Torries

8

“

Blustery” comes to mind when I think

of the crisp, cool and sunny Saturday

morning last fall when a friend in an

infl atable dropped me off on the little sail-

boat the Pillsbury clan had just inherited

from a wooden-boat lover in Maine. I wore

a pair of fl ip-fl ops, knowing my feet were

about to get plenty wet, and I pulled my

foul-weather pants up over my knees in

the hopes of keeping them dry for later.

The fi rst order of the day: grab a bucket

and start bailing the many gallons of cold

seawater that had Mouse riding noticeably

bow-down at her mooring.

Mouse, I should explain, is a Beetle

Cat that, up until a few days earlier, had

lived a well-cared-for life with a family

on Vinalhaven, an island off Midcoast

Maine. I’d been told that their collection

of wooden boats had expanded to the tip-

ping point, and so, by way of a friend of my

brother, Dave, Mouse had found her way to

the mainland and then to us.

Her maiden voyage, or should I say our

maiden voyage with Mouse, had occurred

the night before, with the sun setting fast.

After backing her trailer down the ramp at

the head of Hatchet Cove, in Friendship, a

few pals and I managed to put a good dent

in a box of cold ones as we sorted out the

still-foreign elements of a gaff -rigged cat-

boat: throat and peak halyards, tack line,

outhaul, mainsheet, mast hoops, center-

board, transom-hung barn-door rudder.

Then, with the mast raised and sail bent

on, there was nothing left to do but push

her in and see what would happen.

A light northerly blew us into deeper

water, and Dave and I gingerly raised the

main. Just like that, we were sailing. We sat

on the gray wooden sole, our backs resting

comfortably against the varnished coam-

ings as Mouse danced along. Eff ortlessly, we

glided downwind past rocky islands and

working docks loaded with lobster traps,

and as darkness fell, we rounded up smartly

at a borrowed mooring. It was a fi rst sail

that couldn’t be beat.

The next morning, as friends rigged a

couple of other small boats for a day out

on Muscongus Bay, my wife, Sue, joined

me once the bailing was fi nished. We were

eager to get going and had the main up in

no time. With the sail backed, Sue dropped

the pendant and the bow swung off. A

front had pushed through overnight, and

Friday’s light breeze had been replaced by

a boisterous northwesterly, the strength of

which only became apparent when we left

the lee of the shore. In the open bay, white-

caps were in abundance. Suddenly, the

diminutive 12-foot boat felt tiny indeed.

I quickly tacked and headed back to grab

the fi rst mooring buoy we could fi nd with

a line on it. It had been a quick ride, but

already there was plenty of reason to pump

the bilge. Mouse, it seemed, hadn’t entirely

swollen up yet. While Sue manned the

Thirsty Mate, I fi gured out how to reef a

gaff -rigged sail.

With just a handkerchief fl ying, we set

out anew, now chasing the somewhat big-

ger boats in our little armada as they ran

toward Friendship Harbor. The farther

we got from land, the stronger the breeze

blew. In the gusts, well into the mid- to

high 20s, the tiller was a beast. A couple

of times we rounded up in bigger puff s —

once when we were uncomfortably close to

a large outcropping of granite. I wouldn’t

call it a relaxing sail, but the farther we

went, the more Mouse proved her mettle.

If I eased the main a bit more than I

would on our big sailboat with its Marconi

rig, the overbearing weather helm van-

ished. On the wind, with a little feath-

ering, Mouse sailed fl at and dry, with any

spray falling on her beamy foredeck. All

afternoon we tacked and reached and ran,

tracing big ragged circles past islands and

rocky ledges. Once, sailing dead down-

wind, even with just the scrap of sail, we

kept apace of a 19-footer fl ying a full main

and jib.

Sunday, with the northwesterly still on,

Dave and I went out and did it all over

again. What a hoot. Mouse roared.

january/february 2017

cruisingworld.com

With the mast raised and sail bent on, there was nothing left to do but push her into the

water and see what would happen.

BY MARK PILLSBURY

Editor’s Log

MARK PILLSBURY

CATS AND Mouse

The 12-foot wooden Beetle Cat was fi rst

launched in 1921, and new boats — over

4,000 so far — are still being built today.

CRW0217_EDL.indd 8 11/21/16 4:22 PM