Stunningly, I Continue To Remain… an Idiot.

               "...over and over and over, again..."
                                           -The Spinners
    Notice to Mariners, Eastern Lake Erie, Long Point Bay:
    Buoy ED2's current physical location does not match chart location.

    Yeah, I hit it.

    *sigh*

     (Y'know, if I am gonna keep baring my soul like this, hanging my dirty laundry on this worldwide clothesline, I really need to find some way for it to pay off.  Schadenfreude should equal shekels, I'm thinking.  Alas, it does not; while I continue to swing for the fences, I have yet to get called to The Show.  Really, I'm pretty okay with that.  I have thousands hundreds a handful of loyal readers that I am happy to call friends, who are happy to call me on my shit. And I apparently keep giving them lots of shit to call me on.  Like this.)

 

     It was a beautiful night for a twilight sail.

    No traffic, we've pretty much got the bay to ourselves, there's just a breath more than a wheeze of wind, pretty much just enough to keep the sails full and Whiskeyjack chuckling along at 3-4 knots on a reach.

    Not a great sailing night, but a great night for a sail.  SWMBO and I had been working long hours, and had seen little of each other over the past week.  We were like ships passing in the night, to borrow a worm-eaten but accurate cliche.        
   So, to be able to grab a few hours together? At the same time?  On the same boat?
   That's a perfect night, limp wind be damned.

    We light up the trusty Yanmar one-lunger (running much happier since a fuel filter change, oil change, valve adjustment, head re-torque, and fuel line bleeding)  and putt out of the Marina.  We soon turn to port, bearing south around ED6,  and roll out our genoa, raise the main and  cut the power, SWMBO and I smiling as we soak in the sudden silence.

    With the wind coming out of the west, our deck-sweeping genny was effectively blindfolding me, the usually situationally aware skipper, to anything off our port bow.  In fact, pretty much anything from 8-12 on the clock was obstructed from view.  Luckily, I had a second pair of eyes aboard.

... And I had a chartplotter.

... which, for those of you who are not up to speed on cutting edge high-falutin' modern boat electronics, means that I had, on a 5" screen, a full colour  graphic representation of the lates edition of the most current official and accurate marine charts, outlining depth and distance and dastardly damned destructive distractions that a prudent sailor would be well-advised to avoid.

    Including buoys.

   The red buoys marking the  approach to Port Dover, ED2, ED4, and ED 6 are known informally as the Three Sisters, and common lore is that ED2 is the sister you can dance with, ED4 is the sister who won't let you get too close, and ED6 is just plain ugly when you get within arm's reach.

   Having messed with the rocky shoals to the east of ED6, once, I tend to give her a wide berth as  we depart the marina.

  ED4 and ED2 are in deeper, less treacherous water.

   Thus, once past ED6, sometimes situational awareness becomes... less than fully aware.

   With sails full(ish) and our stalwart galleon ambling along,   SWMBOclimbs  forward onto the house to enjoy the sunset.  She looks forward and informs me that ED2 is off our port bow...

     :...but,"  she continues, "If we hold this course, we'll miss it."

    Note the use of the plural subjective pronoun above.

    Not being able to actually see aforementioned navigational buoy, thanks to the large dirty and frayed obstruction that is our 160% genoa,  I glance at the chartplotter and see that, according to the theoretical, perfect, completely imaginary world of  electronic charts, ED2 was hundreds of yards off our port bow, currently at about 10:30 on the clock.
  (okay, imagine that there is a clock face on the table/desk/couch/bed/lap/floor  in front of you.  imagine 12 o'clock is directly in front.  Imagine where the big hand would be if the time was 10:30. now point your hand there.  THAT is where ED2 is supposed to be, at that moment in time.)
   (I can't believe you actually pointed.  By the way, did you know that it is impossible to lick the outside of your elbow.?)
   (Oh,come on...  you didn't.  Did you?)
    (Yeah, I knew you did.)

   Okay, so back to the story:  sailing along, nice night, all is good, no boats around, yadda yadda. SWMBO and I sit down to relax in the cockpit with a glass of wi

  KLONGGGGGG!!!!
SCRAAAAAAAAPPPPPE!
BOINGITTYBOBBLE!!

  "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT??!!??"
 
"Oh My God,"  SWMBO replies, "YOU hit a buoy!!!"
(Note the pronoun change, from plural to singular.  Yep, this one is alllllll mine.)

   A big-ass orange shape pops into view  as it passes the leech of the genoa, and continues to bump down our port side:

Folks, allow me to introduce you to my now-close friend, ED2.

Having established that no significant harm was done to our vessel (turns out that ED2 is basically a tower attached to a big fiberglass donut, and having ascertained that 3 out of 4 chambers of my heart are pumping furiously while one seems to be pretty much catatonic, I glanced at the chartplotter:

Then,  while SWMBO gazed aft at ED2 bobbing in our wake, in incredulous disbelief, I darted below and grabbed the camera....

(Yes, the helm was unattended.  For a brief moment.  It wasn't like there was anything to hit, I'd bloody well ALREADY HIT IT, hadn't I?)

...  and snapped a shot of the chartplotter screen:

Which was horribly out of focus, so I snapped another one shortly thereafter, as the wind died and we bobbed.

  Call it, oh...almost a QUARTER MILE out of position.

  Upon our return to the Dock, we inspected our trusty vessel for any signs of damage.  Aside from a small scrape aft of the registration number on the port side, there was no evidence that we had bounced off a big-ass buoy.

    Whiskeyjack  is the Keith Richards of small cruisers-  Not real attractive, but enduring and hard to kill.

   Until now.

  So, what did we learn from my fail?

   Reagan was right:  Trust, but verify.

   Waters you have sailed hundreds of times are always new- nothing ever stays static when affected by wind and waves,

    Chartplotters are a nice tool, but nothing beats the Human Eyeball, Mk I, for  accurate real time situation reports.

    And, it is always the fault of the person holding the wheel.  There may be no "I" in "Team" but there is always one U in "It's Your Problem."




  "Talk the Dock!"


 

Post-Pottahawk Party Pandemonium

     "I got my swim trunks and my flippie-floppies..."
                                               -the Lonely Island




         The annual Pottahawk Pissup is over.

          Here's a recap, by the numbers:

          2000 boats*
          1500 boat trailers*
          10000 people*
          1972 pirate flags**
          174 designated drivers*
           437000 cans of Busch Light consumed.*
           2.5' average water depth.
           5 degree (celsius) increase in water temperature compared to the day before*
           (It's not called a Pissup for nothing.)
           6 arrests.
           8 sent to hospital

           And then, they all came home.

           See, here's the thing about the Pottahawk bash- boats travel to the uninhabited speck south of Turkey Point throughout the day, and even the day before, staking a claim and getting a head start on festivities...

       But most boats return from whence they came in a crush in the evening, everyone wanting to get home and loaded on trailers before dark.

   

        For some, the ride home was a long tow on a short rope...

     ...only to meet the same fate as all the other rampies who trailer their boats- a long wait to get off the water at the end of a long day on it.

    Some decided to cool off  by swimming in a working fairway:

  Which didn't seem to be working much at all...

       

 
    You just know at least one skipper couldn't find his truck keys when he got to the front of the line.



                                  *All figures PFTA (Pulled from thin air)
                                 **Except the pirate flags.  That's pretty accurate.  Those damn things were                                                     everywhere.




    "Talk the Dock!"
   

I Remain, Sadly, An Idiot.

     "...everything isn't meant to be okay..."
                               -Green Day





             Sometimes, you just gotta acknowledge the ugly truth when it bites you in the ass.
             This is my turn.
             Don't go getting all smug, though, gentle reader...
             It might be your turn tomorrow.

             A funny thing happens when one endeavours to fill a blog with their exploits, opinions and adventures read by thousands hundreds scores a bored handful.  Some begin to think that, you know, the author might actually know what he is talking about, could be considered an expert of sorts, or at least more expert than some readers.

           

            Just in case any of you are so incredibly naive as to think that I indeed might actually know anything about this whole boating business, let me clarify my position.  Last year I divulged that yes, I am an idiot .
             A year, and 200+ blog posts later,
             I am still an idiot.
             A big, fat, happy, idiot.... but an idiot nonetheless.
             However, I am not a complete moron- I endeavour never to make the same mistake twice, but to always find new ways to screw up.
              This season has been rife with stupid sailor tricks.
             Enjoy the tales of my idiocy, and maybe you can learn something from my experiences.  I did.

                    I built Chirp in 2009, and she has weathered storms, been hauled onto and off docks, cartops, dock carts...

              and now the breakwall.

                         When I first launched her that first season, I tied the painter to the boweye and forgot about it.  Three seasons later, on a mild day with little wind, while tied on the lee side of the Dock,  while I was running errands ashore,  the knot finally worked free, and Chirp quietly, slowly floated across  and gently bumped against the rocks.
                        I got a text message from Ralph that she was adrift, 20th Hole Rick was kind enough to snap the photo above, and within the half hour it took me to return to the Dock, Jack and Melanie had snagged the wayward dinghy and returned her to her rightful place.

                   Lesson learned:  Check all knots daily- you never know when you might need something to stop you when you hit the end of your rope.

                People with too much time on their hands Faithful readers may remember the Solar Shower swan dive covered here last week.

               Lesson learned:  Stow it, or secure it, even if it seems like it doesn't need stowing or securing .  It does.

               Last weekend, SWMBO and I and the compact sportsdawg anchored off the beach for a swim.  When we prepared to return to the Dock, the standard protocol is that I put my bulging biceps and six pack abs to work retrieving the anchor while SWMBO (wo)mans the wheel and guides us toward deeper water and home.  We've never had a problem.

              Until last weekend.

              As I am hauling on the anchor rode, I notice that the anchor chain is no longer ahead of the boat. Rather, the boat seems to be circling the chain.  I yell request that the helmswoman straighten us out, then turn my attention back to getting the ground tackle off the ground and onto the boat.  I  make my way back to the cockpit, observing SWMBO spinning the wheel.  The helm on Whiskeyjack goes lock-to-lock in three turns.  In the time it took me to clamber from the bow back to the cockpit, I watched SWMBO turn the wheel approximately 347 times.

          Obviously, something is amiss.

           Sidling up the SWMBO at the pedestal, I chauvinistically muttered, "Let me try."
           I spun the wheel just as well as she did.

           In technical terms, we have no connection from the spinny wheel thingy on the deck of the boat to the flappy rudder thingy on the underside of the boat,
   
            In other words, we have no steering.

            On a beach.
            With wind and waves picking up.
             And a depth finder reading of 2.9 feet.
             We draw 3 feet.
             Us short fat guys can move when our ass is on the line.  I raced to the bow, tossed the anchor toward deeper water and  hoped it set, then raced back to the cockpit, urged SWMBO to kill the engine, fell into the cabin to grab my tool bag and proceeded to trouble-shoot the problem. Jack, seeing our distress, clambered aboard and we worked it through, with only occasional disconcerting bumps as we bounced off the bottom with the deeper troughs between swells.Starting aft we determined that the rudder was still attached to the boat, the rudder shaft was still attached to the quadrant, the steering cables were still attached to the quadrant, so, for the first time since SWMBO and I became the boat's stewards, (bolding intentional- learn from my ignorance)  we took the compass off the top of the pedestal, and turned the wheel and saw that the wheel was the only thing turning.

          The wheel is secured to the shaft with two set screws.  One was missing and one was a turn or two from being missing.

 
     I tightened the remaining set screw and carefully nursed Whiskeyjack back to the Dock.

     Lesson learned:     If it worked last year, last month, last week, or in the last hour is no guarantee it will continue to work- inspect moving parts more often.  Ignorance is not bliss.  There should be no "first times" when it comes to systems inpsection, after five seasons of boat ownership


    Earlier that day, Gavin has asked me to take a look at his jib furler, which had decided to puke it's halyard.    The plan was to determine whether we could bring the mast down at the dock and solve the issue, so when Marco asked if we could use another pair of hands, I took him up on the offer.  We loaded into Quack and motored over to the Dock Six Annex.  The Yamaha OB banged and sputtered and quit a couple of times, but I figured it was just weeds hung up in the prop.  After sagely examining the mast, the forestay, the furler, the boat across the dock from Sol Antics, wind direction and intensity and Gavin's insurance policy, the decision was made to find another solution.  With that decision made, Marco and I embarked on the return trip.

    Which sputtered to a halt as we entered the main fairway.  Weeds around the prop?  Nope, no weeds around the prop.
Also no gas.

    Quack  is a small lightweight inflatable that is easy to tow and easy to row...by one person.

     With two aboard it is comedy and humiliation.

     Marco bent to the oars,as I tried to stay out of the way, (only because he was already facing aft- I'm not making the newbie a galley slave.  beside, he volunteered.) hauled us across the fairway, and into an empty slip on the Dock, at which point I urged him to flee while I flapped and splashed Quack the rest of the way home...

     But not before Julie managed to get a picture.

     On the bright side, here is photographic proof  I own more than one shirt!

    Lesson learned:  Always top up tank before departure- I'm less likely to get in trouble with a full tank than an empty one.

     Which brings us to yesterday, another day at the beach.  When we anchored the water was calm, but as the afternoon progressed, the wind picked up and the waves followed suit.  By mid-afternoon it was distinctly choppy, with waves of  3-5'.  Most of the boats around us decided to pack it in and head for the safety of sheltered slips.  We, on the other hand, decided that it made more sense to wait it out- usually the wind dies by 6 o'clock, making for a less harried departure, and more relaxed foredeck work.  No point in leaving a secure anchorage if you don't have to, we figured.  We retired to the v-berth to read, and I listened to the reassuring gentle groaning and squeaking  of the anchor rode, pulling against the cleat over my head.

     A few minutes later, the deck noises ceased.

     A quick glance through the forward hatch confirmed the bad news.

     Our anchor rode had snapped.

     Before I went below, I had checked the rode for fraying and chafe where it passed through the cleat, and it was fine.  Now, it quite clearly, emphatically, was not.

  

     On the upside, this makes our get-the-hell-off-the-beach-right-now procedure much simpler. None of that anchor hauling stuff needed.   Start engine, point offshore, go.

      Except the engine won't start.

     Crap.

     Okay, diagnose it later, let's move to Plan B.  We quickly unfurled the genoa, and sailed ourselves out of trouble.  For now.
      See, we're now off the beach, but to get back to the Dock the wind is going to be on our bow.  Not good. Whiskeyjack is a solid, steadfast, comfortable boat, but she's more of a setter than a pointer.  Getting into the marina is going to mean several tacks across a busy channel. Not a great plan.  Better get the engine running.  A quick seat-of-the-pants diagnosis is lack of fuel.  I usually change the fuel filter every spring, but had put it off this season for no good reason.  It appears that that decision has now come back to haunt me.  With some cranking and cracking the fuel filter bowl to drain the crap in there and more cranking we managed to convince our little Yanmar to run, and we returned to the Dock with no further excitement.

     Lessons learned:  Oversized rode is better than rode that is just big enough, chafe gear is a good idea even if you are anchoring on a sunny day for an afternoon swim, and maintenance deferred is disaster awaiting.

   Tomorrow is my day off, and rather than sailing, I am declaring a maintenance day.  Whiskeyjack and Chirp and Quack and Legacy deserve some attention.  My barrel of luck might be running dry, and my cup of experience is nowhere near filled yet.



"Talk the Dock!"

From the "This Has to Sting" Files...

     "If it takes all night, that'll be alright..."
                                -Jackson Browne


  "Hey, that go-fast is gonna run over that little inflatable!"

  "Whew, it looks like the inflatable is getting out of the way.  Wait a second, is that..."

   "It is a tow line!"

   Towed straight to the gas dock.

      




"Talk the Dock!" 

It's Anything Can Happen Day! Apparently.

                      "Bring hell from above!"
                                        -Billy Idol




          From the "WTF?" Files, I bring you our Saturday sail.  Yes, folks, it is Weirder Than Fiction.

         Saturday was shaping up to be a less-than-thrilling sailing day, but an absolutely spectacular day to be on the water- hot, hazy, humid.   .   Walking Finn down the Dock to take care of business, we spotted the first ducklings of the season, less than a week old:

After a leisurely brunch, we lit the iron spinnaker and SWMBO, Finn and I departed the Dock.  As we exited the harbour, we saw an ominous dark cloud on shore:

     Turns out it was a fire on a potato farm in Nixon, over 10 miles away.  A drive shed full of plastic potato bins went up in flames.  No one was injured, and it was extinguished within an hour, but it sure produced an impressive plume of smoke.

    Our timing was right to catch the noon bridge opening, and the wind was less than lacklustre, so we decided to cruise up the river to see what we could see.  The water level is lower than this time last season.  Anybody with a draft deeper than 6 feet is going to have a tough time getting much farther upstream than the Bridge Yachts yard.

     We turned around for the trip back just downstream of a docked Nonsuch.  Our depth was reading at 4',and  I was pretty sure Whiskeyjack drew less than the Nonsuch upstream, but I was feeling prudent.  I didn't want to come to an unplanned halt in front of an audience, and there were brunchers sitting at patio tables on both sides of the river.

    As we slowly returned downstream toward the lift bridge, we realized we were going to be a few minutes early for the next bridge opening.  The decision was made to cut back speed and just loaf with the current.   With speed reduced to about 2 knots, and the river narrowing, courtesy dictated that we move toward shore to allow faster mastless vessels passage.  The individual on the helm, who shall remain nameless, decided to give a fatbacked SeaRay a wider berth and moved closer to shore...

    ...and hit a tree.

   A live one.

   Onshore.

    Remember that part about being prudent, and unplanned halts in front of an audience?  Yep, we did it.  Just downstream of the Port Dover Yacht Club.

Before easing closer to shore we checked the depth , and the shoreline for obstructions and deadheads, but didn't bother to look UP to see if there was any overhead obstruction.

Which there was.

By my on scene instantaneous estimation at least 77% , possibly as much as 93% if we calculate total square footage of foliage,of a shore-rooted tree hung out over the channel, right where we planned to be.
Right now.


   We stopped dead, with branches and leaves and bark and twigs and bugs and stuff raining down from the limbs entangled in the rigging.  The unnamed helmsperson calmly asked what to do and the unnamed person who was not on the helm  powered up the mighty single cylinder diesel and harnessed all 9 horsepower to drag us shamefacedly out of the tree we were hung up in...

... while the unnamed helmsperson swung the wheel hard to port to take us back upstream.

...  "What the hell, you want us to take another run at it?!!?", the unhelmed unnamed person asked.

   Within seconds we had Whiskeyjack sorted and back on course,albeit with forestry-evading deviation now calculated, and we could see the trail of arborial carnage left behind, as foliage dropped from the decks, rig and canvas into the water. A quick cursory inspection did not reveal any damage and no evidence of the incident remained aboard..

   Well, mostly.

   We  left the river , raised the main, unfurled the jib and loafed in the light air while laughing about our experience, and debriefing on how to ensure we don't repeat it.

    Upon returning to the Dock, I inspected the rig more closely for damage.  We got off easy.  Some leaves rermain stubbornly attached to the masthead:

  And our windex is now on a new angle.

   It hangs up on the VHF antenna slightly, but I'm not sure it is a big enough issue to worry about before winter haul-out.




   "Talk the Dock!"