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.
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    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.
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    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.