Capsize¶
This was the moment when we moved from father and son to close friends: May 7, 2000. The day was breezy, we had nothing else to do. The ice was off the lake. “Let’s go sailing.”
My son said, yes, as most 15-year-old’s do. They’re still at the tail-end of being a kid, and tagging along after dad is still fun.
We got the boat about 3 miles, maybe less, when the trailer started making a bad noise. I pulled over immediately. Several of the studs holding the tires onto the wheels had worked their way loose. I remembered why, too, I had only just reassembled the bearings with Bearing Buddies and was planning on taking them apart again to check on their health before sailing. But here I was sailing instead of checking my hubs.
My son, as always, was cheerful and helpful. He patiently walked back down the road a few hundred yards to see if any studs were laying someplace conspicuous. He stood around patiently while I walked around the trailer contemplating my options. This was not the first time spent solving problems this day, but it was perhaps the easiest of the problems we would have to overcome together.
I still had 6 studs left. We all know that these things are over-engineered. Three studs per wheel would at least get us back home. So we rearranged the six remaining studs, and this time I cranked them down for all I was worth. And then I remembered that the RV dealership is between where we were and the lake. No need to abandon the sail and go home, we can still do this.
Stop in at the RV dealer, buy 5 new studs. Replace the missing four and we’re off!
We were the only boat at the marina. We stood up the mast and heard a sound we’d never heard before. Wind whistling in the rigging. Interesting. We both duly noted the sound of wind whistling in rigging. I had seen the Beaufort scale, and I knew that wind whistling in wires meant something.
We launched and away we went. We sailed around, tacking and gybing close in to the marina. We were both being careful to keep her as flat as possible. This is after all, a 30 year old set of sails on the Buccaneer. They are baggy enough to pass for parachutes.
We sheeted the jib in too soon in a tack while we had almost no forward speed. We don’t have a tiller extension, so hiking to weather and trying to pinch up doesn’t work too well - you try dropping the tiller and hoping she’ll round up in the normal course of events. Of course, when you’ve released the main, she’ll never round up and over she goes.
The water was maybe 50 degrees. We always wear PFD’s. When we caught our breath, I asked if he was okay. He was on the other side of the hull, and squeaked out an “OK”. I climbed up the centerboard, he gathered the flotsam, and up she came. He threw the stuff in, highly motivated by the cold, he leaped into the boat and took control.
As soon as she was up, she was sailing. It took a while for him to get control. He was a little rattled by the upset, and wanted to know what to do. I was a little rattled at being dragged behind the boat in cold water. I looked at the shore and contemplated the fact that I did have a PFD. But the water was mighty cold and 200 yards is a long way.
A solution didn’t come to me right away. Eventually he tried to tack toward the dock and got her stuck in irons. Slowly this stole into my cold-addled brain as the right thing to do. Now to get out of the lake.
But it wasn’t happening that day. I couldn’t hoist myself up far enough to get a good grip on anything on the topsides. I had added cleats, but couldn’t get enough purchase to pull myself up. I could almost reach the wooden trim on the small aft locker, but the top is dogged down with very light line, and I was not confident it would support my weight.
I spent some more time in contemplation. Unlike the trailer problem, I didn’t have all day to think this one through. I was having trouble holding onto the dock line that I tie through the transom eye for launching and retrieving.
“Can you haul me up?” I asked. “I can try,” he said. “Okay, get situated down on the floor in the cockpit; feet against the port side, back against the starboard side. Reach up and grab my wrists as I come up.”
I ducked down, kicked hard hard and pulled my self up as far as I could, reaching over and hooking my right armpit over the edge, with just my right arm in the cockpit. “Grab and pull,” I said.
His grip was like a cam-cleat. I could wriggle around without slipping back into the lake. I gave another kick, and grabbed with my left arm. Once I had two armpits inboard, I could wriggle my gut up and into the cockpit.
“Thanks.” “No problem.”
We organized our flotsam and bailed. The sails snapped and flogged as we sat in irons catching our breath. The roller furling was a complete mess and he had to slide out on the foredeck and do his best to untangle it so we could furl the jib. We crept back to the marina, chastened, but happy and successful.
Lessons Learned: ease the jib to build speed on the new tack; trust your kids - they’re capable of responsibility that matches their maturity; trust your kids - they mature when they’re given responsibilities; get new sails.
© 2002, Steven F. Lott.
This first appeared in the Buccaneer Class Association Newsletter, February, 2003.
Comments? mail S_Lott@yahoo.com
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| date: | 2/28/02 |
