Too Little, Too Much

Story Brian Nazinitsky | Illustration Joseph Buchanan

Motoring out of the marina on water as flat as glass was not very encouraging, to say the least. The predicted winds were light but I expected more, and remained hopeful as I turned into the river proper and out towards Long Island Sound. An Oyster Skimmer put on a show as he flew inches above the water, just feet from the boat.

Without the usual contrary southwest wind, the flood tide barely made a ripple, but made its presence known as moorings were dragging under and the channel marker tilted and bobbed its pointed red head. I gave the little outboard a touch more gas to keep up. Into the Sound, I could see small cat’s-paws on the water, and the smallest of wavelets. I hopefully raised the sails and cut the engine.

For the next hour or so, I chased wind lines, applied sunscreen and listened to some blues on my i-Pod. Lunch killed a few more minutes. I slowly sailed and drifted by some fisherman in kayaks, enjoying a banner day, or so they said. Then, the cats-paws were gone, replaced by a steady westerly. It was light, but it moved the boat. My friend the Skimmer was long gone, and the terns were now noisily diving for small fish. The boat scooted along, and I turned to beat into the wind, which had freshened considerably. Three, maybe four hours passed of glorious, easy sailing, and if I wanted to catch the tide before I ran out of water in the river I needed to head in. On cue, the wind stopped, really stopped. Dead calm. Down came the sails and I motored in. Egrets lined the marshy shore, stalking their prey in the clear water, while cormorants dried their wings on every available boat.

“Hey, good wind out there, lets go sailing” were the first words my friend Mike said on the phone.

“Umm, I heard 20 knots and higher gusts,” I replied. We agreed to take a look, and play it by ear, so to speak. Mike has a 22-foot boat on a mooring only a few hundred yards inside the Nissequogue River, so we could easily see Long Island Sound. Arriving at the boat, Mike and I rowed the dingy out and sat looking at the whitecaps. It looked a bit too rough for a fun sail. Then Mike said “Where did the dinghy go?” We looked up and it was a hundred yards away, heading to a small beach. All we were left with was the parted painter.

Now it was decision time. The flood current, along with the wind would make swimming over to the beach tough, if not dangerous. We could call his wife, and she could retrieve the dinghy. The last option was to sail to the town dock, tie up and walk the half mile to the beach. Option three it was, as the wind seemed to abate some, and we would still be in the river with calmer conditions.

We sat at the town dock (with the dinghy on its new painter) and had some lunch and gabbed with folks walking the dock. The wind seemed to pick up again, so back to the mooring. We sat and talked for another 45 minutes or so, while tied to the mooring, and again there was a slight lull in the wind. “Lets go out,” we both said. Off the mooring again and into the Sound we went. The swells and waves were near two feet, but not too uncomfortable, and the boat was fairly dry. The in-mast furling proved to be a little difficult. Quartering waves made it nearly impossible to keep directly into the wind, and the pressure on the sail as it rolled out was quite strong; definitely needed more purchase on the outhaul in this wind to tighten the sail up. We just couldn’t flatten the sail properly, and couldn’t address a fix at the moment. Mike let a little of the jenny out, to balance the boat.

With the sails up and the motor off, the 22-footer behaved reasonably and took the gusts in stride. However, strangely, tacking proved difficult. Even with good speed we could not get the bow through the wind on a couple of attempted tacks. We eventually tucked away the genny and sailed on the main alone. There was no easy explanation, but tacking was not as difficult just sailing on the main. Perhaps the headsail back winded too much before it came around. At this point we had been out an hour and the sea state had become worse. Breaking waves, big swells, and whitecaps throwing spray were all around. The boat pitched, yawed, and rolled, and we were out of our comfort zone (although, never in danger). With difficulty, we rolled in the main. Without the sail up the motion became even worse.

Mike pulled the cord on the outboard, and there was nothing. The cord would not retract. Up came the motor and off came the cowl top. A few minutes of fiddling, and the cord was back in. One pull and the motor hummed. Concern (not panic) left the back of my mind. Heading in, we had no choice but to take the waves bow on, with the motor occasionally rising up out of the water.

Once in the river, with bluffs and hills blocking most of the wind, all we had to deal with was the flood tide, which was soon to turn. In contrast to my last sail, there were no egrets or terns wading the marshes, and only a few brave cormorants were sitting on boats as they moved about their moorings. At the mooring, things seemed out of place. There was a large powerboat in the spot, but Mike’s mooring was open. We carefully glided in and tied up. The powerboat was dragging its mooring up river, and had drifted alarmingly close. We sat on the boat, fending off the intruder, while calling the Bay Constable. By the time he arrived, the powerboat had tangled with another mooring, slightly farther away. The Constable was quite grumpy (perhaps he too did not want to be out). We left the boat, completely exhausted. •SCA•

A lifelong resident of Long Island, Brian learned to sail on a rented sailboat out of Port Washington (NY) and became part of the regular crew in the Ensign fleet out of Northport, NY for several years. At 50 he purchased a new Precision 165 and has been sailing around Smithtown Bay for the past ten years at a much more relaxed pace.

First appeared in issue #109