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.

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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.

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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!

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.

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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.