it's never the same

The last time we sailed into Baltimore, people were taking our picture. We had the perfect broad reach, we were flying our big yellow and white herring-bone pattern drifter, and we had perfect control of the boat. We eased into the inner harbor, doused the drifter, dropped the main, and neatly backed into a slip. Right in front of tourists, God and everybody else.

This time was a little different. We had a perfect morning, sailing out of Annapolis in a 14 knot steady breeze, all the way under the Bay Bridge. Then it died worse than Elvis. So we motored toward Baltimore, into the Patapsco, and almost to the Key bridge where the wind piped up to about 15. I happily killed the diesel and unfurled the big Genoa as we boiled along. Then the 25 knot gusts started hitting. At each gust, I headed up and let the sails flog, jerk, and complain until the pressure eased up, then I would fall off again and start cranking along. Then the gusts built stronger. We have been in this situation a number of times, but……..

Question: Who knows when the atoms in a dense layering of Dacron and Mylar decide to give up on their relationship and part ways? I certainly would like to know (or known). But, alas, with no warning a few of the atoms decided to quit holding hands. Then others quickly followed their lead. Before I could open my mouth, the entire Genoa let out a huge roar and ripped right down the luff, a few inches from the forestay. Now, just to add perspective, imagine a triangle. This sail is (was) a triangle with a height of 45 feet, and a base of 21 feet. It was a huge sail. The pressure it created was the pressure that moved a 17,000 pound boat quickly through the water. So after the sickening sound, approximately 400 square feet of layered Mylar with heavy stainless steel grommets was ripped, out of control, and bull-whipping in a 30 knot continuous gust. The head of the sail was badly fouled – after ripping and whipping, the pressure had pulled the bolt rope out of the roller furling groove, so everything was pinched and un-movable. I tried crawling forward and pulling down on the sail – no way. I tried grabbing the sail. The only possible outcomes of this idea was to either let go, get killed by a 1 lb. piece of stainless grommet, or to become like the tail of a kite, and fly out high above the water trying to hang on to the end of a bull whip. So I let go. Now, what do we do? K is trying to maintain control of the helm, the boat is bucking and pitching under the duress of thousands of pounds of haywire leverage on the mast, I am trying to grab pieces of sail to pull them down. My hand starts cramping as the buttresses of the bridge start edging closer.

Most of the sail is flailing back and outward along the starboard side – it lengthens as it shreds further. The longest shred gains enough mass to fall into the water and is being dragged along, creating more pressure and the added possibility of getting wrapped around the propeller. K is thinking and coming up with various ideas. We have to shout at the top of our lungs to be heard – the noise of a whipping sail in a 30 knot wind almost impossible to surmount. Finally I realize that I have to get the sail forward of the mast in order to be able to do anything, so I again crawled up to the bow and attached a snatch block to the forestay, then ran the lazy sheet up to the bow, around the block, and back to the port side mast winch. As K eased the loaded sheet, I cranked in the port side sheet . The block pulled the whole sail forward so that it was at least near the boat and flying within reach. I was able to get a handful and lash a line around it, then secure the other end of the line to the deck. Less flogging and vibration. Now I was able to use my knife to slash hunks of sail off. I would never have dreamt that I would go all “Chucky” on my own 155 degree laminated genoa. But Chucky I was. After motoring hard to miss the bridge truss, the stress on the remainder of the sail was great enough to snap the halyard cable. Down came more remnants. This finally released the pressure and gave us control of the boat. By the end of a very long hour, the sail was in pieces and lashed to the deck. We limped into Baltimore harbor looking like we had taken direct fire from Fort McHenry. In statistics it is said that everything eventually returns to the mean. I guess it could be said that our two entrances into Baltimore have, on average, been uneventful in the same way that if your head is in the freezer and your feet are in the fire, on average you are comfortable.

Notice the hanging shred and the balled up section

Shards remain hanging on the forestay