The ideal craft to sail without power assistance is a
Scandinavian Folkboat. A good example, clinker built as they
should be, can be had for the sort of money that might be spent on
a sensible second-hand car. She’ll work her way through the eye of
a needle, yet you can sleep in her, cook and, if so inclined, sail her
to America. She’s also small enough to scull, but a boat doesn’t
have to be so athletic to deliver. By the time I came to sell my first
deepwater cruiser I had voyaged thousands of miles in her with a
dead engine. It failed again the very morning a potential customer
showed up for his trial sail but I wasn’t over-concerned because
the classy 32-foot gaff cutter had no vices.
It was blowing hard when the chap arrived at our berth in
Lymington. I should have known he wasn’t serious when I saw that
he’d brought along his wife, his mother-in-law and a large wicker
hamper of goodies. From the way he blundered across the rail it
was clear he wouldn’t know the difference between a bobstay and
a peak purchase, but my wife, although a full eight months
pregnant, was game for handling the tiller while I danced around
the deck. We somehow manhandled the hamper down below and
squeezed the visitors around the tiny cockpit. Sailing off the dock
was easy because the wind was southwesterly and I’d found myself
a perfect weather berth for leaving and returning. I hooked the
small, spitfire jib to the traveller and tied a reef into the staysail so
as not to alarm anybody. The canvas main already had two tucks
in as we singled up, slipped and surged away in fine style.
At the river entrance the wind was against the tide and by the
time Jack in the Basket beacon was astern the mother-in-law was
looking as though she’d perhaps rather be singing ‘Jerusalem’ in
the Women’s Institute. When the galvanised luff wire in the jib
burst two minutes later, she was sure of it. A gaff cutter with no
jib is a sorry vehicle. I was going to have to set the bigger
working sail and heaven help us all. First, however, the mortal
remains of the spitfire had to be recovered. We hove to on the
offshore tack and, as the boat crept towards the Isle of Wight, I
braced myself for a swift trip up the mast to grab the halyard
and half a sail. This was flailing around at the hounds, shaking
the rig like a Jack Russell dispatching a barnyard rat.
With the halyard block safely secured back on deck and me
all a-tremble, the next job was to nip down the long bowsprit
and tackle the bottom end of the wreckage. Soaked to the waist,
I scrabbled back inboard with the traveller, stuffed the debris
down the forehatch and braced up to set the power-house jib. I
outhauled this, hoisted it, then yanked the luff tight with the
standing-end purchase as my wife somehow hove in the sheet.
Then we let draw the staysail and we were off at hull speed with
an extra knot added for the Queen, heeling the bulwarks well
underwater. Now that things had quietened down, the customer’s
wife took the opportunity to ask him whether sailing was always
like this. He just looked at her tight-lipped while the mother-in-
law began muttering something about a lifeboat. When I suggested
that we might all like to go in now, nobody argued, so back we
went, flying up the Lymington River at a velocity that made
mayhem with the Harbourmaster’s six knot limit. I could see a
ferry leaving her berth upstream as we swept around our last
bend, and it was clear she’d be abeam of us just when I needed to
be rounding up to the pontoon. I daren’t keep to weather of the
ship, because then I wouldn’t be able to spill enough wind to slow
down, so I aimed to leeward. As she passed, she left me two free
gifts. The first was a hole in the wind big enough to bury a house.
This threw our sails aback and brought loud screams. The second
came in the form of a displacement wave that left us high and dry
on the mud of the lee shore.
We sent the customers off in a passing club launch. They
didn’t buy the boat and they didn’t leave the hamper. As for us,
we slung an anchor over the bow and waited for the tide to float
us an hour or three later. Then we tacked across the river and
tied up peacefully in our old berth. Not, perhaps, the easiest of
days at the office.
Learning doesn’t have to be so stressful. Another
unforgettable sortie came my way in Maine crewing a classic
gaff-rigged coasting schooner. She had no engine but she did
have a creditor who was tired of waiting for money to which the
skipper averred he was not entitled. On the day in question the
schooner was booked for a charter. By unhappy coincidence, this
was also the day on which the creditor’s mail box overflowed
with final demands marked ‘return to sender’ and he brought in
the law. The arrest took place in the form of a US Marshal who
arrived at the dock complete with a writ that forbade any
movement of the vessel pending a settlement. As the zealous
officer came over the rail, the skipper winked at his mate then
ushered the lawman below where he made a great fuss about
being a good host. He even brewed the coffee personally.
The marshal made himself comfortable. Half an hour later,
the saloon took a distinct tilt to port. Wondering what could
have happened, he tumbled up the companionway, to be
confronted with the full glory of the schooner standing silently to
seaward at eight knots. The hands had discreetly sheeted home
the fisherman and the land was fading astern. The charterers had
paid up, the skipper was in a strong bargaining position and the
marshal had the sail of his life.