http://www.bwsailing.comsumed this task, as our skipper, while
I was still learning the art of reading
water, wind, current and telltales.
“Ready,” I replied, the force of my
exhaled breath as sole testimony of my
disagreement with his decision.
“Hard alee!” he exclaimed.
I pushed the tiller hard over to
starboard to bring us across from our
beam reach to a close hauled approach
to the foreboding log boom. As the
Genoa filled with wind once again,
Skibo surged forward, gaining speed
towards our destination.
“OK. So, just like when we dock.
We’ll come up alongside the logs to
port after we round up. I’ll drop the
main but you keep the genoa tight
until we’re close. Got it?”
This was posed as a question but
voiced with the tone of an order from
his position above a stanchion where
he bent over to tie a fender for our ap-
proach. Michael had also filled three
old and damaged fenders with water
to sink them low enough below Skibo’s
waterline to protect her from the logs.
He was in his element. He loved the
challenge of sailing. He loved the chal-
lenge of testing himself and his skills.
I, on the other hand, was still warming
to the idea of such a challenge being
a friend.
“OK. Yes. OK.” I stood up, shift-
ing the tiller from my right to my left
hand and reached for the jib sheet,
uncleated it and tested the tension of
the wrap on the winch to make sure I
could hold the sheet with one hand.
With the mainsail dropped we
slowed to a manageable speed as we
approached the logs. “Just like dock-
ing, just like docking, I can do this,”
I whispered, my eyes fastened to thelogs ahead of us as I tried to measure
the distance to somehow match it to
the subtle movement of my hand upon
the tiller, willing the two elements to
come together in one fluid movement.
I eased Skibo alongside a three-foot
diameter log on the outside of the 50-
yard wide log boom and I released the
jib sheet. We slowed to a near stop and
Michael stepped from the bow to the
logs with a dock line in hand. He set
about doing as he said he could do,
figuring out how to tie us up to the
log boom. I went below to make us
some lunch and wait for my breathing
to return to normal.
Three sandwiches later we were
still seeing white water and running
current at the north entrance to Dodd
Narrows. An hour later and the tidal
streams alongside Skibo’s hull had
abated to an almost imperceptible
crawl.TIME TO GO
“It’s almost 4:30 and I’d say that
current has definitely slowed. I think
slack is almost upon us. Let’s get over
there and get ready. Let’s sail through
our first pass,” declared Michael.
We approached the opening to the
pass as a power boat easily motoredSkibo anchored south of Dodd Narrows in Boat Harbour