreams become reality. She was born and has lived most of her life in northern Ontario, and currently resides with her partner, Tim, near North Bay. When not aboard Ariose, they live off-grid in a cozy straw-bale cabin.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
