Bugged

There's no such thing as a bad sailing day.
    My Mom and Dad, young sons and I set out from the port of Pascagoula, Miss., on our Columbia 26, a keel ballasted sloop, headed for Ship Island. We kept the boat, "Gulf Trio," moored in the Inner Harbor, just off the Pascagoula River. My grandfather, Leonard Matson ("Pawp"), my Dad and I were the "Trio."
    The goal was to visit Civil War era Fort Massachusetts on Ship Island. The voyage began with a light southeasterly breeze that became fitful and finally died. We fired up the old 6 hp Johnson, which soon followed suit. As I sweated in the September heat trying to keep gas flowing through the possibly blocked fuel filter, the first fly made its presence known.
    It bit me! I swatted it. It looked like a normal housefly. I had never known a housefly to bite. I turned back to the sluggish motor. Another bite. Swat. Another. And another. They were coming fast now. Dad and I were in the cockpit swatting flies with anything we could get our hands on. Mom and the kids were down below, where thankfully the flies did not go.
    Soon, the cockpit was black and red with the bodies and blood of flies and men. The battle went on for at least an hour; it seemed like days. Finally, the flies were gone.
    I coaxed the motor to give us a few more minutes. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Every time I would pump the valve to send more gas to the carburetor. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Ship Island slowly, ever so slowly, grew larger.
   We limped on to the pier at Ship Island, glad to be ashore and out of the flies. The pier was tall, but we managed to get everyone ashore. We followed the sandy trail to Fort Massachusetts.
   We had just started to explore the fort, when I felt something unusual -- a breeze! After battling doldrums, a balky motor and biting flies all day, now we had a wind! And what a wind -- it was strong and getting stronger -- out of the north -- banging our boat against the pier.
    We had to cut our visit of the fort short.
    I hurried back to the pier, where the waves were already building, battering our boat against the pier. We clambered aboard. Dad was the last to make the jump while I held the boat as steady as I could. Thankfully, the balky motor fired up. We motored out into deeper water, giving a wide berth to the end of Ship Island. Then we turned south, and rounded up in the lee of Ship Island, where we got a little relief from the waves.
   Everybody turned in, exhausted. I don't know if anyone slept well.
   In the morning, the wind had not abated. It was blowing hard, steady, and straight out of the east -- the direction we had to go to return to Pascagoula.
   After battling doldrums and flies the day before, we battled strong winds and choppy seas the next. One tack took us in toward Biloxi. The next back out toward Ship Island. We were all getting weary beating our heads against the relentless elements. I was mulling over our options. When we came abreast of the Biloxi channel, I announced we would head in to rest. Mom said, "Whatever you want, hon." She gave me a grateful smile.
   We turned south and sailed on up the channel, turning into the Ocean Springs harbor. We tied up the boat and called my wife for a lift. She picked us up and brought us back to Pascagoula.
   The voyage was over for Mom and the boys.
   After a much-needed sleep in real beds. Dad and I got up the next morning to continue the last leg back to Pascagoula. The wind, still out of the east, had at least slackened and was no longer a half gale. We returned to port and celebrated.
    They say any sailing cruise is successful, if all the crew return home in more or less the same condition they set out.
   There is no such thing as a bad sailing day.

A ship without a rudder

I have been without a rudder three times in my sailing career.
    The first was on our Rhodes 19 out of Naples, Florida. Mom, Dad, sister Barbara and I were traveling with "Pawp" and "Nana," my Mom's parents. We were visiting Uncle Pete Peterson, who lived in Naples.
    I was in my teens. I had been sailing with Pawp since I was nine. He built my first sailboat, a 15 1/2 sloop, a one design Windmill. We later moved up to the Rhodes 19, because Pawp no longer felt comfortable on the "tender" Windmill. The Rhodes 19 was heavier, more stable with a lead bulb keel. We sailed at the Birmingham Sailing Club on Lake Logan Martin, but I yearned for the open horizon of the ocean. I wanted to sail out of sight of land.
    Finally, I had my chance. We trailered the Rhodes on the long drive from Birmingham to Naples. Mom was naturally worried about my ambitious adventure, but I was determined to sail over the horizon.
    I started early. The wind was light, the tide was full. When I sailed smoothly past the farewell buoy, I noticed swirls in the water. Sharks were feeding on a school of fish.
    The weather was lovely. I sailed straight for the horizon. The light land breeze strengthened a little. The small ripples developed into waves. My spirit soared with each wave that lifted the stern and shoved her along. I kept looking over my shoulder at the receding shore. The waves steadily grew larger, now foaming a little on top. Each quartering wave would lift up the stern and send her sliding down into the next trough. A sleigh ride. Up...down...up...down...up...down. On each wave I would compensate with the rudder, steering against the wave.
    The black line of land on the horizon was growing thinner and thinner. The sea was getting bigger and bigger, until the sea was almost all there was. Once in awhile, a tall wave would momentarily blot out the land altogether.
    Up...down...up...down...up...down.
    The waves were foaming on top.
    Up...down...up...down...up...down.
    Finally, the land was gone. I was beyond the horizon, exulting.
    Snap.
    The pressure was gone. Control was gone. The boat yawed, and rounded up into the wind, ignoring my efforts to steer. I looked back. The rudder was at a crazy angle in the water. It had broken loose from the pintles. The constant pressure of the waves had been too much.
    I was too stupid to be scared.
    I shrugged my shoulders, dropped the sails and lowered the anchor.
    I waited.
    Someone would come along, sooner or later.
    I waited.
    After a long while, I stretched out on the cabin sole and rested. I believe I even napped.
    Something woke me up. I looked around, and there was a party fishing boat. It drew near and hailed me. I told them what had happened and asked them to call my grandfather for help. They asked me my position. I didn't know. I just said, "due west of Naples." The captain of the fishing boat figured out the latitude and longitude (it's a big ocean -- "due west of Naples" doesn't cut it). He called my grandfather. I thanked them and watched the fishing boat depart. I went back for another nap.
    Hours later my grandfather and Uncle Pete showed up on boat they hired. They were not thrilled. Hiring the boat was not cheap. I pulled up the anchor, which was not easy. When it finally came up, it had a large piece of coral with it.
    It was a long tow home.
    Pawp admonished me, but not severely. "Why didn't you use the motor to steer?" he asked. I felt sheepish. I hadn't thought of that. The waves were fairly big by that time, and against me. I didn't think the small motor would have been able to bring me back home. I didn't think about trying to sail back, just using the motor to steer.
    Mom and Dad were too relieved to yell at me. My big adventure was over.
---
    The second time the rudder broke was a year or so later, again on the Rhodes 19, out of Destin, Florida. We had been coming to Destin for years to go deep sea fishing. Destin is a perfectly beautiful fishing village. On this vacation we brought the Rhodes with us.
    We launched the boat at a ramp near a fishing dock. I was sailing with my Dad and niece, Kathy. It was a short sail to the channel, then out past the breakwater into the Gulf of Mexico. It was glorious; a fresh breeze and moderate waves.
    After an hour or so of great sailing, we headed back in toward the breakwater. The waves were now significantly larger, being opposed by the outgoing tide. It was a roller coaster ride.
    Snap.
    I hadn't learned my lesson. The Rhodes 19 is apparently not designed for offshore. The rudder broke in pretty much the same place.
    Same story -- only this time, the jagged, black stone breakwater was terrifying. The waves were huge.
    But this time, Pawp was my pilot. I immediately remembered his advice. I cranked the motor and used it as a rudder. It worked perfectly! Thanks, Pawp! With my heart in my throat, I steered us past the breakwater, tacking several times to get through.
---
    The third rudderless adventure was aboard "Gulf Trio," our Columbia 26, out of Pascagoula, Miss. I was living there, working as a copy editor at the Mississippi Press, a small daily newspaper. I was living my dream -- living on the Gulf Coast. I was sailing with Dad and his World War II buddy, Milton Klein.
    The weather was splendid. We sailed out of Pascagoula's Inner Harbor to the mouth of the Pascagoula River, then out the channel. With an easterly breeze we tacked southeastward toward Petit Bois Island, some 10 miles away.
    We were chatting, having a great time enjoying the gorgeous weather, the brisk breeze.
    Suddenly, I noticed the rudder wasn't having its customary bite. A moment later, it stopped responding altogether.
    I looked down and saw an amazing sight: the fiberglass rudder was horizontal in the water. Again I remembered Pawp's advice; cranked up the motor and used it to steer us back into port.
    We didn't realize the full extent of the event until we got back. The rudder on the Columbia is mounted on a one and a half inch thick solid stainless steel bar. The bottom of the bar goes through ring inside a u-bolt, which is bolted through the keel. The u-bolt had been oxidized by electrolysis. Without the u-bolt to capture the stainless steel bar, the incredible force of the water bent that solid bar 90 degrees, perfectly horizontal to the surface of the water!
    I unbolted the tiller from the top of the bar, dove down under the water and removed the rudder. We took it to a machine shop, where they crafted a replacement stainless steel bar, which I took back and fiberglassed back into the rudder. Then I dove down underneath the boat, and reinserted the repaired rudder. We had to haul the boat out in order to replace the u-bolt to hold the bar in place. I made sure to install sacrificial anodes to prevent a recurrence of electrolysis.

A boy and his boat

The following account appeared May 14, 1961, in The Birmingham News Monthly Magazine. My father, the editorial cartoonist for the News for 38 years, casually mentioned to a colleague that my grandfather and I were building a sailboat. The newspaperman smelled a story, and arranged coverage of the launching. The reporter made one small mistake; we named the boat “Skipper,” after our Cocker Spaniel. My Dad later drew a picture of Skipper on the stern.

Alabama lad’s dream boat sets sail

By JERRY BRYAN

photos by Roy Carter

Dreams are not always built of gossamer threads of the imagination. They can be fashioned of wood and canvas and hardware. Young Chuck Brooks of Birmingham knows that now. But it took nearly four years of planning and working to replace his filmy dream boat with the solid stuff that makes one sail.

Almost before he could spell the word, young Charles G. Brooks, Jr. had become fascinated with boats. He would sit by the hour at the feet of his maternal grandfather and listen to stories of sailing yachts on the Great Lakes.

Leonard P. Matson had come from a seafaring wing of the old Danish family of Rosendahl. The hereditary name was reserved for those sons who chose to remain at home and follow the traditional channels of business. To three sons who fared away to sea it was denied. Instead, they were called Matt’s sons. The name soon was contracted to Matson.

Chuck’s great-grandfather was among the adventuresome three who chose the sea. He sailed for America at the age of 11.

So unto the third generation, the love of a spanking breeze in a full sail lived in Chuck Brooks when he listened to his grandfather’s stories.

Instead of picture books and indoor toys he turned to the outdoors. Baseball, yes. Little Boys League play, but the sight of a boat would make him drop his glove. He loved the feel of a fishing pole even better than a bat.

Before he was 10 he began laying plans for his own sailboat. So eager was he for boating his father, Charlie Brooks, News editorial cartoonist and artist, bought him a boat and motor. That was good. But it did not fill the yearning for boats his ancestors knew, sleek craft driven before a breeze.

Matson had built sailing boats as a hobby during his years in Chicago. He had owned and raced a 22-sq. meter sloop and a 50-foot yawl.

So when young Chuck confided his yearning to the sympathetic ear of his grandfather four years ago it struck a responsive chord. Sailing craft are not simple to build. And they can be expensive. But Matson had a wide range of information on boat building. He finally hit on the Windmill as a practical boat to build. A Windmill is a 15½-foot sloop with a 4-foot, 8-inch beam. It is a good boat for a two-man race crew or three sailing for pleasure.

The Windmill is one of the newest classes of sloops. Most of the 500 now sailing were  built by amateurs. Fed by the do-it-yourself urge, Windmills have increased rapidly.

The key to the construction is the mould or frame on which to build the hull. Matson learned that Bill Haywood of Ensley had built a Windmill and still had his mould. That was a big jump in the direction of success, for fashioning the frame requires a lot of tedious and exacting work.

So with plans assembled and a frame on which to construct the hull, the old boat builder was ready to go. Meanwhile, young Chuck had started accumulating money, for it was understood this was to be his very own project. Christmas and birthday presents were in cash by Chuck’s request. In the summer, the neighbors found him an ever-ready hand for mowing lawns.

There was no ceremonial keel laying, because this boat is built upside down. So the start was quietly made.

Material frequently ran out. It was then up to Chuck to supply more money. After more than a year, with Chuck carrying as much of a labor load as a 13-year-old might, the job was completed.

Proudly they assembled the expensive sails. The sloop takes a Marconi rig, mainsail and jib, and a 20-foot mast which seems to a young boy to tower to the sky.

There are several things about rigging a Windmill that are mighty important. Just the right cant of the mast; the proper lead of the jib sheet and finally the sanding, and polishing, shellacking and painting of the hull. All of these things must be just so to get the most out of the craft.

But eventually the launching day was at hand. Off to Guntersville went the launching party, the most excited being young Chuck.

Eagerly they slid the trim hull down the trailer runners. How would it ride the water?

Anxiously, they trimmed the sails. How would she take the breeze?

Shove off!

And then young Chuck and the old sailor were running before the wind. At last! Did you ever see a dream sailing? Well, Chuck did!

Another cruise aboard 'Truant'

   The following is an account by F.C. Walter of a cruise on Lake Michigan aboard “Truant,” my grandfather’s 50-foot yawl. My grandfather, Leonard P. Matson (“Pawp”) is mentioned in the account. By coincidence, a gruesome detail is shared with a similar account of another cruise, written by my grandfather -- a body found floating in Lake Michigan at the end of the cruise.

TRUANT’S CRUISE -- 1944

F.C. Walter

FOREWARD

There follows the story of the cruise of the “Truant.” If it sounds like scores of stories you have read in “Rudder” and “Yachting,” please send your complaints to them; we can’t change our style.

In that nothing is so aggravating s to read a story about going places and not having the slightest idea of where these places are, a beautifully drawn and meticulously labeled chart of Lake Michigan is here attached.

THE STORY

The cruise started in midwinter of 1943-44. The dirty work on arrangements of the charter was carried on by Fred Walter. No detail was overlooked and no expense (by Formica Company) was spared. A preliminary session of the proposed crew was held at the Wyoming Country Club. Drinks and food being overabundant, it was found necessary to hold a second session to finish up details and a few leftover drinks, this by all courtesy of Bob Short. In order that preparations be completed to the Nth degree, the navigators had a practice meeting and located the Schaeffer house roughly in Ohio. Blanket and duffle were sent ahead (by courtesy of W.A. Barrows, Porcelain Enamel Co.).

Like Christmas morn to a 10-year-old came Saturday, July 29th to the crew. 8:15 found the gang on the “Riley,” Chicago-bound (tickets courtesy of Siekmann’s and the LeBlond Co.).

Eight good men were on hand with only one slight mishap. The carefully purchased rain suits of Cochrane and Short were left in a taxi. John Schaeffer, wife and three kids were found two cars ahead after we got under way.

We were met in Chicago at 12:30 by Stew Walsh and whisked to the Columbia Yacht Club. After much stretching of necks and pointing of fingers, the yacht, “Truant,” was finally identified at the far end of the basin, a good one-half mile away. Groceries were collected, duffles rounded up and clothes changed. By this time, “Truant” was brought to berth and all hands met Holmes and Matson [my grandfather, “Pawp”], the co-owners. By 2 p.m. sails were uncovered, motor explained, deviation chart gone over, gas taken on and by 3 p.m. all was ready. The original plans called for Walsh to have sails up, motor idling and hatchet in hand when we arrived. This didn’t quite work out -- but we still made a pretty fast start.

The crew to start, was to have nine brave men. 1. Handsome Jack Siekman. 2. Honest Hal Siekmann (purser). 3. Frankie the Fef Pfefferle. 4. Fearless Freddie Walter. 5. Boisterous Bob Short. 6. Indian John Schaeffer. 7. Jovial Jack Cochrane. 8. Primeval Austy Barrows. 9. Old Sea Dog Stew Walsh.

Special mention should be made of Stew Walsh, skipper, through his vast experience in things nautical. Cochrane, as slum burner and photographer through his vast experience in things culinary and photographic. Short and Schaeffer, as navigators, through their vast experience in things astronomical. The rest, as crew, through their vast experience period.

So-o-o, sail was raised at 3 p.m. and Matson rode out a couple miles to see that all went well. Holmes dogged after us in his 22 meter racing job and took off Matson - so abandoning us to our fate.

Regarding the “Truant,” she stacked up as follows: length 49 feet 11½ inches plus an eight-foot bowsprit and five-foot bumpkin, 12-foot beam and reported 7½ feet draft yawl rig; mainmast 72 feet high, working sail area over 1,400 square feet; auxiliary Ford V-8 conversion; sleeps six; 40 years old; was a centerboarder but rebuilt five years ago and changed to keel; very squat in the water and quite stiff; steered by a wheel and balanced perfectly under main, mizzen and Genoa.

The first night out was uneventful, much the same as last year in the “Serenade.” Fitful winds and the lights of Chicago and Michigan City in the horizon most of the night.

The second day brought light winds and in due time the east coast was picked up. The navigators worked like fury. John came up at 3 p.m. for a breath of air and a new pencil. A city was sighted and identified by the navigators as South Haven, but as St. Joseph by those who had been there before. On we sailed north and as night fell we picked up Grand Haven according to the navigators and Muskegon according to those who had been there before.

A restless night was spent by your reporter. The moderate winds freshened and the Genny (Genoa) was still carried. From on deck could be heard murmurs of the crew: “Down to the rail” - “Think that Genny will take it?” - “How about rousting out the crew to wrestle in the Genny?” The soft hum of the speedometer generators was mounting to a higher tone. But finally the wind eased, died, so at 5:30 I got up and took a swim, joined by Fred, who just didn’t feel like sleeping at all during the night and Jack Cochrane, who got up to see what went on anyhow.

Monday morning brought good sailing on a good boat with good food and a good crew. certain of the crew had spent some hours in a horizontal position fighting off old “mal de mere.” Now they were forgetting it all. Consolations and regrets were being offered to Bob Short. He must be left at the next port.

Monday afternoon we entered White Lake and tied up at the White Lake Yacht Club. The daily inland-scow race was in progress. Some of the old salts were troubled with sea legs and all indulged in a famous White Lake Yacht Club malted milk to ward off scurvy after 48 long hours at sea. Dinner honors were awarded to the Michalinda Inn in fancy style just to ease the strain on the galley slave. After toasts and farewells to Bob Short, we pushed off again at dusk.

The Monday night run was uneventful and in the early morning we spotted the hard-to-spot entrance to Portage Lake. We tied up at the picturesque wharf at Onekema. With apologies to Siekmann’s, we must state for the record that this was the deadest town in Michigan.

In mid-afternoon we pushed off into the big lake again. There followed a most remarkable night of sailing. The sea was dead calm. Hopes of making Mackinac had been abandoned as too far and course was set northwest to lay Porte des Morte. A very light wind held from the southwest and the moon was full.

In spite of practically no wind and a dead calm sea, “Truant” laid over to a 10-degree heel and sailed all night at three to four knots. Those below put on equal strain on all parts and slept like logs. Those on deck lounged and drank in the night while “Truant” sailed on and on. Yes, “Truant” would sail herself. A little trimming and fiddling - the jigger eased a bit and the wheel set on just the right spot and “Truant” would sail by the hour, heading five degrees high to luff the mizzen, then falling off five degrees for the mizzen to fill.

Yes, quite a boat was “Truant.” Everyone on Lake Michigan knew her, had sailed her, or had owned her. By now, we had pawed and hauled our way through the sail locker and after discarding several torn and mildewed rags ended up with a mainsail, a working jib, a mizzen, a Genoa, a Wallooner, a mizzen staysail, a fore-topsail, a storm trysail, a storm jib. This assortment required a crew of four to handle -- there were no winches to help.

Going about with the Genny was quite a chore. A man was stationed on the bowsprit to haul the sail between the head stay and the jib stay. The Genoa was about 25 feet on the foot and 65 feet on the luff. To haul this canvas ahead as we went about took some fighting. In fact, the maneuver was seldom completely successful. Trouble was, the boat would come about before the Genny could be hauled forward of the spreaders. Then it would back-wind and stay hung on the spreader. The boat would come to a stop, the rudder useless and she would lay in a “hove-to” position until some other sail was adjusted to break up this beautiful by annoying balance. Many swear words on this situation.

Old “Truant” could take it, too. On the run from White to Portage Lake, I stuck my head up the companionway to see how was things that dark night and almost got it chopped off in an accidental jibe in a nice stiff breeze. A six-inch boom 22 feet long swishing inches over your head in a dark night with no clothes on is some fun. Yes, I was sleeping a la nude and spent 15 minutes on deck in that state helping straighten up this jibing business. And to this day, Fred claims he just made a couple of fast tacks. incidentally, several nights called for two pair of pants, wool shirts, sweaters or rain suits, just to keep warm at the wheel.

But getting back to business: After that beautiful sail of Tuesday night, we picked up land shortly after sunrise. This was a little sooner than expected for the course set, but in all quite satisfactory, especially when a large white lighthouse was identified as Sturgeon Bay Light. Schaeffer, as navigator, was warmly congratulated on his good work, but retired below muttering that the course held should have taken us some 15 miles north of Sturgeon Bay. Oh well, what the hell! We would just go around Door Peninsula right to left instead of left to right. But there did seem to be something not quite right with our navigation.

The Sturgeon Bay Canal had to be negotiated under power. Afternoon was spent in the bustling little town, Sturgeon Bay. John had trouble getting food. Most restaurants were marked, “No Indians Served.” His suntan and red plaid shirt did it. A cherry canning factory at the wharf was in full swing and hands full of the famous Door County cherries were enjoyed by the crew.

Off again at 7 p.m. Always we started at night. Somewhere back the line we got on this night time schedule and just couldn’t seem to get off. Captan Stew flourished the fish horn and blew two feeble blasts for the two drawbridges at Sturgeon Bay. They majestically swung open without a minute’s hesitation. What a thrill! Oh, Oh! A freighter coming the other way. We got through the first bridge; freighter toots whistle frantically and keeps on acomin’. Sailboats have the right of way -- no, that’s not right. We are under power. Motor quits. Doggone freighter keeps coming -- blows whistle like hell; we’re dead ducks. Nope. There she starts; now let’s get the hell out of here -- made it! Beads of perspiration. God! that freighter is big and look at her go!!! Great visions of kindling wood - conversation zero - feeling of humility.

The war is on at the Sturgeon Bay Ship Building Company. Arc welders and lights of the yards made a pretty picture in the dusk. We eased by and into the two-mile wide bay and tossed out the hook. To heck with this night sailing - temporarily.

Off at dawn Thursday for Marinette and Menominee, 18 miles across the bay. A gentle breeze meant a morning of loafing. I climbed the mast to the spreaders for pictures and excitement. Cameras were hauled up. Land was quite close. Shoal water ahead! “Bear north,” I yelled. “We must tack,” yelled Fred at the helm. “Well tack,” said I, which we did. Now with the Genny to starboard, I got a different view. What a view! We were practically on top of an island. “Good Gosh! You can see the bottom,” said Fred. “See it, hell. We’re on it. We are standing still.” “Toss the lead.” “One fathom scant.” “What? Five and a half feet.” “She draws seven and a half!” “Well, we proved different, unless we are two feet in the mud, but that’s beside the point. We are agound.” “Start the motor.” “That’s no good; drop the sails.” “Wait a minute; let’s thnk this one out.” “You know what Chapman says. You end up with the anchor anyway; -- you might as well start with it.” So we did, and much to our surprise, we pulled her around and off by hand, with some slight help by the motor and none by the anchor windlass.

Well, that was the payoff. That compass deviation chart so graciously supplied by the owner must be cockeyed. After figuring we are five miles south of course, we decided to check compass at Marinette. This was done by our indubitable navigator, Mr. Schaeffer, and to our surprise, dismay, rage and relief (on the part of John), we find the compass ranging up to 43 degrees off a certain headings instead of the mere 20 degrees claimed by the owner. Later we found some compensating magnets in the binnacle which, when removed, seemed to eliminate most of the error. But we didn’t want to recheck deviation; so let them lay.

Marinette in the afternoon offered a swell yacht basin and a chilly swim. Stew insisted on getting a steak dinner miles out of town, and upon arriving at the joint, we found we couldn’t eat for two hours, so came back to town, ate and again were ready to sail at about 7 p.m. Warnings of the terrors of Strawberry Shoals by a yachtsman with a beautiful 80-foot racing sloop prompted us to set a course north of Chambers Island to get to Horseshoe Island where we wished to spend the night (what would be left of it). I almost made the fatal error of stepping on the deck of this fellow yachtsman’s craft with my gym shoes on. This intention of mine brought violet yells and an explanation of four hours work scrubbing those decks and bleaching them with Oxydol! The owner’s dog was on the deck and I went away muttering “cranky old so and so” under my breath.

The compass now checked OK apparently, but we still were not quite sure; anxious moments were spent after rounding Chambers north buoy. We even tacked once, then tacked back in a few minutes; luckily, for later we picked Strawberry Shoals out in the dark just where we might have been.

We felt our way under sail into Horseshoe Island Bay, as sweet an anchorage as there is anywhere. At 1 a.m. we turned in for the night, after being hailed by the “Samara” of Michigan City.

Following morning brought exploration of Horseshoe Island and picture taking. A brisk wind made picture work difficult. We logged 7½-8 knots under jib and jigger. Finally we put up a reefed main and sailed back and forth while Jack, on shore, furiously snapped four or five cameras. We worked hard, too.

Friday afternoon was spent in Nicolet Bay. Jack Cochrane, through the great brotherhood of Boy Scouts, lined up a ride around Peninsula State Park. To Jack and me, this was old familiar territory. Eagle Bluff Tower, the ski slide, Svens Tower; the swimming in Nicolet Bay was the best of the trip. The underbody of “Truant” was examined. Five and one half feet was the correct draft. She also had a steel rudder that dropped lower than the keel.

Heavy winds of the morning died in the afternoon and the two-mile sail to Ephraim turned to power. Ephraim is a remarkable little town -- full of life, clean, dry (not even beer). It is on a beautiful bay and has a neat small yacht club with racing often. We decided to lay over for the night. Indian John left to look up an old squaw friend and eliminate the drought at Sister Bay, four miles north. We sadly bid him farewell, not expecting to see him for some time, and afraid we would not want to see him when he came. The evening was spent at the soda joint, listening to Mexican Cherry Pickers sing, and swapping yarns with the owner of “Samara.”

As we turned in, John returned, in a merry mood, quoting Shakespeare by the yard and insisted in trying on Frank’s false teeth.

Saturday, we were off in the morning with cloudy skies and barometer falling. Stew was worried about this. We did some bad sailing trying to avoid Sister Reefs. At 12 we were just off Chambers Island. Quite frankly, we loused things up in setting our course. In a burst of indecision, we edged up to Sister Shoals, not knowing whether to leave them to port or starboard. The wind was hauling clockwise to add to the confusion, and shortly made up into a thunderstorm. The sky darkened menacingly and working canvas was down, storm sail set, and oilskins tried out. Jack Cochrane took an imposing set of photos of the crew in true Scott’s Emulsin regalia.

The storm hit with reasonable wind and much rain. But it was over shortly, sail was raised and we worked north. The usual calm following storm failed to materialize and we sailed north past Porte des Morte.

Someone dug up a history of Porte des Morte (Door of Death) and found that it was so named after a massacre of the Sac Indians, and not as we had supposed because of the hazardous sailing conditions of the channel.

By late afternoon the wind was holding strong from northwest and a very heavy sea was making up. Any further work to north would be rough going. Fayette-Little Bay de Noc, or even north of Washington Isle looked far away in face of this sea running rail under and afraid something might let go.

So, we about-faced and under jib and jigger ran through Porte des Morte, our main destination, Bailey’s Harbor. We spotted one range light at 11 p.m. and sailed south an ungodly time, trying to find the other range. Finally it was picked up and we down sail to power directly into wind. By the time the sail was down, we lost the second range. Bucking with the heavy wind under full power, we could only make one and a half to two knots toward the only light in sight. Cutting back north, after a half hour, we finally picked up a bell buoy and the second light again. At 1 p.m. we dropped the hook and turned in, worn to a frazzle.

Sunday morning, we went ashore for supplies and then were off to Manitowec. Heavy seas were still running, but a dead calm from the northeast set in and for several hours in the afternoon the wind blew straight up and down. Sails slatted from side to side, the mast swept back and forth, and the heat was bad. Finally sails were lowered to save the boat. For dinner the cook said, “Anybody as wants any, go get it.” Three of the crew responded and the rest turned a shade greener.

Manitowec finally came along about 11 p.m. as usual. And as usual, we had one hell of a time with the lights, traffic lights, breakwater and channel range lights. And this time, to add to the confusion, the flashing white light listed in the light list turned out to be flashing red.

Monday was started unexpectedly early by a yell from Stew at 7 a.m., “Here comes a sub.” Surenuff, through the drawbridge and within spitting distance came sliding the biggest damn sub you ever saw. It was swarming with Navy and heading to the lake for test dives.

The morning was spent looking over the shipyards where six more subs were in various states of construction. A beautiful steel-hulled auxiliary by Burger was admired. A Gloucester schooner of about 80 feet was examined with interest. It was being lined up by some rich gent. It had several staterooms, forecastle, large galley, head with bathtub, and steam heat. Too bad about the dry rot apparent in several spots.

John Schaeffer was to leave here and copious tears were shed, partly for John and partly for ourselves, as we now theoretically were a ship without a navigator.

We are out in lake at noon again and in contrast to the previous day, we now sailed downwind through heavy pulling seas. This condition held through the night and it was very difficult steering to keep from yawing. This resulted in tacking downwind and at the end of a trick, the helmsman was a nervous wreck from trying to avoid a jibe. A preventer was rigged of ¾” line and once the boat yawed so badly that we jibed and the line parted like string. No damage done. Milwaukee Harbor was entered Tuesday morning. Here Stew Walsh, being home, decided to stay there and finish cutting the grass. We tied up at the Milwaukee Yacht Club and recalled the swell dinner we had had here last year. During last winter, the clubhouse had burned to the ground and now the place looked sad indeed.

Tuesday afternoon the wind was from the south, just where we wanted to go. So, not having anything else to do, we sailed 10 miles out into the lake and 10 miles back again, ending up four miles south at the South Shore Yacht Club of Milwaukee. Here we loafed, swam, met another former sailor of the good ship “Truant” and turned in early so we could get off to an early start Wednesday morning.

Came the dawn Wednesday morning and the whole crew was sawing wood like hell -- all but yours truly. Rising to the call of duty at 7 a.m., I painfully arose, started the engine and untied us. Of course, no one could sleep with that engine going, so the crew crawled up into the companionway and gave advice on how to operate a 50-foot yawl singlehanded. For my violent efforts, I was now to be known as “Slave-Driver Barrows.”

All day and all night and all day we beat into the wind. From dead reckoning, we were still some way from Chicago and as acting navigator, I predicted Chicago by 12 to 1 Thursday night. Navigation being somewhere in error as usual, we fetched Chicago waterfront about 5 p.m. The wind had made up quite strong and we tried jib and jigger. This combination was not worth a hoot on the wind and we finally downed sail and started to motor in.

Just about then we spotted what appeared to be the gruesome sight of a body of a man floating in the water. After circling around a few minutes, our stomachs settled back to normal. should we go on and report to the Coast Guard? Tie an anchor on him! Hoist him aboard! Put him in the dinghy! Forget it! We finally threw a couple lines around the poor guy and hauled him up out of the water and headed for the Coast Guard Station, feeling rather silly.

Jack Cochrane semaphored the Coast Guard the sad news and they met us with stretcher and took over, which was well with us. No one had suggested turning the fella over so we could see what he looked like. He was quite obviously dead a week or more.

Thursday night saw the joyful return to ties of home. Vi Walter, Helen S., Ailene Pfefferle, and Jean, Bill and Gail Barrows had come to Chicago. Family obligations prevented your author from participating in the doings shore, but no one ended up in jail.

Friday afternoon, sail into the lake with the women aboard ended the cruise. All that was left was a fried chicken dinner at the Wyoming Golf Club, reminiscing and movies and pictures by Cochrane, Pfefferle and Barrows.

Oh, yes! One other little matter: The purser submitted his report and for the record it came to $5.50 per day per man. This added up to $66.60 for those who took the complete deluxe tour, plus $13.54 rail fare. Who can offer a better vacation for this money!

When Topsy becomes turvy

One of the biggest concerns on the minds of small boat sailors is capsizing; how to prevent it, and how to recover after it happens.

   Some small sailboats are designed to be self-recoverable. Some, such as trimarans, are designed to be almost impossible to capsize.

   I’ve never had either one of those.

   In my 54-year career of small boat sailing, I’ve capsized twice.

   That’s way too often.

   The first time was in my first boat, a 15½-foot Windmill sloop, "Skipper" (named after our Cocker Spaniel) that my grandfather, Pawp, built for me. The Windmill is an open boat with no deck to keep water out. Once it goes over too far, it becomes a bathtub.

   I was 18, a young skipper. My crew was my Mom. We were sailing on a brisk winter day in Lake Logan Martin. The years have made the memory mercifully cloudy, but the way I remember it went is as follows:

   The breeze was stiff and increasing. Still a novice, I was growing anxious. The manila mainsheet jammed, making it impossible to release the wind’s power. I steered the little boat head to wind, to take the pressure off the sails. At the same time, I rushed forward to take down the sails, whose halyards were cleated on the mast.

   The Windmill is a tender (tippy) boat. Putting weight in the bow decreases the boat’s stability even further. I uncleated the main halyard and yanked.

Nothing.  The mainsail was jammed in its track in the mast. I tugged furiously, not noticing that the rudder, now untended (my Mom knew even less about sailing than I did) allowed the boat to head downwind. The boat continued heading further downwind, until the wind caught the other side of the sail, jibing and throwing it violently over to the other side -- and throwing me and Mom into the water with it.
  The cold water took my breath away; but oddly enough, after the initial shock, the water felt warm -- at least for awhile. The boat was lying on its side. Mom and I paddled around, trying to salvage what we could and keep equipment from floating away.   

   We slowly drifted to shore, where, luckily, help was waiting. Some men had seen our plight and arrived to take us ashore for warm showers and change of clothes. They also towed the boat back to dock for us.

   It’s good to be able to count on the kindness of strangers.

   My second capsize was June 26, 2015; skipper now age 68 -- more years, but still not wise enough. My current boat is a Sea Pearl 21 -- not as tender as the Windmill, but not immune to capsize. The two-masted cat ketch Pearl is partially decked to keep out spray, but if it goes too far, it also becomes a bathtub.

    Pride goeth before a fall. I had criticized the participants of the ill-fated Dauphin Island race for not paying close enough attention to NOAA reports. I always pay close attention to weather reports. The weather was nice, and storms were not expected until after midnight. However, as I sailed down the lake, there came a report of a strong thunderstorm near Fort Payne, AL, miles away. I sailed on, still paying close attention. Then I saw a jagged lightning flash in a cloud bank in the south. I immediately turned tail, but was still a couple of miles from home. A few minutes later NOAA mentioned the second storm, near Albertville, moving northeast, and could affect Guntersville.

   I kept a close watch. It looked as if the cloud would pass to the east of me. Positive thinking didn't help. The wind picked up slightly, but not alarmingly. The clouds were still quite far away. Then it picked up considerably -- 15-20, so I made for the lee of a point.

   That was my big mistake. I should have used those few seconds to completely furl both sails and throw out the anchor. Within seconds, a sudden blast of 50-70 hit. I hadn't realized such powerful winds could be that far ahead of the clouds. Although I let both sheets fly, it wasn't enough. Even with both sails flapping, spilling as much wind as possible, the ferocious gust just laid her over.

   I was swimming the next instant. The wind intensified even more, making choppy waves. I tried to keep items from floating away (I had been too lazy to take the advice of seasoned Sea Pearlers to tie everything down -- I have since learned my lesson). I made my way around to the windward side of the upside down hull, but attempting to right the craft was futile. Both masts were firmly stuck in the mud. The lake water in June was comfortable; no need to worry about hypothermia.

   I made my way back around to the lee side. The chop increased. One of the waves knocked off my prescription sunglasses, even though they were attached with a string. My “water resistant” VHF proved not very water resistant. My GPS made no such claim. It was also a goner. Nothing to do but hang on.

   Eventually the storm passed. I was close enough to a campground that I could shout for help. A lady onshore heard me yelling and sent her husband out in a motorboat. He picked me up and brought me back to his camp, where his wife gave me dry clothes and liquids.

   I was anxious to go back out and retrieve the boat, but another storm was coming, so we had to wait. I called my wife and told what had happened. Someone called the marine police. After a long wait, the marine police showed up; but their mission is to save lives, not property. They advised me to call a towing company, then headed back to their base.

My  current boat, a Sea Pearl 21

   My new best friends then took me back out to the scene of the accident. We put two lines around the boat and started backing toward shore. The mainmast came up out of the water, but the mizzen stayed stuck in the mud. I had either forgotten to put a stop knot in the mizzen sheet, or it had come undone.

   Once we got the boat into shallow water, it was just a matter of bailing it out. We called my wife, and she and a neighbor showed up with the Subaru and trailer.

   The next day, this incredibly generous friend went back out and retrieved the bottom portion of the mizzen mast along with the torn mizzen sail, and brought it to me. Grateful doesn’t begin to describe my feelings.

   Total loss: mizzen topmast, torn mizzen sail, slightly bent mainmast, prescription sunglasses, GPS, VHF (still functions as weather radio), cushions, sailbag with various sundry items.

   At a local marina I found two masts that fit, and a Sea Pearl friend sold me a used set of sails. I got off very lightly. I don’t intend to be caught napping again -- live by the Sea Pearl mantra, “Reef early and often.”