The Great Verazzano Tragico...

As I write this it is 40 degrees outside and I can hardly imagine that only 2 days ago I was out on the water enjoying a warm 70 degrees sunny day. Fall is no longer just an idea but a rather persistent reality, and, as they say in imaginary lands: "winter is coming". But two days ago, when the world was still summery, I drove my catamaran to the Keyport Municipal Boat Ramp, rigged it in record time (it now takes me less than 20 minutes), and went out towards my destination: Verazzano Bridge. Little did I know that this journey would last over 7 hours, and I wouldn't make it home for a full 10. But first things first. Here is what happened, including the bulk of the tragi-comedic adventures:

1. I had a nice and leisurely time sailing straight downwind all the way to the bridge. The journey was about 15 miles and took under two hours. I knew that coming back would be harder, but figured that I should not be so conservative all the time and live a little.


2. I managed get my scenery on video and even made some video calls to share my experiences with family and friends (Using a Galaxy S3 in a waterproof pouch)


3. As I approached the bridge (about 1pm), the wind started to get stronger. Having learned from last week's mistakes, I took great care not to underestimate the power of wind gusts, and thus managed to keep the boat right side up. I turned around and headed back, but the wind was now exactly in front of me. I picked the closest course I could that kept me moving at a reasonable speed without capsizing, and headed towards New Jersey


4. In about an hour and a half I found myself approaching land which was strangely familiar, and yet entirely devoid of that "home port" feeling. This familiar land was Leonardo. I felt that this was acceptable as tacking goes, and I'd tack back towards Staten Island next, but when I turned and tried to settle into a similarly acceptable course on the port tack, I found myself heading almost exactly for the Verazzano Bridge. This was somewhat disheartening, so I beached the craft just west of Leonardo and had lunch on a beach that was still somewhat warm.


5. The wind continued to increase, and while I was having a forcibly de-stressed lunch experience on the shell-encrusted beach, I glanced up to notice a batten sticking out my unexpectedly torn mainsail, about half-way up (that's about 12 feet up the mast). Now, seeing parts coming out of a craft that is responsible for getting you home is in itself disconcerting - but your mainsail... well, it's kind of important. I managed to take down the sail, shove the batten back into its torn pocket and hope for the best


6. With the relaxation over, I re-attempted my port tack course with a significant reduction in success quantity. This time, I pushed it harder and a gust of wind simply knocked the boat over, despite me letting the mainsheet loose altogether. I righted the boat without too much difficulty thanks to my righting pole, and even managed to stay relatively dry by quickly getting out of the water


7. Several more attempts at getting somewhere resulted in the same success rate, and thus I felt it time to play the remaining ace I had in reserve. I beached the craft yet again, in almost the same spot (as I literally gained no ground against the wind), and reefed the sail. Reefing the sail is basically leaving it part-way down, and mine has the fittings to permit this to be done given adequate spare line, which I happened to have.


8. As I am fiddling with the sail, I notice that my righting pole, which was at some point permanently attached to the dolphin striker via the use of an eyebolt is now floating in the bay somewhere near my boat. Apparently when I beached the boat, I ripped the pole off its attachment because the pole wasn't properly tied (I don't have time to tie it up after righting the boat, the boat takes off and needs attention)


9. Proudly complimenting myself on my resourcefulness I wasted no time and reattached the pole by using some spare line. I was busy tying a knot to the dolphin striker (with the bows pointed to sea) when a gust of wind decided that it was time for the boat to climb off the beach and do what boats are supposed to do. Now I should point out that I was directly in front of the boat that I thought was safely beached, and that the sails were completely free (and now reefed!), yet the boat still plowed its way off the sand, into me, and continued its relentless march towards freedom despite my grunt-ful efforts to slow its progress. I had no choice but to grab on and climb on. A few minutes later, I managed to turn it around through diligent application of choice expletives and additional grunts, and to get it back on the beach to finish my knot work


10. I launched the now reefed and re-conditioned boat once more, only to discover two interesting things:
    • The boat travels at ridiculous speed even with all the sails loose
    • The starboard rudder won't lock at these speeds, and I can't keep the boat still long enough to do it either


11. What this means is that now I have a boat with a dragging rudder and excessive sail area, in other words, it requires all of my upper body strength (of which I do have a fair amount) to steer. At this point, I had no choice but to admit defeat - which, naturally, does not excuse me from further failures.


12. I went back to the beach yet again and asked for help. Now, I don't usually do this.... I don't mind asking for directions (who does that nowadays, anyway?), but asking for help with stuff like this is typically met with the following response from my inner rationalizer: "And if this easy way out weren't available, what would you do, huh? You're supposed to be self-sufficient!". Yet my situation was clear: It took me an hour to go 500 feet. I have 10 miles to go, all up wind. It is past 5pm, and sunset is in less than 2 hours. So I picked up the phone and asked my wife to come pick me up at a downwind marina. Now, doing this would require that my truck and trailer also find their way to this new marina - which would require some commuting, but it was better than my current situation.


13. With my hat thus hung low, I now have only one difficult task remaining - getting the boat to Leonardo boat ramp. That means that I now need to circumnavigate the big pier just west of Leonardo (it usually shows an aircraft carrier on satellite). My rudder still won't stay down (more accurately, I still can't pull it down fast enough before I pick up speed), and thus it is time to use those expletives and upper body strength yet again. The next 40 minutes are comprised of me being contorted between the tiller and the nearest handhold, applying all the force I can to keep the boat from going directly into what I suspect to be a military installation. All my sails are loose and yet the boat continues to careen forward, veering wildly thanks to the floppy rudder


14. To add to my already adequately entertaining experience, I realize that I'm not actually sure exactly where the ramp is - but this time I pick the right direction and find it on my first attempt. Moreover, I even manage to dock on my first attempt, tying up the boat just in time for my wife to show up to pick me up


15. Now it's just a bunch of driving back and forth, or so I thought...


16. By the time I get back to Leonardo with the trailer it is completely dark. In fact, the sky is clear and I can see the stars, if only I had the time to stare at them. I position the trailer in the water and have my wife sit on the brake pedal, since my parking brake isn't the most reliable and I don't want to have to fish out the truck as well as the boat (not to mention the famous Leonardo boat ramp drop-off - we'd need a crane to get the car out of the water here). With the truck safely running, I get on my boat (which is now only equipped with the jib) and try to sail the 20 feet to the ramp, to what I thought would be the end of this adventure. I thought wrong, again


17. The boat decides that it does indeed want to sail, except not towards the ramp - the wind does something strange, unpredictable, and confusing - and I wind up slowly drifting past the ramp towards the parked boats, as my wife looks in the rear view mirror in puzzlement. The rudders seem to have no effect on the boat's direction


18. I try this and that, then I start using an oar, and each time I start to row, the wind picks up and blows me back, sideways, or into the barnacle-encrusted walls of the boat parking area. As all of this occurs in complete darkness, I continue to trip over my own lines and rigging and to periodically fall into the water (not that I didn't try to prevent myself from falling - I have bruises to show for it). A few spectators show up on the pier and start giving my wife a running commentary sprinkled with helpful suggestions (which, according to her, were entirely useless). After 1 hour and 15 minutes of this process, I make it close enough to the pier for the spectators to grab my line and pull the boat to the ramp. My famous upper body strength is now exhausted, and it is now 59 degrees out, rather than the pleasant 74 at mid-day


19. The rest of it is uneventful, and I make it home at 9 pm. I left at 9:30 AM

It's been two days, and my muscles are still quite sore. I feel that the sailing season is over for me this year. Maybe I'll take a class next year.

Here is the wind graph for this day (this is at Sandy Hook, it was probably somewhat stronger in the middle of the Bay):



According to this, if I had stayed out a bit longer I could have sailed back - the wind shifted from West to North.