An Introduction: Two Sailing Episodes

The Beginning

One spring day a friend from work named Tom invited me to go sailing. It was a sunny, warm Saturday when I drove from Keene in southwestern New Hampshire to a marina on Great Bay and the Piscataqua River in the eastern part of the state. I was in high spirits. I had never been sailing before and knew absolutely nothing about boats. But I was ready for an adventure.

I found Tom polishing what seemed to me to be a large sailboat. It was named Trull II, and he told me it was a 25-foot Cape Dory which I later discovered was a kind of a boat, much like a Ford is a kind of a car. I lent a hand with the cleaning until it was time for us to go out into the river. At that point I learned that we were going to take the boat down the Piscataqua River to Portsmouth Harbor and then into a small inlet named Pepperrell Cove where Tom had a permanent place for the boat. I cheerfully readied myself for the trip, grabbing my light jacket and a few other things from my car.

Tom started an outboard engine that sat in a well at the back of the boat and cast off the ropes that bound Trull II to the docks. He steered by moving a tiller which looked like a stick located in the center of the cockpit. We went into the river where there was a strong current that made the water churn and froth. (I later learned that the Piscataqua River is the third fastest navigable river in the world.) We struck out toward green and red cans that stood in the middle of a curve in the river in front of a large bridge. Tom explained that we had to go between the two cans because that was where the channel lay. The green can should be on our right side, the starboard side, and the red one should be on our left side, the port side. I silently tried to absorb as much information as I could and not to seem the novice I was.

Trull II chugged along valiantly through the turbulent waters. We passed between the cans toward the tall Memorial Bridge which soared above us when we went under it. I was having a wonderful time. The breeze was fresh, the water was a grey-blue, and the wooded shores revealed secluded homes every once in a while. Tom and I chatted about his boat and his personal sailing history. I learned that he had first sailed in New Orleans when he was in graduate school. He fell in love with the sport immediately and since then he had experimented with increasingly large boats until he purchased Trull II.

All of a sudden the engine sputtered and stopped. Tom turned to it quickly and tried to restart it, but he failed. The boat began to slide with the current toward the side of the river. I was so ignorant that I did not realize we were in a dangerous situation. Also Tom disguised his concern quite well, so I just sat there saying nothing, not wanting to distract him from dealing with the engine.

Then the boat crashed against something hard, and I was thrown on the floor of the cockpit. I quickly clambered to my feet and regained my seat as Tom cursed and said we were on the rocks. It certainly sounded like we were bumping against something. I peered over the side of the boat but could see nothing. I asked in a concerned way if they would damage the boat. Tom did not answer as he grabbed his radio and called, "May-day."

At this I became somewhat alarmed because may-day calls in the movies usually signaled something like the Titanic going down. I began to look around for a life preserver because I could not swim. Tom silently went down into the small cramped cabin and checked beneath the floor boards. He announced that we weren't taking on water and seemed to be relieved, so I relaxed somewhat.

Off in the distance I saw what I thought was a cute, little, red tugboat coming toward us. Its powerful engine moved it along rapidly and before too long its captain pulled it along side of us. Tom and he exchanged information and then secured Trull II to the tug's side after sandwiching rubber fenders between the two boats. However, the current was too strong, and it pushed the tugboat onto the rocks. Soon our two linked boats were bouncing up and down on the rocks with their captains cursing in unison.

The tugboat captain, who had his long blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, got on the radio and sent out another may-day. While we waited, Tom broke out a bottle of wine, filled plastic cups, and passed them around. The tug captain asked why I was so quiet and if I were afraid. In all truthfulness I answered that I was not. I was just trying to stay out of the way.

A powerboat appeared. The tug and powerboat captains conferred. Then a complicated maneuver took place. I found it hard to follow, but it resulted in springing both the tug and the sailboat free. The tugboat proceeded to lead us back to the marina where Tom tied the boat back on the dock. I finished my wine while Tom made arrangements to have the boat pulled out of the water and examined for damage. The boat was made of fiberglass, and the men figured that the rocks had taken gouges of glass out of the bottom of the boat. They did not believe the rocks had pierced the boat because Trull II still was not taking on water, which was a good sign. The manager of the marina studied the problem for a while, and then said he could get the boat back in the water within a few weeks.

Tom's face fell, and I could tell he was disappointed. He obviously really loved his boat and being on the water, and he saw this as a major setback. I was disappointed, too, because, although somewhat harrowing, my brief few hours on board the sailboat had been wonderful. I cannot say I absolutely fell in love with boating, as Tom had back when he was in his twenties. But I can say I was intrigued, perhaps as much by the beautiful river and the forests along its banks as by boating. Certainly being on the river gave me a fresh perspective of the attractions of the New Hampshire-Maine area.

However, as I thought back over the afternoon, what struck me most was the tugboat captain and Tom's expertise. They communicated with an entirely new and foreign vocabulary, and they used technology and a skill set I knew nothing about. I was not intimidated by the newness; rather, it fascinated me. I wondered if it would be possible for someone like me to learn to sail. Could I do this?

For what was left of the afternoon, Tom and I sat on board and talked about his involvement in sailing and where it had taken him. I was surprised to learn that he had sailed across the Atlantic several times in boats that were not that much larger than Trull II. I said that seemed extraordinary to me. He asked me why, and I tried to put my thoughts into words. Being out in the huge ocean on a relatively tiny vessel required more faith in boats and in my abilities than I had. But Tom explained that, as in most operations, the secret to success in sailing lay in back-up systems. It was imperative that for every important system on board – the sails, steering, engine -- there be a replacement. We talked more about this until the conversation easily turned to where to eat dinner.

Over the next 25 years, I revisited, time and time again, my statement about the extraordinary nature of sailing until in the end I came to understand that Tom's answer was not a complete one; rather it addressed only the technical aspect of sailing. Certainly if the engine breaks down, you need to have parts to fix it. But there is something more important than that. One needs confidence in one's self. Being able to manage fears and anxieties in the face of stormy seas and rocky shorelines is critical. Yes, it involves being able to solve problems, but even more important, it requires being able to do this by yourself. There are times when no one else is around; there is no one to ask, or to turn to for reassurance. There is fear, and there is uncertainty, but one has to keep going. This ability to persevere in spite of anxiety is vital. (That, and I guess, turning pain into fun....)

That night we drove into the town of Portsmouth. We walked around window shopping and enjoying being outdoors in the warm spring air. Finally we decided on a restaurant and sat outside overlooking the port. Tom pointed out the huge tugboats that guided monster tankers from all over the world through Portsmouth Harbor, up the river and into the port of Portsmouth. Our marina tugboat from the afternoon looked tiny compared to those Leviathans.

I didn't know then how much that day foreshadowed what was to come. The lovely river, the exciting crisis, the relaxing moments afterwards, and the exploration of foreign ports have made up a dearly-loved routine over the past twenty-five years. Tom and I married, and we have experienced this scenario so often that I truly cannot count all of our adventures. It is all part of how we have come to define The Sailing Lifestyle.

More Recently

Let's fast-forward to what happened during a recent sailing season. It was a hot summer morning when we took off on Makai, a thirty-seven foot Endeavour, for Stage Harbor, a wonderfully secluded cove on the north side of Cape Porpoise in southwest Maine. In the afternoon, if hot enough, we might jump off the back of the boat, and in the evening we usually sit out and watch blue herons fishing at the edge of the water. Sometimes we are alone there, but, at the most, one or two other boats join us. We thought we would spend a couple of nights anchored in this idyllic spot.

We headed out at about 9 am. The sky was overcast, and the winds were warm and gusty. A front was coming through, and the winds were out of the southwest on our stern (the back of the boat). Five-foot swells built up and pushed us along. It was easy to set our course for Stage Island Harbor once we were outside Portsmouth Harbor. Since the wind was behind us, we planned to allow the genoa (the large headsail attached to the front of the boat) to loosely billow out and pull us along. We would then set the mainsail at an angle on the other side of the boat. The idea was to let the wind fill both sails so that we would surf on top of the waves as they pushed us along. This is called sailing "wing and wing."

We tried this but the ride was too rough, and I was soon seasick. So we moved closer to the coast, jibing (turning the stern of the boat through the wind) and alternating between about 90 degrees east and due north. I am always uneasy when we jibe. The power of the wind as it throws the heavy mainsail from one side of the boat to the other makes a thud that I feel viscerally.

We were now traveling at a tremendous speed, clocking between six and eight knots an hour, which is of course nothing for a powerboat, but quite fast for a sailboat where you actually feel the speed more keenly. The seas hissed as we cut through them. I have read sailing books such as Moby Dick where Melville writes about the "oily seas." I now know what he meant. The waves were shiny black and viscous like petroleum, and they undulated as they moved under us. I sensed they were alive. It was not altogether pleasant.

The warm winds turned rainy and cool, and we put on rain gear. Tom and I took turns at the wheel, one half hour on and one half hour cuddled up in the shelter of the dodger (a canvas drape that shields the cockpit from the wind and rains). Up the coast we jibed, coming in close to look at Nubble Light off of Cape Nedick, then moving out away from land as we passed by Bald Head Cliff and the long, white strip of Ogunquit's dunes and beaches.

At about 1 pm while I was at the wheel, Tom warmed up some chicken soup, and I gratefully drank it from a mug as I watched our course. Once past Wells and Kennebunk Beaches we jibed again. By three o'clock, we were searching the coast for the opening into Stage Island Harbor. I remained at the wheel, having developed over the years an aptitude for steering Makai safely through lobster-pot fields. And, if you ever needed to avoid lobster pots in those days, it was in Stage Harbor. Cape Porpoise boasted of a thriving lobster industry, and the lobster men packed the entrance of the harbor with their pots topped with colorful markers. Festive but dangerous, lobster-pot ropes wrap themselves around the propeller (metal device that propels the boat through the water), shutting down the engine and holding the boat hostage. Sailors struggle to find a way to cut the rope off the prop which is underwater. To say this is not easy, especially in rough waters, is quite an understatement.

Before entering the harbor, Tom and I pulled in the genoa, took down the mainsail, and turned on the engine. Stage Harbor's narrow entrance is treacherous. The lobster pots along with fingers of rock jutting into the channel challenge sailors. We cautiously entered under power, noticing there was a sailboat nearby that looked like no one was on board. I carefully steered the boat toward the east side where we usually anchor off of a lovely beach sprinkled with boulders. Tom dropped the anchor and watched the boat carefully as it fell back. The wind had come up, and I could tell he was uneasy about the way Makai was moving. It is a heavy boat, and if the wind caught us, it could drag the anchor, and we would end up somewhere we did not want to be, perhaps even on the rocky island.

I sat in the cockpit watching, and soon it was clear that the anchor was dragging. Makai was sliding across the harbor, caught by the wind, directly toward the other anchored boat. Tom quickly tried to get the anchor up but we were getting too close to the other boat. I turned the engine on again, while Tom ran to the back of the boat and held the other boat off, trying to protect both vessels from a damaging collision. I put the engine in gear and went forward. Tom moved rapidly to the front of the boat and continued to try to pull up the anchor. As he did so, I noticed that Makai's stern was coming perilously close to a lobster pot. As I struggled with avoiding the pot and steering the boat so that we could raise the anchor and reset it, we nearly fell onto the rocks. Somehow the dragging anchor had gotten wedged in a spot quite close to huge, seaweed-covered boulders that jutted out of the water.

We were in a tight spot, and none of my choices looked good to me. I called to Tom for guidance, but he could not hear me above the wind as he struggled, unaware of our predicament, on the bow of the boat with the anchor ropes. What was I to do? Drive over the lobster pot, entangling the boat and freezing the engine which would leave us without power? If we lost power, then we were totally at the mercy of the currents in the harbor. Or should I let the boat drift on the rocks hoping that they would not do that much damage? In the end I opted for the known evil. I had been on the rocks only once with Trull II, and the boat could have been severely damaged. But we had survived picking up many lobster pots and had managed to cope. So I opened the throttle and drove at full speed over the lobster pot and away from the rocks. I hoped that any speed we gathered before the lobster-pot ropes snared us would push the boat even further away from the rocks.

The tell-tale sound of the stalled engine let me know that we had picked up the pot, as I had predicted. I turned off the motor as Tom raised his head quizzically. He asked what happened, and I answered succinctly that we had picked up a pot. My tone might have been clipped. I went forward to help him with the anchor which we dropped again. We were not in our favorite spot in the harbor, but at this point we did not care. We just wanted the boat safely anchored away from rocks, the other sailboat, and more pots.

Back in the cockpit we had started to sit down to figure out what to do when Tom leapt up again. The anchor was dragging once more. This was unbelievably bad luck. And now, of course, we had no engine to help us control the boat. We were at the mercy of the wind as we started to slide across the harbor. Tom, who thinks very fast, yelled at me to help him get the dinghy engine in place. He would take a second anchor he had stored in a locker, called a Fortress anchor, into the dinghy and drop it away from the boat to stop it from sliding. Moving as fast as I could, I detached the dinghy engine from its stand and handed it down to him from Makai's stern. He attached it to dinghy. Then he drove to the bow of Makai, where I raced, handing him the Fortress anchor and untangling the rope that held it to the boat. He quickly drove the dingy in the opposite direction from the neighboring boat and well away from the rocky coast where he dropped the anchor. I fed out a lot of rope. Then I wrapped it around an engine-driven winch (motor) on the bow of the boat that we use for pulling up the anchor. As the winch spun, I slowly pulled on the rope, moving Makai, inch by inch, away from the dangers. Tom inspected the situation from the dinghy, and then returned to climb up the ladder to the cockpit.