Places: Roosevelt Lake, Arizona

On a West Wight Potter 19

Article by Rob Bartlett

Felicidade, my 19-foot West Wight Potter, was dialed in and reaching towards the unseen shoreline as if on rails. Bright stars formed a canopy overhead and reflected off the water with spasmodic little flashes. I checked the GPS; 4.8 knots, making excellent progress. We should be at the waypoint marking our chosen overnight spot, a tiny gouge deep inside Why Cove with a soft cushion of reeds to nose into, in 15 minutes or less. My first night sail was proving to be a great success, and I was looking forward to relaxing with a glass of wine and dinner.

It was starting to get a little chilly; I tightened the tiller tamer a bit and ducked into the cabin for a windbreaker. As I was pulling the jacket out of a locker, I heard a low moan through the hull. Worried I might have scraped some underwater obstacle, I hurried back into the cockpit and looked around, but could see nothing but black water and stars. The moan sounded again, this time closer, louder. My hair stood on the back of my neck; what was going on here? I hove to, and went below to get the spotlight; as I was digging through a locker, a thick tentacle arm reached through the companionway and wrapped itself around my neck—lake kraken! I tried to scream, but managed only a slobbering gurgle as I was dragged off the boat towards a giant mouth filled with sharp teeth. I tried to kick the teeth…

I woke up as my knee slammed against the top of the V-berth. Whoa. A dream. Cool! I love sea monster dreams, even when I am about to become the main course for something with too many teeth. I rubbed my knee, rolled over and looked out a port; it was just before sunrise, and we were safe in our little gunkhole in Why Cove. The mesquite tree we were tied up to was hosting a couple of birds, and out in the cove I could see a line of ducks slowly swimming past. What a great way to wake up, sea monster or not.

I began the ungraceful squirm to extricate myself from the V-berth, on a mission to make coffee. I was pouring water into the pot when I heard, from outside the cabin, the same low moan from my dream, and nearly jumped out of my skin. With some trepidation, I slid the companionway hatch open and stuck my head out; barely 10 feet away, a large black cow gazed back at me with gentle, liquid eyes as she munched on a mouthful of desert weeds. Bessie the lake kraken! As I regained my composure, Bessie mooed one more time and ambled up the hillside above the boat. I had a good laugh—how often is a sailor on a 50-footer anchored out in the deep water woken up by a cow?

The plan for this sailing and livestock adventure was born with the realization that I‘d never sailed at night; I had spent many nights at sea while serving in the navy, but all my sailboat time was in daylight or right at sunset. This was a gap in my sailing experience that needed to be remedied, so I fired up my superior navigation software (Google Earth) and got to work planning my night sail.

About 80 miles east of Phoenix in the mountains of the Tonto National Forest, Roosevelt Lake is distant enough to keep all but the most determined speedboat and jet ski folk at bay during the summer. In the winter this beautiful lake is nearly deserted save for some decidedly masochistic bass boat fishermen, and the occasional shivering trailersailor.

Scrutinizing the lake from Earth orbit, a plan quickly congealed—I would motor southeast past Windy Hill and explore the northern shoreline, looking for a good anchorage. Once I found one, I’d mark it on my handheld GPS and then head out into the middle of the lake, where I’d sail until sunset and beyond. Later I’d head for my previously marked spot and call it a night. My strategy determined, I went to bed early.

I got to the boat around 0930 and shortly had her ready to go—mainsail bent on, rudder shipped, outboard secured, and a full tank of gas. With sandwich makings and dinner in the cooler, plus a bottle of expedition-quality cheap red wine, we were all set. The Tractor Guy from Roosevelt marina hooked us up, and we began the roughest leg of our journey—the ride to the ramp.

A personal goal is to use the motor as little as possible. The people on the dock look at me like I’m nuts, but I feel like I’m channeling James Cook whenever I pull off an engineless maneuver. When Tractor Guy pushed Felicidade into the water, I walked her down to the end of the dock and spun her around with a warp, cranked down the daggerboard, and raised the mainsail. I cast off the dock lines and sailed slowly away, feeling extra-salty. A moment later another sailboat launched, accompanied by a belch of blue exhaust. Lubbers.

I unrolled the Genoa as Felicidade reached towards the breakwater. Soon we were running to the southeast under a gentle breeze. I rigged the whisker pole and enjoyed a nice quiet sail wing-on-wing for about half a mile until the wind died. At Roosevelt, the wind usually vanishes shortly after you get launched, even if it was blowing a typhoon up in the dry storage. Then, when you finally give up and motor back to the haulout, the wind resumes at full speed (usually right across the ramp). But this time my plans did not include wallowing about with the sails slatting all day. I fired up the outboard and was soon blasting away at 5.5 knots to parts unknown.

Roosevelt Lake is at its highest level ever, thanks to robust precipitation over the last couple of years. This makes things interesting for someone who likes to explore nooks and crannies by boat; familiar coves mutate into wide bays; new coves appear as washes and creeks are covered by water. Dry land turns into a new shortcut between cactus-covered hills. The lake shoreline looks nothing like the view from outer space, and even my poor GPS was insisting that Felicidade was making 5 knots over dry land.

Twenty minutes later I slowed down and cautiously steered towards what Google Earth had suggested might be a good place to stuff a sailboat—a tight little question mark in the shoreline with well-placed mooring cacti. Pottering slowly past a couple of fishermen who watched curiously, I approached a snug, weed-choked crevice, just my kind of place. As the land closed around us, large green blobs became visible underwater. Furry algae was carpeting something—drowned vegetation, or perhaps daggerboard-crunching boulders. What would Captain Cook do? Well, he probably wouldn’t sink his boat in front of a couple of bass boat fisherman. I put the motor in reverse and gingerly backed out of there, fifty feet from my goal.

A series of similar explorations followed. One cove that had not looked promising from outer space turned out to be almost perfect; a narrow entrance made a right-angle turn into a tiny bay. A few yards past that, completely sheltered from the winds blowing across the lake, was a submerged wash full of drowned vegetation. I cautiously threaded my way in past the underwater hazards and between black limbs sticking out of the water, to what looked like an ideal overnight spot, with two cacti that I could run bow and stern lines to. I marked the spot in the GPS, and performed a three-point turn to resume my exploration. Right then I noticed that the green blobs just below the surface looked disturbingly like the ghost people underwater in the bog from the Lord Of The Rings movie (except greener)—I could definitely see at least one face-like blob. I hurried past it, noticing all of a sudden how creepy this drowned place was. Felicidade and I hurried back to the lake, leaving chunks of algae in our wake. I deleted that waypoint from the GPS.

I spent an enjoyable afternoon working farther down the shoreline as Thievery Corporation, Balkan Beat Box, and Yerba Buena played on the IPod. I shut off the outboard and ate lunch, scoping out my next destination through binoculars. I waved at the bass boat guys as we glided past into the next unexplored place. The search for the perfect spot was proving to be great fun. One little gully was nearly perfect, with a huge mesquite tree right at the edge of the water to provide shade. The problem was the garish tent at the head of the gully. Visions of boom boxes, drunken yokels paying Felicidade a visit in the middle of the night, and maybe even shore-to-ship target practice crossed my mind. Somewhat resentfully, I turned around and left the delightful little nook for another day.

A couple of hours later I was near the southeastern boundaries of navigable lake. Ahead of me a lot of dead brush poked up out of the water. I doubted I would find much of interest in that direction, so I headed across the lake towards the Schoolhouse Campground and launch ramp. About one mile west of Schoolhouse was a big, promising, inverted-Y-shaped cove named Why Cove. Why not, I asked as I turned Felicidade left and followed the shoreline in.

Minutes later, I knew I had found the perfect spot. An ancient road had once paralleled the eastern shoreline of the cove; a section of it had collapsed, leaving a notch in the shoreline just big enough for Felicidade. We nosed in and buried the bow in some soft reeds; other than a slight whiff of unidentifiable odor, this was the ideal anchorage. Completely sheltered, secluded, stuff to tie up to, gunkhole heaven. I marked it on the GPS and backed out to do some more exploring.

Farther south in Why Cove, I was pottering around a weedy backwater and came upon three cows pruning a mesquite tree; I wished them a good day as Felicidade slowly drifted past, 20 feet away. The cows, unimpressed, munched steadily and watched me glide by.

Not much could top that, so I motored back out to the lake to do some sailing and await the sunset. The wind had picked up, and the boat and I were having a blast goofing around. The sun was getting lower, and I was checking my gear preparatory to the big night-sail adventure, when I noticed that the GPS battery was getting really low. No problem, I had fresh batteries. Oops. I’d left them in the car. Not a problem; I had a 12V power cord. Nope, that was in the car too. Idiot. Okay—decision time.

I had been planning to rely on the GPS to relocate my perfect anchorage in the darkness; the spot was marked, and I had a track log to follow that I knew was safe. If the GPS failed, I would never be able to find Why Cove in the dark, let alone my chosen spot. Sailing back up the lake was not an option In the dark without GPS either, given the lack of a moon, and the narrow pass at Windy Hill. The choice was obvious—bail on the night sail. I turned Felicidade and headed back into Why Cove while there was an hour or so of light left.

In a few minutes, we nosed back into the reeds. While the outboard held us in place I went forward with the boathook to thread a dock line around a mesquite branch, then I shut off the motor. Peace and quiet descended upon the tiny mooring.

The first task was to climb a hill to get cell reception, and text the wife to let her know I had once again cheated death. I used a boat hook to pull the shoreline closer, and clumsily disembarked off the bow into weeds, spiky things, and …cowpies. Well that explained the odor earlier. After performing a klutzy limbo I managed to free myself from the mesquite tree without stepping in cow poop or getting attacked by rattlesnakes. I scrambled up a hill and sent the message to the wife while admiring my boat below in her little hiding place.

I spent a relaxing evening reading and listening to music. Dinner was curried vegetables with rice, and glasses of cheap red wine with which I toasted Felicidade, the wife, King Neptune, and trailersailors everywhere. After dark, the loom of Phoenix over the ridge across the cove was reflecting in the mirror-like water along with bright stars; the effect was very pretty and I spent many minutes admiring it. Then I turned in.

I slept better than I had on any other night onboard, until Bessie the lake kraken woke me up. After breakfast, I raised the mainsail and pulled on a creosote bush to extract Felicidade from her nest. We slowly drifted backwards for about ten feet, and then I used the paddle to get us back out into the main part of Why Cove where a soft sigh of wind was rippling the water. I tacked slowly towards the mouth of the cove. We finally found the wind again outside, and beat northwest back to more familiar sailing grounds.

Even if I didn’t accomplish my night-sail goal, it was still a grand pocket cruiser adventure (with bonus farm animals, no less). Next time, I’ll remember the spare batteries. •SCA•

Rob Bartlett grew up reading the words of Francis Chichester, John Caldwell, Robin Lee Graham and other epic sailors of the 60s and 70s. For much of his life he dreamed of following in their footsteps—then he discovered the joys of pocket cruisers, shallow waters, and weed-choked gullies.

First appeared in SCA issue #62.