Surviving the Storm

            It was a fine sunny day and the weather forecast indicated only a twenty percent chance of showers in the afternoon.  They were good enough odds for any gambler.   Who wouldn’t place a bet with an eighty percent chance of success?  Besides, I wasn’t planning on being out for very long anyway. 

            It was Thursday April 15^th, 2010.  My friend Tim and I had left Marquette at 10:30 that morning intending to sail for a few hours.  Tim suggested we do Shot Point.  He had this epiphany after we had cleared the break wall and found the winds to be favorable for that direction. 

It was a warm south wind at a consistent 10 MPH.  It was partly cloudy and the lake was calm.  In fact it was perfect for sailing.  Living on the south shore of Lake Superior; the sailing is always better when the wind is out of the south.  Why?  Because when there is a south wind there are virtually no waves and you can really get your boat moving. 

I hadn’t planned on sailing to Shot Point but I didn’t argue with the suggestion, it sounded good to me.  It would be my second voyage out there and I had nothing pressing to attend to.

It was a good sail and we made Shot Point doing a consistent six knots.  We even tried out the trapeze rig I mounted to the mast.  When hooked to the harness a crew member could counter balance the healing effect of the wind to try an increase the boat’s speed.  My goal being to plane her and break 10 knots or faster; I’m still working on it.

Three hours out and almost half way back to Marquette we watched an ominous sight.  A very dark thunder head was descending over Marquette and heading in our direction.  Tim and I had been paying attention to the weather via the radio and it had indicated the same information as before, “a twenty percent chance of showers.”  At least that is what it had said an hour ago the last time we checked it.

We were at least five miles from Marquette and two to three miles out from shore when the weather and the lake decided to challenge our sailing ability.  The storm descending on Marquette was dark and we could see the storm wall heading towards us, quickly closing on our position.

Tim and I watched as the storm obscured Marquette from view in a blanket of darkness.  It was at about that time we knew that we were going to at least get wet if not worse.  The wind had changed direction and started to pick up. 

“Get that Genoa down,” I told Tim.

“I think you’re right,” Tim said, not arguing.  He then went about the task making his way to the bow to fight with the sail. 

“We’re going to get wet Tim,” I yelled at him from the cockpit.  I was watching the storm front as it cleared the break wall, Marquette now a distant memory.

“Man, its coming isn’t it,” Tim commented offhand as he returned to the cockpit and tossed the Genoa inside the cabin.  At that point we both knew that whatever happened, we would be smack in the middle of it.

From the time Tim lowered the Genoa to the time he returned to the safety of the cockpit the wind had increased a good 10 MPH and was building.  The lake was starting to become more and more choppy, the waves building in intensity.

“Break out the storm gear, NOW,” I said to Tim. “We’ve got maybe a few minuets till it hits us.”  Tim immediately went into the cabin to retrieve the foul weather gear.  While he was doing that, I grabbed a couple of life jackets from the storage locker located in the cockpit near where I was sitting.  Never losing grip on the tiller.  I handed one to Tim as he emerged from the cabin.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.  By the time Tim and I had broken out the storm gear and the life jackets, the squall had closed the distance and was almost on us.  All we could see was a dark wall, left to right, extending up into the sky, and moving unheeded in our direction.  It was moving fast and we were right in the middle of its path.  

We hastened to don the apparel and made ready for the inevitable; not knowing what to expect, but expecting the worst.  The wind had continued increasing and along with it, the waves. 

“WE’VE GOT TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE MAN, WE’RE SCREWED,” I shouted at Tim, over the ever increasing wind. “I’M STEERING STRAIGHT FOR SHORE.”  With that, I started the motor, adjusted our course dead south, and started our run for survival.  It was a day late and a dollar short, but hey, better late then never.

The boat was healing badly due to the high winds from the west and the gusts that would hit.  I had asked Tim if we should drop the main sail?  He said no, because if the motor died it would be the only control we had over the boat.  If we lost them both we would be at the complete mercy of the storm.  Unfortunately, we had missed the opportunity to reef the main sail, which would have helped considerably considering the pounding we were taking.  The time for any sail adjustment had past; all we could do at that moment was fight our way to shore.

It was about then that the storm wall hit us in its full force.  HOLY SHIT!  I kid you not!  It was the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had on my boat.  The rain was driving painfully sideways.  Tim and I sat on the starboard side (windward) with our backs against the squall. 

The waves on Lake Superior which had been a comforting zero to one foot, for most of our voyage; were now building to eight to ten feet in height.  It was disconcerting to see the bow of my little boat dive into a wave troth and have the bulk of the wave wash across the deck and into the cockpit.  The water drenching both Tim and I as it did so, while the Flying Fish fought her was back to the surface.  Then the boat would immediately breach on the next wave, slamming hard into the water, only to repeat the process.  It was a nightmare!

Our visibility was zero.  It was dark; all I could see was the immediate area around the boat and of course the waves that were washing over her.  My only reference was the compass showing that we were indeed heading south and towards the shore. 

I had one hand on the tiller and the other on the throttle of the motor.  Because we were breaching and diving in the waves, the motor would cavitate as the boat fell into the next troth and then almost get swamped as the transom submerged.  I had to keep a study hand on the throttle to keep the motor from dying.

As I was struggling with the tiller and throttle, Tim was manning the main sheet.  He was constantly adjusting the tension on the main sail as we headed for shore.  Mostly loosing wind from the sail.  Together we fought to get off the lake and survive our predicament.

At some point I looked at Tim, who was sitting right next to me and yelled, “WHAT’S THE WORST STORM YOU’VE EVER BEEN IN?” He just looked at me, and without saying a word; pointed down.  Holy crap, if my mentor and sailing teacher was freaked out; we must be in some serious trouble.

A Major Storm on Lake Superior.  Not the one we were in (I was too busy holding on to use a camera)

I was at that moment, happy to be sharing the experience with another human being.  Had I been alone I think I would have most likely perished.  Hard to say, but it took two of us to maintain any semblance of control.  Also, my mental state was focused, not panicked; which I’m sure was a direct result of having Tim aboard.  To panic in that situation would have been fatal.

All Tim and I could do is preserver; at that point it was a fight for survival, a fight to get back to shore.  It seemed like forever, the endless waves, the water washing over the deck, the driving rain, and the relentless wind.  This was no place for a small twenty one foot boat; yet here we were and there was nothing for it, but to ride it out.

We were one step away from getting on the radio and broadcasting an S.O.S; it was that bad!  As bad as it was, the Flying Fish was holding her own, hull intact, and making way.  We weren’t yet in dyer peril, close perhaps, but still afloat and moving towards shore. 

By Tim’s and my estimates we endured that hell for at least twenty to thirty minutes, and that was plenty!  In my younger days I was in the Navy and had experienced major storms at sea, but nothing like this.  Perhaps it was the size of the boat; being much more intimate with the elements than a large ship.  In either case, I have never been so aware of the power of nature.

As we neared shore as best as we could determine, the storm subsided.  Within five minutes the lake went from a major tempest back to the casual weather we had started out in.  The storm had passed.  The wind and the waves subsided giving way to sun shine and a gentle breeze.  Both Tim and I were soaked to the bone, and we made towards the mooring area, about thirty minutes away.

We would later find out that there had been a small boat advisory for the Marquette area, indicating sustained winds of 45 MPH with gusts up to 60 MPH.  No Shit!  We had been caught right in the middle of it.

Now, some people would have been turned off to sailing after an experience like that, and I don’t blame them.  However, I have no fear of that lake (Lake Superior).  That should not be confused for a very healthy respect for it.

A Trip to Wetmore

            On June 21^st, 2010 my family and I boarded the Flying Fish for an overnight trip to Wetmore’s Landing.  It is a very nice cruise if conditions are right and takes about three hours to sail there from Marquette.  Along the way you sail by the islands located just to the north of the city; it is very picturesque.

            My wife Marcia had grown up sailing with her father on his Hobie Catamaran.  These were quick trips done on weekends.  She has very fond memories of those outings; which is probably a major contributor to her accepting the idea of acquiring a boat of our own in the first place.  Our excursion would most likely be the longest duration sailing trip she had ever done. 

            Marcia had put up with me while I was refurbishing the boat.  I would spend the majority of my free time in the garage working on it during the winter of 2009 / 2010.  She was excited to finally be able to use the damn thing.

            This trip, of course, wasn’t the first time my wife had graced me with her presents aboard the Flying Fish.  However, it would be the first time she elected to do an overnight on the boat.  It would be an adventure for both of us.

            Now, when I pick up my wife and son, I do so by meeting them at the dock with the boat.  I must first get it off of the mooring and bring it to the dock.  Namely because, it is much easier to do the later then to shuttle the supplies and crew back and forth via canoe.  Once the boat is secured to the dock everything can be loaded in quick fashion.

            I don’t know about you, but my wife feels the need to bring almost the entire contents of our house when going on a trip.  An overnight trip on our boat would be no exception.  She doesn’t subscribe the notion of “conservation of space”. 

            Picture if you will, a small sailboat, a CM 21, tied to a dock at a boat ramp.  The owners are making seemingly endless trips back and forth to their car to grab supplies for an excursion.  It quickly becomes apparent to the viewer that these people aren’t messing around, and must have a major trip planned.  They are possibly planning to circumnavigate the lake, Lake Superior that is, or maybe cross the Atlantic Ocean.  Either way, the amount of gear, suitcases, coolers, and bags of food being put aboard the vessel warrant a major cruise.  Good luck intrepid voyager.  Oh, and let’s not forget about the ton of beach toys brought along for my son’s (and every small child in America’s) enjoyment.

            By the time we were done, the interior of the boat looked like a stuffed closet, with the door waiting to be opened so all of the crap can tumble to the floor.  Amazingly enough, Marcia was able to stow most of our stuff and make the cabin usable.  To this day, I don’t know how she did it.  This went on as we sailed out of Marquette towards Wetmore. 

            In no time at all Marcia joined me in the cockpit, glass of chardonnay in hand, ready to sit back and enjoyed the voyage.  The sun was out, it was 80 degrees, and we had fair winds.  The trip would take us about three hours.

            We had past the middle marker indicating the rocks located near the old Marquette Lighthouse and were making towards the upper break wall when we were hit with a gust.  The wind caused the boat to heal over to a good pitch.  Marcia just happened to be in the cabin making sandwiches when this occurred.  She was not ready for it to say the least.

            “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” she yelled from the cabin.  “GUST!?! ARE YOU TRING TO SINK THE BOAT?”

            “It’s just a gust honey,” I explained to her.  Now, I firmly believe that I had given her a warning prior to this incident.  Probably along the lines of, “Hold on, here comes a gust;” which is the norm.  Also, Marcia had been on the boat enough times to know that healing over is perfectly natural for a sailboat.  However, when you’re inside the cabin, the action of healing may be a more intense experience. 

            One time, I was sailing with my friend Tim on the Genius (his boat) during gusty wind conditions.  His battery came loose and tumbled into the middle of the cabin.  He asked me to secure it, which I did.  I was coming back out to the cockpit when another gust hit, sending me sprawling on top of his table.  I ended up on my back, arms and legs in the air; like a turtle flipped on its shell.  I was stuck like that until his boat finished its current healing maneuver.  Tim stared in at me from the cockpit.  He just looked at me and laughed.

            The gust that hit the Flying Fish was not a typical increase in wind.  It was prolonged; lasting a good thirty seconds or more.  My poor wife being pinned to the port bulkhead with a half made sandwich in one hand and with the other she was trying to keep the odd collection of condiments, meat, cheese, and vegetables from sliding onto the deck of the cabin.  A surface contaminated with everything from bilge water to spilled beer, and anything else one might find in the bottom of a sailboat. Yum.

            Marcia’s valiant efforts saved our lunch from becoming fish food.  And I gladly ate what she handed me, knowing that to make any comment would be hazardous to my health. 

            No sooner then the gust came and went than my wife was on the phone to Tim.  She told him that I was going to kill us and was pleading for help.  Thanks for the vote of confidence honey.

            Tim reassured my wife, telling her, that no matter how bad of a sailor I was; I couldn’t sink the boat.  That is, it was physically impossible for the boat to capsize; it would right itself.  Now, running it onto rocks or something was another story.  Thanks buddy.

            I’m happy to say that the slight gust of wind we experienced while sailing north out of Marquette was the most exciting occurrence that happened during the cruise.  My wife settled down and again relaxed and enjoyed the ride, glass of wine in hand. 

            The Flying Fish made good time and soon we were passing the Islands and well on our way to Wetmore’s Landing.  At some point we converted the cockpit into a wading pool by plugging the drain and pouring lake water inside.  We filled the cockpit to about six inches and soaked our feet; it felt great on such a warm day.  My son grabbed a pool toy and played in the water.  It was kind of surreal, playing in the water while on the water.

            Soon we passed Larus Island; affectionately know in these parts as Bird Shit Island.  The island so named due to the numerous birds and their white wash that covers the small rocky outcrop.  At that point it was time to pull the plug and drain the cockpit.  Wetmore’s landing would be coming up fast and we needed to make ready to lower the sails and anchor the boat. 

            Within twenty minutes we neared the coast and made ready to anchor.  I started the motor and lowered the sails, and had Marcia steer parallel to the beach.  While approaching I had prepared the anchor for deployment.  It now sat on a foam pad a top the cabin, with the rope attached, ready to be thrown in. 

            I took over the controls from my wife, much to her relief.  We now searched for the ideal spot to claim for the night.  I kept the motor at about half speed and examined the many coves found in that area.  The closer we got to the parking lot the more crowded the beach became.   That was not what I was looking for.  I wanted seclusion, so I turned the boat around and began heading towards the less populated sections of the beach, hoping I could find an unoccupied area amongst the coves.

            Wetmore’s landing is part of state owned property that extends for maybe a mile or more along Lake Superior, just north of Marquette.  The area we had sailed to has many coves and beaches which cover about a half a mile or more of the shore line.  The farther you get from the parking area and access trail the less crowded it becomes.  After all, who wants to drag their picnic supplies a half mile down a beach and over large rock formations.

            Wah La, there it was, the perfect spot.  We found our haven in the last cove to the south.  Also, the furthest from the access trail.  The wind direction was from the southwest, making the cove perfectly calm.  The beach is roughly one hundred yards wide and situated between two formidable rock formations.  Only the hardiest of beach goers press to make the journey to get there.  It was ours for the taking and became our favorite spot for the summer.

            I headed the Flying Fish directly towards the middle of the beach.  I had Marcia up on the bow looking for rocks, not wanting to have any collisions on the way in.  As we grew closer, I slowed the motor a bit, and raised both the keel and the rudder.  The boat now had about a nine inch draft.  Certainly one of the advantages to a swing keel design. 

            I gunned the motor at about one hundred feet and then put it in neutral; letting our momentum carry us to shore.  I then threw the anchor in and let the rope feed out as we continued towards the beach.  All was good according to Marcia, no rocks in our path.  As we grew closer to shore the boats velocity slowed, I raised the motor, and we gently made contact with the beach, boat and crew in tact.  “Houston, the Eagle has landed,” or in our case, the Flying Fish.

            I jumped off the boat and onto the beach.  There, I quickly secured my one hundred foot mooring line to the bow, and then proceeded to tie the boat to a stout log.  The log was a good ways in from the water, but the rope reached it, just barely.

            With the bow secured, I then climbed back aboard and secured the anchor line.  I pulled feverishly until the rope was tight and almost pointing in a straight line into the water aft of the boat; then tied it to an aft cleat.  With the Flying Fish Secured, I then reached into the cooler, grabbed a beer, and rewarded myself for a job well done.

            We had arrived and there was no rush to do anything.  The sun was high, and the day was warm.  You can’t ask for more then that.  Well, I couldn’t, my wife on the other hand….  

            With Marcia’s assistance we unloaded a few items from the boat to make our stay a little more pleasant.  Soon, the beach chairs, cooler, and beach toys were all available for use.  These and whatever else we might have found useful.  After all, we had brought the entire contents of our house, so chances are if we wanted something it was on the boat.

            I selected our spot; the spot where we would make our fire.  It was up on the beach away from the water, but close enough to the boat so we wouldn’t have to walk more then a few yards to reach it.  I dug a small pit and then set about the task of finding wood.  Fortunately, that was easy.  There was a whole forest mire feet away at our disposal.  And thanks to the warm weather, dry wood was abundant. 

            My son also joined in and would grab whatever he could carry.  He did great for a six year old, but had a tendency to start using his haul as a sword to fight off imaginary pirates.  He was having fun and that was all that mattered.

            It was still early in the afternoon and we enjoyed our time together on the beach.  It was nice to be with my family.  My older two boys did not accompany us to Wetmore’s Landing.  Being sixteen and nineteen respectively, they had found other interests and so, did not join us on this trip.  Neither were sailing enthusiasts and having to spend that much time with their parents might have emotionally scarred them for life.  Fortunately, our youngest still thought Mom and Dad were pretty cool and fun to be around.  Plus, he’s a captive audience.

            About two hours after we arrived we started looking for Tim.  He was planning on meeting us and would be accompanied by his son.  Tim’s son was also a young lad who was still at the mercy of his parents whims.  In his case, sailing with his father.  Both Tim’s and my boy were friends and they would soon spend hours roaming up and down the cove.

            There is no cell phone reception around Wetmore’s Landing, so we had no idea what time to expect Tim, or where he was.  All we could do is keep an eye out for him, and hope he spotted us.  Small boats are not easily seen, and the rock outcrops on either side of the cove also obscured the view.  Tim would have to be positioned directly in front of us for him to see our location.

            I spotted the Genius way out on the Lake; it had obviously passed Bird Shit Island and was heading in our general direction.  I estimated Tim’s arrival some thirty minutes from when I first saw him.  He grew closer and closer to the beach and seemingly was headed straight for us.  I figured he must have seen us and would come straight in.  Nope, he sailed to the north of our position, and soon was out of sight due to the rocks.  Wanker.

            I wasn’t worried.  I knew Tim would eventually find us.  Either that or he’d think we had gone to a different beach or something.  If I had to, I could go look for him, but wasn’t going to form a search party just yet.

            Within a few minutes the Genius was heading south and passed in front of the cove and our hiding place.  Her sails were down and Tim was running the Motor.  Sitting on a beach chair, beer in hand, I watched as the Genius again motored out of sight.  This time, Tim headed in the opposite direction and towards the other side of the beach and past those rocks.  Wanker.  I just shook my head.

            Within five minutes or so Tim again passed in front of the cove and our location.  This time we waved and shouted at him.  He finally saw us and adjusted his course.  Soon the Genius and her crew were anchored a long side of the Flying Fish.  Tim and his son were glad to be there. 

            Apparently, our chosen spot was a great place to hide a boat.  Tim said he couldn’t see us when he was approaching and decided to check up and down Wetmore’s Landing.  It wasn’t until the third pass that he spotted us and the boat.  Wanker!



A Typical Anchorage



            I was glad to see him, and as soon as he came a shore handed him a beer.  The rest of that day was spent lounging on the beach and messing around with the kids.  It was like a Club Med resort except for the absence of beautiful women in bikinis.  That and drinks with little umbrellas in them.  But then again, it didn’t cost insane amounts of money either; just enough to provide a few meals, snacks, and some beverages. 

            That evening when we were preparing to cook dinner, Tim informed us that he had enough brats for everybody.  Brats are Tim’s usual menu item for any occasion; breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

            Marcia responded, “Thanks, but I brought steak and king crab for dinner.” 

            “Damn,” Tim said in astonishment, “I’m going to have to come camping with you guys more often.”

            It seems that our journey to Wetmore’s Landing had corresponded with Father’s Day and Marcia wanted to treat me to a nice dinner; bless her heart.  I was not expecting such a feast but was happy to indulge her generosity.  No brats for this kid.  She had apparently bought out the store, so in no time the entire party was feasting on steak and king crab.  It was the most delicious camp meal I’ve ever had. 

            Inevitably, the evening grew late and the party ended; all members finding refuge in the boats for a comfortable nights sleep.  The following morning would find us soon enough and provide new challenges and new culinary opportunities.

            I can’t remember breakfast, so it was obviously unremarkable.  I do know that brats were not involved.  With a quick bite and a couple cups of coffee it was time to weigh anchor and make our way back to Marquette.  Our only major issue was fog.

            During the night dense fog had engulfed the area.  It would probably burn off during the day but we were not inclined to wait until it did.  I think my wife had to work, so delaying departure was not an option.  Fortunately for us, my GPS device was always on the boat.  Without it we would not have attempted to venture out onto the lake. 

            It was eerie traveling out into the fog.  The lake was perfectly still, with absolutely no wind; probably another reason for the fog bank.  Within seconds of leaving the beach the shore vanished into obscurity.  We could see nothing and the only sound was the drone of the motor.

            We headed out into the fog guided only by my GPS unit which indicated that we were indeed making progress.  You could see the water moving past the boat but for all intents and purposes our senses told us we were still in the water.  There was no point of reference.  It was just white.  The water reflecting the sky; it was like flying except for the fact that we were on a boat.

            For safety sake Tim stayed very close; maybe one hundred feet away.  At some points he would start to vanish depending on how dense the fog was.  We only motored at about half speed, not wanting to be surprised by anything and so we could hear each other over the sound of the engines.

            At some point Tim asked, “Where’s Bird Shit Island?” Yelling his inquiry, “It has to be around here someplace?”

            “It’s close,” I responded, “maybe two hundred yards.”  I was intently watching the screen of my GPS unit, and could see the small dot indicating the Island.  We were heading more or less straight for it and the distance was closing.  I would look at the GPS unit and then stare into the fog knowing that the island was or should be right there.  Then suddenly it appeared; we were maybe one hundred feet away.

“There it is,” I shouted at Tim, who had closed the distance between us.  We adjusted our course and passed the Island on its north side.  I was actually relieved to see it.  It brought back a sense of reality to our surreal journey through the fog.  We continued on, me constantly watching the GPS unit. 

Marcia was sitting on the opposite side of the cockpit from me facing the rear of the boat, her back against the bulkhead.  She had a blank look on her face.

“Honey,” I said looking at her, “You know what we need the next time we do this?”

“What?” she said absently, not averting gaze from the fog.

“Bagels and Locks,” I said, “those would be so good out here”.  Marcia turned her head and looked at me like an insane person.  A look I can’t describe, and then started to laugh.  It was the laugh of doom, insanity rearing its ugly head.  Like she knew something I didn’t.

“What?!?” I asked, “What is it, what’s so…..funny? You don’t like Bagels and Locks??”  At that she broke up even more, but the sanity had returned to her eyes.

“What?” I repeated my inquiry.

“Here I am thinking doom and gloom, and you’re thinking about food,” She said still laughing.  I looked at her inquisitively.

“I'm waiting for an Ore Boat to ram us, or a sea monster to come up and sink us,” she continued.  Her imagination had obviously gotten the better of her.

“We’re fine honey,” I reassured her. “It’s just fog, and we’re not in the shipping lanes…not yet anyway,” I said with a rye smile.  Besides, I’d never heard of a sturgeon sinking a boat.  And they’re the biggest thing in the lake.

She smiled, the tension broken.  From there on we continued with light conversation and stared into the fog.  Tim pulled up next to us and lifted a beer in salute.  He was obviously less than concerned about our present predicament.  I followed his lead and grabbed one myself.  Hey, brothers in crime and all that.  Marcia just shook her head while rolling her eyes.  I thought that it was a pretty intense situation, and was enjoying the experience, beer and all.

We continued on towards Marquette making our passage through the fog; me ever vigilant watching both the GPS and keeping and eye on the white nothingness we traveled through.  I thought to myself, “The scenery on this trip really sucks!” and laughed to myself.  I was enjoying the whole thing.

Both boys were oblivious to our current state, content to stay in Tim’s cabin and play video games.  They remained there for the entire voyage. 

After about two hours we rounded Presque Isle and turned south towards our final destination, Marquette.  It was about then that the fog began to lift giving us a clear view of where we were going.  That was fortunate because we were now going to enter the shipping lanes, and I was much more at ease knowing I could see what was going on.  No ships that day, but I can’t say I want to play chicken with a sixty thousand ton Ore Boat.  That’s another story.

Me and My Boat: Rudder & Tiller

Among the various tasks I had to perform in order to refurbish the boat was building a tiller and rudder for it.  I had thrown together a temporary tiller/rudder set up when I first got the boat.  It had worked, but it was time to make ‘real’ steering components for my boat; worthy of being mounted to the transom.

The original tiller and rudder had been lost to history and probably resided at the bottom of some lake, or more likely in the attic of someone’s garage, or maybe even in a land fill.  I like to think it found its’ way onto another boat somewhere, serving its purpose to this day.  The make shift tiller and rudder I made reside in my back stair well waiting to be used for something.  I guess if the new one breaks or falls off the boat I’ll have a spare.

Both Tim and I needed new tillers and rudders.  The rudder from Tim’s boat was old and on the verge of falling apart.  It was also too small for his boat, especially after he modified the rigging and started using larger sails.  There was just too much power in heavy winds for the rudder to function properly.  Tim’s tiller was in similar shape due to years of abrasion with the aft stay and the type of wood used (pine), which was weathered and cracked.  The real killer is when Tim stood on it to adjust something high up on the aft stay; that’s when it split at the bolts and fell off the bracket.  This effectively left us without any means to steer his boat.  Not good when you’re under way.  Fortunately, a roll of duct tape fixed the problem and Tim continued to use the tiller until he made his new one.  Real sailors use duct tape on just about everything.

Using Tim’s tiller and rudder as a template we went about the task of designing the new ones for both boats.  They were both roughly the same shape but larger then the original; Tim’s new rudder being bigger then mine.  He designed his to be about 40% bigger to enhance the control and stability of his boat.  Mine was a complete guess but was at least 20% bigger then the original.  Both rudders were designed to hinge in the middle, like the template, to facilitate shallow water maneuvering.

We cannibalized the hinge plates off of Tim’s rudder and used them to design new ones.  Since his new rudder was to be much larger, the hinge plates would also require an up-grade in size.  The old one’s however, would work fine for my rudder. 

Prior to construction we had gathered all the necessary materials to complete our task; this, with many additional trips to Menards for odds and ends.  The rudders would be constructed from the straightest un-warped boards we could find; two 2” x 12” x 8’ pieces of pine.  Also, enough fiberglass to completely cover the wood once it had been shaped.  I my case, I had bought pentals for my rudder from the local boat works.  They were the most expensive fittings I acquired for the project.  Some things should not be jury rigged.  I also bought Tim his new hinge plates from a local aluminum fabrication shop.  It was the least I could do, since he gave me his old ones.

To build the rudders we were starting from scratch, except for the design, that is, the shape of the rudder.  The rest was a grand experiment.  The rudder would consist of two pieces the “Top half” and the “Blade”; both held together by the hinge plate.  Once those two pieces were built the fitting could be added including the pentals. 

Me and My Boat: A Year Gone By

Today is January 8, 2011.  A year ago at this time I was working on the boat almost daily in my garage.  A lot has changed since then.  For one thing, the boat has been finished and put to the test.  Which, by the way, it passed with flying colors, but that remains to be told.  The other significant event is that I lost my job almost a year ago.  Actually, I was laid off due to a labor reduction company wide.  I guess that is supposed to make me feel better about my situation.

Anyway, due to the circumstances regarding my job, I stopped writing the repair journal.  I will pick up the chronicle at this point.  I apologize in advance if I miss some key parts of the tale.  It has been 10 months since I finished the boat and I stopped writing with about two months to go on the repairs.

Among the work that had to be completed was the repair of the main hatch cover, remounting all the fittings, finishing and mounting the aft hatch cover, shaping and placing the foam covering in the cabin, mounting the keel winch and making a new crank handle for it, mounting the new compass, etc, etc, etc.  I could go on but I am starting to jog my memory of the project.

I guess I will need to completely re-read what I have so far as to not repeat anything.  My plan is to accurately retell the events of the refurbishment project and then continue with my sailing adventures.  There is some good material that I think needs to be told.  Like when the boat was going to be launched for the 1^st time and Tim rolled it, trailer and all, into a bush.  There is also the term “Wank Fac” to be explained.

Please bear with me, here goes.  The main hatch cover; as I have explained it was misshapen due to the original manufacturing and needed to be fixed to make it work properly.  This involved adding aluminum strips to the front of the hatch on both slides. 

The aluminum strips were both about nine inches (?), I’d have to measure them, long and were riveted to the slides; the part of the hatch that slides back and forth in the wooden hatch brackets.  This worked but had some unforeseen consequences.

With Tim’s help, we remounted the main hatch.  With the hatch in place, we re-secured the wooded hatch bracket, including re-spooging it and tested the repair.  I slid the hatch back and watched the results.  It worked, and didn’t come out the groove in the hatch brackets.  Excellent!  But wait, where are all those wood shavings coming from?

Apparently, the new aluminum slides didn’t quite fit and were scrapping wood from the bracket.  No, that wasn’t it; it was the rivets used to hold the aluminum in place on the hatch.  As the hatch slid back and forth the rivets dug their way into the wooden hatch bracket increasing the size of the groove.  Suddenly wood shavings were being deposited all over the top of the deck.  When would the madness end?  Would I have to redo the wooden hatch brackets because of this new development? 

Closer inspection and repeated rigorous use of the hatch indicated that the fix would indeed work.  The rivets dug their groove and settled into the new space.  The wood shavings discontinued and all was right with the world.

At the time and for the immediate future the hatch repair worked great.  However, with intensive use of the boat and the applied weight of a fully mature adult male of around 220 pounds (namely myself) directly on the repair point; it broke again.  That is the fiberglass cracked at the corner where I had repaired it.  Say La Vi.  Will I repair it again?  I don’t know, but may be some day.  It’s good to have a hobby.