Cranky's New Craft

I have seen sea kayaks far offshore, but never a pram. This was big water for a small boat, and I tipped my hat to sailor, skill, and sea.

A B. Frank Franklin Column from the Archives

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The old Existential Vacuum plant loomed large and empty. Just beyond it was a little used ramp, and it was there that I would launch Elsie for the first time in over a year. Her repairs had taken longer than I’d hoped, and I was excited at the thought of the days ahead.

This had been a year of missed opportunities, though I had managed to get in some sailing on other peoples’ boats. That had been great fun, but not the same as being aboard my own. Even with people we know well, we are guests, and the boat is a bit of a stranger.

On one such sail, the owner turned the helm over to me and went below for a nap. The boat is a sloop of 23 feet or so, a tad longer and faster than Elsie, and more conventional. I’m not sure of the manufacturer, but it has a “V” on the main.

I was holding a steady course and making good way, noting the differences in sounds and feel between this boat and Elsie. It was a bit like getting to school late and slipping into the wrong classroom. There was nothing wrong with the way the boat sailed, just different, and different enough to be just short of fully comfortable, like new sailing shoes. I am more careful with other boats than with Elsie, due to familiarity and an abiding desire to keep everything intact.

On this day we were almost two miles offshore, and all was well, except for the discordant snorts of the owner snoring below. They did not harmonize with the other sounds of the day, and I am hard pressed to think of anything they would blend with, including memory.

Still, it was a fine day, and there were few better places to be. I was taught by my uncle Herman to keep my head “on a swivel” in order to keep a sharp lookout for vessels and things to hit. On one such look, I was looking back toward the bow from a “check six” when I saw a speck close to shore. At such distance I could not tell if it was power or sail, and it posed no threat, so I thought nothing of it.

Later I noticed that the speck was indeed a sail, still distant, but closer. I checked the sails and continued, making a mental note of our relative positions. I headed offshore a bit and trimmed the genoa.

My head kept turning toward the speck, as it does toward a bothersome bug. But this was no insect, and though distant, it was getting closer. We were beating, and he was converging at a slight angle. I reached for the binoculars.

I was shocked. It was a tiny pram, sloop rigged and vigorously sailed. There was an “M” on the sail, with a sort of smirk beneath it. Who was that guy?

I have seen sea kayaks far offshore, but never a pram. This was big water for a small boat, and I tipped my hat to sailor, skill, and sea. Then I checked the sails and tweaked them a bit, picking up a tenth of a knot.

The pram picked up two tenths, apparently, and we were within a hundred yards or so, taking care to avoid eye contact. Too soon, the little boat was abeam, and then it reached ahead, escorted by a rollicking wake.

 As we pressed ahead, my jaws were clenched and eyes were squinting. As our boats rose and fell I lost sight of him, and was concerned we might end up close aboard. My concern, though prudent, was wasted, as he had pulled ahead, even though I’d scratched out a bit more speed. His admirable skills were annoying.

I could not take my eyes off the pram for long, and watched him pull away and closer to my course. Safely ahead, he turned and sailed directly across my bow, crossing my “T.” With cannon aboard, he could have sunk me.

 It gets worse. He jibed and sailed back across my bow. He seemed to be concentrating on sailing, and I will never be quite sure. It could have been shadows and light, but he seemed to be wearing an expression like the smirk on his sail.

He was not finished. As we passed, he hardened up and crossed my wake. I considered jumping up and down and swearing at him, or throwing something at him, but that would have been unsporting. For his part, he seemed to be staring at the jib telltales, which streamed perfectly. For my part, I was glad we were going in opposite directions, and alarmed at the thought that he might return to torment me again.

As the small sail grew smaller, my smile grew larger. Later, the noises from below stopped, and Mike, the well rested owner, came on deck. I reported an uneventful trip.

He wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

The ramp ahead brought me back. It was time to get Elsie in the water.

Elsie, a Manatee 22, is easy to rig and I have developed a routine for getting underway. At the ramp, I am anxious to get going. Wind and water are fickle things, and best not kept waiting. At the end of a sail, time is often short, with deadlines looming. And worse, I’m usually tired. Speed at the ramp is important coming and going, truly.

Elsie was almost ready to launch when a sound like that awful snoring overwhelmed the water lapping at the shore. It grew louder, and a small truck with a Jackson Pollack paint job snored up, whipped around, and backed down the ramp. Smoke came from the truck and driver.

It was Cranky McSalt, chewing some nasty thing that may have once been a cigar. I waved, but did not speak. There is a reason he is called Cranky.

Behind Cranky’s truck, on an old cargo trailer sat a small boat with blunt ends. It was stark white with a red bootstripe and twisted line for a rubrail. There was a small cabin. From my perch aboard Elsie, I could see stuff piled in the cockpit of the little boat.

As I tidied up, Cranky pushed the boat off the trailer and walked it to the side of the ramp and pulled it ashore. In less time than it took for the smoke to scatter, that awful sounding truck was parked, and I was glad.

Climbing down, I saw that Cranky had stepped a mast and was fitting an oar into a lock. He shoved off with the other, and a second later was rowing away. I winced, as the pram bow reminded me of the drubbing I had taken at the helm of the V boat.

A hundred feet from shore, Cranky shipped oars and hoisted the lug sail. I watched the transom of the little boat fade. •SCA•