by Skipper Mary
In 2006 I set myself up to go solo after writing about being stuck at the dock when Jeff was away. So far, so good.
First published in Mainsheet.
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9/4/07
NESTEGG MARINE—MARINETTE—8:00 P.M.
The two-hour drive from Rhinelander took a little longer with the detour through Klondike. Played Bowie, Moby and Cash. Arrived around 2 p.m. and the dog had a quality dump in the park. Gave the deck a scrub and played Spider Blast. Abandoned the hose spray and began flicking the opportunists off with my fingers. Found lots of them under the grill cover.
Daybreak motored in with Carol saying they came back after she lost it over the rail. Stu was sidelined below after securing the sail. ‘Like a washing machine. Never seen anything like it. Haven’t been sick in years.’
Stopped by the marina office where Rick called up NOAA on the computer. Tomorrow’s forecast: SW winds 10-15 kts/3 ft waves with 20 kts around noon. Expected to strengthen into a Small Craft Warning on Thursday.
Have settled in with Peter S. Beagle’s travelogue, I See By My Outfit, which chronicles his 1960’s trek cross-country on a Heinkel motor scooter. While purring through the American West, Beagle and his buddy Phil skew the lyrics of Johnny Cash’s ballad, “Laredo”:
I see by my outfit what I am a cowboy;
If you had a outfit, you could be a cowboy too.
My outfit is a lifejacket and leather gloves. Thus, I see I am a sailor. That and my red ball cap with Catalina Yachts embroidered in white thread that I've taken to wearing around town.
Tonight's dinner is simple: apples, cheese and almonds washed down with a few cups of tea. Am feeling remarkably confident and relaxed while keeping fingers crossed for fair winds tomorrow.
9/5—10 A.M.
Rick reports the winds SW 15-20 kts. “Should be nice,” he says. “Breezy.”
I perform the boat preparations like I’m a bit outside myself. Remove the sail, grab rail and tiller covers. Disconnect the shore power. Turn the battery on. Run the blower. Fire up the engine and make sure water is spitting from portside. Check the engine gauges. Plug in the GPS chip and turn the unit on. Get the Autohelm ready. Close the forward hatch. Make sure loose items below are stowed. Test the engine with a bit of forward, a bit of reverse.
A couple changes since I’m sailing with only a dog as crew:
• Instead of stowing all dock lines, I leave the stern line and one forward line tied to dock cleats. The spring line is still stowed in the locker but the port forward line is now led to the cockpit for easy retrieval. I don’t want to mess with dock lines while underway.
• The swim ladder is now unlatched and secured with a 5’ length of bright yellow polypropylene rope that dangles to the waterline for an easy grab.
I call the dog but she doesn’t appear. I de-board and find her trying to ignore me in the shadow of Ball Dragger’s dock box. The tell of my set jaw and her lowered head betrays our mutual embarrassment of this rebellion.
When I take a step towards her and say, “Come on Keksi! Come here girl!” she gets up and slinks like a fox toward the parking lot, where I find her trying to glue herself to the gravel by my car. I resort to picking her up and carrying her into the cabin. “Keep acting like that and you’re going to get demoted,” I tell her. Sheesh!
But now, finally, the Cap'n and I are ready for our sail.
It seems so rote I wonder if I’ve forgotten something.
Connie, an Iowan who sails the 36’ Catalina, Encore, helps me cast off and while motoring out of the marina I realize what it was: my lifejacket is still hanging below. I feel naked without it but figure I can make the 20-minute trip downriver without it.
With Revision underway under a bright blue sky I flash the V sign to the dozen or so Marinette Marine workers eating lunch on the deck of their company’s new project. They wave back, with one man raising his coffee cup. Built for the Navy and launched last fall, this littoral combat ship can reach speeds of an impressive 45 kts and is the first in the next generation of maritime Homeland Security. I find the new signs bobbing on the warning buoys depicting black skulls and crossbones and the words “Use of Deadly Force” a bit strange. You didn’t hear this from me.
To port is a visiting ore boat, Reserve. The stern looks like a giant seagull mistook it for a bratwurst as sparks fly from a cutting torch where a man is straddling the rudder, which looks to be as long as Revision. Can’t tell if this Great Lakes workboat is being retrofitted or scrapped.
The workday has killed the mosquito population and their absence magnifies the pleasure—oh this is pure pleasure—of these slowly unfolding moments. I like taking my time on this river.
While passing the retired train ferry, Viking, I hail the bridge on 16. “Yah,” crackles the reply. “We see ya. Give ya a lift when ya get closer.”
With the giant metal arms held high, I watch Revision’s mast cleave the space between them, and after saluting the bridge operator the Cap'n and I round the bend that flows east into the bay. The flags are stiff and the warm wind pushes the boat as we exit the protection of the channel. But the seas are, given the fetch possibilities, surprisingly calm with one- to two-foot waves.
Ahead, a surprise: the Door Peninsula and Chambers Island are shrouded in fog, and Green Island, 6 miles away, is only a suggestion of itself. It’s hard to tell how far out the fog begins, or if it is hanging like a curtain, or in some other shape.
A big dark-hulled boat is leaving the Menominee Marina under the confidence of full sail. Soon she will be a memory and Revision will be the only boat on the water.
Cutting in front of the channel marker (we draft 3'5") I head upwind, where I attach the tiller-pilot, retrieve my life jacket, and stow the fenders. The tiller-pilot holds course but by the time I’m ready to unfurl the jib we’re uncomfortably close to the thinning waters near Seagull Bar so I head back toward the lighthouse for a do-over.
With Revision again pointing about 20 degrees off I unfurl the jib, kill the motor, and disengage the tiller-pilot. My plan is to follow the shore 3 miles north, then turn east at Poplar Point and sail up to the fog, which I’ll skirt before heading back.
At last the day has thrown its arm around us and we are under sail in 15 kts of fresh SSW air. Passing the Menominee Marina, I spot an open fishing boat zipping toward the misty muted otherworld.
We sail past the downtown with the architectural renderings of condos taped to empty storefront windows, and then past the well-worn Lloyd’s Loom wicker furniture plant. Beyond the buildings the land turns into a ragged green line.
With the temperature in the 90’s this weather is more like July than September and even in shorts, a tank top and a minimal Mustang lifejacket, I’m already a bit salty.
Farther out the bay, the fog is holding its own. This is the first time I’ve seen such heavy fog here and it’s a starkly different and more mysterious world than is the world of clean delineation that lay in front of it.
We’re doing 4+ kts with the sail eased way out. On shore, I’ve always liked the look of that and now it looks good from the cockpit, too. There’s hardly any hull movement, almost like we’re skating over these following seas.
As we near Poplar Point, I put us on a beam reach toward the fog, interested to see how fast we will go. Under flattened sail we quickly reach 5 kts and the boat is nicely balanced as I need only a couple fingers on the tiller. I am so relaxed now, just taking in the rush of a good day on the water.
A series of rollers hit us broadside, pitching us with fanfare—I hear toenails scrambling below—but they last for only a minute or two, then we’re back into our comfort zone. I yell encouragement to the dog as we dance over the waves.
Dead ahead a flock of cormorants looks like a long-playing record, with a few gulls dotting the edges. They fly off when Revision busts up their party.
About 100 yards away from the fog I decide to tack. With the tiller-pilot attached, I ready the jib sheets and punch the button for 30 degrees starboard. The boat starts turning, then stalls. I try this a couple more times but can’t seem to get the hang of it so I resort to the surefire method: manual. I stall. Twice.
With the wind indicator registering 20-25 kts, the boat is really being pushed, so I fall off and to pick up speed. When we hit 5 kts I push the tiller over hard, wait till the sail has bitten off a good chunk of backfill, then let the windward sheet go while madly pulling the leeward sheet—I have no idea what the tiller is doing behind me—and wrap it in the self-tailing winch.
Things happen so fast I don’t have time to view the tack objectively, but it seemed to have gone quite smoothly.
The wind is still SSW, so instead of skirting the fog I put us close-hauled toward the channel. Standing up to check on the Cap'n, I find her standing at the foot of the companionway stairs, panting.
“Did you see that tack?” I yell. “Not bad!” She perks up her ears and cocks her head in a puzzled expression. Maybe she’s missing my company as when I've sailed with Jeff I've always gone below to give her a scratch. I’d yell, “Isn’t this fun!” but won’t insult her.
I wonder what time it is. With the dock boys back in school, I’d called the shop before we left and was told the phone answerer’s last opportunity for lunch was 2 p.m. I said I’d be back before then, but I don’t have a watch. It doesn’t seem like we’ve been out for more than a couple hours, but I’m having a hard time getting a fix on it. Heck with it. I’ll dock this boat myself.
Revision is sailing comfortably as I fool with the sail trim. This new jib is so smart, handling air beautifully as compared to our old rag that shredded in June when we were surprised by stiff opposing winds off Chambers Island.
A couple more sailboats have left Menominee and disappeared into the fog. I wonder how much of the bay it’s covering, surprised to find it isn’t burning off but instead now creeping in on the channel markers—at least from this position.
Nearing the channel marker I set the tiller-pilot and pull the jib halyard. Nothing. That’s typical. So I winch it and give it a crank. With a half turn in it stops abruptly. I tug with my hand. Nothing. I tug harder. Nothing. I yank the line with both hands. Nothing.
Having done this before with Jeff at the tiller, I know this can be a nasty line to retrieve. But something doesn’t feel right. Rather, it feels stuck and forcing it will only make things worse.
Or is this just roller furler paranoia creeping in? I got real sensitive about ‘forcing it’ after finally reading CDI’s instruction booklet so I head back out to gather myself and review my options. I could keep sailing to the Door Peninsula, but then what? I could raise the main and heave to, but then what? Sailing up the river into the marina? Unfortunately my skills aren’t there yet. Maneuvering in close quarters waiting for the bridge to open is just the first issue. Not hitting the bridge is the second, and beyond the bridge are numerous grounding areas, the skull and cross bones and deadly force, and what would be a needle of a slip to thread. Take the sail off in this wind? Yikes.
Fifteen minutes later I’m sailing with the tiller-pilot again engaged as that line needs closer inspection. With the boat cruising evenly I’m thankful for the steady winds and the microchip uplinked to a directional satellite.
After scanning for rollers I make my way to the bow and lay on my stomach for a look inside the furler drum. Some of the halyard is coiled tightly and some, loosely. I stick my hand inside and follow the trail, feeling for any problems. Shreds of white fabric, which I take to be rope, float out.
Not good. But running my fingers over it I am greatly relieved to not feel any fouling. I return to the cockpit and turn the boat back toward land.
Again pointing just off the wind, I ease the jib sheets and give the winch a good crank. The halyard moves a bit. I give it another crank and it starts coming, but suffering as it does. When it gets to the point where I can reel it in hand over hand I do so as fast as I can until it’s almost…almost…al….I steal a glance up…almost…al…
There! The wrap isn’t a pleasing thing to look at, but it will hold.
Back on the river, as instructed, I radio the shop. No answer. Passing Reserve, I radio again. Zilch. As we near the marina it’s evident the post Labor Day dock is awfully empty of life. But with the maneuverability of the diesel’s Forward, Neutral and Reverse I now feel as if I could park this boat in my hip pocket, or a mosquito’s space. I visualize doing this under sail and come to the conclusion it would be one doozy of a ride.
Approaching the dock I give a pulse of Forward to push through the current for a neat turn into the slip, where I find Connie, and her husband, Bill, waiting.
How nice it is to cast them a line. And how nice to share a high-five!
3:00 P.M.
With Revision secured the Cap’n and I take a stroll around the park where we pass the public boat launch, the perennial gardens and playground, the bandshell and the relocated homesteader home, and finally, the Historical Museum with the Hair Wreath and Authentic Norwegian Meat Cutter displayed inside.
Back on board I take a breather, drink a quart of water, and decompress. Sitting on the settee, I realize my shirt and shorts are soaked with sweat. I hadn’t noticed the skin coming off my right elbow. I did feel the flesh melting from my pinkies, however, from just below the pad to just above the joint where my sailing gloves end. In fact, I notice the leather covering half those fingers is stained maroon.
The fingers themselves have pretty much stopped bleeding so I wash them—holy crap that stings—in soap and water then wrap them in Band-Aids.
I take a couple aspirin and decide to head home as it is still hot, still humid, the seas are building, and I am wiped out. Tidying up the deck I notice bloody splotches marching up genny furling line.
Cruising to the sounds of Screaming Blue Messiahs, Strummer, and Heifetz, my mind wanders around the day. It wanders around ways of explaining the bandages to my husband who is under the impression I’ve been tackling gel-coat repairs. 