Gone to Sea

21 Sunday Jun 2015

Posted by shemaya in How Does This Work, the boat, Trips

Lately I’ve become quite fond of “passage making” – going from point A to point B relatively directly, without overnight stops. Just like anything, the more you do it, the more you get adjusted to the process, and the various requirements. Since leaving the Connecticut River this year, I’ve now done this twice (plus a few more passages in previous years), and I’m happy to say that I’m now presently in Penobscot Bay, Maine, after a surprisingly short amount of time.

The first set of overnights in this trip started with a run from the south shore of Cape Cod, where I had been spending some time in Cotuit Bay (hooray for sailing with Amanda and Alaina!)
After that it was off around the outside of the Cape, eventually ending up in Cohasset, which is on the south shore of Boston. Doing this trip around the outside of Cape Cod took three nights and the better part of four days, mostly because I had the idea to start with a north wind. That was ideal for leaving from Cotuit, and for going east, out the channel between Cape Cod and Nantucket, but then there would be a pause, expecting little progress, while waiting for the wind shift. The idea was that the south wind due to arrive on the following day would then be good for the run north. I didn’t count on getting seasick, once outside of Nantucket sound! It was a bit of a strong wind, and there was a bit of a boisterous sea.

A relatively strong wind is a good thing, especially in a tricky passage (“passage” also means a path between assorted obstacles), with shoals nearby. The last thing you want is not enough wind, and a current pushing the boat somewhere it doesn’t belong. As it turned out, given the strong wind and seas, the only viable option on that first night was to go southeast, eventually about 35 miles out. This was away from Nantucket Shoals, but a little far in the wrong direction. Somehow, all that open water, with all those waves, was more disconcerting than usual, and my stomach registered deep protest. Ah well – thank goodness for homeopathic remedies for motion sickness, already on the boat, generally there for crew. And for oyster crackers, which were eventually quite sustaining.

By the next morning the sea had settled down, my stomach was improving, and in that peaceful time between the end of the north wind and the beginning of the one from the south, there were whales, and porpoises, and even a close up visit from two basking sharks! These are enormous, but make their living by eating plankton, swimming slowly with no aggression whatsoever. Still, it does get one’s attention.

There were thoughts of going into Provincetown, but by the time we were around the top enough to turn the corner toward the south, the wind was again rather wild, and tacking against those seas and the tide was yielding no success. Night was coming again, and the alternative, sailing slowly across the 25 miles to Cohasset, would generate plenty of time for rest, with an arrival well after it got light again in the morning. This is indeed what we did, “we” being myself, the boat, and the electronic companions.

Traffic is the biggest worry, when it comes to getting rest as a solo sailor. There is the issue of rocks, and land, but those are fixed, and avoidable, with proper planning and care, and enough distance off. It’s the other boats, that can show up at any moment, that need to be constantly watched for. The electronics now on this boat are great about providing notice well in advance of almost any traffic. Ships and ferries, and high-speed whale watch boats, as well as some commercial fishing boats and some recreational vessels, show up on the AIS (for more on AIS, see this post from last year: http://sailingauklet.com/2014/01/11/ais/ ).

Over this past winter we also installed a Mer Veille radar detector (more in an upcoming post). This gadget uses minimal electricity, and beeps enthusiastically whenever somebody else’s radar signal reaches its antenna. Most any other traffic on the open water, especially at night, or in low-visibility conditions, is running radar, so there is good warning if anybody is out there. Commercial fishing vessels, particularly, are now well-announced.

Between the two of these pieces of equipment, I’ve become much more comfortable with taking naps at sea. Even better, when the weather is rather lousy there’s hardly anybody out there anyway. Going across the north edge of Cape Cod Bay, the ferry to Provincetown appeared a couple of times on the AIS, passing at about 6 miles away, and that was it for the entire night. I’m sure this was aided by the forecast of 4 to 7 foot seas, which was in fact happening for the first part of the night. But the boat did well, oriented at about 50° to the wind, as if hove-to but set up to sail forward at about one knot, going gradually west. I got some rest, and then in the morning, after a somewhat false start trying to get into Scituate, ran downwind to Cohasset. The only complication was my pants trying to fall off, coming into the harbor, because I hadn’t realized just how much weight I had lost in the last few days, and neglected to do something about a belt!

During those days at sea I thought, oh now I’ve probably had about enough of this passage thing. From here on, it’s harbors at night. But of course by a few days after that, and some nice rest, and reflecting on the whales and pelagic seabirds (nevermind the sharks), it all didn’t seem so bad. I started to think that if I would just choose my weather a little more conservatively, I might just like to do it again. From Cohasset it was a day’s ride across Massachusetts Bay to the islands southwest of Gloucester, and crossing Massachusetts Bay I found myself with that itch to just go out to sea. The weather wasn’t right for it, at the time, and I was due for some more rest, but it was interesting to see that that was how it felt. In the meantime, it was nice to be in the islands.

A couple of days later there was another long sailing day around the outside of Cape Ann and up to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where I met Suzanne for supplies, had some more rest, and waited on the weather.
The approaching wind wasn’t as strong as that last rather wild run (no 25’s in the steady-wind forecast!), and it all seemed like a rather nice idea to head straight for the middle of the Maine coast. First thing Monday morning, off we went.

The only downside of avoiding the strong wind is that sometimes, instead, you get no wind at all. The second day out from Portsmouth, about 15 miles south of Damariscove Island, we spent pretty much the whole day floating around in the fog, in roughly the same spot.

The Coast Guard even came to visit, having seen us out there for so long, to check that everything was okay. They were happy to know that things were fine, asked if I had a float plan, and somebody on shore keeping track of whether I was arriving as expected, and sounded relieved when I said that yes I did, and that I had a satellite phone, and reported in morning and evening. Off they went, and a couple of hours later, just before dark, the breeze started to come up. The fog disappeared, the boat started moving, and the horizon took on that gorgeous sharp edge that comes with newly clear air and the sun getting low.

We sailed through the night, and just before dawn were off of Monhegan Island. There was some more fog, but between the GPS, the compass, and the sounds of the buoys, we found our way, comforted to see the lights on the buoys appear where they were expected, even though the fog hid them until we were pretty close. As the dawn started to barely come up, the wind shifted northwest, and with our goal of Tenants Harbor it was a bit of a slog against the last of the outgoing tide, but very beautiful as the fog again cleared away. There had been quite a bit of rain, in those previous days, and in the dark you could smell the islands, wet evergreens, coming across on the breeze. What a sweet way to arrive home.

Now, here I am, moving to Maine – and landed. There’s still a trip from this harbor here in Penobscot Bay over to Gouldsboro, on the far side of Acadia National Park. With some consistent wind this could be done in about three days, with overnight stops in lovely places. Or one could go straight through, perhaps arriving in about 24 hours, if the wind blew just so. For now it’s resting, and visiting, and waiting for the next bit of weather to go by. It’s been a tremendous trip so far, including all those nights at sea, and I’m enormously pleased, by all of it.

Anchoring and the AUTHORITIES

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by shemaya in Sailing/Boat Handling, Trips

≈ 5 Comments

For a number of days this past week I was in and around Narragansett Bay. On a good wind, the boat and I went the 25 miles or so from Noank, Connecticut to Dutch Harbor, Rhode Island, and had a sweet night anchoring in the tiny south cove on Dutch Island, protected from the northwest wind. It’s a little roly, open directly to the south and out the bay, but it was great to be out of the wind. I’d never been in to that particular spot, and it was a treat.

The next day, it was up to Wickford, to be out of the new south wind, and the strong northwesterly forecast for the next day after that, and hopefully some visiting with friends. There’s a great cove, well inside that harbor, with moorings and enough water on the edges for comfortable anchoring. The first night was fine, and half the next day. It’s beautiful in there, with marsh, and trees, and egrets working in the shallows.

That second afternoon, a big gray inflatable with an enclosed center console and the word “police,” in big letters, pulled up. I was at the edge of a large number of unoccupied moorings, with a couple of boats two or three moorings away (see photo above), with enough swinging room to avoid even touching the empty mooring buoys. Alas, I was still busted. With a small craft advisory in effect for the northwest wind, the officer informed me that there was no anchoring in Wickford, except for outside the breakwaters (miserably uncomfortable from boat wakes, in any conditions). At least three times, he said that this information was posted on the town website, and that I was breaking the rules not only by anchoring within the harbor, but also by anchoring within a mooring field. Having been in here without problems a number of times before, it had not crossed my mind to look at the town website…

This was all very disconcerting, and more so when I brought up about the weather of the moment and was told something about how many times he hears that. He must have seen the worry all over my face, at the prospect of trying to move the boat effectively onto a mooring or into a slip in that amount of wind, because he relented, and said that I could stay until morning. This in spite of his having received TWO complaints! One wonders from whom – there are houses scattered along the shore, and very small amounts of boat traffic, being at the far inside end of the harbor – perhaps the folks on the workboat out tending to moorings were unhappy? Or at the marinas, in view down the way?

After the police boat left I did two things: called my friend Sarah, who lives up the cove, and got on the town website. Sarah very kindly chased around and made arrangements for use of one of the local yacht club moorings, which I moved to early the next morning when the wind had eased up.

The town website was fascinating: rather than a prohibition on anchoring, it stated that “No person shall anchor or moor a vessel in any anchorage, mooring area, or mooring field in a manner or in a location which under the circumstances existing creates a probability of damage to other vessels moored or anchored nearby.” http://www.nkpolice.org/Old%20Site/Harbor%20Division%20New/Harbor%20Ordinances%203.htm#Sec.%207-81%20Thoroughfares;%20designation;%20moorings,%20anchoring%20and%20swimming%20prohibited; ( Sec. 7-106. (c)) There’s also, very reasonably, no anchoring allowed in channels.

The above implies not only that general anchoring is okay, but that anchoring in the mooring field is okay. Geez. The same webpage also talked about transient town moorings available just inside the breakwaters (a lovely spot, where I have anchored in the past), available for free with a 24 hour time limit. So much for the information available on the website. I’m told, by the fellow from the yacht club, that now those town moorings are $25/night; it was striking to me that the officer didn’t mention them at all. When I went by the next day, they were all unoccupied…

It had been a couple of years, before this recent visit, since the last time I was in Wickford. Rules change, but also, when I’d been there before it had generally been in the middle of the season, with the harbor jammed full of boats. If somebody really paid attention, they could have noticed that I was anchored (in this boat, or in the little Peep Hen SERENITY), but for the most part I think that my presence blended in. Ironically, now after such a long, late winter, there is loads of room in the harbor, but now is the time that I get kicked out! I debated going into a slip, which I’ve also done on a few occasions, when I’ve stayed several days at a time for both shore support and repairs, and even for hurricane Sandy. This time around, it was Friday of Memorial Day weekend when I was given notice, and if I had acted quickly I’m sure that I could’ve made arrangements for a Saturday arrival. Visiting would have been easier, if I had done that! Only the upcoming hot weather forecast dissuaded me.

Instead, next day, after a breakfast stop at that nice mooring, I caught the north wind back down the bay to Dutch Harbor (which runs about 10° cooler than Wickford when the weather heats up). About the time I arrived, as predicted the wind shifted south, where it was expected to stay for days. Heading for another favorite anchorage, I anticipated being well protected from that strong south wind. No deal. In exactly the spot that lets a small boat get close enough to the shore to not get bounced around, the area is now outlined in buoys that are labeled “conservation area” and “no anchoring.” Anchoring is available, but out so far from the shore that in a 15 knot wind through the night one is pretty much guaranteed a miserable time. Rats! Having so recently had that police experience, I wasn’t keen on inviting another one, especially in the face of specific signs, so I passed it by.

Instead, since I was likely to bounce around no matter what, I rented a mooring, which achieved also having launch service, so that folks could come visit. There are no slips in Dutch Harbor. The wind blew like they said, the boat bounced, and I made plans to get out of Dodge. Suzanne came early the next morning, bringing supplies that were to have come the day after that with Amanda and Alaina. Amanda and her sister had been planning to come for a sail, after all that work on rigging the boat, but then had car trouble and had to postpone. In the end, both that and other visits were sadly missed, but Suzanne and I got a bonus hello, when she made that quick run on Sunday morning. Then off I went, with hopes for my third regular anchoring spot in Narragansett Bay to be more successful.

This next one, fortunately, was indeed better, and I arrived towards evening after a nice, feisty sail of 10 miles or so (okay, so four hours were spent tacking against the current, to get the 3 miles out of the westernmost arm of Narragansett Bay – but it was still fun). This new spot was near the mouth of what’s called the Sakonet River – actually a long bay, the easternmost arm of Narragansett Bay – where there’s a beach that extends perfectly for protection from southerly winds. There are some moorings, and when I arrived, three or four boats were at anchor. As I approached my favorite corner, close up to the beach for least bouncing, a little ways away there were some of those stick bouys that can mean so many things. I didn’t go close enough to read whatever they might have said… Sometimes you just don’t want to know.

After two nights and a good rest, on leaving I was happy to see that indeed those buoys said nothing about anchoring. But they could have. It’s a frustrating thing, to see so many good anchorages blocked off, causing unnecessarily difficult nights for those in small boats. Stage Harbor, in Chatham, was the same way a couple of years ago. With a perfect tree-covered bluff over the curve of the harbor, sheltering from prevailing winds, anchoring is only allowed inside a wide-open sand spit. Safe, but pounded by the wind, in perfect sight of sheltered peace, with plenty of room available for small boats with a shallow draft. I don’t understand the reasoning for these rules, in harbors were there is indeed plenty of physical space. Perhaps there have been abuses of hospitality. Regardless, there are legal debates ongoing about who has jurisdiction over the water in those perfect coves; it’s possible that towns have no legal standing in establishing these kinds of restrictions.

While all the concerned parties sort that out, my primary solution is to go north, beyond the crowds. Thank goodness that’s still possible! Downeast Maine is calling, loudly. Soon, I say, soon.

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

Creek Anchoring

19 Tuesday May 2015

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

≈ 2 Comments

Those favorite creeks, that I like so much, are a little tricky for anchoring. It’s been a progression, developing a routine that works in a way that feels satisfying and reliable. There are narrow shores to contend with, a deeper middle, current reversing with the tide, and overhanging trees. All keep things interesting. A lot of different strategies have been tried, over the course of my many creek visits, and nowadays there’s a routine that has been working quite well.

First, what didn’t work:

1 – anchoring with a single anchor in the middle of the creek. 15 feet deep in the middle, enough anchor line to hold the boat also lets the boat swing into the bank. This is not a problem until the boat is visiting the shore when the tide starts to go out… This is still not a problem during the day, when it’s handy to just push off from the shore. Sleeping through that, however, would not work out so well.

2 – anchoring with a bow anchor and a stern anchor. It has to be said that I tried this with a lousy stern anchor (too small, too light, bad shape) that had no chain. Of course it pulled out of the soft mud, leading to problems mentioned above. Wind and current catching the boat crossways because of the bow and stern anchoring arrangement did not help, and even with an improved stern anchor, I’ve been uninclined to try things that way again.

3 – two anchors from the bow, with substantial slack in the downstream anchor line (with or without slack, this is technically called anchoring Bahamian style). The anchors are set by letting down the first one, sailing extra far downstream and setting the second one, and then pulling in the line on the first anchor until the boat is somewhere in the middle. This keeps the boat from going where it doesn’t belong, but the slack in the lines leads to complications, including the slack line sometimes hanging up in the rudder, and the boat turning repeatedly with the tide, twisting one anchor line around the other one with each reverse of current (naturally the boat turns in complete circles, rather than twisting and untwisting itself first one way and then the other). The completely twisted lines hold the boat in place just fine, but are a fair amount of work to untangle when it’s time to get the anchors back. Snagging of the slack line between the rudder and the hull – or anywhere else – is a problem one would rather not have, that leads to both stress and aggravation. This is not the point of anchoring in the creek!

Finally, the prize-winning combination:

Two anchors from the bow, set as described above in number three, with two modifications. First, there is not a lot of slack in the anchor lines, once the boat has been pulled back to the middle between the anchors. If you set the anchors at some distance from where the boat eventually rests, so that the anchor line scope (ratio of depth to line length) is quite generous, there is no problem with steady pressure on the two anchors. In addition, I’ve started using a kellet on the primary anchor line.

A kellet, also called an anchor sentinel, is a moderate weight – about 5 pounds in this case – attached to the anchor line with a big carabiner (or some other slidy thing), and to the boat with a string/light line that controls how far the kellet can slide down the anchor line. This weight pulls the anchor line farther under the water, and adds tension but allows the line to stretch out if there’s a big bunch of wind. Conveniently, it keeps that primary anchor line out of the way of passing motorboats, which is also relaxing. Ordinarily a kellet is used to make an anchor more secure on less anchor line, though that wasn’t my primary purpose in this situation. I wanted it for tensioning of the two-anchor system, while still allowing for movement in a pinch, as well as for sinking the nice new primary anchor line out of range of passing boat propellers.

On this boat, which has a long shallow keel, and the rudder attached at the back edge of the keel, this whole arrangement of moderately taut anchor lines means that when the boat changes direction with the tide or the wind, the keel and the downstream anchor line lie alongside one another, preventing the boat from turning beyond the anchor line. There is not enough slack for the line to catch above the rudder and make problems, and even more beautifully, the boat cannot turn in a circle! When it’s time to leave, there is no unscrambling of the two anchor lines at the bow. I was a very, very happy camper, when I discovered this.

I left the most recent creek sooner than I was expecting to, running to the coast to avoid extremely warm temperatures, so I did not get photos of this arrangement in action. They might have been very boring photos anyway. The significant bit is that each line was in a bow chock, leading toward the anchor on its respective side. Something about how the boat landed, during anchoring, meant that it made sense to move the starboard, primary anchor line to the port side, and the port secondary anchor line over to starboard, to prevent crossing. This had to do with the wind direction across the creek, and letting the boat go crossways between the anchors in the direction that it wanted to. Making that adjustment helped everything to settle in well.

Other tidbits are that it’s helpful to notice a mark on shore when you drop the first anchor, and then again when you drop the second one. If the boat drifts a bit during anchoring, it can be hard to keep track just by checking the amount of anchor line that is out. It’s also a good idea to look at overhanging trees, while deciding where to start putting down anchors. Masts and trees do not go well together! Ideally, there would be enough space so that if an anchor did drag, none of those trees would be a problem. I wasn’t so good at this last, in this recent creek visit. Happily, the anchors stayed put, but if the more northerly one hadn’t, things might have gotten interesting. I’ll know for next time.

When it’s time to leave, the process goes in reverse, letting one anchor line go loose while retrieving the second anchor, then pulling all that extra line back in. It can take some time. Working with the tide, rather than against it, can help…

The funniest part of this recent experience is that when it was time to leave there was some funny oil on the surface of the creek, broken up in small but numerous patches. It didn’t go by in a few minutes, so I decided to go ahead with the anchor retrieval process, having a tide to catch. This moved anchor line and chain through those bits of oil, and as it came up I checked my hands – fish! Somebody up the creek must have been cleaning a substantial amount of their catch, or maybe an osprey was tearing apart a particularly large and oily meal. The next time I anchored, there it was again on my hands, eau de fish, and I noticed that the inside of the boat had a faint tinge, when first coming back in from outside. The tub for the primary anchor line is in the enclosed locker under the starboard cockpit seat, and there is a mostly covered opening from that locker through into the cabin. Now a week later, it seems gone, or maybe I’m just completely used to it. Visitors will have to tell!

In the process of retrieving those anchors, a good 200 feet of the primary anchor line got that special fish oil treatment. But it was still worth it, to be so nicely snug for days, with the boat held just so between the narrow banks of that quiet creek.

Noise

10 Sunday May 2015

Posted by shemaya in Junk Rig, Trips

≈ 8 Comments

Over the course of time I’ve gone to some pretty substantial lengths to get away from noise. This past week has been no exception, but the process has yielded some interesting information. After the boat went in the water on May 2, a little over a week ago, I stayed for several days at my friends’ dock in Deep River. The plan was to be at that spot until everything was organized and in order with the boat. It’s a handy place for receiving visits and for doing the remainder of the necessary projects before really setting off.

Deep River is a little noisy, with a combination of occasional machinery and young adults who like loud engines (boats or trucks). There is even a steam train that runs alongside the river carrying tourists, with attendant engine/track rumbling, whistles, and whooshing releases of steam, as the train stops to load and unload passengers for the riverboat at the nearby town dock. In spite of all of this, ordinarily there are lovely pauses in the activity, and the surrounding wetlands are often peaceful, filled with birds and their songs. At night, it generally goes completely still, making for good rest, and for gathering of resources to go forward with the next day.

This year is different. The first couple of days were fine; being so early in the season, the train had not even begun its regular schedule. Then on Tuesday some kind of substantial engine started, with the varying rhythm of a generator, a little through the trees from Warren and Margo’s dock. Once started, that engine never stopped. Day and night, something to do with a sewer construction project on the adjacent street. This was in addition to piledriving at the neighboring marina, where they were making repairs from the exceptional winter ice. I could deal with the piledriving; it was intermittent, and at three in the afternoon they all went home for the day. The generator, or pump, or whatever it is, was another story: constant, loud in the daytime, idling all night long, until it geared up again to full, raucous force when the folks went to work in the morning. By the second night of this I was making plans, and at 0600 on Thursday morning, early to catch the southbound tide, I was off.

This departure was ahead of schedule, and not everything was in order. But there was enough. All the fussy little lines were not in place for the junk rig, but happily, in the very light morning breeze, that didn’t matter! Halyards put the sails up, lazy jacks held them when they were down, and tack hauling parrels were in place, keeping both sails oriented correctly on the masts, front to back. Also crucial, sheets were in place for hauling the sails in or out.

Most of the batten parrels on the mainsail, on the other hand, were not attached, but the top two were in place, which was helpful. I remembered friends telling me that they once forgot to attach the batten parrels and went sailing, with general success. The redundancy of the junk rig is a beautiful thing, meaning that if one part fails (or is otherwise unavailable), there are plenty of others to keep things in order until there is a chance to make it better. Some of the various lines for this rig were still coiled, hanging from their attachments somewhere up the sail. No matter: off we went.

Down the river a little ways there’s a small island, with a tiny yacht club on the shore behind it. A friend had once invited me to tie up there if I needed, and with a plan for shore support on the following morning, I headed in that direction. The friend indeed came through (thank you David!), and by the end of the day on Friday, Amanda and her sister Alaina had been and gone, with many more rigging lines in place afterwards, and the mast wires run through the deck seal, so that the anchor light could work. Supplies had come and gone, and I was in business. There are a couple more shore support visits to be done, but the necessities are in order for being off the dock.

The most beautiful part of this accelerated schedule is that now I’m anchored in my most favorite creek! Amanda and Alaina cast off the dock lines on Friday afternoon, with a good southwest breeze and the current going back up the river. By half an hour later I was inside Selden Creek, setting the anchors. Here I’ve been ever since, resting and getting things in order, and happily away from the river traffic.

Now and then folks pass by, in kayaks or small motorboats, sometimes stopping for a chat, but otherwise it’s me and the birds, and a beaver that likes to whack its tail on the water as everything is getting dark in the evening. The owls have been busy calling, and with the leaves just starting to come out, once the light comes up in the morning it’s easy to see the gorgeous colors of the spring warblers. It’s great to have a rest, in the beautiful stillness.

2015 Launch: One more time!

03 Sunday May 2015

Posted by shemaya in How Does This Work, Trips

≈ 4 Comments

Yesterday, May 2, Melissa and Richard came to Holyoke with their truck. Next thing you know, the loaded boat was trailing behind that truck down the street toward Connecticut. A few minutes after that, Suzanne and I, with our wonderful helper Amanda, were off in the van, all of us headed for the boat ramp in Deep River, Connecticut, about an hour’s drive south of Holyoke.

In the parking lot at the Deep River town ramp the last bits of stuff went in the boat, and the masts went up.

Suzanne and Richard, mainmast going up

Richard and Melissa finish stepping the mainmast

Warren had been busy processing honey, and brought one of the frames with the last bits left in it – big treat!

Amanda and I settled in the cockpit, Melissa drove the trailer into the water, and when the boat floated free we used the little electric motor to back out into the Connecticut River. The tide was high around 1100, just before we did this, so the current was slack, and the breeze calm, making it easy to maneuver the 200 yards to our destination. By ten minutes later we were snug at Warren’s dock.

In a couple of days Amanda and her sister will be back to help with the rigging – I expect to be here for a week or so, getting things in order. It’s a beautiful spot, and this early in the season there’s not too much traffic, even with this lovely bit of warm, sunny weather. Leaves are just barely starting to come out, but the flowering bushes and trees in town were beautiful on the way in, farther along than anything at home in Holyoke.

This year’s departure has been different from previous ones. I spent most of the winter sorting, giving away, and making a dent in packing the remainder of the somewhat ridiculous collection of stuff in my apartment. If all goes something like according to plan, this time next year will see a spring launch in Maine. In the meantime, it’s lovely to be floating so early in the season, and I’m looking forward to watching the leaves come out, and gradually working my way north.

The forward rake of the mainmast, especially noticeable in these two pictures, has to do with the junk rig, and helping the mainsail swing out when running downwind.

Many thanks to Amanda and Suzanne for the photos!

Learning to Sail

28 Sunday Dec 2014

Posted by shemaya in Sailing/Boat Handling, Trips

≈ 4 Comments

Recently I was asked, in a sailing context, to write something about myself. Briefly. The bit that came to mind did not fit into two or three sentences, so now it’s a blog post instead…

Sailing and I really started early in high school. One year, before junior high, I had gone to a summer camp where they did some small boat sailing on Lake Champlain; the sailing part was great. Some time after that, my dad said that we should take a drive to Gloucester, and next thing you know we were coming home with an O’Day Widgeon in tow. This is a 12 foot fiberglass boat with a small foredeck and an enclosed storage cuddy underneath. We sailed this boat near the grandparents’ home in Long Island, and even more near the other grandparents, and cousins, in Connecticut. As I became more proficient, I got to sail by myself.

In Connecticut, in Stonington Harbor, the little boat went on a mooring. I would row the dinghy out, and be off. I think that I was 13 or 14 by this time. The amazing thing is that, as far as I remember, nobody ever told me, “When you’re sailing by yourself you have to stay in the harbor.” Or something about staying inside the inner breakwater, or even the outer one. I was a pretty obedient kid, not likely to stray where I was told I shouldn’t.

My dad and I, on special days with a good northwest wind, had at least twice sailed around Fishers Island, which is a couple of miles off the Connecticut shore and roughly 9 miles long, though only a mile or so across. My dad was the grownup after all, and could say that we could do such a thing, which was well beyond what I would consider on my own, rules or no rules. We did this motorless, with a canoe paddle in the cuddy… Nowadays that trip around Fishers Island is something that I would not undertake without more adjustment to that boat. I would like oars, for one thing, and a place to sit to use them. We did have a compass, a chart, and some tide tables, and I’m pretty sure that there were a couple of life jackets onboard. Off we’d go, blasting around the eastern end of Fishers Island to the open ocean outside, and eventually back in through The Race at the western end, tide rip and all. By the time we were halfway back down Fishers Island sound, with the sun getting low, the wind would slack off. Somehow we always made it back to the mooring before it was pitch dark. Afterwards we’d go to a restaurant over in Mystic, and each eat an entire pizza.

On my own, I had a few adventures (remember that part about no range restrictions.) Judgment, after all, is developed by experience, and how much of that have you got when you’re 14?? One time I sailed to the beach on the outside of Napatree Point, to wave to the aunt and uncle who were out with friends for lunch. This would have gone smoothly if the wind had not died, with the tide running out over the big reefs that extend between Watch Hill and Fishers Island. Headed alarmingly close to Catumb rocks, I had my paddle out, but it was not nearly up to the challenge of the current.

The good thing about a paddle on a sailboat in almost no wind is that you might as well be waving a flag, as far as your predicament. Kind folks in a big sailboat came along, under power, and gave me a tow away from the rocks. They offered to go further, but when things looked secure I said that it was fine, and away they went. As it turned out, it wasn’t exactly fine: the current was still moving the boat back toward the rocks. But in a kindness from the universe, I did not need a second tow – I don’t remember whether the wind picked up just then, or the current had run itself out for that round of tide, or both, but I did avoid the rocks, and got back around Napatree and into Stonington without further help.

The obvious question in this particular story has to do with whether there was an anchor on the boat. And there was, but I had had no experience whatsoever with it, and was hesitant to try, especially in that deeper water approaching the reef. Nowadays, when people tell me they are sailing and that they are unfamiliar with anchoring, I’m big on describing what to do. I also offer a lot of encouragement about practicing. It’s amazing what an impression one of those teenage experiences can make on a person; nowadays it’s a running joke around here, how many anchors I keep on hand.

There’s another one of these stories, to do with reefing. I’ll save that for another time, but you can guess where it’s headed…

With these for childhood experiences, out on the Atlantic swells, it’s no wonder that sailing the Chebacco all over the place – and before that the Peep Hen – feels something like normal. Things weren’t simple when I was growing up, and after that I was away from sailing for quite a while. But the gift that I was given in that time, knowing sailing, and knowing the salt water, has become a treasure. Coming back to it is one of the best things I’ve ever done.

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

Fishers Island, from Stonington inner breakwater

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!

Sailing AUKLET

~ Small sailboat cruising and related thoughts

Category Archives: Trips

Gone to Sea

Anchoring and the AUTHORITIES

Creek Anchoring

Noise

2015 Launch: One more time!

Learning to Sail

Brain Retraining On Board

Snug

Swallows at Old Lyme

Motorless