Trailer-Sailor Trepidations

I’m afraid the call of the open road has lost its allure.

Article by Jonathan Lewis

I am days away from my new departure date to tow my craft cross country and I’m still struggling to get enthusiastic. I’ve already delayed our adventure on two occasions. The first impediment was caused by a groom deciding to back out on a wedding and relationship (his loss), and the second suspension was a drop-dead arrival time for my wife to attend her 45th college reunion. I recoil from the pressure of a set schedule and opted to put her on a plane to Boston to travel with a classmate to the Pioneer Valley. Now, with June on the doorstep, it’s imperative to hook up the trailer and start chipping away at the 3000 mile journey across the continent.

I’ve trailered dinghies, skiffs and motorcycles for most of my life, but the 23-foot Townsend Tern is a relatively recent endeavor, as she has been under my stewardship for less than four years and is my first trailersailer. However, I’ve towed her approximately 15,000 miles in that timeframe. You’d expect it would be second nature by now with all that asphalt under my belt. I wish.

I live in the State of California where the posted maximum speed limit for vehicles towing trailers is 55 mph. I attempt to abide by this mandate because going any faster merely gulps down my gas, and since I have to stop a couple of times a day to refuel, cruising at 65 doesn’t increase my daily averages to any great extent. The problem is, I’m the only one on the highway at that snail’s pace—although I’m not the only one that falls under that requirement. Semi trucks (18-wheelers) also fall within that category. We’ve all experienced those behemoths’ approach to making miles, compensating for their uphill struggles by flying down steep grades and maintaining high speeds on flat sections. Eighty miles per hour or more is not unusual. Numerous states actually have 80 mph posted speed limits on parts of their road networks including Montana, Nevada and Texas.

My biggest concern is the fact that no one wants to be behind me, ever. I stay in the right lane to be considerate and accommodating. If they’re approaching a desired exit, they’d much rather swerve in front of me than wait the few extra seconds required by slowing down and following. When vehicles are merging onto the highway, once spotting me, they choose to accelerate on my right as their roadway rapidly diminishes to a not too distant vanishing point. I’m constantly checking my mirrors and adjusting my speed to oblige those with whom I share the road. Occasionally I’ll garner a thumbs-up, but sometimes it’s a substantially different digit. I’m treated more as a nuisance than an oddity. Ever since Covid the roadways are peppered with massive RVs, often trailing a tow vehicle. On more than one occasion we’ve had a less than competent operator of one of those land yachts forget their additional load or misjudge their length and come dangerously close to a collision.

We usually spend nights on the road aboard. The boat is totally self sufficient with food, water, a Wallace stove, and an Airhead composting toilet. The roller-grill hotdogs and typical tantalizing culinary fare offered at the various fuel oases doesn’t tempt us to indulge or linger.  We try to carefully choose rest areas that are somewhat removed from the highway and thus have reduced road noise, and we and slot into delineated truck parking spots. When we’re accompanied by tractor trailers, with air conditioned cabs or loads that require refrigeration, their massive diesels don’t exactly lull one to sleep. Their constant arrival and departure schedules—dictated by the drivers’ mandatory operating and rest hours—provide an additional cacophony. We lock ourselves into the cabin at night just in case someone gets curious or worse. We feel more comfortable knowing the boat, pickup and our packed possessions are under our watchful eyes rather than stashed in a secluded area of a motel parking lot.

The whole rig is just over 50-feet long. We never measured, but when we were boarding the ferry from Edmonds, Washington to Kingston last summer, the toll taker informed us of our length, which was easily determined by paint indicators on the pavement. While the boat cooperates under tow, it can still be a handful at certain gas stations, on city streets or country lanes. The ability to trailer the boat and transport it over the road is unquestionably a plus. Our destination opportunities are miraculously multiplied. She launches and hauls without any complaints, and raising her carbon fiber unstayed masts in their tabernacles is a piece of cake. It’s the 400 to 600 highway miles a day that I find so draining.

My wife doesn’t drive so I’m saddled with that task, but her navigation contributions and company are far better than those of the GPS, and much appreciated. We listen to music and audiobooks to pass the time and occasionally do a bit of sightseeing, but we consider the road trips as deliveries rather than multi-day adventures. A couple of years ago after driving from California to Florida to the Chesapeake and then New England, I said I’d had enough and we should store the boat in Maine. After 5 wonderful weeks Downeast, I’d chilled significantly and was reinvigorated for the odyssey back to the mountains of Southern California. I said at the time that maybe trailering the boat was analogous to childbirth in that you forget the pain because of the sheer wonder of the experience that ensues and willingly go forth again to repeat the process.

I was pleased to have the boat in my backyard where I could accomplish a couple of projects and putter around on board. It also allowed us to take her to the Pacific Northwest for a few months last summer, a mere 4-day 2500 mile round trip. Well, here we go again. Are there any trailersailor doulas or midwives out there who could offer words of wisdom and encouragement to sustain me through yet another vehicular venture? I’m afraid the call of the open road has lost its allure. While my memory may not be what it once was, the long hours spent behind the truck’s steering wheel have left an indelible and unwanted impression. No worries. In a couple of weeks the change to a tiller will do me good. •SCA•