Hello Barbara,
This is a long story.
Yesterday my new hubby and I took our maiden voyage on my wedding gift, the Black Bird. This is the lovely racing sailboat (a “Snipe”) hand built by his dear and departed friend, Art Knolty. My hubby Ron was there as this vessel was hand-crafted in wood, 30 years ago. During the last 6 or 7 Whiskeytown Regattas, we have strolled the parking lot looking at boats, and I have stroked this dear vessel’s lovely wood and remarked, “Gee, isn’t this Beautiful? TWO people could sail in THIS ONE.” This year, he decided that if anyone should own the Black Bird, it should be one of Art’s closest friends and his new wife.
So we bought the Snipe from the chiropractor who had owned her the last 15 years or so. Ron spent the last 3 weeks refitting her, replacing hardware and lines and ropes, and calling his friend the sailmaker (Henry Jotz) who made her original sails back in the 70’s.
Yesterday we brought her out to the Brandy Creek Marina for the Whiskeytown Sailing Club’s second race of the spring series. I had with me my new Gill foulies (foul weather gear) which I discovered were actually made in Nottingham, England (which means, I was wearing the “Foulies of Nottingham”). We had champagne, cheesecake, and a rousing christening for the “new” boat. Sailmaker Henry was there to measure everything and make sure he created just the right sails.
However the wind was blowing “bully hell,” and Ron said, this is a “boat breaker” day. So everyone decided to wait to see if the wind died down in an hour or so, and it did. We started the race an hour later in the day, and launched the Black Bird. I was wearing my “foulies of Nottingham” and the Black Bird was skimming the waves like a Cadillac. Ron instructed me what to do with the jib and where to be with my body (forward or backward in the boat, and windward to leeward depending on our direction. His knowledge of the intricacies is really quite overwhelming).
I was thinking as I slid from side to side in the front of the boat, whipping the jib sail from one side to the other and yanking on the “jib sheet” and setting either side in its respective cleat that had I not taken yoga I would have been exhausted before we reached our first mark.
I have to tell you that sailing this lovely boat was exhilarating. The wind whipped, we planed water, and made a wake. The wind pushed us so far over that we had to hike out one one side of the boat and then the other (depending on the direction of the wind and which way we were headed). It was WONDERFUL.
After we rounded the third mark, the big wind came up again. The jib was flapping a bit loose, and Ron instructed I should tighten it “until it bites.” I did, and it almost “bit,” but the wind was so strong I couldn’t quite pull it. So he leaned up and gave the line an extra yank, and then it really bit.
We skimmed the lake like mercury on glass. The wind laid us down on the starboard side and we hiked out on port and just beamed.
Then we got hammered.
A huge gust came in and grabbed the jib and really laid us over starboard.
Ron said, “we have to loosen the jib.”
But I was hiked up on the high side, and every time I leaned down to the low side to pull the jib line out of the cleat, the Black Bird.laid over farther and threatened to drop us. (Later we would look at the cleat and remark how oddly it canted upward -- which made it almost impossible to release from the high side where we were.)
I stayed on the high side, held the rope in my hand, and attempted to knock it out of the cleat with my foot.
Even so, we went over before either of us could really do a thing.
Ron went backwards over the high side of the boat.
I fell into the low side, and fouled myself in the lines and the sails.
It’s amazing how wet and cold the lake is this time of the year.
I kept getting wetter and wetter, and thinking, “now I’m even wetter than I was before.”
And then I got even wetter. And colder.
I fooled around and got myself untangled from all of the line, and tried to get around the other side of the boat. The idea is that you get over to the bottom, lean on the keel, and the boat will right herself.
Because I was wearing the “foulies of Nottingham”, I discovered that I couldn’t really make much headway in the water. However, eventually I laid onto my back and kicked my water-filled shoes and got around the other side of the boat (and of course we were both wearing our life jackets). On the way I found Ron's favorite hat floating and the rudder loose in the water. I grabbed both of those and paddled on around.
There I found Ron, climbing up on the keel and using his ribs as a lever. Later he mentioned that he had heard something “crack” and “give” in his ribs when he really laid into the keel. At the time he warned me that “she’ll come up, but she’ll probably come all the way over again.”
I put my weight on the keel also, and she came up.
The wind caught her sails, and she came right over the other way, just missing the both of us, and then “turtling,” with her bottom side coming all the way up (mast pointing straight down), and the centerboard (keel) slipping out and falling down into the water.
No more keel to right the boat. (Thank goodness we had both discussed the possibility and he had thought to tether the tempered aluminum centerboard to the boat, so it was not lost – just out of reach.)
Now Ron was on the other side of the boat, and I could see him reaching up toward the center of the bottom. I thought he might be trying to crawl up onto the boat, so I came around the other side and pushed the rudder up over, in case he wanted to grab it and pull himself up. He didn’t grab it and I didn’t hear him say anything, so I fumbled around to his side again.
There I found him somewhat fouled in the lines and he asked me to get the red line off of his back.
I pulled that off, and told him I had his hat. He didn’t seem all that interested, and I became a bit concerned (he’s very fond of his hats). He had been reaching up onto the center of the bottom of the boat, hoping to grip onto the slot the centerboard slides into, and perhaps still pull the boat over. In doing so, he had discovered the slot was too slim for his fingers to grab onto, but had also exerted himself to the point of exhaustion. He was breathing heavily and his speech had become a bit slurred.
I was terrified that he was either having a heart attack or a stroke, and told him to please not worry about the boat, just rest and wait for rescue. Every now and then I’d peer around and look for the barge, which had not seemed to notice our plight. Every now and then I’d wave the hat, but I felt that no one was seeing us.
After a bit he said to me that the barge was coming. I was gripping him from behind, and he said “stay with the boat.” Like I was going anywhere? We’re both in the water, and the nearest help is at least 15 minutes away. There was NO HOPE of swimming to shore from where we were.
Finally, after a long wait, the barge arrived. They took another long time maneuvering around, and one of the crew said, “we’ve got some hypothermia over here.” I thought to myself, “is that what this is?” I made them pull Ron up first, because I had the foulies of Nottingham and did not feel as exhausted as I thought he was. They pulled him up like a sack of potatoes, and threw him over on the deck. As tired as he was, he remarked on this indignity later.
Then the two big bruiser guys reached down for me, and all I could think of was “if they drag me up over the deck like they did him, they’ll dislocate both of my kneecaps.” So I put my shoes on the pontoons, and told them they’d have to walk me up. They pulled me halfway up, and I put my feet on the side of the deck, and then they pulled me as I walked all the way up, and no injuries to the knees.
We went inside the little tack room and took off some of our wet things, while they worked on getting a line to the Black Bird.. They towed us back in, but with the boat on her side, it took 30 to 40 minutes. Meanwhile, we were freezing. My kneecaps (at least they were intact), were chattering up and down like battery powered false teeth. Occasionally I thought I might throw up, but I didn’t seem to have the energy. Ron was colder than I was, but he had worked harder and was not wearing foulies. Later, several people told me that foulies DO keep you warmer, even in the water and filled with water.
By the time we got back in, Ron was himself and was directing the righting of the boat, in his bare feet and boxers. By that time *I* was finally done in, so jumped off of the deck of the barge (they had beached it in the cove so everyone could wade out and right the Snipe). I beat it over to our van and crawled inside, but couldn’t quite get all of my wet things off. I had to wait for someone to come over and bring my backpack of dry clothes from my car.
Then I shivered for another hour.
Lots of good people came and helped to right the boat, get her on her trailer, and all of the rigging straightened out. Everyone remarked what a beautiful boat she was, and how well she had weathered this catastrophe.
I think many were wondering how we, as a couple, were weathering this catastrophe.
The nice thing that was through all of this, no one said things like “why didn’t you loosen the jib” or “why did you pull the line so tight.”
It all seemed like a great adventure, but my main thought was, “before yoga I would never have survived this.”
So, I thought you’d like to know.
BTW, we’re both fine.