Storm

I joked about the floating mattress if we needed it. Little did I know.

Story by Dan Saint Amour • Illustration Joseph Buchanan

September 11, 2013, my day off. Actually, I was off the day before, but just to get things in order to sail on the 11th. I wanted to make sure my responsibilities at home were met so I’d be free to enjoy my trip. Also, the 11th has special meaning to me as it does to most who remember the attack on New York.

I have sailed most of my life, but never loved it like I have in the last few years. Perhaps it’s my age, stress, my job as an RN, I’m not sure. A few years ago I bought a Sunfish and have since traded up for a Newport 17 I bought on eBay at the end of last summer. It’s been a labor of love making this $900 boat more than it was when I bought it, but it’s the boat I always wanted—a trailersailer. I can take it with me, sleep on it overnight, sail it alone or with a few others.

I called my friend Steve, who is usually up for anything. I stopped off at the Subway and went to the dock. Lake St Clair is about the same distance as some of the smaller lakes and I thought it would make for better sailing although it was nearly double the distance for Steve to drive. St Clair is probably the least great of the Great Lakes, but a good place to sail from home for an afternoon.

We rigged the boat and set off. Steve asked if I had a life jacket. At that moment I recalled I’d left my jacket with my paddling gear and had only the novelty floating cushions which made us minimally legal. I joked about the floating mattress if we needed it. Little did I know.

We had a great time, chatting it up about work and affairs in the Middle East. We shared a nut mix in which there were no second choice nuts. I had the last handful and it was perfectly balanced. It seemed like nothing could go wrong that day. Steve wanted to go before rush hour and we made it back to the dock near five. I may have been more eager for him to disembark than he was. I wanted to anchor, read a book, have a swim, and take a nap before heading home.

After saying goodbye to my friend I headed out to where I wanted to anchor. I cracked the last beer and noticed my long lost Gerber pocket knife in the drink holder from a prior trip. Happy to have my old knife back, I pocketed it where I wouldn’t loose it again. It was nearly six and several boats were passing close by returning to the launch, presumably to make it home for dinner after a day of playing hooky from work. It bothered me how close they came to me as the lake is very big and their wakes rocked my small vessel. Other boats were headed out. I noticed a few sailboats for the first time that day.

The wind was light. I became preoccupied killing flies. The flies came out of nowhere and they bite. I resented the flies as I resented the offshore racer with noisy exhaust that whirled around all afternoon. It was like some kid got a new loud toy and was out to annoy as many people as he could. There was nothing I could do about the offshore racer, but I found that if I flushed out the flies I could throw my shirt at them and kill with some certainty. The body count grew and I got underway. Then there was lightning in the distance.

I paused and took a picture, then decided the best part of the day had ended. Whereas the earlier part of the day had been ideal, right down to the last handful of mixed nuts, now I was becoming agitated by the other boats, the weather and the flies. I can be agitated without sailing, so perhaps it was time to head home.

It was nearly 6:30 when, without warning, a sudden gust of wind capsized my ship. She was on her side taking water over the gunnel. Like a cat afraid of water, I climbed onto the side of the boat and clung to the shroud. The mast was under water. The gust wanted to continue to turn the boat over, but the boat wouldn’t let it. The 200 pounds of cement I’d been hauling around in the belly of the ship was doing its job keeping her from turtling. The jib sheet was let out but for the knot at the end. I used my newly found knife to cut the mainsail free with one hand while I kept a white knuckle grasp on the shroud with the other. The boat straightened but I realized I was in trouble.

I saw the other sailboats trying to muster; all were closer to each other than I was. The obnoxious offshore racer was nowhere to be heard now. I started the engine and headed for the one who appeared distressed. I never made it. The winds picked up even stronger; I was fighting every wave. I could only hear the motor when the prop was lifted out of the water, which meant the stern was way up in the air. The waves became ridiculously huge. Never had I seen a wave so big eye to eye, they where so tall I couldn’t see over them while in the trough. I turned the boat around and abandoned the effort to rally with the others.

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Newport 17 LOA: 17' 8" LWL: 16' 2" Beam: 6' 4" Draft: 9"/ 4' 9" Displ: 800 lb Sail Area: 147 sq ft

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The boat went over on its side again and I expected the worst. I really wished I had a life vest. I wondered what I would tell my wife or if I would even make it through. I wanted to live, but I also wanted to sail again. Somehow, I pulled out of it and spun the boat around. The motor didn’t seem to be running anymore, or at least I couldn’t hear it over the storm. I steered with the tiller now for whatever good it did. Rain was coming down hard now, only it blew horizontally and every drop was like a pellet. I was without shoes or shirt, entirely unprepared. I ditched my cool, ready-for -anything sailing hat. There was something biblical about being near naked and helpless, perhaps it is in the part of the bible I never got to.

Making sense of what was happening was harder and harder. I looked up to the wind indicator for the first time since it all started. Sometimes I look at it just for admiration. I made the indicator from some old arrows, a piece of oak, a .22 shell for a bushing, an old aerial antenna and a kids pirate flag. The indicator was completely missing. That was all I needed to know right then.

I wanted it to be over and was riding the waves to Ohio or perhaps Canada sans passport. Then, the wind picked up again even stronger than I imagined was possible. I saw waves coming at me from two directions. How can that even be and what could be worse I asked myself. At that very moment, my glasses flew off of my face. I was now blind as well as helpless. At least I could see land before, now I couldn’t see anything. I supposed I had nothing to lose and made a break to the cabin.

I dove into the cabin and fumbled blindly for the flare pistol. If there was help to be had, I needed it. I shot off a flare, ditched the gun and reached for the floating cushion. There on the floor beside it were my specs. Relived for the first time in a while, I put them on, put the strap from the cushion around my foot and went back to the helm. Seeing things didn’t help much. I pressed my back against the traveler and waited for things to get better or worse. I wondered if my sarcasm had caused this to happen (in retrospect, it probably did) and what was the purpose of all this. I have often said that nature is the ultimate teacher of humility because she just doesn’t care, but in this case she was pissed and out to get me.

Riding the waves was like an out of control roller coaster ride. I pressed my back against the transom as I looked down at the bow of my small ship. If I let up, I would have surely fallen forward. The boat violently struck each wave with a concussion, sudden, without warning and doing untold damage.

The boom I had taken down was facing me. I fumbled with the clips attempting to stow it. The fumbling was a welcome interlude to my doom. I was successful at undoing the boom and returned to grim reality. The jib had not come down and was flailing madly in the wind, thrusting me off course. There was still no way I could get to it. I watched helplessly as it shredded.

The wind subsided slightly. I saw a beacon in the water, another stranded boater possibly. I attempted to steer to it, but couldn’t make it. I started to shiver, the cold, wet and darkness caught up with me all at once. The winds had turned again. I changed directions again and headed for an island where there was a light—presumably a house or someplace less desperate than where I had been. I missed it and shot for the first resemblance of land or safety I could reach. Nearly two dreadful hours later, I ran aground in some tall weeds and dropped anchor. It was still pouring.

My phone was nearly dead having searched for signals most of the day. There was enough juice to call my wife and tell her I was in a storm—I’m alright and will not make it to the boat launch before they lock up. She urged me to come home, but there was no way. It was cold, raining and still gusting. I was determined to dig in and to sleep for the night. I put on a stadium jacket I’d stowed in the boat after picking it up at a garage sale for 75 cents. It reeked of second hand smoke. This bothered me to no end. I never would have bought it had I known how bad it stunk. I should have been grateful to have it, but how can people live like this where everything they own smells?

I closed the cabin with the jib a la Bear Grylls and wrapped myself in the mainsail, then tried to sleep. I missed my body pillow and MP3 player. The smell of the jacket was gnawing at me. Then all was quiet, the rain had stopped. I ducked my head out through the jib sail curtain and the water was relatively calm and the air almost warm, probably like Noah noticed on Mt Ararat. Still shaken by the events of the day, I got brave. I could see the mainland and my penance was paid. I pulled up the anchor and was ready to head out. One tug on the engines ripcord and...I held the handle with no rope attached. I laughed madly, then popped the engine cover, wound a remainder of the starter rope, ripped it, and was on my way. Of course, if the engine cut off, I would be stuck again with torn sails and no power. I set off despite. I checked the GPS, with its nearly dead battery. I was on course in my broken boat.

There were lights around the bay of boats that hadn’t made it in. An airplane circled above, presumably looking for those less fortunate than myself.

I made it to the launch. There were other trailers parked belonging to boats that were still out. Several vehicles looped around as if looking for someone. I loaded my boat, got into my truck with my smelly jacket and drove home. •SCA•

First published in SCA #89