NEVER DO THAT
Published: October, 2003
Quiet had sunk in through the night. Sawdust stilled, power saws turned off, old fashioned wooden sliding doors closed to the public, we arrived one by one for the 9:00a.m. class held at the Mariner Museum Boatshop. A class on rigging and sailing old fashioned downeast wooden sailboats.
Welcome, my name is Brent, I’m just the paper pusher here." A tall gangly guy, heading up toward middle age, looks like an old surfer from California. He is newly hired at the boatshop to introduce youth and adults to sailing. I look around, no young people today. The seven of us, standing, gawking, middle aged, holding our bags of lunch, swimming suits, boat shoes, flip flops, not an advertisement for slick nautical clothing.
"Two boats going out today. Bob will captain his boat, a Sharpie, and Jim will captain the Spritsail. How many have never sailed? Okay, you four go with Jim. You other three go with Bob." Brent turns and heads back towards his office.
I’ve just moved to Beaufort, a seaport town on the coast of North Carolina. I was lucky to find an old apartment building on Front Street that had been converted into four condominiums plus a dock. From my living room I overlook marshes, two uninhabited islands and the Atlantic Ocean squeezing into the narrow Beaufort Inlet. This port is a haven for sailers who made it around Hatteras or who are leaving for Bermuda and the Caribbean.
I want to sail the creeks, estuaries, and snoop around the Outer Banks. I don’t have a boat to do that, yet. So I signed up for classes, mostly to see how these shoal draft boats could do in such shallow protected waters.
Bob is a big guy, red bathing suit, long hair and white beard, deeply tanned, my age, mid-fifties. So much for learning how to rig a sailboat. He carries out the mast on his shoulders, shoves it into a slot on his boat and pushes it up, all singlehanded. He hustles back to the boatshop for his sails, and nimbly negotiates the steps down the dock carrying two slim wooden poles, with sails attached. With different lines, he ties knots, then yells out, "Ready!"
"Okay, let’s do names, in case we run into trouble out there." "Terry," "Tony," " Earl," "I’m Bill." "Okay, I’m Bob, this is my boat, I made it, let’s go. Terry shove us away from the dock. Who wants the tiller?" I quickly raise my hand, "I do!"
Bob’s boat is painted white on the inside, a combination of juniper and pine. A comfortable boat, wide enough for the five of us to sit comfortably. Bob is on the bow, checking for boat traffic. "Okay, Bill, sail for the Duke Marine Lab building over there on Radio Island." We’re off.
The tide is going out, a stiff current this Saturday in mid-July. The wind is out of the Northeast, the sailboat gathers up speed and Bob raises a sail I have never worked with, a topsail. "Good when you are around buildings or trees, sticks up there high to catch the wind." Bob cinches the line. I’m about ready to change directions since we are already bearing down on the Marine Lab’s dock. "Captain, time to come about?" I shout forward. Bob, who has been explaining the planking of the boat to Tony turns around and looks, "Sure enough, let’s do it." "Coming about on the count of three, everyone ready?" Silence. "Are you all ready," I ask again. "Yeh, sure, why not," I mutter to myself that this crew isn’t ready at all and swing the tiller far to the right and the spritsail smartly fights the current, makes the course change and we head back up Taylor’s Creek, in-between the anchored sailboats, tour boats, and the docks of the restaurants.
I’ve been ‘back east’ for six weeks now and am not at all adjusted to the pace of life. On San Francisco Bay, sailing in July would be cold, wind blustery, and casual conversation would be at a minimum, eyes lookin out for ferries, tankers, freighters and the multitude of power and sailboats criss-crossing our path. Today the temperature is rising toward the 90 degree mark. It’s muggy, the water is warm, this sail is like a leisurely hike, stopping when we want. I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m still trying to slow down, enjoy the company, the scenery, the lighter winds, the lack of a destination.
The other sailboat captained by Jim is making erratic progress against the wind. A brand new sailor is at the helm and whenever a gust hits the sail, he turns into the wind, a crew lets the sail out and they wallow for a while. "Let’s sail up toward Shakleford," Bob shouts to Jim. We trim our sails, head out the inlet and then turn to port (left) to tack (sail against the wind) in the narrow expanse of water between Carrot Island and Shackleford Banks. Powerboats are everywhere on this Saturday morning, fishing, pulling skiers, leisurely making their way toward Cape Lookout or beached, crew ‘laying out,’ swimming.
Summer on the San Francisco Bay is an opportune time for hypothermia. The afternoon wind increases to 20 knots, the temperature drops into the low sixties, the spray of the water cools, many people are underdressed. The water temperature here today is 80 degrees. We jump out of the sailboat and drag her ashore for lunch.
Bob brought a can of deviled ham but forgot a can opener. He also forget the cell phone in case of an emergency, his hat, sun tan lotion and sunglasses. I give him one of my peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Earl who announces he is a dermatologist throws Bob some sun tan lotion, plus a little lecture, "Keep yourself well covered." Bob turns and smiles, "My doctor said, just keep my head and shoulders covered and I’ll be okay." His tanned bald head is already turning red.
Jim and Bob have talked, "We’re going to sail around the island and come in Taylor’s Creek with the tide." We trade boats, I’m in charge of the ‘topsail.’ Jim is on the bow, coaching Tony, at the tiller on how to avoid the numerous sand bars. But out here with the tide going out, it’s impossible. For the next hour and a half we hit bottom, pull the centerboard up, jump out and shove. Like being stuck in deep snow or mud. We push and tug until we are in 18 inches of water again, the wind hits the sail and we rush to jump back on. Those with flip flops are at a disadvantage since they sink into the muck quickly. Earl gives up on his sandals and stays in the boat.
It’s about 3:00p.m. We have been tacking back and forth against the tidal current and wind for over an hour. Making no headway. Jim, our new captain is worried. His curly hair, easy smile, talkative nature has turned. Furrowed eyes, he is muttering to himself. We have tried everything. Moving forward to head the boat more into the wind. Hands pulling on the sail to tighten her up. Moving aft, putting our weight onto the lee side for a better angle and still when we come about, we lose ground and sail by the same anchored fishing boat. We have stopped waving and so have they.
We brainstorm options. Mine is to head for the far sandbar and walk the boat for a mile over to Taylor’s Creek. Earl wants to go back the way we came. He doesn’t understand that the tidal current will be fiercer in the inlet than it is out here. Tony wants to keep on sailing. "Let’s try Bill’s idea." As Jim says this, his face doesn’t brighten nor does his frown unfurl. I’m at the tiller. "Okay" I say, "Let’s head for that buoy and run her aground." But we can’t do it, the current sweeps us away. After two tacks, I announce, "This isn’t working captain."
"Okay, god dammit, we’ll flag one of those big powerboats and get a tow." Silence falls on the crew. Tony’s lips are twitching. As if an inner battle is going on, to speak or not. Jim stands up and starts waving his arms, like a coach announcing the need for ‘a time out.’ I stand up and do the same. Tony sits still, looking the other way. Terry keeps quiet, Earl is busy snapping pictures of some nearby egrets.
Four young men, beers in hand, a 115 horsepower Suzuki on the back of their white Jarrett’s Bay fishing boat pull alongside. We throw them a line, they tow us, sails fluttering, straight for the channel markers fronting Taylor’s Creek. Way up ahead of us Bob’s boat is tacking back and forth smartly, apparently beating the current that blocked our forward passage. Tony leans over and whispers to me, "In ten years of sailing, I have never been towed. I would never, never do that. I’d find a solution!" His scraggly beard and his shrouded blue eyes, turn down and away.
Meanwhile Jim is not screening his own thoughts. "What are they going to say when they hear I accepted a tow? I’ll never hear the end of it, especially from Roger." Earl turns to me and asks, "Now tell me again why don’t we just don’t turn around and sail back the way we came?" Terry’s eyes are distant. Like he has already left. I’m thankful for the tow since I have to make some phone calls and do some work before 5:00p.m.
The big power boat negotiates the buoys and releases us to sail down Taylor’s Creek with the current and the wind. But there is little joy on the boat since Jim is still ruminating just how he is going to explain this failure of all failures to boatshop staff and volunteers. "Maybe I’ll say we got tangled up in their anchor line and they dragged us all the way to Taylor’s Creek." I laugh, but I’m the only one laughing.
It is an uneasy tension between powerboaters and sailors. This matter of ‘artificial power." Usually any sailboat longer that 20 feet has a little outboard engine. Where is the cut-off point? 30horsepower? Sailboat engines are called auxiliaries. That is, supplemental to wind power. Sailors want to be challenged by the elements not powered through them. We’re a hang dog mess of crew by the time we hit the docks, literally since Terry took the helm, and is still learning how to sail. Hot, tired, sunburned, hungry, thirsty, it’s almost 5:00p.m.
Roger is there, helping us and the boat from coming to a dead standstill.
"You won’t believe it, Roger, we accepted a tow," Jim blurts out. Not a bad way to put it, I think, kind of passive, semi-emergency like. "What!" Roger seems shocked, dismayed. On this the first day of classes for potential wooden boat sailors, we were humbled. We betrayed the ethos of woodenboaters everywhere.
As I walk into the boathouse, the westerly sun is shrouding the long lengths of pine and juniper with a warmth reminding me of an old log cabin I used to own, late afternoon bread baking, a deep sense of well being. As I ride my bike back down Front Street, I remember tacking back and forth, between Shakleford Banks and Carrot Island, wind crispy, waves gently splashing the hull, my right hand over the gunwales letting the warm salty brew deepen this budding trust that I will find a home, here on the ‘other coast,’ a home with protected waters, and a sturdy sailboat, and in time, with a steady southwestern wind, I’ll start my small diesel engine and steadily move out to meet the Atlantic
