SAIL - April 2015

34

APRIL 2015

EXPERIENCE

UNDER SAIL

N

o self-respecting sailor could

resist taking a last sail before

hauling out for the year.

Not this sailor, anyway—even with

20-knot northeast gusts that sent the

wind turbines ashore moaning and

the waters of New England’s Buzzards

Bay squirming.

As I rowed the dinghy out to our

mooring, my gut—or was it the soft

voice of the dinghy?—told me to tow

our 12-foot Barnstable Cat Finn around

to the landing in Megansett Harbor.

But my heart said sail. So, after tying

in a reef, I dropped off the mooring,

dinghy in tow. I planned to head to

Scraggy Neck, come about and beat past

the breakwater into the inner harbor to

the landing, where my wife and Ben from

the boatyard waited with the trailer.

Within a few feet of the mooring, a

gust hit us, and Finn buried her nose it.

I hadn’t moved the tiller. The gust put us in

irons. No problem. I’d been in irons before—

probably too many times to please the salty spirit of my father.

The dinghy was the culprit, I was sure. So when I got underway, I de-

toured to the beach to leave the dinghy behind. The harbor was no more

than a 15-minute jaunt away, even with the headwind.

For a few minutes, I thrummed along through the gray-green chop,

having a sprightly bon-voyage sail.

The next gust hit harder. Finn rounded right up into it—and I was

in irons again, the sail flogging. Before I could get out of irons, another

gust hit. My gut dipped. The day was darkening.

So much for the farewell sail. Time to turn back.

“Ready about,” I said to the boat. I spotted another gust battering the

water black as it headed toward us.

“Hard a-lee,” I shouted. The sail luffed, slatted, rattled—but the boat

only pointed right into the wind and then stayed there as we bucked

on the waves. The next moment we were gaining speed—backward. I

shoved the tiller back and forth, but the rudder would not grip. By now

we were losing ground fast, accelerating outward to the open bay.

I ran through my options: untie the reefs and sail with full canvas. Lower

the sail even more. Scandalize the sail. Flag down a passing boat for a tow.

I scanned the water: not a single vessel appeared in any direction. Had

this been summertime, not October, boats would have abounded.

I decided to shake out the reefs, after which we regained ground—un-

til another gust hit. Green water churned up to the coaming. Yet another

gust heeled the boat harder, and I eased the sheet to keep from going

over. Almost immediately the boat rounded up into the wind, the sail

shaking, all headway lost.

A thudding to the north made me look up and scan the marbled sky.

High against the cloud ceiling, a Coast Guard helicopter drummed our

way. For a moment I thought my wife had called the Coasties. But the

helicopter continued on, heading toward open water.

“I’ll get us home,” I told Finn. In response, the boat seemed to increase

her speed backward.

I reefed again. Our backward motion slowed. The sail held the wind,

and we clawed to a standstill. Then, heeling harder, we plunged forward.

Faster we went, gaining momentum.

“We’ve got it,” I said under my breath. No matter that we were headed

A snap decision leads

to a near mishap

By

Craig Moodie

Illustration by

Steve Sanford