gunking toward home......

Gunk hole:  A small sheltered cove suitable for anchoring small watercraft.  We love them.  By a happy accident we found a perfect gunk hole just off Dividing Creek. We had initially planned to drop hook in a cove recommended by our trusty Chesapeake Bay cruising guide. As we approached, there were three boats already anchored there, and three more motoring into the same area. One of the skippers hollered that they were all rafting up together, and they had issued 130 feet of anchor rode. It is usually no problem to go find another spot, but a huge black summer thunderstorm was bearing down on us, complete with lightning and increasing winds. It was clear that they weren’t going to invite us to raft up (the boats were from New Jersey and Philadelphia) so we boogied out of there and motored around a little point and up into a different branch of the creek. Then it appeared. A round cove, about 9 feet deep, a house on the shoreline, an egret walking in the marsh, trees on two sides – perfect. As soon as the anchor splashed the gusts hit and the rain started. No problem, we were tucked nicely in the protected cove – all by ourselves.
Since we had no genoa we took a fairly direct route home, cutting a few days off our trip. We made unplanned stops, overnighting in a couple of coves that we had never before visited. It turned out to be the most naturally scenic part of our trip.
The rest of the trip:

A cove in the Choptank River to Annapolis
Annapolis to Baltimore
Baltimore to a cove near Solomon’s island
Solomon’s to our newly discovered gunk hole somewhere in Dividing Creek
Dividing Creek to Sarah’s Creek
Home.

Now I need to order a new genoa sail.

northern bay wins

After a great respite in Baltimore's inner harbor, we set out southward.  We quickly noted that everywhere we looked, from 10 miles north of the Bay Bridge to 10 miles south of it, all we saw were sails!   Two days prior, I had counted 76 sailboats sailing in and around the mouth of the Severn River (Annapolis).  Granted, today was Sunday, but I could not count the sails this time.  Just too many.  Because we have no working Genoa, we cannot point close to the wind, so we motored under the Bay bridge.  Offshore from Annapolis we saw the passion for sailing flair up again.  We saw fine Hinckly ketches with all sails up, we saw one-off custom sloops, we saw nicely outfitted production boats, we saw spinnakers flying, kids diving off sailboats, swimming and squealing amid hundreds of boats tacking and gybing back and forth across the Bay.  It was too much.  I had to take us off course, pull out the drifter, and sail off the wind back and forth across the bay with them.  Smiles and waves all over.  I have spent a lot of time on the water in the southern Bay, and except for Southern Bay Race Week, I have never seen so many boats on the water.  Come to think of it, I have never seen so many families enjoying a Sunday sail.  I have to hand it to them - the northern Bay wins.

A note about the 14 year old girl who died this past Thursday while sailing her 420 with the summer camp group in Annapolis:  The irony is that we coach our high school sailing club on the same type of boats, and in the same conditions.  We were probably strolling the streets of Annapolis when the tragedy occurred just off the seawall where we were walking.  We had no idea it happened until seeing the news item two days later.  It should be pointed out that no-one can ever recall another tragedy like this.  It was a small group in sound boats with coaches in their "coach boats" keeping an eye on everyone - and the weather was great.  It was a freak accident, but it haunts me.  I can't quit thinking about it and I keep trying to put myself in their respective positions.  I just cannot imagine.....

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

ego alley

A family of ducks, a Scarab muscle boat, a Catalina 47, water taxis, people standing around the tables at Pusser's, J-22s taking a victory lap after racing, Hawaiian shirts in dinghies, several Boston Whalers, a Beneteau 44, a Tartan 35. These are a few of the passers by just within the last hour. We are in a slip at the city dock in Annapolis, where the old city warf canal runs right up into downtown (semi-affectionately known as ego alley). Our stern is sticking out into the canal, so K and I are literally sitting in the middle of the boating scene in Annapolis watching and being totally entertained. Wow, a classic 1960s style runabout with a restored 30 horse Evinrude, complete with wings on the motor cover, just putted by. We love this town. Most coastal cities seem to be partial in favor of power boaters. Not Annapolis. Annapolis celebrates sailing. The restaurants have photos of regattas in the bathrooms. The shops have bags and purses made of used sail material. The hardware stores carry fiddle blocks and sta-set line. When we motored into the harbor two separate fleets of youth 420s were practicing. Last night was race night for the PRHF handicap fleet, and tonight was race night for the J boats. Today we toured the campus of the U.S. Naval Academy and once again heard the stories of some of the craziest bastards that ever sailed (Farragut and J.P. Jones to name two). Yes, big egos. Every racing sailor that competed tonight has an ego that says "I will win today." Now everyone out here is listening to a great singer on the Pusser's dock and enjoying the gorgeous moonlit night. Every town should have an ego alley like this.

orange gloves

We were listening to the frogs starting to sing at dusk. Senara was content to sit still at anchor in this scenic, deep water creek. From our vantage point on the bow we could see another sailboat easing up the creek from a day of sailing in the Bay. Of course, it is always interesting to watch other sailors go through their routine of picking a spot, dropping anchor, tying off, and going through the other seeminingly hundreds of little jobs to get the boat settled for the night. That's when it happened. The first mate came forward to release the anchor; not sure if it was male or female, because all we could see were a pair of neon orange, elbow length gloves. Of course, gloves are helpful and often necessary. Usually you will see sailing gloves with fingers exposed for manipulation, or just a pair of Home Depot leather work gloves. But these gloves were in a class by themselves. I speculated that they served a dual purpose; if the sailors became lost at sea they could don the gloves and wave their arms madly, or possibly hoist the gloves up the mast. Either way, the Coast Guard or anyone else within sight of the horizon would have no problem locating them. What did they do with the gloves once the job is done? Do they have to put them in a bag and stow them under the sailbags, else the glow will prevent sleep? This interesting anchoring routine made me start considering all of our little routines aboard Senara.

Strange habits emerge from small necessities. For example, you will find a small wad of toilet paper jammed between two sliding cabinet doors in the head. This would certainly set off myriad speculations by any newcomer, some of which may be worthy of their own blog post. But, depending on the particular directional roll of the swells during the night these doors often will make a little clicking noise as they touch together when Senara is gently rolling. The quieter the night, the louder the clicks. Hence a wad of TP. Other anchoring routines include moving the anchor line off the roller (it will make a banging noise as the roller moves across its axle during boat swings), bungy cords on the halyards, releasing the roller furling line, and a few other little seemingly inexplicable dances to make the boat quiet and sound during the night. You have to spend a lot of time on your boat to learn all her idiosynchracies. Kind of like marriage, every skipper has to learn them the hard way. I just hope to one day have an opportunity to meet the skipper who can tell me the story of the orange gloves.

blow us!

Summer sailing often turns into summer motoring. The normal hot weather pattern in eastern Virginny teases you in the morning with a nice 5 – 10 knot breeze. So you hurry breakfast, put things away, get gooped up, pull the anchor, hoist the sails, and suddenly realize all the ripples on the water have laid down. But, you don’t give up – you float around in the sun while the mast flogs the sails back and forth each time a ground swell rocks the boat. Sweat beads on your face and flies swarm around your legs as you peer across the Bay trying to will the wind toward you. Finally, you turn the radio off, turn the motor on, take the sails down and become a hot, slow motor boater for the day. Sometime around 10:00 PM the wind picks up and blows the boat around all night. Repeat process. This is the normal scene most days during July and August. But not us – not this year!

We have been riding the breezes this week!
N 15-20 close reaching from home to Kiptopeke
N15-20 close reaching from Kiptopeke to Fishing Bay
SE 15-20 broad reaching from Fishing Bay to Urbanna
SW 5-10 broad reaching from Urbanna to Mill Creek
NNE 10-15 close reaching from Mill Creek to Tangier Island
NW 5-15 from Tangier to Crisfield
W 10-20 reaching from Crisfield to Hooper Island
S 15-20 broad reaching, and running from Hooper Island to the Choptank

We have had to reef the sails twice, and dig out our jackets! Yes in the summer! Oh great wind gods (and atmospheric thermodynamics), please keep blowing us!

glorious

You should not name your boat "Glorious." The gods don't like hubris. It would be like naming your first born son "Champ." Nothing good can come from it. But there she was, a perfectly restored and maintained Tartan 37, just slightly older than Senara as evidenced by her earlier hull number. Roughly 100 Tartan 37s were built between the time Glorious was built and when Senara first splashed over 30 years ago. I eased next to her, the owner and I talked some "Tartan," and I noticed how perfectly restored she was. She is the only other Tartan I have seen of that vintage with the teak cockpit seat racks still in place. Nice.

I just noticed my last blog entry was 11 months ago! Impossible to catch up all 11 months in this venue, but one event must be recorded: Senara and her humble crew - Neil, HA, and me - won the cruising division of the prestigious Cape Charles Cup regatta in August! The CC Cup is a two day race across the Chesapeake and back. We beat 51 boats in our fleet! I would like to brag a bit more, but I must remember the hubris thing.

We are at it again. As I write this, we are anchored in Mill Creek on the western side of the Bay. We have been sailing for four days and we may continue for another few weeks. Just can't get enough. Tuesday and Wednesday, there was a strong steady 15 to 22 knot breeze out of the North. We packed probably 15 T-shirts and shorts. We were chilly as we pounded into the 3-4 foot whitecaps, and had to dig out the only two jackets on board. It felt sooooo good. Each day has been a little different of course, but we have had a full moon, steady breezes, good food, a nice stop-over in Urbanna, and perfect summer weather. Glorious!