Sail Twist

31 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in Junk Rig, Sailing/Boat Handling

Considering the amount of time that I’ve spent sailing, you would think that I might have developed a better grasp of the subject of sail twist before now. But that’s the fun of sailing – there’s enough to it that there is always more to learn and understand. The new junk rig, with its abundance of sail control lines, makes for a great opportunity to go more deeply into the details of sail shape and orientation to the wind.

As a result of this new opportunity, I’ve been studying more on the subject of sail twist. This refers to when the angle of the boom relative to the centerline of the boat, and the angles of each batten and of the yard relative to the centerline of the boat, are all different, making the sail into a complex curve. It’s quite pretty when it does this, and in some situations it’s ideal for driving the boat. In other situations – especially sailing upwind – it could be preferable to have less twist. Controlling this aboard AUKLET involves that long zigzag line that goes between the sheetlets (the thin lines tied to the battens) and the wooden friction block called a euphroe. That long zigzag line is called a “sheet span,” and it eventually comes back to the cockpit where it can be pulled in tighter or let out, separately from the sheet itself.

~ note sheet span tail, hanging down mostly slack

During the recent sea trials, there was a lot to learn about fastening points for all those many control lines, including for the sheet spans, of which there are two for each sail. Hardly anybody with a Western junk rig uses this traditional Chinese arrangement, of euphroes and sheet spans, and in addition to that, double sheets; it’s too early to tell whether I’m going to think it was a good idea to set things up this way. It could of course always be changed, but I’m having a good time working with it for the moment.

So far, it’s clear that for this arrangement you need a lot of cleats! Or belaying pins, or something. The mizzen sail, with the belaying pin collar around the mast and existing cleats on the partners, had almost everything it needed in the fastening-points department – except for a proper place for the sheet spans. Controlling the mainsail during the recent sea trials, on the other hand, involved a jumble of stacking as many as four lines on existing cleats that were too small for so much traffic, while I was in the process of working out where to put new bits of hardware. As a result, for most of the time on this fall trip, carefully defined sail shape was mainly a distant goal.

Still, it was fascinating. Because it was what the sails did easily, I pretty much sailed with a lot of twist in both sails, though I eventually got a better grip on the mizzen. A big contributor to all that twist is that if you ignore the tail end of the sheet span – neglecting to stack it, fastened for the moment on top of the sheet itself that goes with that side of the sail – the sheet span gradually works its way out through the euphroe, and the upper part of the sail gradually twists to a greater and greater angle from the boom and lower battens. Once all that line has worked through the euphroe, easing the sail into a nice-looking twisted fan shape, pulling the whole business back in involves shortening up on the sheet span, and then working the middle part of that sheet span through the euphroe until each batten is held in a sensible location relative to its neighbors. (There is another version of how to manage this line, involving tying the tail of the sheet span to the euphroe, but I tried and abandoned that arrangement, for various reasons.)

Before that second phase of adjusting the sheet span lengths in and out of the euphroe, what you get when you haul in on the end of the sheet span is the top of the sail pulled close, the middle of the sail farther out, and the boom close. This is not a recommended sail shape in anybody’s book. The way the line runs through the euphroe is a little complicated – it makes sense, and creates an orderly arrangement for avoiding crisscrossing among all the zigzags, but it’s not the least bit intuitive when it comes to achieving tension where you want it. I’m assuming that I’ll get better at this, with practice – in the meantime, during the learning process I decided that significant sail twist was the order of the day. It did, however, give me lots to ponder.

In sailing western rigs – the familiar triangular sails called Bermudian, and also traditional gaff rigs, with four sides to each sail (like on the famous old fishing schooners) – I had gotten as far as understanding, from various studies, that more twist would “de-power” the sail, and less twist would create greater power. You can control twist in a typical Western rig with an extra line pulling down on the boom, called a “boom vang,” and also by adjusting where the sheet comes down to the deck. That’s if you care very much, and want to go through all that. Racers care, and if I had put more effort into it, I might already be a more efficient cruiser, but somehow it never really grabbed my attention, so sail twist in my various wanderings has been pretty haphazard. (My apologies, to the knowledgeable and skilled sailing friends who are cringing at hearing that.)

What I didn’t understand is the way that sail twist can make a real difference in progress to windward. Fortunately for my sailing education, the junk rig, and in particular this junk rig, brings this issue front and center. I started asking questions, which have led to the most coherent, and simple, explanation that I’ve heard – it finally makes sense! With many thanks to Dave Zeiger…

As I now understand it (any and all errors are mine alone), when a sail is twisted, the angle of the sail to the wind is different along each horizontal line of the twisted sail. Sailing upwind, it’s quite important to have the sail at just the correct angle to the wind – too broad, and you’re not going upwind as much as you could, too close to the angle of the wind, and the boat barely moves. There’s a sweet spot in this, that new sailors learn to gauge by looking at the sail, and feeling the movement of the boat and pressure on the steering. When it’s working well, the boat moves at a good clip, making steady progress at a relatively close angle to the direction that the wind is coming from.

When a sail is twisted top to bottom by quite a few degrees, only one part of the sail is correctly oriented to that perfect sweet spot for upwind progress – all the rest of it is either pulled in too tight, or let out too far. Understanding this was a big aha moment for me – of course! So the sail, when twisted, is in fact “de-powered,” and adjusting more of the sail to the correct angle for upwind progress would increase the “power.”

There are subtleties to this: if the wind is very strong, sometimes you want to de-power the sail, so the boat isn’t getting thrown on its side in the gusts. Of course that’s also what reefing is for, decreasing sail area so it’s the right amount for the intensity of the wind. There are good reasons, I’m sure, that are not yet clear to me, for which approach – reefing or twist – is better for upwind progress in which situations. (Knowledgeable sailors, please do consider this an invitation!)

Complicating things further, in a junk rig there is the question of camber, or the bit of belly that can be built into the fabric of the sail. Most typical Western sails, Bermudian, gaff, and others, have this, while Western junk rigs used to be almost universally flat. This is presently a big topic of debate in the junk rig community, with camber having become quite a bit more prevalent among Western junk rig sails. On the other hand, there is an argument that a fanned shape of junk rig – such as the Reddish rig now on AUKLET – can work well with panels that are flat, because the twist of the fanned panels creates camber in the overall sail.

Junk sail with fanned battens

Junk sail with mostly parallel battens, a la Practical Junk Rig: http://www.flicka20.com/Data/Rig.aspx (click “junk” tab)

The big deal about camber is that it helps with sailing upwind. So now how about this? You want camber for upwind progress, but you want a sail with minimal twist for upwind progress. Now what?? Of course the beautiful thing about all of this is that you can go sailing regardless, and have a perfectly lovely time, and travel great distances – the only difference is that you might be more, or less, efficient along the way. Now and then this can really change your day.

As discussed in the post titled “Motorless,” on this recent trip I tried for a northbound run through Plum Gut on two different days, the second day finally getting around the end of Orient Point and through, to go back across Long Island sound to Connecticut. The first attempt was abandoned when I was not able to get around a particular tiny point at a bend in the shore, along the way toward the end of Orient Point itself. It was an upwind process, and the current had turned the wrong way, and tack and tack as I might, there was going to be no getting around that corner. With just a hair more progress on each tack, it might have worked. That’s when I started really thinking about sail twist, and realizing there was something truly significant there, that I really might want to understand.

During the afternoon of that first attempt there was quite a bit of wind, and waves to go with it. It was hard to tell for sure what sail arrangement was working better, or not so much. Along the way I tried pulling in the sheet span, with the idea that perhaps less twist would be good. This pulled in the top third of the sail or so (it was reefed to three panels), but as described earlier, it would have involved adjusting the line through the euphroe to make for a decent sail shape. In the waves (and rain!) I wasn’t so inspired to manage that more difficult project, especially since it was all experimental with my understanding at the time. In the end, I let the sheet span back out, to create a sail shape that looked better, being more evenly distributed from top to bottom, and back to pretty much its original twist.

The funny thing was, that when that sheet span was pulled in tight I had the odd feeling that the boat was moving better – uneven sail shape and all. But I convinced myself that I must have imagined that, because how could it be possible, with the sail looking so crazy. Knowing (after some effort) that it was beyond sensible in the bouncing waves to get the sail both untwisted and even, with my baby level of euphroe-adjusting skills, that was the end of that. But now I wonder if that poor middle shape didn’t matter that much. Perhaps what happened was that with the upper panel pulled in almost even with the boom, at the best angle to the wind for progress, there was indeed more drive in the sail, and it didn’t really matter so much about the middle section that was all crazy.

Interestingly, if that was true that the irregular shape was less important than having another panel at the correct angle to the wind, it would seem to say that the consideration about the fanned flat sail creating camber by twisting was not the primary issue either, at least in that particular set of conditions. It would appear that the aspect of the situation that was making the most difference was having the most sail area possible at the correct angle to the wind, and if that was the lower panel and the upper panel, with a chaotic middle, so be it. (Of course, just think, if they were all at the correct angle!) Now I wonder if I would have made it around that point, if I had left the sheet span pulled in tight like that, even with its uneven distribution and funny-looking sail.

~ earlier, tacking across Orient Harbor

As it was, with the afternoon advancing, I turned around and had a nice, zippy ride back downwind to Shelter Island, and everything worked out just fine. But I’m really looking forward to going further with this subject of sail twist and upwind efficiency. It’s a treat, to see this long-term puzzle finally becoming clearer.

Brain Retraining On Board

26 Sunday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in How Does This Work, Trips, Why Go Sailing

≈ 4 Comments

Brain retraining is a set of techniques for promoting healing from long-term, chronic illnesses, and from various kinds of trauma. A previous post on this blog, from July 2014, goes into details of how this works, and includes an assortment of resources available for those who are interested. I’ve now been working with these techniques for about six months. It was a question, in getting ready for this recent trip, how the various practices of brain retraining would go together with sailing away on a boat. It turns out that it’s a good fit.

The basic concept of brain retraining has to do with the goal of calming one’s limbic system – the part of the brain that is responsible for the fight/flight/freeze response – so that other inner systems can function more freely, including those involved in all sorts of physical well-being: cellular healing, basic digestion, overall brain function, and a whole lot else. The brain retraining approach to calming the limbic system involves identifying thoughts that tend to put the limbic system on alert, interrupting those thoughts, and replacing them, in an organized, focused fashion, with the conscious experience of joy and peace. This then results in a calm limbic system, which is the primary goal for specific healing – it’s a perfect bonus, that one also gets all that experience of joy and peace to go with it.

There are loads of specific techniques for achieving limbic system calm. These include holding wonderful past experiences in mind, visualizing a positive future, and feeling all of those images here in the present, as well as practicing various forms of meditation and other mind-shifting exercises. Additionally, there is a process of identifying one’s patterns of thought, and making changes in those larger patterns, if their habitual form has been leading to specific thoughts that trigger limbic system alert. For example, one might have a habit of worry, or a habit of distress, or of dissatisfaction, or of fear. This is where it gets particularly interesting, as far as relating all of this to sailing.

In setting out again on the boat, I became aware of a number of the above sorts of patterns in my general internal routine, and I also started paying specific attention to the sometimes subtle distinction between “relaxed attentiveness” and “hypervigilance.” Boats are tricky – if one has a habit of hypervigilance, getting on a boat can be like offering cocaine to an addict. There are so many crucial details that really do need to be attended to, in order for all to go well. Safety issues – all that water, and making sure that it stays on the correct side of the hull, never mind putting up sails, or putting down anchors. Just imagining all that, from a secure location on solid ground, can be enough to rev up a stress response.

The trick is to recognize that the stress response is a choice, and that it may or may not be the most helpful, effective approach to the situation at hand. Occasionally there are times when immediate, intense, physical action is required – whether on land or at sea – and that’s what one’s limbic system is there for, keeping us safe, and well supplied with the resources to meet a physically challenging situation. But for all the rest of it, “safety” is best achieved by having a relaxed limbic system, in spite of habits to the contrary. A state of relaxed attentiveness lets in more information, makes mental room for clearer problem solving, and leaves one’s body rested, ready for any necessary action. All of these promote more safety than does an ongoing state of hypervigilant tension, which drains the capacities of each of those resources and more. So the question, for those who are habitually hypervigilant, is how one might do things differently.

This is where brain retraining comes in: once the patterns of maintaining limbic system alert are identified, it’s possible to actively make a change. Who would’ve thought! Thank heavens for all that recent brain research, which has contributed to figuring all this out, and for the individuals who have been using that new knowledge to put together practical, daily use sorts of techniques for influencing the inner processes of one’s mind and brain. (For specific references, see resources in the post from this past summer: http://sailingauklet.com/2014/07/28/brain-retraining/ )

The bottom line, coming from all of this, is that I have become a more relaxed sailor. Not less attentive, but learning the practice of relaxed awareness. One of the brain retraining folks, in talking about pacing as it relates to physical activity, discusses going through the brain retraining techniques before making a decision as to whether or not to do something that might or might not be too much for one’s present capabilities. I’ve found this approach enormously useful in making decisions about what action to take, in stressful situations that have nothing at all to do with physical capabilities (though it’s enormously useful for those questions as well). This calming process related to decision-making has been particularly helpful in sailing. Sailboat cruising is so filled with significant decisions, often with plenty of time available for the use of an assortment of tools to ease, and improve, the decision-making process.

An example of the way this can go, from this recent trip, had to do with a question about the safety of a particular anchoring location. It’s easy to worry, sometimes – to be downright scared – about being alone out on a boat, female, in what is so predominantly men’s space. Duck hunting season opened, I in one of those favorite creeks, unpopulated, except for sometimes surly men in camo clothing in camo boats, with firearms, passing by now and then. There were friendly kayakers, once, and a couple of regular motorboats, but mostly it was folks outfitted in camo, occasionally friendly, but generally not so much.

The thing is, I have, sometimes, been just as afraid in more populated places, wondering what the risks are. Combined with this, there is the issue of old fear, buried in the past, that can so easily come to the surface, seeking resolution by catching a piggyback ride on present day details. As the self-defense folks say, “fear is information.” But sometimes that information comes in code.

The funniest thing, there in that beautiful creek, was that I had been completely unafraid while anchored there for a couple of days and nights, but the third day did not feel the same. I had made the mistake of listening to the news on the radio that morning, which might have contributed, having heard horrible stories of bad behavior by a particular group of young men, and questionable community response. Or maybe something had changed – I do know that I felt very aware that my presence had been noted by quite a number of people, mostly hunters, who had by then had more time to think about it. But it was intriguing to also notice my own pattern of fear, and alarm, in spite of the lovely quiet water, the setting sun, the two anchors that were holding so perfectly, Bahamian style so that each turn of the tide would have one anchor holding the boat into the current, and between the two anchors, just off the nearby shore. Snug in this creek, so when the wind did blow, everything was perfectly fine. And yet I was worried.

It’s a great processing opportunity, when this kind of situation comes up. There’s EFT (the tapping technique, also discussed in a previous post, from August 2013), and now brain retraining. By morning, having practiced all my tools (at some length), and having experienced no interference from the other people out on their own projects, I could calmly say that I was no longer wildly stressed, and at the same time, I felt that it was wise to leave. In the past, that action taken, of following the tide out of the creek, would likely have been the same. The difference was that I felt fine. Calm, and appreciative of the beautiful morning. Passing a side creek with hunters flattened in their boat was good for a bit of a start, but once gone by, with a tall mud bank again between us, and a bit more inner work as AUKLET and I drifted toward the main river, relaxed attentiveness returned.

This is the practice – whether at home or on board. It’s been good to see that it’s possible to continue this work on the water, and it’s been even better to see that the work makes the time on the water, as at home, a much more peaceful place to be. Safer, and more comfortable – who would’ve thought that actively taking one’s alert system out of gear would have that effect. But I sure do like it. And I’m ecstatic that there is a way to put this process of brain retraining together with time afloat. It’s such a treat when all the parts of one’s life can go together.

Snug

18 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in Trips

≈ Leave a comment

This morning before it was light, Suzanne, Melissa, and Richard set out from Holyoke, and I in Deep River got ready to leave Warren’s dock. By 0730 the boat was tied alongside the Deep River town float, and by 0830, just after high tide, the boat was on the trailer in the parking lot. It was a nice ride home, looking at all the brilliant fall foliage, and now here I am, again on dry land. It still feels like it’s moving – as it turned out, until today I was on either the boat or a floating dock, ever since that initial launch in the middle of September. A little disorienting, to now be so still, and the motion-sensing parts of my brain are taking care of that nicely!

This haul-out plan was made about three weeks ago, and it couldn’t have turned out more perfectly. The weather was reasonable, mild with not much wind, and last night was comfortable in the 50s. Now late in the day, a front is passing by, and tomorrow’s high will be in the 50s, with quite a bit of wind and a nighttime low that makes you worry about outdoor plants. Three days from now, the beginning of a substantial nor’easter is forecast, that is expected to go on for days. I could not be more thoroughly pleased to have made it home before all of that.

There is more to say about the rig, another of the lovely creeks, and general boat fun. For now it’s nice to get a bit of rest. The boat, outside my window, has an interesting tea-colored stain on the forward part of the keel, from resting in the mud at that friendly dock whenever the tide went particularly low. I look at that stain and think: “Hey, that trip really happened!”

Swallows at Old Lyme

17 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in Trips, Why Go Sailing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

swallows

Goose Island, in foreground

The end of this fall trip is approaching, and I’m back in the Connecticut River, spending a few days each in various favorite spots. One of these is in back of Goose Island, a little north of the I-95 bridge in the town of Old Lyme. Every night, for a bunch of September and some of October, Goose Island, which is completely flat and entirely covered in reeds, is the gathering place for thousands and thousands of migrating tree swallows. This would be extraordinary in itself, but it’s more than that. Each evening, as they get ready to settle for the night, the birds fly in, according to some reports from as far as 30 miles away. At first they all fly around in a loose, meandering group, gradually expanding in number as the sun approaches the horizon. Quite a few birds come from the north, roughly following the river. Anchored upstream, you can see them go by in various small groups as evening approaches, and at Goose Island itself the numbers gradually grow, until the sky over the island is completely thick with birds.

~~Click on photos once, and then again, to zoom in – I sure would love to see good quality photos of this, done by somebody with the skills and equipment to do it justice. In the meantime, here are my own… ~~

This event is rather well-known in the area, and as the birds approach, so do the people. Kayaks, small motorboats, and sometimes a larger boat find their way up the creek in back of the island. On the main river, on the other side of the island, a tour boat routinely brings larger groups, and motorboats can be heard beyond the tall reeds. Most folks come by some sort of water-craft, because there is no public access to the nearby shore. This shore is lined with upscale homes, also with people on the lookout for the evening birds. And it’s clear that the occupants of those homes are inviting their friends: sounds of cocktail parties, and gatherings of 10 or 15 people at the private dock/boat ramp on the shore are often seen, especially on a pretty weekend evening. Going in to that creek for the birds involves some fascinating people-watching along with the wildlife.

According to reports on the Internet, estimates are that there are as many as 300,000 birds in these evening gatherings, and I believe it. Looking up into the full group is like watching snow, when it falls in giant flakes, and you look toward the clouds and the three-dimensionality of the endless flakes above you gives a completely different perspective to the air overhead. The birds are like that – black flecks, near and farther up, and farther again, all moving, like snowflakes coming down in a swirling breeze.

At some point, the timing of which seems to vary from one evening to the next, the birds begin to shift from flying in a loose, vaguely defined cloud, to moving together, flowing in swirls and patterns. They bunch more closely, with sharply defined edges to their individual flocks. They wheel and turn, flowing up and down, to the side, shimmering in something that recalls the movements of the northern lights. It can take your breath away, and people on shore, and in their boats, can be heard exclaiming at the best of the self-choreographed patterns.

Apparently the scientists have something to say about gathering for self protection, and all that, but to me it looks like moving energy. Not a coincidence, the similarity to the patterns of northern lights – what if the birds are following shapes in the electromagnetic fields that are all around us? Or other energetic pathways not so clearly defined by science? It feels like a cosmic gift, the opportunity to witness this extraordinary display. Sometimes they seem done, and then they begin again, tightly organized and flowing, shimmering, this way and that.

As the daylight starts to go, what the birds are up to changes again. Some nights sooner, and others later, but very near to when the sun is below the horizon and it’s becoming hard to see, the swallows start to drop. Sometimes it’s like rain: the thick, dark cloud is above, and it seems like the birds relax their wings, or something, because they simply fall. Straight down, directly into the island reeds. In droves. There is the most amazing rustle, a whooshing sound, as thousands of birds drop, and disappear into the reeds. I’d love to see how they all fit in there, once landed.

Other times, it’s like a tornado. Rather than dropping like rain, the birds funnel themselves into one tiny section of the larger island, a couple hundred yards square of what must be a good 10 acres or so of island reeds overall. From their cloud in the sky, the birds swirl down, creating a spiral path, pouring themselves out of the air, to the ground. Again the rustle, which I originally thought was the sound of birds in the leaves of the dry reeds. But witnessing this repeatedly, it became clear that the rustle happened before birds reached plants. Something to do, I guess, with how they relax their wings to drop in that way, and the wind brushes through their feathers. One hopes for no trains, or passing boat engines, to obscure that sound. In 56 years on the planet, I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s special, to hear a completely new sound – and even better, a sound that comes with such a magical activity.

Earlier in the evening, the blackbirds come – in nothing like the same numbers, but in tight, choreographed groups, that suddenly settle onto the island. They make that noise too, and again, somehow, in the morning when they leave. The blackbirds seem to like to start their day in groups, the same way that they finish it. The tree swallows, on the other hand, slip away with no fanfare. I’ve tried and tried to see that many thousands of birds come back up from the reeds. A group here, or there, but nothing that would account for the clouds that descend in the evening. Maybe they slip out low to the river, on the other side of the island – one day I’ll anchor over there, if there’s not too much traffic, and see what I can see.

As it is, I had the opportunity to witness this miracle six times. Three in a stopover for days on the way south down the river, and then when I was in that creek again for three nights this past week. Now about 5 miles farther north, getting the boat collected for haul-out in Deep River, I watch in the evening as swallow-groups fly south, cutting across the land at the bend in the river. I know where they’re going, and hold that extraordinary image in my mind, swirling birds, dropping like rain.

Motorless

11 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in the boat, Trips

≈ 4 Comments

The universe has done me a great favor in the last couple weeks, having more or less pulled the plug on the electric motor. The motor now declines to receive any more charging, so for the last week and a half I have had the pleasure of sailing around with no motor use at all, at the same time as having the comfort of knowing that I do have a certain amount of charge left in the battery – 79% at last check, though it does tend to go down a little when it sits, so it may be lower now. This is enough to take the boat over from Warren’s dock to the boat ramp, including if there are complications that require more power – a windy day, for example. It’s also enough for a real emergency, though the whole point of motorless sailing is to use both forethought and judgment effectively enough to avoid those kind of problems. It’s nice to have a bit of training-wheels left, and at the same time to be practicing for the real thing, without a too-easy option for ducking out.

The charging issue developed after I was already across to the far side of Long Island sound, and moving around the various harbors of Shelter Island. In hindsight, the most recent successful recharge took a lot longer than it should have. After that night run into Coecles Harbor, the next attempted recharging yielded an intermittent flashing light – which is supposed to flash evenly while charging is happening, and then ordinarily goes steady when charging is complete. Even with those intermittent signs of life, the charge level in the battery declined to go up, and that was that. The troubleshooting guide for the motor says that if this happens one should contact the service center – no easy fix here, of resetting some bit of electronics. If it wasn’t both toxic pollution, and ridiculously expensive, I might have put it over the side – that would be so satisfying! Rather like the guy in the book Riddle of the Sands, who so merrily throws this that and everything over the side, enjoying the splash.

Feeling a combination of boring and responsible, instead the motor has been riding around, still being a little bit of a security blanket, and helping thoughts about what it would be like to leave it at the dock. I’ve located the service center, but wasn’t in a hurry, so of course now it’s the holiday weekend. We’ll see what they say next week.

Meantime, there’s been some tremendous sailing! From Coecles Harbor around the corner to that nice spot from the last post, across from Sag Harbor, and three days later around the next corner to West Neck Harbor (that’s the one in the picture at the top of this entry). From there, I did get my tour of the full circumference of Shelter Island. I got to see Orient Harbor, twice, and was passed by the entire fleet of the Around Shelter Island sailboat race. Who knew – when I left West Neck Harbor, and started around the backside of Shelter Island, some boats were coming up from behind. The first two passed close by and we had a quick hello. I asked about if they were all part of an event – and they said yes, there were 112 more boats on their way to circling the island! So much for minimal traffic with October sailing…

We did fairly well, not being passed instantaneously, which was particularly notable because we were after all cruising, not racing, and had sensible reefs for the 15+ knot winds. Almost all the other boats had full sails, and sometimes struggled in the gusts, in spite of being a good bit bigger than AUKLET. The junk rig, famous for easy reefing, did just that, and we had a nice time poking along comfortably, sailing upwind, but with the current. Somebody in a bigger boat actually said, “you look under control” – between gusts when his boat was heeling to the rail. I said something about reefing, but he was long gone by the time I figured out a more gracious response, which would have gone something like: “That’s because I’m a wuss, and I reef way more than, and before, everybody else!”

Of course they do all pass me by. I’ve always wondered about that line in sailing texts, that your boat will actually go faster if you reef appropriately – I note that the racers seem to go with the fullest sails they can before actual breakage. This makes me feel better about never having actually had the experience of reefing and then going faster… Reefing is good for many reasons, but I think that the line about it being good for speed is something that somebody made up, in hopes of encouraging people to reef sensibly for basic safety. (This is my humble opinion – I expect that somebody else has better information on the subject!)

That day with all the racers, I was hoping to go back through Plum Gut with the tide, and then across Long Island sound back to Connecticut, with that nice, sturdy southeast wind. Alas, between my developing knowledge of upwind work with the new rig, and the tide turning inbound before I made it around the crucial corner on the way to the passage, this isn’t what happened.

The inbound tide is perfect for going north through Plum Gut, but not for the stretch along the south side of Orient Point. The theory was that I was catching the outbound tide as far as possible, and then the inbound for the ride through The Gut, as they call it around here. But there’s a little jog in that long south side of Orient Point, and try as I might, there was no getting around it. Finally, with the afternoon advancing, I said the heck with it, turned back, and in no time had covered the 3 miles back to Orient Harbor. Once there it was just another little bit back to the more protected Dering Harbor, and that was that. But it was a great ride, in the big wind – 18-20 knots steady on my handheld wind meter, still inside the rather open Orient Harbor – and I was reminded of how well this boat handles seas. It was a lot of fun.

The next day the storm was gone, with a stiff west wind in its place. Trying the same trick with the tides, we were there early, even after heaving-to for an hour, having a nice drift along that stretch of Orient Point that had been so difficult the day before. Upwind through The Gut against the last of the falling tide was a bust, and involved sailing back clear of the far shore, to try again, but tacking back to the best starting point used enough time for the current to have changed by the time we were in position to go at it for the second time. I love that about the tide: give it the right amount of time, and all is resolved. The second try worked, and once through, we were off to Connecticut, about 6 miles across Long Island sound.

The light at the east end of Orient Point – the distant shore is Connecticut.
~

Saybrook Light, at the entrance to the Connecticut River

All of this went on with no motor, and has continued with the trip up the Connecticut River, and various meanders since then. Studies continue, but I’m another step closer to feeling comfortable with the idea of leaving the motor at the dock. And it’s been a great trip, seeing parts of Long Island that have been on my mind for a long time. Hooray, on all counts!

more sea trials

01 Wednesday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in Junk Rig, Sailing/Boat Handling, the boat, Trips

≈ 4 Comments

This last round of sea trials has actually been on the sea. The other day the boat and I took off from our little spot behind Goose Island, early to catch the tide, with the idea of going into North Cove in Old Saybrook. This was about 4 miles further down the river, quite near to where the river opens onto Long Island sound. North Cove is a good place to stay, sheltered from the river and boat wakes, but on the ocean side of the sometimes difficult drawbridge, and a great jumping off place for trips into the sound.

As it turned out, even with some ignominious stops on the sandbars south of Goose Island, we were at the entrance to North Cove by about a quarter to eight in the morning. It was a beautiful day, and the breeze was much too nice an opportunity to decline. I had a theory that it might make sense to follow the tide out into the sound, sail around for a while, and then when the tide was going back in, to return to North Cove for the night. That definitely would have been the sensible option.

Another possibility, once I was a couple miles out from the river entrance and the tide had turned westbound into the sound, was to sail west. That really would have made sense. There is a perfectly good anchorage at Duck Island, about 5 miles west of the Connecticut River. With the tide running and the breeze, we would have been there in no time, having had a nice sail.

I really considered that option, measuring against the desire to go east… Of course one can see where this is headed. East was a bust, against the current, even with a favorable wind. But angling across, and taking a good long time about it, meant arriving at Plum Gut with the current going the right way. That’s important, for that passage – without a massive motor, there is no going through Plum Gut against the tide. Even traveling with the tide it can get interesting, as the contents of the wide part of Long Island sound rush in and out through a few narrow passages. The “boils,” or upwellings of current, are particularly impressive.

The wind does tricks in here too. It’s quite common for the wind direction in Long Island sound and that in Gardiner’s Bay, on the other side of Plum Gut, to be opposing. This leaves a big calm spot right where you would most want your best wind. No wind, and an impressive, wide, jouncy tide rip. If you line up for it properly this is not a huge problem, as the current will carry you right on through, but it’s important to be on the correct track to miss various rocks. We came in a bit low – in hindsight, it would have been better to change plans and continue down the north side of Plum Island. Instead, hoping to go into Orient Harbor for the night, with some chagrin I turned on the motor, in order to go across the current enough to maintain a comfortable margin around the bit of rocks near our path. This worked out fine, and once safely clear, off went the motor, with the boat now in the middle of the various waves, boils, and practically no wind.

The boat, already problematic about holding direction with the new rig in very light wind, thought that the concept of direction in this situation was utterly ridiculous. Knowing we were perfectly safe, I was just left with the task of relaxing about looking ridiculous to any outside observers. We traveled backwards, sideways, and did a couple of full circles. Now and then we would actually be going the right way, but then, just like in a rushing river, we would hit another swirl, and be turned wherever it took us. For a couple of minutes I ran the motor again, which sorted out the steering, but it didn’t seem worth using up so much battery reserve for something that wasn’t really a problem, so I turned it off.

By ten minutes later we were out the other side, with a light breeze from the new direction. Orient Harbor didn’t turn out to be reachable, given the wind and ebbing tide. Even getting inside Gardiner’s Island, with various possible anchorages, didn’t work out. On the bright side, what we did have was wide open water. Montauk Point was about 10 miles away in the direction we traveled easily, and if the wind quit it would be easy enough to just stay out, with no worries about things to run into in the night.

In the end, the wind kept up for long enough to eventually get to the entrance to the harbor at Montauk. It took until about nine o’clock that night, and I had some concern about going into the harbor in the dark – I’d only been there once, about 12 years ago. But it’s pretty basic, and well lit. The motor came on again, at the outer breakwater when the wind went still. By 20 minutes later we were anchored inside Lake Montauk.

“Motorless in training” has taken a bit of a hit this week – but I’m learning from every round. The boat is doing well, though it’s involving some getting used to, adjusting to the new rig. Learning the sail controls is one aspect of that, but the more noticeable change is that the boat handles differently. It’s a little frustrating, to feel so awkward at maneuvers that had become quite fluid. I used to know what the boat could do, and how to get it to do that, fairly reliably. My latest guess is that the large mainsail area forward of the mast is a big part of this different feel, and handling. The new easy reefing is worth a lot, and gosh it’s fun when the boat drives along in a good wind – I’m looking forward to becoming more adept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leaving Montauk

It turns out that Lake Montauk is a party scene. Blasting dance music comes from clubs on the shore, and row after row of marina docks are filled with varying sizes of recreational fishing boats, and go-fast noise machines called “cigarette boats.” There’s also a substantial commercial fishing fleet, though that was pretty quiet on the weekend.

My nighttime arrival was on a Saturday, during an unusually warm weekend of beautiful weather. On the plus side, it was sweet, approaching the harbor to the smells of seafood and hot summer town. Once anchored, the music started, and then stopped, and then started again. Knockout tired, I was asleep soon regardless. There were a few wake-ups to more music, well after midnight, but eventually it was quiet. Then in the morning the engines began – for some reason that I don’t understand, cigarette boats seem to have a need to run in place for a long time at the dock before they get around to leaving. With the cost of fuel these days, I wonder at this, but maybe they want to make sure that those racecar style engines are warmed up enough to not stall when the driver hits the gas. Whatever the motivation, it was a rude awakening in the morning, that went on and on.

My original plan had been to stay at Lake Montauk for at least a couple of days, resting, and waiting for the northeast wind that was going to be coming along. By noon of that day, however, there was a sweet southwest breeze, and all I could think was how easy it would be to sail out of the narrow harbor entrance, without the motor, on that wind. And the blessed quiet that I had experienced all the previous day, out to sea.

Off we went, once again with Orient Harbor in mind. Fishers Island was a consideration, but the tide was backwards for getting through that pesky outlet from Long Island sound. The wind blew pretty well for a while, and by late in the day we had gotten almost around Gardiner’s Island, before it slacked off. The forecast was for the wind to pick up from the southwest in the evening, which was part of why I thought it was an okay idea to try for such a long trip in the first place. Later on, the breeze started, developing an interesting chop, which we were trying to sail into.

It took all night. Tacking into the chop, sometimes driving well, sometimes not so well, trying to judge the speed of the water past the boat in the dark, and the best heading, with the autopilot sometimes content and on track, and sometimes wandering widely. On the plus side, it was an absolutely beautiful, warm, perfect night. The crescent moon set fairly early, and there were lovely stars. There was no traffic, and I thought many times about how extraordinary it was to be out there having that entire huge bay all to myself. The ferries came around Orient Point in the distance, lit up like cruise ships, moving predictably and well out of the way. Gradually we advanced on the various lighted markers.

In the dark, progress was measurable both by plotting on the chart, using GPS latitude and longitude, and also by leaving lights gradually off the beam and then behind us. (Taking bearings on lights would have worked also – feeling tired, I opted for saving my strength and using the GPS.) But looking at the lights ahead was another matter, as far as judging distance by eye. They seemed so close, and at the same time so unattainable. I haven’t done that much night sailing close in to shore, and it’s an interesting process, learning to interpret what you’re seeing in the dark. After finally reaching two or three of these lighted buoys, I noticed the way they brighten when you get close, and you can see the light reflected in the water, as well as the height of the buoy extending above the skyline, to let you know that you are indeed within something like 100 yards. A chartplotter (electronic gizmo that shows both the chart and your position on it on a screen) is starting to look a little more appealing, though for now I’m still a holdout. Manual plotting of position feels both satisfying, and helpful, but I’m still working on relating that calculated position to my intuitive grasp of the situation in the face of confusing visual cues.

As if that wasn’t enough of a challenge, a couple of times my eyes played tricks – maybe from being overtired, as well as from the unfamiliar darkness. Lights on shore appeared to be close, as if they were nearby in the water. I was startled to think, at one point, that I was approaching my initial buoy goal but that it now appeared to have two smaller lights nearby, on the kind of thin stick buoys set out privately in harbors, although these did not show on the chart. I was jumpy with thoughts of hidden obstacles like fish weirs, to avoid running into. Then shining the spotlight on them, there was nothing there, and suddenly it all came into focus. My initial buoy was still there, though at a substantial distance, too far for the spotlight to pick it up, and the other two stick buoys were actually distant house lights on the shore. Jeez.

This happened again later, approaching my harbor entrance, where there was an oddly lit flag on a pole, that looked for all the world like a triangular apparition hovering about 50 feet away from the boat. Again with the spotlight there was nothing there, and two blinks later the flagpole and it’s strange lighting came into clear resolution on the shore. I keep thinking about all-night drivers talking about seeing giant bunnies the size of cars, hopping across the road – hallucinating from exhaustion. I’ve never experienced that, in spite of many all-night drives, but I wonder at the source of these strange perceptions, losing any sense of depth and distance awareness, and if it has anything to do with that sort of process.

Eventually there was a choice – slog on for another 2 miles close to the now minimal wind, to one harbor entrance, or crank up the motor and go 1 mile to the nearer harbor entrance, directly into the fading breeze. Thinking all the while about how I wasn’t exactly succeeding at motorless in training, I opted for resting sooner, blessing the fact that I had the choice. Still, on slow speed because that preserves battery energy, it took about an hour to get to the harbor entrance. But the slow speed was worth it, because when we got there the tide was rushing out the narrow entrance, and the battery still had plenty of reserve to crank up and push the boat through. The dawn started to come up as we were anchoring.

There are several things I might have done differently in that night, but staying in Montauk harbor probably wasn’t one of them. Sailing out to sea might have been nice, and would certainly have been more restful than sailing close in. You can take naps when it’s just open water. But you never know how things might go – getting back to land might have been more of a chore. As it is, there have been more boat studies, tinkering with euphroes, and learning more about how to make realistic judgments about possible forward progress against wind, current, and chop. I’ve been learning this new area, of Shelter Island and Gardiner’s Bay, and having a lovely time being back on the open water. It’s all good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shelter Island

That was day before yesterday, going into Coecles Harbor (pronounced “cockles”). Then there was a lot of sleeping…

Yesterday, feeling somewhat refreshed, the promised northeast wind was getting into gear. My anchoring spot was okay, but not ideal, with the strong wind coming across a narrow spit. On top of that, in this beautiful, still harbor, the folks with the fancy estates are utterly determined, in their yard maintenance. Trucks come and go on the tiny road, and out come giant yard machines, and a seemingly constant supply of weed whackers, running pretty much nonstop throughout the day. My search for the perfect harbor is ongoing…

Just around the corner, 2 miles down, is the entrance to the next series of harbors that circle Shelter Island. This was the destination that had seemed too far the other night. The wind was now blowing about 12 to 14 knots, and made for a lovely sail out the mouth of Coecles Harbor, just, and then around the next point going east. There was some rain to begin with, but by the time we arrived inside Northwest Harbor, near the town of Sag Harbor, New York, everything was drying out.

In the search for the combination of protection from northeast wind, and a little more quiet, we anchored further up the bay, away from houses and in the lee of a great bluff with a nice stand of mature trees on top. It’s not perfectly snug – the bay is broad, with gentle but constant rolling from the wake of a continuous back and forth tiny ferry, that is distant but seems to send waves ricocheting constantly throughout the area – but it’s safe, and it’s not pounded by that big wind, that you can see shaking the trees up on the bluff. And it’s quiet. There’s just the sound of the waves breaking on the far side of the point. Quiet and out of the wind – worth a little rolling!

Tomorrow the weather is supposed to clear up, and I’m thinking about continuing around Shelter Island, to see the sights. If this works out, the waterway will eventually open again into Gardiner’s Bay by passing through Orient Harbor. Maybe I’ll finally get to see it, the long way around!

Sailing AUKLET

~ Small sailboat cruising and related thoughts

Monthly Archives: October 2014

Sail Twist

Brain Retraining On Board

Snug

Swallows at Old Lyme

Motorless

more sea trials