ISO Good Judgment

  - Denise Malueg
    August 2003

“It’s better to be on land, wishing you were on the water, than on the water wishing you were on land.” 

I’m not claiming credit for that advice, but it is worthy of cross-stitch. 

Especially if you find yourself IN the water, rather than actually ON the water, as I did on Saturday, August 16.  That day, Washington DC had a quick squall blow through – lots of wind (reported 40-50 mph), lots of rain, lots of lightning, but at least it was over quickly… not over as quickly as a sailboat such as a Lightning can go over, but over quickly. 

There were a few lessons I learned that afternoon, that a skipper or two have since suggested I might pen, so as others might benefit… or at least provide them the opportunity to point & laugh. Right – we all read the stories, but, like in the opening lines of so many of those letters to the magazines, “… I never thought it could happen to me.”  

In a peculiar twist of foreshadowing as my friend Tina and I launched Lightning #10814, we bumped into the Sailing Club of Washington crews prepping at the dock for their capsize class that day.  “Hey, Denise, are you going to join us for the capsize course?” 

I replied, “I sure hope not.”   

Tina and I beat wonderfully to Mount Vernon in two and one half hours, and then noticed the skies darkening through the haze, far to the west.  Considering afternoon storms are the norm and were even predicted, we took that as our cue to head home, reasoning that we’d fly downwind back to Washington Sailing Marina (WSM).  And true, after a 40-minute lull, during which we’d added drama to our cruise by putting the boat up on her gunwale as we rounded up under spinnaker, we indeed, flew back upriver…sans spinnaker.

What makes me think that I can predict the weather conditions any better than the meteorologists on Channel 4 with all their degrees?  True, the professionals so often seem incorrect, that maybe I’ve become overly (and wholly undeservedly) confident in my own weather-guessing.  Stop it.

Off Old Town Alexandria, the rain hit.  We saw the white curtain marching toward us; we knew we were going to get it; SPOOSH, got it.  But it was warm, the wind was actually easier for us, the waves flattened, so we kept going.  We’ve all sailed in the rain, and it can actually be pleasant. 

It’s not so pleasant in a thunderstorm, though...just ‘cuz you’re sitting on a big ol’ lightning rod.  I comforted myself with the reasoning used by pilots in battle (big sky, little bullets… what are the chances one will hit me?), and thought that there is bound to be something taller around than my mast, that will attract the lightning rather than hit us. 

By the time the lightning was “an issue” about 15 minutes later, we were halfway to WSM from Old Town, well north of the blue-roof building, but not yet to the power plant.  Press on? Turn back?  I thought the storm was coming from the southwest, because that was the direction of the wind.  It was already apparent that I’d not packed any good judgment for our little sail, so when the winds got squirrelly and shifted from the south to the north in short order, and we could see another, whiter wall of water heading toward us, I decided to ride this gust out downwind, heading back to Alexandria.  Maybe this isn’t what you would have done, but holding the boat directly into the wind was not working during those 2 minutes we tried it as the center of the squall raked over us.  “Let the jib fly, Tina – just let everything loose! We’re heading back to Old Town!” I hollered over the wind.

We turned to starboard, briefly putting us perpendicular to the wind… but perhaps the turn was not made quickly enough.  The hull provided enough windage for the sea and winds to affect us as much as if we’d had sail drawing.  A combination of over-steering, and the south and north winds converging directly overhead, put us up on the port gunwale again.  Hanging there.  I remember briefly discussing it with Tina, that yes, indeed this was the real thing; we were going over; we’re going to have to let go and drop into the water.  I swear I felt Neptune’s hand give the hull a shove to dump us out.  Our mast was pointed upriver, the cockpit was open to the waves and wind. 

Tina was OK, I was OK, we were with the boat.   Lifejackets!  Get the jackets – they’re in the stern.  I’d squiggled up onto the side of the boat, thinking I was balancing it from continuing to roll.  Tina was fishing out the jackets, which had slid to the low – and underwater – side of the boat, under the stern deck, and jammed into a bundle.  They were not easy to pull out, especially with two-foot waves washing over Tina’s head. 

When I stowed the jackets there a couple months ago, I envisioned their use in such a situation that the boat would be a.) upright, b.) dry, c.) with lots of time to dig them out.  I pictured me patiently handing them to green-gilled crew as we bounded over the rare high seas of the Potomac.  I also knew from experience, that lifejackets shoved far up forward are even more difficult to reach when you need them.  So I thought I was being pretty smart.  Uh-huh.  Today, I’m thinking of ways to Velcro jackets underneath the seats so they are directly at our fingertips.     

Now we were both in lifejackets and with the boat, so our fate was improving.  I pictured us drifting downriver; wondering where we’d crash into the bridge; how long the storm might last; and feeling pretty alone.  No one was on the river to see us; no knight in shining armor; no Fleet 50 crash boats nearby like during Sunday races to fish anyone out of the drink if they go over. 

We righted the boat, and it being more-than-filled with water, kept rolling over to the other side.  We continued floating downriver.  I wasn’t entirely sad that the mast was out of reach of the lightning while it was underwater, actually.  But, I knew we weren’t going anywhere purposefully, in a boat on its side.

During this calm, I noticed the flotsam and jetsam of my life bobbing around us.  We took this time to tie a few things onto the boat, which would be expensive to replace (drybox of tools and recently acquired spare parts, sailbag of magic tricks like a horn, Neosporin, sail tape, bug spray, suntan lotion, etc.).  When we launched, at least I had remembered to tie on the cooler.  Funny to see what floats and what doesn’t.  Not worth the experiment though, to find out. 

We righted the boat a second time, and true enough, it continued all the way over again.  This time, cracking into Tina’s noggin.  I was lucky she remained conscious.  By now, a motoring sailboat was within sight, headed our way. 

The storm calmed a bit, so we decided to try righting the boat again.  Did it!  Yeah!!  The sails would do us no good, in fact probably helped push us over when we were righting the past two times, so I released the main halyard.  The line jammed with the sail still halfway up.  I could not feel the knot under the water inside the boat.  It seemed to be coiled around the spinnaker that had fouled around the centerboard blocks, as well as around the centerboard drum.  I just cut the line.  Nothing is so precious in the boat that we can’t figure out how to fix it or replace it later… except, of course, Tina.  So, I didn’t hesitate to cut the halyard to hurry the sail’s descent…and the boom’s, too; didn’t expect that.  Lowered the jib next. 

At this time, the motoring, single-handed sailor tossed us a very short line a couple times, with a fender connected to it.  We asked for a long line, to tie around our mast, which he could use to tow us to WSM.  By now, a powerboat had also appeared with five young guys onboard, eager to aid the fair damsels.  Tina encouraged me to accept the offer from the powerboat, saying that they would have a long line – ski rope at least – to offer us.  But I felt the sailor sure was trying hard to help, and I wanted to let him.  He finally tossed a very long line to me… you guessed it… not attached to anything on his boat.  As I watched the end snake out of his cockpit over the side of his boat, I agreed with Tina, and attached the line to my mast, and hurled the other end to the powerboat-o-guys.  I’ll get that line back to the sailor somehow. 

The powerboat driver gently towed us to the docks in Old Town, as lightning flashed all around.  At least it wasn’t raining as hard as earlier.  I felt that staying in the boat was a good thing, because we could counter-balance the tendency for her to tip.  Filled with water as she was, this seemed to be a real possibility.  The drawback of course, was that there aren’t a lot of places to stand in a boatful of water that aren’t next to a metal mast or metal stays or shrouds.  Not the best place to be in a thunderstorm. 

The DC Police and Fireboat crews appeared from upriver, just as we reached Old Town.  They were even more concerned for us in that lightning rod; made us get off the boat, and wait with them in the food court pavilion until the storm blew over. 

The fireboat has a pump.  It made emptying the boat much easier.  In fact, with the water coming up through the centerboard trunk, I doubt we ever would have gotten ahead of the water by bailing with buckets.  As it was, we raised the centerboard to take up some of the space so the pump could have an effect. 

Then we tied the sailboat to the fireboat, and motored up to WSM.  Remember, I sliced the halyard, so there was no more sailing it that day.  Everything they say about this boat is true.  It is a fast boat.  Even without sails, and considerable water sloshing in the cockpit, it kept riding up on the fireboat.  Heehheeheee. 

Did you learn anything?  Or are you one who will point & laugh? 

Here’s what I got, in no particular order:

• Shelter early.  If you find yourself thinking, “We’ll just make it, if we just press on a little more,” then it’s already too late.  It’s like wondering if you should reef sails – it’s already too late by that point.

• Accessible lifejackets.  Yep, you think they are handy, but the only place they really are handy is around your neck, or in the cockpit.

• Don’t leave shore without your good judgment.  I’ll sound like a cliché country song, but since my dog died almost three years ago, things ain’t been the same, and I’ve demonstrated some pretty poor judgment. 

• Conduct a safety briefing with a hands-on tour of your boat prior to leaving the dock.  One skipper I know makes his crew take a laminated list of safety equipment, with locations noted, and touch each item.  That’s a big boat, but the same idea applies to dinghies.  I’d discussed with Tina where things were earlier in the day, but we had not actually dug them out or described possible scenarios in which something might be needed (i.e., knife for the halyard).  In Fleet 50, we’re used to sailing with the same crew, but when we have a newcomer, it’s an easy point to overlook – they may know how to sail better than anyone, but they don’t know your boat.

• Strengthen your upper body.  Tina and I both learned that lesson and vow to dust off our hand weights. 

• Remember that everything is replaceable, except your crew (although a few skippers have sharply shown me that I am!).

• Although it’s replaceable, it’s still a hassle to re-outfit, so tie everything to the boat that costs more than $5.  You’ll be glad you did. 

• Dryboxes aren’t.

• Dry bags don’t work unless they are rolled really, really tightly.

• Good Samaritans are wonderful!  Any assistance offered is very much appreciated, be it a tow or recovering stuff bobbing around in the water or simply witnessing events to tell my parents!  Please don’t leave an accident scene. 

• Don’t gloat about successes earlier in the day (like our stellar handling of the spinnaker round up) until you’re actually off the water and the gods cannot smite you.

Everything turned out OK, this time.  I did not hyperventilate, which I’d actually done in a previous (but thankfully, not every) capsize.  Tina and I were both pretty cool-headed, and neither felt that we were in utterly grave danger.  But it all reminded me that there is a fine line between OK and disaster.  I’m happy that Tina’s head is as hard as it is (!), because when the boom hit it, how would I have reacted if she were rendered unconscious?  That’s why they call them lifejackets, I suppose.  Wear ‘em.

And yes, Tina is still talking to me, and even hinted that she has not soured toward sailing entirely.  Probably won’t get her on the water with any hint of a storm within 48 hours of our sail anytime soon, though.