By one of those strange paradoxes, the best sailing days are often those very exact days that nobody goes to their boats.
Saturday, for example. The only people on the whole of E-dock were Joe and Phyllis (who is generally called "Audrey" by her family, for reasons which remain at large), Dave and Roseann, and myself. Joe was telling me about some cruise he had been on, possibly on Friday?- I didn't catch quite when- about how they were just flying along and how it just felt like they were floating.
"Good" I says, "You should always feel like you're floating, you know, when you're on your boat."
Dave, who for some reason had stuck his head up through his hatch at this exact moment, caught the exchange, said "Yeah, you don't want to get that sinking feeling, ha ha" and disappeared back down into his hatch.
Joe looked mildly irritated, but merely said "Yeah ,well, we're going out for a sail here in a little bit... Wanna come?"
"Thanks Joe, but I think I'm going to take my boat out."
There was such a nice breeze, fifteen, twenty or so out of the north-east, that it would have been positively criminal to have a sailboat and not go sailing. Joe, evidently of the same opinion, shoved off with Phyllis/Audrey to go sailing. Soon afterwards, I was shoving off myself to do a little singlehanded sailing. First stop: the fuel dock, to get a pumpout. As I'm there, who motors by but Steve in the Blue Dragon!
"Huw! Jump aboard! Give me a hand docking, will ya!"
He swings right by the end of the dock and I hop on- Steve has just come from Kelleys, five and a half hours on the water. "Steve! after we dock your boat, why don't you come out on mine?"
"Aw jeeze, you know I'd love to, but I've just been out for five and a half hours... there's five foot waves... I'm kinda beat..."
"Steve.... ?"
"Oh all right, I'll come."
Back at Old Alt on the fuel dock, Steve borrowed my cell phone to tell Marianne that he'd be late. It started to rain. "Oh and honey, can your bring me some dry shoes when you come?"
The rain didn't last long before it kind of petered out into a misty drizzle, but it was enough to send Joe scurrying back in. As he passed the fuel dock we hollered out "What's it like out there?!", but if Joe said anything back it was lost under the throb of the diesels. Although I think I saw him give the "thumbs-down" sign.
When we got out there, the drizzle past over fairly quickly, and we were left with the delightful breeze and the splendid waves. They were every bit of the five footers Steve had warned of, but this sort of weather is specifically made to order for Cape Dories. We simply crashed through the larger waves, sending jets of spray twenty foot to leeward, but remarkably little came back aft: Old Alt is a singularly well-mannered boat. With the genny furled, just main and staysail flying, the sails are self-tacking, so all you have to do is steer. So simple even I can do it! Along we flew, doing high fives and low sixes. "You know, Huw, I'm sure glad you talked me into this!" There is nothing better than Autumn sailing; you're not broiling under the hot sun, the flies are gone, the winds are generally perky, and also the flies are gone. You have that bittersweet tinge that this might be the last perfect weekend of the season, you might not even get the chance to sail again till spring.
Coming back to the dock, Joe and Phyllis were waiting to give us a hand docking. People are always like that here, always ready to give you a hand, although I think that in some cases its only to watch the fun as some incompetent comes barrelling in, screaming at his wife, and desperately trying not to cause too much damage.
Another sailing paradox is that the skill with which you dock your boat is inversely proportional to the number of onlookers. You bring it in perfectly, there's never anyone there to witness it. You make a hash of it, there's always a crowd on hand gawking and guffawing. So with Joe, Phyllis AND Steve about, I felt kind of nervous. The odds were not in my favour.
But in spite of it all, Old Alt came in perfectly- despite the wind, she came in so softly, you could have had laid an egg alongside the rail and it wouldn't have cracked against the dock. It would have fallen into the lake of course, but it wouldn't have cracked.
Saturday, for example. The only people on the whole of E-dock were Joe and Phyllis (who is generally called "Audrey" by her family, for reasons which remain at large), Dave and Roseann, and myself. Joe was telling me about some cruise he had been on, possibly on Friday?- I didn't catch quite when- about how they were just flying along and how it just felt like they were floating.
"Good" I says, "You should always feel like you're floating, you know, when you're on your boat."
Dave, who for some reason had stuck his head up through his hatch at this exact moment, caught the exchange, said "Yeah, you don't want to get that sinking feeling, ha ha" and disappeared back down into his hatch.
Joe looked mildly irritated, but merely said "Yeah ,well, we're going out for a sail here in a little bit... Wanna come?"
"Thanks Joe, but I think I'm going to take my boat out."
There was such a nice breeze, fifteen, twenty or so out of the north-east, that it would have been positively criminal to have a sailboat and not go sailing. Joe, evidently of the same opinion, shoved off with Phyllis/Audrey to go sailing. Soon afterwards, I was shoving off myself to do a little singlehanded sailing. First stop: the fuel dock, to get a pumpout. As I'm there, who motors by but Steve in the Blue Dragon!
"Huw! Jump aboard! Give me a hand docking, will ya!"
He swings right by the end of the dock and I hop on- Steve has just come from Kelleys, five and a half hours on the water. "Steve! after we dock your boat, why don't you come out on mine?"
"Aw jeeze, you know I'd love to, but I've just been out for five and a half hours... there's five foot waves... I'm kinda beat..."
"Steve.... ?"
"Oh all right, I'll come."
Back at Old Alt on the fuel dock, Steve borrowed my cell phone to tell Marianne that he'd be late. It started to rain. "Oh and honey, can your bring me some dry shoes when you come?"
The rain didn't last long before it kind of petered out into a misty drizzle, but it was enough to send Joe scurrying back in. As he passed the fuel dock we hollered out "What's it like out there?!", but if Joe said anything back it was lost under the throb of the diesels. Although I think I saw him give the "thumbs-down" sign.
When we got out there, the drizzle past over fairly quickly, and we were left with the delightful breeze and the splendid waves. They were every bit of the five footers Steve had warned of, but this sort of weather is specifically made to order for Cape Dories. We simply crashed through the larger waves, sending jets of spray twenty foot to leeward, but remarkably little came back aft: Old Alt is a singularly well-mannered boat. With the genny furled, just main and staysail flying, the sails are self-tacking, so all you have to do is steer. So simple even I can do it! Along we flew, doing high fives and low sixes. "You know, Huw, I'm sure glad you talked me into this!" There is nothing better than Autumn sailing; you're not broiling under the hot sun, the flies are gone, the winds are generally perky, and also the flies are gone. You have that bittersweet tinge that this might be the last perfect weekend of the season, you might not even get the chance to sail again till spring.
Coming back to the dock, Joe and Phyllis were waiting to give us a hand docking. People are always like that here, always ready to give you a hand, although I think that in some cases its only to watch the fun as some incompetent comes barrelling in, screaming at his wife, and desperately trying not to cause too much damage.
Another sailing paradox is that the skill with which you dock your boat is inversely proportional to the number of onlookers. You bring it in perfectly, there's never anyone there to witness it. You make a hash of it, there's always a crowd on hand gawking and guffawing. So with Joe, Phyllis AND Steve about, I felt kind of nervous. The odds were not in my favour.
But in spite of it all, Old Alt came in perfectly- despite the wind, she came in so softly, you could have had laid an egg alongside the rail and it wouldn't have cracked against the dock. It would have fallen into the lake of course, but it wouldn't have cracked.
