Counting blessings at the season’s close
Issue 69 : Nov/Dec 2009
Yesterday’s Thanksgiving dinner is still sticking with me as I contemplate breakfast. My morning ritual of checking the marine weather is more focused than usual today. A small-craft advisory has been posted. A dry cold front will pass at midday with southwest winds gusting to 25 knots, changing to northwest 15 to 20 knots tonight. By the looks of the gray sky and the frost on the car windshield, it’s going to be a chilly one. It’s never a good day to end the sailing season, but it’s time to move Karlito’s Way, my 1982 Pacific Seacraft Orion 27, to her winter home.
I sail out of Great Egg Bay Inlet. It lies between Absecon Island (the home of Atlantic City) and Ocean City, New Jersey. Although it can be a tricky patch of water, I can leave my well-protected slip and be in the open ocean in less than a half hour. That, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
My boatyard is on a back creek up Great Egg Bay River about 10 or so miles. I’ve made the trip more times than I can remember. What makes this particular trip a little more interesting is that I plan on spending the night on the hook to wait for the early high tide to fill the creek.
To go or not to go
Should I stay or should I go? I could get up really early tomorrow and run up with the tide and be done with it. But that’s just it: I don’t want to be done with it. I want one last fling, one last mini-adventure.
I can see plenty of reasons to cop out. It’s going to be cold. I’ll be fighting the tide and river flow. The wind will be veering with the approaching front and, because the river runs north and south, there’ll be no sailing. And lastly, a stiff breeze at anchor can make for a fitful sleep. How negative can you get?
While still wearing my flannels, with a hot tea in hand, I steer my thinking to a new heading. I have a safe and capable boat. I have everything I need to stay comfortably warm at 30 degrees. So I’ll see my breath while snug in my mummy sleeping bag; it’s a good indication that I’m alive. Yes, I’ll be pressing against the tide; what’s the rush? I’ll add an hour of travel time to arrive before dark. I love to sail, but it’s good to know I have a well-maintained engine to push me there. Anchoring in less than ideal conditions will challenge my seamanship. It will build my confidence for the future. It’s a go.
More than just a boat
They say boats have souls. If so, I found my soulmate while killing time on a dock in Charleston, South Carolina. Neglected and tattered, with lines that were hard and green, she looked to me like a pup at a kennel saying, “Take me home.” Six weeks later, she was sitting at my boatyard. Three years later, and after more than 400 hours of TLC, she’s a proper little ship.
I’m clad in long johns and have provisions for three meals and a new jug of stove fuel for my trusty Origo. I drop the docklines. I make my way out of the lagoon (which just two months ago was busy with weekend homeowners) then past the large dockominium (now mostly vacant) and out through the protective seawall. A few diehard fishermen are having a go at it. They toss about in the swell of the inlet hoping to bring home a striper or two. The wind is lighter than predicted, at least for now. To the north, a razor-sharp line contrasts gray stratus clouds and blue sky. The wind will come later.
I have to cross the bay and open two bridges before I get to the mouth of the river. My Wheel Pilot does all the work as I huddle behind the dodger. It’s not so cold, but I want to ward off the cumulative effect of wind chill. As I make my way inland, the first bridge opens. I halt busy Black Friday shoppers at Somers Point, once a hot spot for vacationers because of its nightclubs and beer joints. I pass under the Garden State Parkway and lift a little bridge at Beesley’s Point. Once out of the shadow of the monstrous cooling tower of the coal-burning power plant, I enter a different world.
Mud, marshes, musings
The river winds its way to Mays Landing, a quaint town with a deep nautical history. At its widest, the river appears to be only a few hundred yards across, but the expansive marshlands flanking each side seem to go on forever before reaching the tree line. At low tide, the top of the brown marsh grass is at eye level. The dark chocolate-colored mud banks are exposed, and there’s the familiar smell of low water. At the turns, it’s not uncommon to find water a boat-length deep a boat-length from shore. This part of the river feels primordial.
I have a confession to make. Last winter, I had an affair with another boat. After a two-year refit of Karlito’s Way, I got to thinking that a bigger boat would get me closer to sailing nirvana. A newly refitted 1985 Crealock 34 popped up on my radar. Oooh baby, my heart went pitter-patter when I saw her recently Awlgripped topsides. After two trips to Massachusetts, a survey, and the usual buyer-seller dance, I had myself a bigger hole in the water. The details are not important, but it never happened. All I can say is I’ll be a lot more cautious about online boat financing. Hindsight being 20/20, the universe was looking out for me.
The afternoon sun is dipping; it’s getting colder. The cloud line hovers to the north, and the wind has yet to kick in . . . so much for the forecast. I’m on schedule to drop anchor before dark; the weather is taking its time.
After the bigger-boat debacle, I kept Karlito’s Way on the market. “Why not?” I thought, “this is a minor setback.” It also motivated me to tackle two final projects. A new cabin sole was in order, which I left to a highly skilled marine carpenter, and some blister repair. The latter was something I could handle, and handle it I did. After I had the bottom powder-blasted, the project expanded exponentially. It took three months of grinding, filling, and fairing. I’ve read horror stories about DIY bottom jobs gone badly. I won’t want to do it again anytime soon, but I saved a bucket of money that more than paid for the shiny new teak-and-holly sole.
The wind has completely died and I have the sensation of gliding on a mirror. The riverbanks become an odd double-sided illusion. Just ahead, a duck is taking off, its wings beating the water 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. The refection is pure and uncanny. Looking aft, my wake spreads out to each side of the river and rebounds. The sky kicks off reddish hues on the curvy lines that look like a psychedelic poster from my youth.
Faith restored
My broker said he had a buyer and the offer was just below asking. I was very happy to know that all my hard work had paid off. You can put thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours into a boat but you’re lucky if you break even when it’s time to sell. I was doing much better than that, but something didn’t seem right. I had a beautiful little yacht, and although she was somewhat cramped below and not very weatherly, she had a lot going for her. And here I was about to let someone else sail off in her, leaving me on shore without a boat. I called my broker, “Don’t hate me, but it’s no deal.”
I find a spot just north of the boatyard at a bend in the river that will provide protection if the wind blows. For the last three hours, I have been alone on the water and, as the anchor splashes down, I am content to keep it that way. I go below, put on some water for tea, and revel in the moment. I slide open the hatch to get my bearings before darkness falls. The clouds are just now breaking apart and the leading edge of blue sky is overhead. The setting sun is still masked by distant clouds, but in the placid water I see the reflection of Venus peering through a patch of blue. To the northwest, the sky is on fire with colors that only nature can deliver. I take a sip of tea. All is well.
I have not crossed an ocean, but I have come a long way from the indecision of the morning and my musings about the winter that lies ahead. It has turned out to be a perfect day on the perfect boat. At night I sleep like a baby. The wind never shows up after all.
Karl Westman is an executive music producer for a large advertising agency in New York City. He is an aspiring solo sailor. He recently received his six pack or Operator of Uninspected Passenger Vessels (OUPV) license and completed a solo adventure to Block Island from his home port of Ocean City, New Jersey.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
