Trailersailer Fender Bender

The perils of the pavement

Article by Jonathan Lewis

Several moths ago I wrote an article titled Trailer-Sailor Trepidations and many of you offered helpful advice not only on tactics but also on safety and proper maintenance. I wish I could report that the change in my driving style and safety precautions resulted in a trouble free crossing of our continent. While the six day, 2700-mile odyssey benefited from  adhering to my newly adopted rules of the road, they didn’t result in immunity from the perils of the pavement.

After a month of Covid, an aborted yacht purchase in the Netherlands brought on by a sea trial that revealed a design flaw, a mountain home evacuation mandated by an explosive fire storm in the Angeles National Forest and a round trip flight to Philadelphia and back to investigate a property on the Eastern Shore, our summer sailing season was coming to a disappointing end.

What would remedy our “annus horribilis,” to borrow a Latin term used decades ago by the now-deceased Queen Elizabeth? Well, why not buy a small house with water access rights on a small island in St. Mary’s County, Maryland with only a FaceTime walkthrough? Of course, that’s what we did but with the caveat of a home inspection one week later. So…it was time to hitch up the boat trailer once again and put five to six hundred miles on the odometer everyday to arrive in time for the professional perusal. The fact that Hurricane Helene was in our weather window forecast motivated our rapid departure to allow a little wiggle room.

Day one got us to the Welcome Center just over the New Mexico border. My new technique (as suggested by an SCA subscriber) was to forget about posted speed limits and follow a truck, using it as a pace car and therefore lessening the anxiety of being the slowest vehicle on the interstate. I was averaging a bit over 16 miles per gallon so fuel fill ups were required every 250 clicks or thereabouts. As we were maneuvering the aisles of pumps at a Love’s station, my right trailer tire went flat in seconds and the galvanized rim complained. I stopped mid turn, blocking 4 pumps and investigated the peculiarly angled boat and its cradle. Two guys on yellow Harleys asked if I knew I had a flat and I responded politely in the affirmative. I hadn’t hit anything but I must have run over something sharp at the entrance to the gas station to have caused such damage to my relatively new treads.

Damn. At least we were at a truck stop with services. Of course, the jack in the Honda Ridgeline was buried beneath the fully-loaded bed but the spare was handily positioned on the trailer. All I had to do was get one of the mechanics from the shop to throw it on. “Sorry, we can only work on trucks” was their reply to my plea for help. The offer of an extra 50 bucks on the side didn’t weaken their resolve. I’ve been a AAA member for 20 years and only called them once while stranded on the shoulder of a busy freeway. I phoned and I was informed that my “Premier” status didn’t include RV repair and that’s how they classified my boat trailer. They could send someone but they couldn’t quote me a price and it would have to be paid in cash. I refused to deal.

Meanwhile, a Good Samaritan in a utility truck with a compressor offered to inflate my injured rubber. The air was flowing out of two cuts almost as fast as it was going in but he thought I’d make it to a tire company he knew of two driveways down the road. We did, and the floor jacks effortlessly raised our boat and a set of brand spankin’ new tires now outfitted our trailer.

After a few hundred more miles, we crossed the Panhandle of Texas and parked in the Oklahoma Welcome Center. We scampered aboard the boat, had a bite and went to sleep with Helene making her way up the Gulf of Mexico. We then did 680 miles through Oklahoma, Arkansas and crossed the Mississippi into Tennessee, finally coming to rest east of Memphis after 12 1/2 hours. Then the rain started. It was day four and we decided to do about a hundred more miles after lunch and get closer to Nashville. There was significant ponding on the 40 and judging by the traffic speed, it seemed no one was concerned with hydroplaning. We pulled into a rest area with large truck parking and settled in for the night.

At 4:15 in the morning we awoke to a terrifying screech and the boat was shaking. I bolted through the companionway onto the side deck, level with the window of a behemoth tractor trailer. I banged on the glass of the cab, which immediately opened. A bewildered driver looked at me, an old naked man in his underwear in the rain shouting “STOP!” My topless wife soon joined the chorus. “You’ve hit us! STOP!”

As it turns out, he was wedged alongside us now, unable to maneuver without inflicting more damage to us or hitting the truck on his right. I had him reverse less than a foot and moved my truck and boat forward, freeing us. I was worried, wet and angry, but in short order I was was able to see the only harm was our bent license plate bracket and left fender, a millimeter away from our new tire. His truck had a scrape and gouge along the length of his cab.  Betsy and I got dressed and joined the truck driver on the ground in the rain and darkness.

He hadn’t even realized he’d hit us. The drone of the colossal diesel and the insulation of the cab had blocked out the wailing of our crumpling aluminum. He missed our beloved wooden boat by an inch. We rejoiced that our pride and joy wasn’t splintered by what could have been a life altering accident. As it was, we were able to bend the trailer’s external parts back into reasonable condition with a well placed crescent wrench and a little effort. The driver and his wife were tandem operators out of Texas and he had pulled in for a cigarette. She doesn’t let him smoke in the cabin.  He misjudged his turn-in which was hampered by his full load and another semi truck parked illegally on the approach. This was his first accident. He couldn’t have been nicer and offered up information for an insurance claim but I was so relieved that the boat was unharmed and the trailer, while not good as new, was going to be fine. Neither of us needed the hassle. However, I did make him promise to quit smoking.

The hurricane had devastated western North Carolina, eastern Tennessee and Interstate 40 was closed east of Knoxville but our route angled us northeast on the 81 towards the Chesapeake. We stayed that night south of Roanoke, Virginia and the following day, pulled alongside what was to become our new home.

We’re now surrounded by the Potomac and St. Mary’s rivers on Saint George Island. The rowing shell has water access by a 300-foot path and the launch ramp for the Townsend Tern is barely a mile and a half away.  Thankfully, my times of doing multiple days of driving to reach a sailing Mecca have ended, although trips to Maine and the North Channel are in our future summer escape plans.

And they all lived happily ever after. •SCA•

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Speaking of Towing

We had another reader ask about the best tow vehicles for small boats. In the comments below please let us know what vehicle you use to tow which boat (and its weight) and any pros and cons. Does your vehicle feature AWD, FWD, Limited Slip Differential, Hook-up Assist camera, or other potentially beneficial options?

Let us know below. —Eds