This article first appeared in way back in 2000 about a sail in Morro Bay, CA. —Eds
Article by Josh Colvin
“I thought maybe we’d take Bluenose out today instead.” Richard said. We’d been planning to day trip up the coast in his Westsail 28.
“What’s a Bluenose?” I asked.
“She’s my friend’s classic 23-foot sloop,” he said. This was good news as far as I could tell. Much as I admire Richard’s Westsail, spending significant time on a 13,000-pound boat is sacrilegious for an SCA editor.
“Sounds good to me. Where’s the boat?”
“At the marina. I’m going down to bail her. Come on over when you guys are ready.”
I’d always thought bailing was how a sail ended. “Okay, but how will I recognize this Bluenose?” I asked.
He didn’t hesitate—“She’s bright red.”
I met up with another friend, Josh Cazier, and we walked down to the marina. Bluenose was easy to spot; fire engine red, low freeboard, long overhangs—definitely a classic. Not only was she called Bluenose, she was a Bluenose—as in the class of sailboats. Designed by William J. Roue, she was a fiberglass descendant of the sloops first produced in the spring of 1946 by John H. Barkhouse.
She appeared an unforgiving bullet of a boat—very different from the tame trailerables I usually sail. It looked like two-hundred feet of mast sticking up from her 16-foot waterline—the devil in a red dress.
Richard had only sailed her once before. Thoughts of the “Dangerous Sports Club” flashed through my mind. A group of thrill-seekers, they willingly participate in risky activities like hang-gliding off Kilamanjaro and being shot from human catapults. What makes their sometimes bizarre stunts even more dangerous is that they dive in with little or no experience. Results are often nearly catastrophic.
Josh and I pitched in with sponges, bailing last week’s rain from the cockpit while Richard pumped the saltwater-filled bilge. I wondered if a slow leak was required for “classic” status.
The thump of our Yamaha outboard drowned out the sound of nautical purists rolling over in their graves as we motored from the marina. She moved well under power, even if our auxiliary was an amenity her designer probably never intended.
As we hoisted sail, another “classic” feature became apparent—her boom swept the cockpit at forehead level. We deemed her The Black and Bluenose. The strategy was stay low and don’t tack unless absolutely necessary.
Just as quickly, however, we discovered her strengths. I glanced at the shore and realized we’d already passed the launch ramp—we were flying. And what’s more, I don’t think we’d tacked once—who cared about a low boom when you could point like this. Bluenose was a thoroughbred.
We cleared the harbor mouth we raced northwest on a beam reach. Bluenose, with her one-ton displacement, was plenty stable but pounded when she met any kind of sea. She felt solid, but she rode like a hard-sprung pick-up truck. Bouncing up and down on those unyielding cockpit seats had us thinking of other black and blue nicknames.
A half-mile out, near gong bouy “18EB,” we came upon a vast oil slick. When we cut through we discovered it was millions of tiny by-the-wind-sailor jellyfish: each with its own little gelatin mains’l reflecting purple and chrome. Their present course was suicidal—directly toward the beach.
Cazier and I were puzzled when Richard reached overboard and pulled about twenty-pounds of kelp up into the cockpit. “For my experiments,” he grinned, “I’m an alchemist.” Richard is one of those brilliant self-taught guys. With no practical experience, he was able built his own house by watching construction sites and reading building code manuals. He told us he’d been stuffing kelp into a blender and making hydrogen gas. We didn’t ask why.
We’d only been out for a few hours when I noticed Richard, who is retired and rarely in much a hurry, checking his watch. As we returned through the harbor mouth and sailed along the muddy shore, I realized he’d been thinking about tides. Cazier and I weren’t real concerned—probably because we’ve become so comfortable with running aground. Anyway, what could this little 23-footer draw?
“About four feet I think,” Richard said. Suddenly I was sure we’d miss dinner. The State Park Marina isn’t dredged, so sailing in at low water is risky in anything larger than an inner tube.
Fortunately, being technologically advanced Gen-Xers, Cazier and I were both wore top-of-the-line tide watches. Unfortunately, neither of us had bothered to set them in several months.
“According to mine it’s still high tide,” Cazier joked. Richard just shook his head.
Seconds before Bluenose ground to a stop, Richard did what any of us would’ve—he throttled up the outboard in hopes of plowing a channel all the way to the slip. No dice. We were stuck in the mud—tantalizingly close to the marina.
After trying to rock the boat loose, sail our way off, and kedge off with a tossed anchor, we resigned ourselves to waiting the tide out. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. I put my feet up and prepared to nap.
The electronic chirp of Josh’s cell phone shattered our serenity. I’m sure Richard was wondering what other annoying gadgets we’d brought along. While Cazier was chatting, I saw “Marina” Dave, walking along the shore in our direction. He cupped his hands and yelled. I wasn’t sure what he’d said, so I did what you’re supposed to do—I waved thanks, smiled and nodded. Turns out I’d agreed Dave should call the Harbor Patrol to pull us out.
Meanwhile, a former neighbor, who now lives aboard his MacGregor 26, had seen our plight and was heading over in his 20-hp skiff. With the best of intentions, Robert cleated our painter to his transom and proceeded to pull us into even shallower water. We waved thanks, smiled and nodded.
One of the phone calls Cazier fielded was from our wives. When he told them we were aground, they couldn’t wait to come by and heckle us from shore. What happened after they arrived still amazes us. We somehow persuaded them to hike over to the local cafe and buy us drinks, then borrow a canoe from Marina Dave and paddle the drinks out to us. We must have looked desperate.
Before the girls paddled away, Richard had the presence of mind to ask them to carry our anchor to the end of its rode and drop it. Finally, with the sails up, outboard pushing and Richard pulling—we finally broke free. There was a smattering of applause from shore. A few more tense moments motor-sailing over shallow spots and we were back at the slip. Bluenose had returned.
Fortunately, the harbor patrol rightly declined our relayed request for help. We’d gotten ourselves into the mud; we could get ourselves out. And we did. All we needed was a little help from our wives. •SCA•
Great story to re-read! I hate to say it, but the years have NOT been kind to the Park Marina channel - I don't think that dredging is allowed much past Faribanks Point (that's the bluff that the MB Natural History Museum occuopys). Friends with boats in the Park Marina always work the tides to get out, and often stay at the Yacht Club dock or Tidelands Dock to wait on a high tide. The PIA is quite a bit offset by the low price for the marina (and proximity to great chow at Bayside Cafe too!). Our boat is in a slip at the not-so-famous Morro Bay Marina (AKA German Joe's wtih the only crane in town!). We have about 15' UNDER the keel, so low tide doesn't matter much - but I honestly think that the bay is shrinking by the year as sand from the spit and silt from the stream inflo is not-so-slowly filing it in! Plus the "re-introduction" of eel grass is a gross, smelly, foul, annoying, HUGE mess from mid-summer on...but that's just one sailors opinion! Great story, and I think I recall the boat too!
great read. Enjoyed it 👍