Ten Hours Until Dawn

'...there's a type of person - and there's very few of them around - that when everybody else is backing away, they're going forward...'

Perhaps one of the saddest sea stories I have read in recent times is the story of the Can Do, a steel hulled, 49ft pilot boat captained by Frank Quirk.

Frank and the Can Do worked the waters of Gloucester and Salem Harbours in Massachusetts, transferring pilots to ships waiting outside the harbour breakwaters and then guiding them across the dangerous bars. Frank also worked closely with the Coast Guard at Gloucester, supporting local patrols and providing assistance with rescues. The former navy Seabee (construction unit) was known for keeping a clear head in a crisis. A twenty year veteran of the sea, Frank and the Can Do were regular fixtures in the waters off Gloucester, where they saved more than one life.

Frank was awarded three Mariner's Medals, Gloucester's highest honour: the third was awarded posthumously after the 1978 blizzard that claimed 99 lives, including that of Frank and his crew.

The same kind of meteorological event described in Sebastian Junger's Perfect Storm and experienced by sailors in the 1998 Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, the blizzard that hit Massachusetts on 6 February 1978 brought winds of 92 miles per hour and dumped 3 foot of snow in a few short hours. Just as the storm was kicking off, the Gloucester Coast Guard received a distress call from the captain of the Global Hope, an oil tanker that had run aground near Salem with 32 men onboard and was believed to be in danger of breaking up.

The Coast Guard dispatched its available vessels, the largest of which was just 44ft. Frank overheard the radio transmissions and called in his willingness to assist. The smaller Coast Guard vessel is forced to turn back almost immediately. When the larger vessel loses its electronics and can no longer navigate the fierce waves, Frank tells Coast Guard control he and his crew 'will give it their best shot' to find them and bring them home.

Reading Ten Hours Until Dawn is a lot like reading about the maiden voyage of the Titanic, or the last trip of the Andrea Gail. You know how it's going to end, but as you spend time with the characters, you begin to hope against hope that they will survive. The transcripts of the heartbreaking radio transmissions during the final hours of the Can Do only heighten the sense of loss.

A memoriam notice in the Gloucester Times on the 25th anniversary of the blizzard ends with the words 'we gave it our best shot'. And they did.

 

I went sailing yesterday...

It was Port Albert Yacht Club's Around Sunday Island race, held every year on the Saturday of the weekend before Melbourne Cup day. Can you see the irony?

From Wikipedia:

Sunday Island is a low-lying, sandy, 16.2 km² barrier island on the coast of Victoria, Australia. It is about 8 km long by 3 km wide and rises to a maximum height of no more than 15 m asl. It lies in Corner Inlet, South Gippsland, 4 km south-west of Port Albert and 215 km south-east of Melbourne. Although the island is surrounded by the Nooramunga Marine and Coastal Park, it is private freehold property, a game reserve owned by the Para Park Cooperative.^[1] It contains an airstrip and a jetty as well as accommodation buildings for a resident manager and visiting members.

So there we were, me (and my two crew) in my Ultimate 18 trailer sailer, Scooch, along with twelve other competitors in trailer sailer yachts that ranged from 16-25ft. It was raining and cold, and we were as happy as pigs in mud. (Come to think of it, the parkland surrounding the yacht club was very muddy.)

The 16 nautical mile passage race started at 10:30am and we finished at 3 pm, mid fleet, a respectable 7th on corrected time.

This was just my second passage race as skipper. I bought Scooch (then named Bitter Sweet) in February 2010, just in time for the Marlay Point Overnight  Race. The Marlay is Australia's premier race for trailerable yachts and traverses the Gippsland Lakes from the western to the eastern end, from Marlay Point on Lake Wellington to Paynesville, Lake King.

See below for a description of that first race, posted by me on that fantastic web forum, Trailer Sailer Place, http://www.trailersailerplace.com.au/

It was to be my second Marlay Point, my first as Skipper of my own boat – an Ultimate 18 drop keel I had purchased a month before the race and christened Scooch. In case you’re wondering about the name: to scooch, is to slide small distances at a time, mostly on one’s behind. So as well as being a term I use each night when tucking my young son into bed, it’s a fairly apt description of my sailing style.

The day of the race dawned clear and still, with a light north-easterly forecast for the evening. The weather may have been calm but I was not. Excitement and nerves mingled as we made the last few adjustments to rigging and gear before heading to Marlay Point.

We were a crew of three; yours truly, first mate Michael - an experienced sailor with an uncanny ability to sniff out the wind - and six year old Regan, the aforementioned young son who was crewing in his first race. The race started well for Regan when, during the pre-race briefing, he was presented with a prize for being the youngest crew member at age 6 – a bag of lollies. Great. Every kid stuck on a small boat for hours on end needs a large supply of sugar. Not!

Getting out of the marina to the start line was the first challenge. For those that know Marlay Point, the ‘marina’ is actually a shallow creek that runs from Lake Wellington into the nearby morass. It’s reedy and shallow. A great place to shelter but a navigational nightmare when scores of boats are attempting to motor out at the same time. Boat after boat ran aground on the boggy north side as others reversed from the opposite bank without warning. It was entertaining to watch.

Once in clear water, we hoisted the sails – main and genoa – and headed for the start line. With one minute to the start we were in a great position on the eastern end of the line. I had one eye on the traffic and one on the sky, watching intently for the green flare, when my concentration was broken by my son’s voice. Mum, I need the toilet.

Amazingly, I was back on the helm in time for the start. Truth be told, none of us saw the flare but we followed as the boats around us surged over the line.

Light, fluky winds prevailed across Lake Wellington. After a couple of hours, contrary to all forecasts, we detected a slight breeze from across the port stern quarter. We quietly set the spinnaker and, much to our delight, passed several boats in quick succession. Time for a celebratory coffee and milo. The dreaded question came soon after.

How much further Mum?

I explained that the trip to Paynesville was a hop, skip and a jump and that we were halfway through the hop. This seemed to satisfy Regan, who settled into his bunk for the first of his cat naps. An hour later, he reappeared bleary eyed and looked around.

Where are we now Mum?

Still on the hop honey,  I said, beginning to feel a little tense. He sat down beside me in the cockpit and soon fell asleep again, snoring quietly. I left him there until we needed to tack, and then put him in his bunk while Michael sailed solo for a few minutes.

When Regan was next to reappear we were in McLennan Straits. It was one in the morning. I decided to pre-empt the question.

Hi honey, we’re on the skip! The little boy smiled and looked around. His face quickly took on a puzzled expression.

Why has everybody stopped? His voice was loud in the stillness.

Not stopped, I explained quickly, just going very slowly.

Better than going backwards, I joked. Little did I know what was to come.

One of the things I love most about the race is the camaraderie between yachts. Even when on top of each other in the narrow Straits, most people are calm and courteous when advising of their need for water. Of course, there’s always an exception to the rule. I won’t mention any names. Suffice to say it was serendipitous when, after repeatedly screeching at us to move down (I would have obliged had we not been becalmed and without steerage, just like the other dozen boats that were with us), one fellow rudely fended us off with a kick, only to propel us forwards and his boat backwards by quite a few feet.

Further along the straits, an all-male crew was demonstrating their superior knowledge of aerodynamics. The skipper was on the helm with a flashlight trained on the sails as he shouted his instructions in a terse voice. One of his crew stood on the cabin top and scrunched the main sail into an odd shape. The other was doing the same with the jib, his silhouette invoking the crucifixion as he stood silently, arms outstretched. The skipper continued to shout instructions as we slid silently past.

How is that woman passing us? The question came from the prone bowman, who sounded a little put out.

Well, obviously, I don’t know everything! The affronted skipper turned off his flashlight and we lost sight of them in the dark.

Our race was progressing well, if slowly. We had passed many larger and faster boats, thanks to Michael’s keen wind sense, and were in good spirits. But after another couple of hours I noticed something disturbing.

Mike, I think we’re going backwards!

The tide had changed and the current was slowly and surely pulling us back the way we had come. Boats began throwing out their anchors to hold position. Some people began to wash down their boats. Others took the opportunity to have some refreshments. We thought we felt a light wind over the stern and raised the spinnaker.

Nice anchor! shouted someone, beer in hand.

I like the colour!  I called back, as we continued backwards.

We soon joined the others in throwing out out the anchor, made coffee and fended off the swarm of mossies that had arrived with the dawn.

Not too long after we were off again but after more than sixteen hours, my youngest crew member was losing enthusiasm. We discussed our options and decided to drop Regan off at Holland’s Landing, where I knew his father was waiting to wave us past. I quickly sent my husband a text message outlining the plan.

For the next hour or so we sang nursery rhymes as we tacked back and forth across the Straits, inching ever closer to Holland’s Landing. Row Row Row Your Boat garnered some laughs from other boats as we approached the drop off point. We managed to tack in near to the jetty and threw Regan to his father. A helpful bystander neatly took the catch and passed Regan to his grateful Dad.

We waved goodbye and took off again, Lake Victoria in sight, determined to finish the race. We knew we had disqualified ourselves by losing a crewman overboard and not attempting to retrieve him, but we didn’t care. We were racing against ourselves and the 3pm cut-off, after which any boat not home would technically be a DNF-Did Not Finish.

Scooch lifted her skirts in the freshening breeze and we enjoyed an exhilarating reach down the Lake towards Storm Point, finally on ‘the jump’ after 11 hours in the Straits. We were mostly close hauled with the occasional shy run with the multi-coloured anchor as the fickle wind kept shifting. We had just reached a race record speed of 5 knots when there was a loud twang. A shackle on the backstay had given way.

Our speed dropped to a bit over 3 knots as we made a hasty repair. Every girl worth her salt carries a spare D shackle in her handbag.

We were soon back up to speed and enjoying a close tussle with a Farr 6000 as we approached Wattle Point. We were just 3 nautical miles from Paynesville when the clock struck 3pm. We toasted ourselves and Scooch with a swig of warm water – and kept sailing.

We had been racing for 19 hours. Technically we were a DNF, or Did Not Finish. I prefer to think of it as Did Not Fail. We didn’t hit anyone, we sailed further and faster than many larger, quicker boats, and we had a ball doing it. Regan is already talking about next year.

The Marlay Point Overnight Race is a trailer-sailer institution. Sometimes it’s a magical run across the Gippsland Lakes under moon and stars, other times it’s an epic slog to windward, punctuated by squalls and mossies. But it’s always a privilege; to sail in the wake of the 13,000+ boats that have attempted the race since 1969, in the company of like-minded souls who love the wind.

Ever wonder why we do it?

'Ever wonder why you're out there in the cold and damp, miles away from civilisation? Ever wonder why you invest far too much of your income in sailing paraphernalia? Ever wonder why desite all this, you spend hours daydreaming about getting back to it all?'

This collection of Mike Peyton's cartoons and anecdotes was published in 2007. (Hmmm...must have been a good year, see last post!)
A yachting legend, Mike's cartoons have been published in sailing magazines around the globe and in 16 books. An active sailor until his late eighties (something for us all to aspire to, even current non-sailors!), he turned 90 in January 2011.

From the cover:

'He has owned 13 boats, including Brimstone, Lodestone and Touchstone (nicknamed by one charterer as Grindstone) on which he took charter parties sailing on the UK's East Coast. There is no truth in the rumour that his next boat will be called Tombstone.'

Mike Peyton's cartoons are witty, hilarious and elegantly eloquent. You'll swear he's been onboard with you at the most inopportune times!

I dare you to read this book without laughing out loud!

 

The Cure for Anything is Salt Water

'Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.'

OK, it's not a book, but it's one of the best quotes in the history of mankind, delivered by the champion of sea faring anecdotes, Mr Mark Twain! Closely followed by:

There is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats." Ratty (aka Kenneth Grahame), The Wind in the Willows

But now to some maritime tomes. There are so many great books it's hard to know where to start. So I'll begin with a personal favourite, The Cure for Anything is Salt Water.

This autobiographical tale, first published in 2007, is written by Mary South, senior editor and contributor at Yachting magazine. She wasn't connected with the marine industry when she wrote the book; far from it. She was a successful book editor, working in Pennsylvania without a boat in site. Here's the blurb from the back cover:

At forty, Mary South had a beautiful home, good friends, and a successful career in book publishing. But she couldn't help feeling that she was missing something intangible but essential. So she decided to go looking for it...at sea. Six months later she had quit her job, sold the house, and was living aboard a forty-foot, thirty-ton steel trawler she rechristened Bossanova. Despite her total lack of experience, South set out on her maiden voyage - a fifteen hundred-mile odyssey from Florida to Maine - with her one man, two-dog crew. But what began as the fulfillment of an idle wish became a crash course in navigating the complicated byways of the self.

The book is written with a self-effacing humour that is engaging; but what I like most about it (apart from the fact that it proves that a middle-aged woman can reinvent herself as a mariner, sans armchair!) is that the journey from landlubber to sea captain becomes a metaphor for personal growth and self-mastery. And that resonates with me because, if I'm honest, I really do believe that if I can sail a boat safely across the sea, then I can do anything I set my mind to.

My only gripe with the book was the lack of photos of Bossanova - the other hero of the story. I emailed Mary to tell her how much I loved the book and to share my disappointment at the lack of pics. She was nice enough to send me the ones below.
Isn't the boat gorgeous?!

I loved this book. Read it and let me know what you think. :-)

'Do you know, I've never been in a boat in all my life?'

'What?' cried the Rat, openmouthed: 'Never been in a - you never - well, I-what have you been doing, then?'

Sorry, but just had to finish with another quote from dear old Ratty. He had his priorities right, that rodent!