Creek Anchoring

19 Tuesday May 2015

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

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

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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

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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!

Sea Trials

26 Friday Sep 2014

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

≈ 2 Comments

Suzanne making adjustments to the mizzen rigging

After a little over a week at the dock, taking care of everything from remaining rigging to another tidbit of wiring, a couple of days ago we got to see the sails actually move the boat. Systems were tested, challenges found, and after that little sail the night was spent anchored in back of Eustasia Island, about a half a mile down the river from Warren’s dock. The following morning, early to catch the last of the outgoing tide and the morning north wind, we had rig test number two. And, most importantly, a beautiful sail in the morning mist.

For those in suspense about the minimal camber in these sails, I’m happy to say that the boat does indeed sail upwind, rather nicely, so far. Better than I was doing with the Paradox mainsail, at least it seems that way at this point. I’m going to have to try more upwind work with no current, to be more sure about it.

Surprises on that first day, in the very light wind and bit of current, were issues with steering. The shifting tiny wind on the now much larger sails was often not enough to move the boat fast enough for the rudder to work well on the water, but it was enough to shift the orientation of the boat dramatically. I was glad there was no traffic. I had the pleasant company of Warren and Margo, and they were very good-natured about our various pirouettes, gradually riding the current north, and then after the tide changed, back toward the dock in Deep River.

Funnily enough, Warren and I met originally because of another steering problem after the very first launch of the boat in 2012. Like in this new test, my understanding of how the sails were working together was a work in progress, and the small trolling motor that I had at that time was not enough to overpower the tight mizzen sail, which should have been released at the first sign of steering distress. As it was, in that first launch 2 1/2 years ago the boat wanted to go only in a straight line, perpendicular to the opposing wind and current, and only good luck with quick anchoring prevented sailing broadside directly into Warren’s docked boat. (His boat is an enormous steel sailboat, so is fortunately well defended.) After that experience we got the Torqeedo, and I started to understand how to manage a yawl rig.

The other day, with Warren here in this very same boat, and the new junk rig, we once again had issues with ineffective steering. This was true while sailing in very light wind, turning unintentional circles, and then again having dropped the sails and having direction-holding complications while motoring to the dock, after the wind had picked up a little. Like two and a half years ago, it was again wind against tide, this time with the complication of all the new windage from the furled mainsail in the bow. On the bright side, I could be looking at this situation as an opportunity to embrace motorless sailing, including for docking in complicated situations. At least if the sails are up, once you understand their mechanics you know what they are up to, and with any breeze at all you have considerably more power than comes from a very lightweight motor. Another alternative would be a motor with more torque, and effective reverse – perhaps the next size up of Torqeedo, the 2.0.

The Torqeedo I have now (the 1003) has an extremely stiff locking tab to hold the motor down – it’s virtually impossible to lock and unlock, so I leave it in its unlocked position. This is fine for gentle reversing out of a slip, but with that lock unsecured, doing any kind of heavy reversing causes the motor to tip up, creating all sorts of havoc as well as not doing the job at hand. My present understanding of the docking issue, with all the windage and resulting steering problems, is that one would need to come in with more speed so the boat had better steering, and then be able to use reverse to slow the boat in a short distance. Of course, if I was a truly elegant boat handler, the thing to do would be to understand all the forces, working with what the boat wanted to do, and place it in such a way that all that windage would be used to advantage, moving the boat into its desired location. I’m studying on that.

Further thought on the unintentional pirouettes while sailing has led me to the hypothesis that this is the result of my tinkering with the sail area. This makes boat designers crazy – people start messing with designs and then are unhappy when there are completely unexpected results. My present guess is that putting so much sail area on this hull – a good bit more than the original design, and a lot more than I had with the Paradox rig – does not work well together with the designed keel and rudder. The boat becomes like a dry leaf falling from a tree through swirling winds, going this way and that with not enough shape under the water to provide direction against that large spread of “leaf.” I think that in a consistent tiny breath of air there would probably be no problem. This issue is not the boat’s fault – after all, I’m the one who went and put on all that extra sail area. Counterintuitively, the solution is probably reefing for tiny, shifting light wind, particularly in combination with complicated current.

In that first test the other day, the tiny air movement was shifting direction, and on top of that the current was doing different things in different places, as the river came back together after flowing past an island. Having no effective steering was an odd sensation – this was not my experience with this boat in extremely light winds, once I had come to understand the yawl rig and how to manage it. In fact, this boat did a very nice job of holding its direction in tiny wind. Thinking on the leaf example, my new plan is that I will indeed try reefing the sails in those conditions of minimal and changing wind, especially when combined with shifting subtle current. The large sail area may very well come into its own on the open water in very light wind, where the air movement holds its direction. It’ll be interesting to see.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day…

On the second morning, there was no problem steering. The mainsail had only four panels up, instead of six, and the mizzen sail had five panels instead of six. The breeze was very light, but enough to riffle the surface of the water (unlike the previous tiny wind test, when the water was mostly glassy). Again we were traveling with the current, and there were occasional swirls. It was both peaceful, and satisfying. A rainstorm with northeast wind was predicted for the next day after that, so my destination was a side creek off of the river about 5 miles south from where I had just spent the night. This creek is particularly well sheltered from the northeast, and is quite pretty, with some very interesting bird activity. I was pretty set on getting there.

Leaving first thing in the morning from the back of Eustasia Island meant that there would be favorable current for a couple of hours. If the northerly wind picked up, it would then be possible to sail against the beginning of the flood tide. As it turned out, it was a very pretty sail, but that increase in wind didn’t happen. A little over a mile short of my destination the current started to get going in the other direction, and with progress diminishing, I turned into another side creek that I had always wanted to explore. It was perfect as a place to wait for the next ebb tide, though unfortunately likely to go to mud flat when that tide went out, or I would have stayed; with so much already happening, testing the new beaching legs was more than I wanted to take on. One day in the future I’d like to go in there with the right timing for low tide to investigate if there’s a little deep spot somewhere – because there’s so little water, there is no activity in there, and it’s quite peaceful. This is in back of Nott Island, across from Essex, Connecticut.

As it was, by early afternoon when the tide was running out the wind had picked up from the southeast. This means a lot of tacking to go south in this part of the river, but with the current helping it’s not so bad, and interesting to weave in and out of the huge mooring field at Essex, with a number of elegant traditional sailboats to see along the way. The wind came up some more, which was particularly good from a sea trial perspective. I’m happy to say that the boat sails quite nicely in those conditions with the new rig. Particularly noticeable is that it tacks comfortably, settling in on the new heading without a lot of falling off, which has often been an issue. Perhaps this good behavior had to do with the current, but I’ll be especially pleased if it continues generally.

During the interlude at Nott Island I had the opportunity to make adjustments to the mast lift and lazy jacks. They had been set quite low in order to allow for full raising of the mainsail, but I had neglected to take into account just how fully that low boom and overall sail would block visibility from the cockpit. Coming down the river in the morning, with the sail out wide to starboard, a lot of contortions were required in order to see forward off the starboard bow. Tweaking those lines was a big improvement, though it came at the cost of not being able to fully raise the last panel of the sail.

Really, the new mast could’ve been another foot taller. Or the new sail could have been made with boom and battens at 12 feet instead of 13 (boom/batten length determines the rest of the dimensions in the Reddish junk sail design process). Given the steering experience discussed above, the slightly smaller sail dimensions would probably be ideal, but I’m still pondering on this. As it is, with one or two panels reefed the boat still has a lot of sail area, carried lower… maybe that’s okay too, nicely filling the space above the cabin. Conventional wisdom says that it’s better to have a certain amount of height, rather than a very broad shorter sail, to most effectively drive the boat, so we’ll see how it goes.

While we were sailing south, a big Nonesuch catboat was tacking down the river, coming out of Essex with us having a good head start. They of course eventually passed us by, but I was impressed that it did take some time, and a number of tacks for both boats, before that happened. And that boat was under full sail. The wind was something like 12 knots – easy for a larger boat, but time for reefing in my world, though with some sacrifice in speed. Anyway, with that other boat for a measure, the new rig came out looking quite respectable. And that’s with AUKLET heavily loaded for cruising!

By the end of the day I was snug in my creek, in back of Goose Island. Further rigging adjustments are in progress, based on all the new information, and it’s perfectly beautiful watching the water, and the gentle rain, and the trees on the hillside just starting to turn toward their fall colors. I couldn’t be more pleased.

Sailing AUKLET

~ Small sailboat cruising and related thoughts

Category Archives: Trips

Creek Anchoring

Noise

2015 Launch: One more time!

Learning to Sail

Brain Retraining On Board

Snug

Swallows at Old Lyme

Motorless

more sea trials

Sea Trials