The Shed of Damocles

 

Accident waiting to happen

Every avalanche begins with a single snowflake;
 And my hope is to move a snowflake.

- Thomas Frey

The Shed of Damocles

Well. Our latest boat project has been idling for close to five months now... stalled on account of weather. Last year we were able to work through the winter for the most part, however inefficiently. Summer was unusually wet and cool. This winter, early and hard.

Sigh.

We were soooo close to finished when November of 2025 froze our bones in sub-freezing temps. and dumped three feet of snow on us. The fixed mill site (the building behind our tarp shed) had never let go its snow before, and we were content to believe it never would. Ordinarily, we'd go up and shovel it, but the roof is old and thin in places... if we can't see where to step, we could punch through. Even if not, we'd open up a hundred leaks we couldn't fix until clear and dry.

Our light tarp structure  is pitched steeply for the duration by lowering it's street-side posts. It can stand a deal of powder snow... maybe as much as a foot? We don't want to test its extremes, so clear it once or twice a day, avoiding any more than about 6in. More often if it's wet, since waterlogged snow is 10x as heavy.

Since it's not steep enough to shed snow, the procedure is as follows: 

• Throughout this process, shovel away past the outer, lower edge of the tarp to clear a space for snow coming down. If not, it stacks up and blocks it from shedding off the tarp.

1. Make a pass along the lower edge, shouldering upward to shake the bottom 1/4 or so down and off the tarp.
2. Use a smoothed T-pole to prod and shake the underside from the solid eaves down, shaking the top 1/2 down toward the bottom 1/2.
3. Go outside, and drag that lower 1/2 of snow down and off the roof, shaking the last remnants. 

This takes from 20 minutes to about an hour of hard work depending on depth, how dry, damp or wet the snow is, and how much snow is built up along the bottom. Past a certain depth, we have to move it toward either end of the 40ft span, or fling it across the 10ft road. 

Huff. Puff. Ain't as young as we used to be. I won't go into shoveling along town, houses we're watching, our boats and those we're watching or are unattended. But there ya go.

Eventually, there came cycles of thaw and rain and freeze in quick succession. The snow compacted and melted a bit, but formed an icy underbelly.

Finally, it blew a balmy 45degF winds through the open shop, melting the interface between ice and metal roof. The unmelted portion - a foot or so of ice and snow - was happy to ski downhill and onto our shed, wreaking a degree of mayhem; tearing our tarp and breaking a few rafters.

It warmed further, and we fixed out rafters and added the double layers of the blue tarp you see. They're water resistant, but are not as slick as the polyethylene underlayer. A little harder to clear.

But the warmth was transient... temps plummeted and the snow came again, building to back to its previous level, as shown in the lead pic. 

It's raining, again, with cold in the forecast. That upper roof might melt away without dumping, this time... certainly no ice along the bottom layer to sled it down. Who knows what the next cold spell will bring.

Five months lost so far... that's enough to build the boat in ideal conditions, all found.

Wah.

Yet, we grow stronger with every shovelful. We rest between pushes of effort, catching up on chores deferred and reading. It's a time to come together with friends for feast and laughter.

And oh, the winter-time is beautiful! The skies are glorious - furrowed in the laden cloud, or bright with crystal blue, or dancing auroral against the distant stars flung above the peaks. Snow flocks bush and tree and languishes in sensual curve and hollow. Frost feathers and heaves. Fog, frozen to ice mirrors from every branch. Our cheeks our ruddy and our breath smokes on the frigid air. Lovely!

But still... spring-time, anyone?

Hitchhiker's Guide to Wooden Boats: Review

 

Margo St-Finch singing her Tide's Going Out

I almost look at it as being a little bit religious;

putting yourself out to the world and saying,

What do you have for me?

Where am I going to go?

-- Ryan Hashagen

Hitchhiker's Guide to Wooden Boats: A Review of Sorts

Every now and again we stumble upon a story that we relate to on some deep level, for reasons hard to identify, much less to express. 

This little film - presented by Northwest Maritime of Port Townsend, WA - is the story of a young couple's weekend adventure by land (camper van and bicycles) and sea (in HA!, a lovingly restored Bolger GLOUCESTER GULL).

Turns out, Ryan lived for a time afloat in Eagle Harbor, where we took our first steps in life aboard. HA! may even have originally been our friends' dory... the one which inspired our own. We surely have friends in common.

Turns out, Margot is a lover- and writer of sea-shanties, among her other artistic pursuits. Her Tide's Going Out was born with the patina of... well... je n'sais pas quoi. But it carries us out on its ebb.

Turns out it's a joyous adventure on the scale of Wind in the Willows, but shared by a couple obviously in love.

There. You see? These descriptions express nothing of why this one is worth your while. The best I can do is recommend that you invest a half-hour of your time to watch. To find out for yourself if it speaks to you.

If you're anything like us, you'll find yourself reviewing it on occasion, to lift your spirits in troubled times.

How We Got Started

M/V ANNA JACKMAN

Dave’s first ‘berth’ at 6 months

Begin as you mean to go on.

-- British Saying


How We Got Started, OR, Down to the Sea in Slips

My first sail, at fourteen, was with fellow teens in a flotilla of rafts and canoes faring from Hoonah -- in Southeast Alaska -- to Tenakee Springs and back, involving two inlets separated by a high-tide portage. 

This all went about as you might expect… passion and drama, high times and low.

One glorious, fair wind day we rafted our seven slim vessels together, erected a lattice of spruce boughs festooned with tarp and poncho, and sailed a sunny thirty miles!

Sailing!! Oh, it was wondrous, lazing along without a stroke, pushed by the kindly flow of the world! I'd had zero exposure to real-life sailing craft, and had somehow acquired the misimpression that such were nowadays yachts; toys of the very rich. Now this experience planted a seed of another species.

On to college. Strange financial terms meant that whatever I earned in summer came off my aid package. Summer overheads, in other words, translated directly to debt. What to do? Well. I hadn't seen much of the 'Lower 48'. Hitch-hiking was an obvious solution. Which I loved.

On the Road, I discovered the Tao -- that Watercourse Way – and Drift, a pace that suits me. To me the phrase, "sails full and by the wind's whim", are heart and soul of the drifting, dreaming Tao.

I considered hitching on; but the glow of the '60s was fading, and the Road was becoming dark and strange. I considered a 'hippie' bus; but a motor vehicle is no improvement on a motor boat. How to be free and footloose in a world of pistons, cogs and oil?

Musing, I returned to Sitka and signed aboard a salmon troller for a couple of seasons and worked the shoreside fish plants.

And then. And then! Rummaging through a box of Library cast-offs I came across. Sailing the Farm! A Survival Guide to Homesteading on the Ocean!! Independence on Thirty Feet!!! Ken Neumeyer, I exalt your name!

My torch was finally well and truly lit.

But to build or to buy? That was the question! Didn't help that I soon fell head-over-heels with the Pardeys and SERRAFYN/Lyle Hess! Good people; good boats - but well out of present reach.

I more-or-less wasted a few years in research, dither and scheme.


*****

Anke learned to swim before she could walk.

She grew up shoreside along the river Rhein in Duisburg, Germany; the world's largest inland port. Shipping, boats and barges were a constant backdrop. Riverside parks stretch for miles along the banks, and bridges criss-cross the river.

In Schleswig, on the Baltic coast, a family friend would sometimes take her along to join his children in working the nets.

But Europe is crowded. She was drawn to the wide wildernesses of boreal forest. She signed on for a cultural exchange, which took her to Sitka at the dawn of her adult life.

She soon found employment at Patterson Bay, a wilderness research station studying salmon hatchery. Lots of water-work, there, both fresh and salt, ashore and afloat.

And she loved cold water. There were rumors of mermaid sightings.

*****

It was love at first sight.

I was watching a small (live-aboard) sailboat for a friend who'd urged me to take it out. To my concerns that I was a pre-beginner, he tut-tutted. "If anything breaks, you'll fix her, and we'll both be the better for it."

So Anke and I headed off, on the first adventure of our new life together. All book-larnin' and no experience.

We scared ourselves, of course. Despite small, bite-sized steps we occasionally encountered a puff of wind or send of swell. Our first real ‘voyage’ had us up sailing and worrying all night, resisting the motor we had forsworn, the sooner to learn what it takes to go without.

We finally put anchor down, fell into one another's arms, and slept.

Hooked for life.


*****

In those days small, inexpensive wooden sailboats were scarce. In vain, we scoured the Seattle waterfront, looking for a small, sailing liveaboard that we could afford, yet was only moderately challenged (we wanted to learn marine carpentry, but not rebuild!). It also required that certain je n’sais pas quois.

I, of course, had my hopes set on a boat far above our means. Deep draft, ocean capable, classic! Anke pragmatically suggested that I wake from fruitess dreamboating and follow the Pardey's advice that we 'go small, go simple, go now.' Accordingly, our horizons expanded.

We found just what we were looking for in BRAMBLE (formerly TERRAPIN), a salty, gaff-rigged, lifeboat conversion from 1942. Bronze-fastened, larch-on-oak. 26ft on deck by 8ft beam by about 2½ft draft (this was our first taste of shoal draft - both serendipitous and portentous!).

The owner accepted rent-sized installments after an initial down-payment. I took a job flipping pizza, while Anke worked at a small winery. After eight months, we owned our own home, free and clear.

Our first port - while working off our debt - was in the late, great live-aboard community at Eagle Harbor, Bainbridge Island, across from Seattle. It has since succumbed to predatory Bureaucracy, but at that time was truly Magic Harbor. There, many gracious friends patiently mentored us onto the water.

Despite our (or at least my) slow and stuttering start, Anke and I now live aboard among the islands of SE Alaska's Alexander Archipelago. Since BRAMBLE, we've designed, built and sailed a series of vessels.

We sail on a shoe-string, engine-free, and are learning to subsist ever more on local forage.

Goin' on a while, now.

Subjectivividy: Row / Sail Around Chichagof

 

Our route, minus squiggly bits

Is it not better to applaud
and embrace the ever-changing seas,
not a longing dream stranded
on an eroding shore?

For the relentless tides shape
the coastlines: changing the world,
leaving their imperfect marks on time.

-- from The Perfect Myth by kategorical_poet

Subjectivividy: Row / Sail Around Chichagof

Circumnavigation was incidental.

We were aiming for the outer coast. Outer Chich, as it is locally known... the (west) side of Chichagof Island exposed to the Gulf of Alaska. Big water. A half a million square miles big. One and a half million square kilometers. Wind and wave each have plenty of room to develop power. 

So we Inside Passagemakers plan to head outside in a small vessel. And not just small, but new to us, and encumbered with every oddball idea we've collected over an oddball career. 

We got more than the usual cargo of advice. Yagottas and Yacants and Yashouldnts and Yamusts. We're gonna love it. We're gonna die. There's no shelter. There's shelter everywhere. It's all foul bottom. It's good holding anywhere you'll want to be.The usual, in other words, but this time at full volume. 

A general rule of thumb is to prefer those experienced mariners who report positively. 

Nay-sayers - even those with experience - are typically reporting the negative experiences consequent to poor choices. Careless anchoring, poor choice of shelter, machoing out the blows... these all lead to a pessimistic view. Those who have good experiences are typically applying both knowledge and prudence. If these can ride out the storm, it ain't braggin'. If they find holding, it's there. If they find shelter, it's there. If they read advanced notice of trouble, it's there to read.

Still, we approached the trip with caution and not a little trepidation

*****

Passage from Tenakee to Kalinen Bay, jump off point to the outer coast, involved a lot of rowing.

But our third day, in Peril Straits, a forecast of 'light winds' turned suddenly nasty. Five foot chop and gusts to 30kts of wind caught us mid-strait. This was our first stiff wind and way more than we'd bargained on! But MUSTELID took it well. With her whipstaff (vertical tiller) fixed a smidge to port, we could steer to s'brd by sheeting the main and raced across to shelter under a patch of sail.

Away in the distance, a humpback whale - longer than our hull and maybe 20x the mass - was coursing more or less toward us. But so long as we both maintained course and speed, it would pass easily behind us.

A few, absorbing gusts later and I looked again to find it now on a collision course! Not much time, and no room to maneuver on the face of the waves, I stomped the hull and called to Anke, below, to make noise.

That whale surged close, breathing slow and easy all the while, before it suddenly realized we were there, gulped air and emergency dived. I could have touched it with an oar. Anke saw its back, point blank, eclipse the sky. It's quick action saved us from being t-boned!

It would prove to be the closest call of the whole trip!

*****

From Kalinen, we faced a NW passage along 14nm of foul bottom shoreline, girded by breakers over jagged rock teeth. Wind was predicted S15 with 7ft seas, which would allow us to adjust distance off as needed, despite the rock 'n' roll. The concern was SW wind (prevailing direction along there)... we weren't sure we could close reach in the slosh of sea... if not, that coast would be a gradual lee shore.

As it happened, following a wild start the wind dropped to nothing. We rowed. And rowed. And rowed. All the time rising and falling to W seas from the Gulf and watching them burst against the shoreward rocks, close at hand.

Finally, we found the S wind, blowing hard, and made for Peele's Passage.

Peele was a paragon of the many Prohibition era smugglers supplying hootch to hundreds of outer coast miners. He knew this rock strewn passage well, and ditched pursuing law enforcement in its narrow, weed-wracked confines.

Our first look at it, we come screaming in under dark of a squall. We close-hugged a windward rock, ensuring we could make the sharp turn in. As we rounded, we were alarmed by the roar of several sharp, black fangs of rock that seemed to surge toward us!

Quickly became clear... those were no rocks. Sea lions, startled as we were!

*****

Crazed and Crazy

Once through Peele's we entered an island wonderland. 

I don't love the word 'awesome' (overused), but it's hard to think of a better. 'Terrific', maybe, in it's archaic sense of ability to inspire fear and respect? In any case, words fail.

Stretching from Slocum Arm in the south (Peehle's snakes along it) to Lisianski Strait in the north, outer Chich packs thousands of miles of coastline into a raven's flight of 30nm.

Approaching from the sea, solitaries and spray lines of rock must first be negotiated. Then fans of myriad tiny islands surrounding larger anchor islands. Then the perforated main body of Chichigof itself. All separated and connected by a labyrinth of weedy, bereefed passages. Shoals and deeps. Mountain, cliff and moor. Sheer rock and climax forest. And populated by fish, fowl, land and sea mammals running the local gamut.

Pretty much all of Southeast Alaska in a nutshell!

We drifted. We rowed. We sailed. We poked and prodded and scrabbled and scrooged. Feasted on its bounties, nourishing body and soul. And tucked away like the gem it is, White Sulfur Hotsprings let us look out on the open Gulf from the luxury of hot water! OMFG!! (Can I say that??)

We moved about in a daze - sometimes a literal daze of fog - overwhelmed by the beauties of the place.

But autumn was approaching, and with it equinoctial gales and storms rolling off the Gulf. On the first day of September, we rounded Three Knob Rock and turned toward inland waters.

*****

Sunset over Icy Strait

Icy Strait looks simple. Should be simple. Ain't simple.

Forecast winds blow mostly E or W. Water rushes in and out the E end... that's a fact. After that, it's complicated. Deep troughs are separated by relatively shallow ridges... water rises, turns and rushes. Waters collide in rips and ridges. Eddies back and fill. Point Adolphus puts a kink in the whole works, throwing water from one side of the strait to t'other.

Over the years, we've figured out jigsaw pieces of the puzzle. Maybe put a corner together.

Going E from Adolphus, for instance, if you follow the S shore (where all the good shelter is), you soon run into a W setting current. A strong one. Always. Goes like this:

• Outgoing tide, headed W to the sea, is on the nose.
• Incoming tide, headed E from the sea, is on the nose.

Wait, WHAT?? Well, incoming water is thrown NW by Adolphus, setting up a huge back-eddy that curls and back-fills alongshore, headed W.

Best bet is to push E at low slack, hoping to forge across the eastbound river of water, into the eye before the back-eddy sets up full throttle.

And that's just one challenge!

But the vistas! Wide waters aligned with sunrise and sunset. Towering, glaciated mountains and Glacier Bay to the NW, with lesser but no less beautiful mountains lining the shores. Deep sounds, inlets and estuaries to either hand.

With all this open water view we realize that we're surrounded by whales in flight, breaching for reasons they have never shared with us.

They say when pigs can fly, meaning never. But whales do fly. Go figure.

*****

Chilkoot Mountains

So we pull into Swanson Harbor at the cross-roads of Icy, Lynn and Chatham Straits. It's now late September and well past time to return to Tenakee before winter comes down hard.

But. But. But. But. 

But we're having such a great time! The temps are milder than usual for the season, and we're feeling in command of our vessel. Having family up there in Haines gives us a pretext. If we're there for a birthday on the 1st of October, we can take the next window S.

Now Lynn Canal is a full on fjiord let into mainland, North America. The wind comes down, as a friend says, with his Long Boots on! We've sailed it often, but even in bigger vessels, we prefer to keep our time there to the summer months. It would be... y'know... ill advised to head into the Lion's jaws this late in the year.

So rather than turn our bow south for home, we head north.

It's a humbling run at any time of year. The Chilkat and Chilkoot mountain ranges ramp up and up as we sail north, their peaks shredding the clouds. But as October approached, snow fell high and beautiful, clothing the naked rock with a mantle of white.

Birch turned autumn golds and reds are at first now and then. Soon they crowd the alluvial fans spreading at the outflows of valleys yet buried in ice. Flats along the way are limned with grasses turned sere and electric. Birds are flocking and on the wing, heading for winter grounds. 

We had more wind in six days of actual transit, coming and going, than we had all the rest of the trip combined! Water heaping up with 'well marked streaks' between bouts of scud blowing off the cresting waves. 

Sailing in such felt much more under control, however, knowing our boat and having advanced our small craft sailing skills considerably over the summer. A little cotton mouth here, shaky legs there, and speedy runs up and back.

At one point, we were running south with a fair wind and last end of tide. Wind and sea had both been picking up, but a large lee lay close ahead. But then three short, steep, tall waves overtook us, one after the other. If they arose with a fair tide, we'd better get out of that before it turned foul! We had at hand a cove with a tricky tidal entrance, but low slack is the perfect time. So we rounded into a sudden, flat calm and rowed, easy as you please, with the new incoming tide into one of the best harbors in the world.

Slept like babes.

*****

Back in Swanson in mid-October, it was only a matter of waiting for a window to head for home. It's still the cross-roads of three cranky stretches of water, and Swanson itself is a geographical wonder... wind might be 15 gusting to 25kts higher than the surrounding areas at any given time.

But in due time, a window came. After all this, the homeward leg was uneventful, to our great relief. We rowed and sailed in lighter winds for the very most part.

Turning that last corner into Tenakee inlet aroused mixed feelings. 

We felt the pull of that next horizon strong within us. Despite generous helpings of friends and family along the way, we'd mostly been just the two of us, delighting in our duetude. We had faced much together. Leaned on one another with an intensity not called from us since our early days on the water. To immerse ourselves in a community, even for a season, is to trade something we value for something invaluable.

To me, this closeness to one another throughout the trip was the most vivid aspect of our whole, luminous venture.

Subjectively speaking.

MUSTELID

Feeling Buoyant

  

Don't let that sinking feeling get you down!
From Disney's Pirates of the Carribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl
via BroBible

You don't drown by falling into the water; you drown by staying there.

-- Edwin Louis Cole

 

Feeling Buoyant?

Here’ a tale of specific gravity I heard via Kevin Allred…

Seems a friend of his, living along one of the great sea-lanes of SE Alaska built him a small, open sailboat of cedar. 

For his first sail, he guesstimated what he’d need in ballast and accordingly threw a ten-count of sandbags onto the floorboards. Figgured he’d adjust as needed, then bolt in their equal in fixed, lead pigs sometime down the road.

Off he went, sailing along sweet as ya please, proud as punch of his new vessel.

Well, it was blowing pretty good and gustin’ up a little, but nothin’ to worry about. All the same, he made his sheet fast with a slipped hitch for easy let-go, just in case, which come along in due course. 

Up come a big gust. He gives the sheet a yank and whoops. The bight jammed. His new boat is knocked to her beam ends, throwing him overboard and cutting under sideways. He pops to the surface, sputtering and snatchin’ for breath (that cold water’s a shock, lemme tell ya!). He looks around and… no boat, with the shore a mile off! 

But waidaminit… there’s a few inches of vertical stick up and down a few yards away, which he recognizes as his masthead. Over he swims and is clinging to the very top of his rig, with - not much, but a little - time to think it over. But, y’see, he’s motivated. After due consideration…

Down his mast he shinnies, holding his breath and poppin’ his ears. He gets hold of a sandbag and heaves it over. Then another before he has to go back up for air. Gained him a few feet of mast!

Four trips and eight bags later, he’s bailing for his life and raises her up and high on her lines. Almost like nothin’s happened.

Straightaway he beelines it for shore and his last neighbor before a long, long downwind sail.

Neighbor hears a faint knock and goes to the door to find a jittery, blue apparition, soppin’ wet:

“Holy SMOKES! You okay???”

“C-c-c-c-c-c-old.”

*****

We get to see some principles in this story.

One, in small open boats - especially when gusty - hold the sheets in hand or wrap just enough turns to friction hold the load between gusts. 

A slipped hitch is better than a hitch, but no hitch (with ju-u-u-u-st right turns) is better than any hitch.

Two, positive buoyancy is a fine thing!

In boats, we think of buoyancy as one of negative, neutral or positive. Negative sinks. Neutral just hangs out (it may move up or down with momentum from wave action). Positive floats.

Those few inches of mast floating proud of the water mean there were just enough more floaty than sinky bits in the immersed portion ofboat to support the weight of protruding mast. A matter of a few pounds transformed this potential tragedy into comedy.

The moral? The more positive buoyancy, the merrier.

• Keep sinky bits to the practical minumum (i.e., functional plus safety margin).
   

• Add as much floaty stuff as is practical, preferably stowed so it can’t float away if immersed.
  
  

• The goal is to float crew and maybe decks clear of the water when awash.

Think positive!

PS… Anke hears the yarn part of this post and says to me, “You don’t talk like this!” She’s referring to the many colloquialisms, such as, “Up come a big gust.”

On examination, it turns out, I DO talk this way, when relaxed, just not so ‘cogently’.

Mine is the local vernacular style on our waterfront, and I’ve spoken it all my life. Mixed with some East Coasterisms I’ve absorbed from nautical readings and songs along with other flip and foolery from over the course of 40-some years. Along with turns of phrase that resonate with me. Gordon Boklets, among others.

If I’m writing for technical clarity, however, as now, my training kicks in. Highly edited, fairly grammatical sentences are more common, though I hardly stick to Turabian. Not always successful, I know, but it’s my best shot.

What I’m not so good at is telling a story both verbally and well. What I hear in my head is soooo much better than what comes out of my mouth. But tongue pulls ahead of brain. Detours. Red herrings. Lost threads. Dead ends.

However, I’m a slow typist, and my brain can spill at that rate. Stories come out as I think them, for better or for worse. I only ever lightly edit this stuff. This is why what I write doesn’t always sound like me to Anke.

You’re getting my Voice, such as it is.

Umm… you’re welcome?

Storm Tactics: Inshore

Carved handrail from S/V TANTRA
by
Ried Stowe

You can't stop the storm, so stop trying.
What you can do is calm yourself.
The storm will pass.

-- Timber Hawkeye

 

If you think it might be time to reef, it's time to reef!

- Sailor's Wisdom

Storm Tactics: Inshore

In life and sailing, storms overtake us.

Most often, if we pay attention, we have some warning before their onset. In rare cases, they pounce like a cat upon a mouse. We're the mouse, at least in scale. Unlike mice, we have a range of tools to meet the storm.

NOTE: When I say storm, I'm speaking of high winds in general. Our standing policy is to NOT be on the water in full storm conditions or worse. Despite this, we occasionally find ourselves caught by surprise.

Foundation

These are things I recommend which underlie a successful response to storm conditions:

• Prior Knowledge... Knowledge and skills acquired ahead of crisis are priceless!
  
  Learn what you can before exposing yourself to storm...
  
  
• Trained Crew... and train up all who sail with you.
  
  
• Sound Vessel... Robust construction and maintenance, uncluttered decks, capable and easily reefed rig, good anchors with ample rode.
  
  Without these, any ship is at risk in any weather. When Storm comes with its long boots on, meet it with all head and hands on a stout deck!

 

 

Rules of Thumb

We use a small heap of rules-of-thumb to help us along our way:

• Fail Safe vs. Fail Dangerous
• Preserve Options
• Layer Redundancies
• Maintain Margins of Safety
• Act Decisively
• Develop Standard Operating Procedures
• Develop Communication Protocols
• An Ounce of Prevention is Worth a Pound of Cure
• Get Out of the Wind, Stupid!
  
• Avoid Smug
• Manage Fear and Panic
  

I go into these at more length here.

Storm Tactics

• Batten Down - Secure your gear inside and out, dog down hatches, dress for the weather and clip in. MOB (Man Over Board) in storm conditions is a very long shot, no matter how well drills have gone. Stay aboard!
  
  NOTE: Make sure your harness clips are short enough to keep you out of the water. The USCG warns that a person being towed in the water cannot clear their head to breath from their own bow wake from about 4 knots. We lost an acquaintance that way... his crew didn't know to round up and stop the vessel.
   
• Reef Early - Reduce power before you are over-powered. Sail handling is easier and you'll be more comfortable and safer on deck.
  
  
• Reach or Run for Shelter - Shelter ranges from protected coves, to the lee side of islands or points, to mere outcroppings that break wind and especially waves. Consider heading into the best shelter available before conditions deteriorate.
  
  It's important to note that, while wind can be unnerving, it is wind-driven water - weighing a ton per cubic yard/meter - which can toss your boat dangerously. Interruption of seas driven over a long fetch (open stretch to windward) will give your anchors the best chance of holding. Reefs, spits, and even thick kelp beds can provide effective shelter even as the wind whips over them.
  
  
• Consider Quartering the Seas - Quartering (angling across them at about 45deg) gives a much easier ride in large or closely spaced waves, both for boat and crew. This generally means sailing close-hauled or broad reaching.
  
  
• Consider Heaving-To, Sailing Backwards and/or Drag Devices - These are more often used offshore, but they have their place inshore. They help keep the bow up to wind and waves. You can adjust position to a degree by crabbing (backing or balancing sail to edge to port or starboard) without re-establishing full sailing trim.
  
  
• Look Around and Enjoy the Storm - I mean, they are magnificent! As long as we're fool enough to be caught out in one, we may as well enjoy it.
  

 

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

We've just completed a winter passage - under press of calendar obligations - that pretty well kicked our butts and tried our mettle. So all this is pretty fresh.

A mere 80ish nautical miles as the fish swims, we started out with winds which, unforecast, edged into gale force. Turns out that our main halyard had jumped a sheave and jammed... we could neither raise nor lower sail. 

 

Fortunately, it jammed in deep reef position... low gear, as it were.

 

Unfortunately, before we had reached a place to pull in, the wind first died to nothing, then turned foul. 

Fortunately, we had shelter behind us and ran for it.

Unfortunately, that shelter had its own katabatic blowing from it over the ebbing tide with river outflow... with our short sail we couldn't sail in.

Fortunately, after heaving-to in a lee all night, the wind returned in our favor, and we again sailed for our destination.

Unfortunately, the forecast called for gale with storm force gusts due before we could possibly arrive.

Fortunately, there was a small hook of shelter right at hand. We know it from years back and call it Whoa Nellie Nook (Nooks protect from North). It has a good lee, a protecting reef and good holding. So we sailed in, set anchor and got our sail (mostly) working again.

Unfortunately, our lee was SO good that a back-eddy of breeze blew us toward the beach as we slept (contrary to the wind that was howling about four boat-lengths from our position)... we whunkered down onto a rocky bottom as the tide ebbed.

Fortunately, the rocks were pretty round. We buffered with some wood cut ashore and lifted off again after several hours and re-anchored.

Unfortunately, the next morning's wind was blowing into our nook (the opposite was forecast).

Fortunately, there was a bit of sand off our protecting reef and we could kedge out and sail on.

...

That was two nights and three days of a five week passage. I won't subject you to the rest, but will merely note that we only got two full nights of good sleep in peace and quiet in all that time.

Looking back in appraisal, we find the following:

• We need to ditch time-bound commitments, especially in spring, fall and winter.
  
  Each time we commit to some deadline (for a job, for instance) our decisions become influenced by calendar pressures. We're reluctant to back-track and give back hard-won miles. We trim our margins of safety and head out into smaller, less reliable windows. We push fair winds, tides and daylight hours, which can erode our rest and recovery. All together, we take on higher risks to honor our commitments.
  
  
• We need to increase redundancies in some areas.
  
  For instance, we have a spare block with halyard on our mizzen, but haven't yet arranged one for the main. This turned out to be an ELE (Exctinction Level Event) on this trip (the jammed halyard could possibly have set off a lethal string of consequences).
  
  
• We need to be more skeptical of weather forecasts in high wind seasons.
  
  Time and again, we sailed or anchored in conditions which proved contrary to the forecast. In one case, this could have cost us the boat (our sheltered anchorage became dangerously exposed in a 180deg mis-forecast blow).
  
  Area forecasts cover large areas, and 'predominant winds' is a squishy concept. Worse, we were mostly sailing between one weather system that reaches up into the Yukon (Canadian) interior and another that opens on the Gulf of Alaska. We're learning to look up and take the whole chain into consideration, rather than rely on more local forecasts. This is especially true when updating forecasts flip-flop in wind direction and/or strength.
  
  NOTE: To be fair, SE Alaska is made up of what we call geographical wonders (local places which alter, amplify or diminish weather patterns). Forecasting the weather - both for pros and amateurs - is notoriously difficult.
  
  Weather data collection points are few and far between, and are often in sheltered or compromised locations (e.g., at points between two weather systems or in towns whose location was selected for sheltered weather). Models and forecasts based on these data are accordingly unreliable.
  
  Furthermore, a warming planet increases the discrepancies between models (based on historical data) and the real, emerging world. Winds are tending stronger and less predictable across the board. We need to increase our weather pessimism accordingly.
  
  

• New technique for anchoring in marginal lees:
  
  Our problem at Whoa Nelly Nook was that, as the tide came in, our protecting reef covered and wrap-around waves sideswiped us badly. So we anchored in very close to the beach and ended up too close.
  
  The remedy for similar spots - now SOP - is to set two anchors aft against potential wind reversal and one or two high on the 'windward' shore. Tend the vessel with the tide to position close in the protected lee of wind and wave, then out as the tide falls and protecting reef uncovers.
  
  UPDATE: Given a more recent experience sheltering from Force 11 winds in which a backwind clobbered us briefly, we're now making sure to set our BEST anchors aft and lesser anchors/shoreties set into the lee!
   
• We're approaching a decline in physical ability.
  
  This trip was physically demanding. Long hours on deck. Sails and (multiple) anchors up and down. Sculling long distances. Kedging. Swamped dory and recovery, and lots of bailing, often in rough conditions underway. Jury rigging gymnastics. And so on. Meanwhile, we're at the further end of middle age, and looking downslope.
  
  We're already planning a small, camper-cruiser for high mobility with less physical input. In coming years, we will be sailing WAYWARD less, and in less challenging windows. We are mulling adding an engine down the road (diesel/electric, possibly yawl-boat mount?).

*****

 

Sooo... we loved this trip for all its challenges. It kicked us hard, but there is no living like that at the edge in a gorgeous seascape of stormy wilderness. But all good things...

As Joan Baez sings the poem by Lord Byron:

 

So, we'll go no more a roving

  So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

  And the moon be still as bright.



For the sword outwears its sheath,

   And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

   And love itself have rest.



Though the night was made for loving,

  And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

  By the light of the moon.

Not there, yet, but we can see the storm ahead. Time to be thinking of shortening sail.

Off-Center Masts for Off-Center Sailors

Don't get more off-center than this Bolger BRICK, TETARD
Note that crew weight has more than compensated
for heeling moment.

One does not walk into the forest and accuse the trees of being off-center,
Nor visit the shore and call the waves imperfect.
-- from the Tao te Ching

Think off-center.
-- George Carlin


Off-Center Masts for Off-Center Sailors

When we were building ZOON (ex Bolger LONG MICRO), we stood the aft mast in place, off-center, to see how it stood. A visitor to the project took three wordless passes around, humming and clucking at such unusual features as the square sections and bow transom. Finally, he draws himself up with hands on hips and exclaims, "NO. That off-center mizzen is just too much."

But that off- center sail was perfect. Squared off across the stern, we could run down the off-wind quadrant in a gale of wind with balanced power and a clear view ahead.

Since then, every boat has had at least one mast off-center for one reason or another. Masts at the aft transom are offset to clear the rudder and sculling oar. Those at the companionway are offset to allow center-line openings which, in a knock-down, remain furthest from the water and least likely to flood.

We've never been able to observe a sailing difference between tacks in our larger, relatively heavy cruiser size vessels. We will wing out the offset sail to its near side when running... from there, they overlap the foresail less and behave much better. Otherwise, it appears a draw.

But this one time...

I wrote this account in a previous post:

A friend of ours had built a Bolger BRICK (shaped about as it sounds). He brought it out to Tenakee for a Mess-About. All day, he and his daughter sailed circles around the rest of us (including respected designs of similar size by Devlin, Hess and a TORO!).

Circles, in fact, barely describes the figure 8s and jaunts across the inlet and back while our fleet trudged along in comparison.

I was wowed by this and have mused lo these many years upon it. Now I venture a theory...

The BRICK has its mast stepped along one hull wall, and very near the bow. The crew is live ballast, but in practice needn't move much around (according to its skipper). When I first saw the arrangement, I felt sure it would capsize mast-side at the first gust. But no.

Here's my thinking, taking the BRICK pictured above as example:

On the port tack (wind blowing from port across the hull to the lee-side sail) it acts as a proa. Windward hull lift is opposed by crew weight.

On the starboard tack (wind blowing into the wind-side sail, then across the hull) it acts like a normal hull (center mast). Leeward hull depression is opposed by outboard displacement.

Setting the mast at a point of maximum beam, in effect, doubles the beam! That dinky li'l x4ft punt has the equivalent lever arm at the mast as our x8ft WAYWARD. Whether sailing as a 'double wide' monohull or proa, the righting arm is twice what one can expect with a centered mast.

With such a doubling, one can fly twice the sail area or sail a normal amount twice as aggressively (which appears to be the case).

Somethin' to ponder on!

Picture this mast position as center-line!

At Anchor in the Belly of the Beast

Jonah in the Belly of the Fish
By Eugene Ivanov

I was the blood in the water, and Oh!

  It felt so good to run so red.

- From Little Red 

by Ashe Vernon

At Anchor in the Belly of the Beast

There are places where it all comes together. Where sun and moon drag the sea over granite bones of earth, churning it to froth. Where life and death wrestle in an embrace older and more intimate than love. Where we have had the luck to find ourselves.

Where the World Beast may be glimpsed by we, who dwell in her belly.

At such a place. On such a night. We set anchor at the edge of it all.

We'd been trying to round a vast promontory which bends that send of sea into whorl within whorl of turbulent gyre. Nutrients are churned in stately violence to permeate the water column. Life blooms and feasts.

Wind had failed our purpose. A storm was coming, but there was a chance we might sail forward in the rising winds of its advance. We sculled into the growing dark and fog and the lee of the current and set anchor at the fringe of a kelp forest.

And oh - the waters ran red.

The hunters were round about. Whales and porpoise. Sea lions and seals. Otters of both land and sea. These, we could hear by breath and bark and song. And others working the web, inaudible to our ears.

Krill ate plankton who in turn lit the waters in auroral splendor, illuminating the kelp. Fish ate  krill, and were in turn consumed. Each moving thing leaving its trail of fire in the water.

And the birds, awake to this nocturnal gluttony, their excited cries piercing the fog.

We sat on deck in the midst of it all, silenced by Music.

A Music whose bass notes shook us to the core. Whose high notes 'most evade the ear. Whose every voice is sung by the very mouth which feeds. Whose every note choired a harmony unplanned, but resonant beyond human ken.

A Music which calls to our feral selves. To our selves before we sowed the field or built the walls. When we, too, sang our own wild song with our brothers and sisters 'neath the untamed moon.

To our selves before we dreamed we had a self, separate from the World.

*****

But I am a child of civilization, so called. Burdened with the gift of tongues, wagging ceaselessly in my head, I am cut off from direct experience of the World.

A note, or here and there a phrase, are all that is vouchsafed me.

Yet there is a joy in knowing - as perhaps no other animal can - that we are all related. In life. In death. Knowing our own mortality. That predator and prey are but organelles within a greater Beast.

That within our very own guts, legions of flora and fauna are wholly engaged in a microcosm of that give and take of life and death which surged around us that night. In our very cells, predator and prey are merged in symbiotic union. And throughout this ferment - underlying all - life's very cipher flows horizontally, grafting the branches of the Tree of Life.

We may call it struggle, red in tooth and claw. The survival of the fittest and the elimination of the weak. War. Our words hand us only what we know.

We do not yet know that all are One. Always have been.

I, for one, sail to find nights like ours,  in the dark and blood and seethe of Life.

For just a glimpse.

Going Nowhere

Elev. ~20ft over low water

Going nowhere isn't about turning your back on the world;

It's about stepping away, now and then,

So you can see it more clearly

And love it more deeply.

-- Pico Iyer

Going Nowhere

It was a dark and stormy night...

Wait. No. It was bright and balmy day. We had turned the corner from Chatham into Peril Strait, cutting through Morris Reef as we've done a hundred times.

But this time, we were continuing the turn into Sitkoh Bay, intending to skirt the outlying reefs along the inside corner. We'd threaded the reef on the last of the rising tide, and it was now starting to fall. What's worse, it was now past top of springs (tides getting smaller for the next week and wouldn't be this high again for two weeks). Flat seas, that day, but forecast SE 20kts rising to 30kts (from the worst quarter) with seas 4 to 6ft for the next day.

We took bearings from the chart and gave ourselves some extra margin. Not enough as it turns out, and definitely given those italics above.

Anke had the good sense to think one of us should be at the bow (me saying, "Only if you like... we're well clear!"). She wasn't even all the way forward before she called out, "Hard to port!"

I duly put 'er over hard, but too late. We fetched up mid-ships against the only point in the whole durn area that could have caught us, a little 4in pinnacle standing atop a sunken hill.

In 30 years of sailing cheek on jowl with reefs, this is only the second rock I've hit. Ironically, the first was about a hundred yards away (broke my rule about running through unscoped kelp patches) and about a mile from where we spent a few memorable days on the beach.

This one was a doozy!

Initial assessment showed a couple knots of current held us pinned against that toe-stubber at about our Center of Lateral Resistance (side point around which a boat will spin... or not), so we:

1. Tried to spin off under sail... not enough wind to overcome current.
2. Tried to pole off... not enough strength at a steep angle.
3. Stepped onto the rock and tried to push off by hand... we were on a peak and I couldn't step far enough away from the CLR to gain leverage.
   
   By now, we're starting to settle on whats showing as a small, thwartships ridge a foot aft of CLR. It's no longer just current we're fighting, but gravity.
4. Tried levering off... ditto.
5. Tried lever + handybilly... double ditto.
6. Rowed out a kedge... by now, we're settled too hard to shift, even with capstan assist.

Okay. At this point, we give up on trying to get off the rock, and turn toward stabilizing ourselves on it.

Luckily, that ridge was plenty long enough to support us across the bottom. No fear of tilting and falling sideways. But, being a ridge, it was like a teeter totter with the big kid at the bow. The bow started to settle, and our stern reached for the stars.

Our first impulse and effort was to lash some fenders under the bow for a cushion. But it soon became clear that even with their extra height, we would be dangerously bow-down by the time they fetched up. At worst, we'd nose-dive down the hill and fetch up hard.

Sooo. We had plenty of firewood... we were able to post two pieces on end - one on each side, about 4ft forward of the fulcrum point, standing on the rock and shouldered under the bottom. Further settling of the bow was stopped, and we could breathe a little easier as the water ebbed away.

Fortunately, we could move freely around the boat without our weight being an issue, though we were pussy-footing, to be sure. Didn't want to shake ourselves off those posts!

We rested a bit and had a meal. What a view! The sun was getting low over two of SE Alaska's great waterways. First snows on the peaks all round. Us in the high bleachers, looking down upon it all. Warm food, coffee and time to think out a plan.

Kinda like yoga.
Doesn't really catch how high up we were!

First thing was to run the numbers. Check the tides, calculate ranges, apply the Rule of Tenths. Check it twice. Safe by a foot... we would float in the very early morning.

Next, we contacted the Coast Guard to let them know our situation (about which they would likely get some calls from passing traffic), and that we had it in hand.

We reset the kedge further out in sandy bottom, well off the port quarter (the free shot out).  Set up a snatch block for the anchor line to lead it fair (from directly forward) to the capstan. This let us use nearly its full power.

Before calling it a night, we added two more rounds of firewood lying flat, aft of the fulcrum. Our thinking was that, as the bow lifted and stern lowered, we would rotate around those, lifting up and away from the stone fulcrum. Any wave-induced pounding would be on a more forgiving surface.

Oh. And I took a sledge to that 4in pinnacle and beat it flat. If we were going to bounce in the morning, we sure didn't want it poking up at us!

Approximate line of 'our' rock...
Post and round drawn in brown.

In the wee hours, the tide duly came back, and as promised, lifted us free, aided by light chop. We waited until we were just quivering before hauling the kedge line bar taught. 

Within a few minutes, we slipped free in two lunges. No grinding, no damage.

*****

As you may have noticed, there was considerable luck involve, good and bad, as is the usual case.

If we'd been half our beam in either direction, it would have been a close call but no contact.

If we'd hit that pinnacle a few feet from CLR, we could have spun off.

If the rock had been flatter (longships), we could have spun off.

If it had been too much of a steep rock, we could have slid off either forward or sideways.

As it was, we were reminded again how forgiving ultra-shoal draft boats can be, particularly those with flat bottoms. 

We appreciate the virtues of girder construction. You can see how rigidly our stern cantilevers. The wide, flat, rigid bottom facilitated posting to limit rotation.

These two features most often mean that, even if a strong sea builds up, we can get out with little harm from a scrape like this. As the tops of the first waves lift us, the kedge pulls forward. Only a small drop and crunch are likely, and only a few of those.

All in all, however, we count our lucky stars.

*****

On Appraisal, we draw these reminders and lessons:

• Always give extra margin on falling tides, especially falling from springs to neaps!!
  
• Remember that reefs and shorelines are rarely accurately charted!
  
  Pilots advise traffic keep whopping distances off visible landmarks. We run reefs all the time, but when skirting need to be on full alert or follow the pilot. Extra wide margins! Lookout at the bow!
  
• Set a kedge early!
  
  We dillied and dallied too long, partly as it was a foul spot; easy to lose an anchor. Still, anchors are cheap relative to risking the boat, so delay was a poor choice. For ultra-shoal, it's not usually the first response, but shouldn't be delayed long. It's our heavy lifter.

*****

We met thirty some years ago at the Pioneer "P" Bar in Sitka, AK. Its walls are covered with photos of boats on the rocks. Not exactly a Hall of Fame, but rather a Wall of Infamy.

We finally earned our spot!

Hot Toddy, Hot Schnotty: A Cure for What Ails Ya

Vinegar over Honey
plus spices,
before topping off with hot Water

I will use those dietary regimens which will benefit my patients according to my greatest ability and judgement...

-- From the Hippocratic Oath

Hot Toddy, Hot Schnotty: A Cure for What Ails Ya

By sheer coincidence, these two recipes came to us within a week of the other. The former is recreational, while the latter is medicinal. And without further ado...

Hot Toddy (from S/V VALIANT)

Whiskey (start with a finger or two?)
Apple Cider Vinegar (a splash, to begin with)
Squeeze some lime or lemon (or leave a twist)
Water (to top off)
Honey (to taste)
Salt around the rim (if that's how you roll)

All ingredients adjusted to taste/tolerance.

This one does for the recreational end of the spectrum. The whiskey is 'rotgut' (aka cheap)... no point mixing 80 year old Scotch with vinegar. The citrus can sometimes be found in your local, neighborhood dumpster, but we buy concentrate by the quart.


Hot Schnotty aka Fire Cider (amalgamated from the internet)

1 part Honey
1 part Apple Cider Vinegar
1 part Water (hot)
Heavy squirt of Hot Sauce
Pinch of CinnamonPinch of
GingerPinch of
Tumeric (if ya have it)
Twist of Lemon (if ya have it)

This one's medicinal. Blasts snotty nose, sore throat and eases a cough. Useful stuff when sailing into the social proximities of civilization. Serve warm or hot for best effect, taking a sip every so often. I don't recommend drinking it down! Listen to your stomach. I find it works best when gargled for a bit. It settles, so stir or shake it before use.

Interesting overlap between the two recipes. Their taste definitely has a family resemblance.
Both harken to our (great?)grandparents' use of vinegar and honey as home remedies.

Vinegar is acidic (generally 7% acetic acid), so should be taken in moderation. It has been used to treat or ease many external conditions, and is anti-fungicidal. Taken internally, it has been considered a blood tonic (my G'parents said it 'thinned' the blood) and, especially in the throat, an anti-bacterial and anti-fungal agent. But be aware that acid has internal effects on the teeth and stomach. A cup or so is a very potent emetic (makes us puke).

Honey is high in sugars with all their pros and cons. Local honies, especially, help prepare the body for pollens, reducing allergic reactions. In the throat, it can (like any sugar concentrate) discourage bacterial growth via osmotic action. On the other hand, once it's diluted (by saliva), it's food for growth. I personally let it sit thick for a bit, and then clear it out.

Cinnamon, Ginger, Tumeric and Peppers are all traditionally medicinal along with many others you can experiment with, and considered to be anti-bacterial and anti-fungal. Cayenne has even been mixed in with cheap bottom paint to up its anti-fouling properties!

Whatever the case, it sure seems to help!


*****

Bonus Yarn:

My Mom used to make us honey lemon teas for a cough suppressant.

One night, I had it bad, but didn't want to wake anyone up. I was six, after all... nearly a man.

I filled a pot with honey and brought it to a boil, then added a squirt of lemon. I carefully decanted the mix into a mug.

Then burned the bejeezus out of my lips, waking all in the house with my wails. I suppose it could have gone so much worse.

An early lesson in the importance of proportion and expert advice!