“The sea finds out everything you did wrong.”– Francis Stokes
Sometimes it doesn’t take an ocean to reveal a sailor’s shortcomings. Given the right combination of circumstances and lapses in judgment or preparation on the part of the skipper even a well-known, oft-sailed lake is up to the task.
Lake Nockamixion is a 1420 acre impoundment in Bucks County, Pennsylvania created when the Pennsylvania Department of Forests and Waters dammed a portion of Tohickon Creek. The lake forms the heart of an eponymously named State Park complete with cabin rentals, bike trails, nature walks, a marina and multiple launch ramps. Formation of the lake provided recreational opportunities for persons such as myself but also uprooted families who had lived in the area for generations. Tohickon, a village named after the creek, was sacrificed whole to the rising waters. On still days as I drift slowly above the now flooded valley I sometimes wonder about those who lived and worked in buildings whose remnants still lie below.
Today was not a day for such leisurely contemplation. Unusually for late July, it looked like I would have real wind throughout the day. As I arrived at the marina I could hear the wind blowing the rigging against the aluminum masts of the vessels docked there in a shallow arc along a cove on the lake’s north shore. The sky was clear, the humidity low, and the wind was blowing WSW at the predicted 6 to 8 knots — perfect. Occasionally there were stronger gusts of up to 18 but I had sailed under such conditions here and elsewhere. I was happy that this would be one mid-summer sail in which the water flowed around my boat faster than it dripped off my brow. A day of brisk and engaging solo sailing was in the offing.
In the parking lot on the hillside above the ramp, I dropped ALEDA’s unstayed mast into place, checked my lines, attached the two beach rollers that I use as fenders and reserve floatation. I briefly considered tying in two auxiliary bailing buckets which I carry when my wife and daughter are aboard as crew. In the end I launched with only the empty Tidy Cat litter bucket which I normally secure ahead of the mast to do double duty as an anchor locker and bailing device. In making this decision I broke the golden rule of redundancy when it comes to essential safety devices. As they say, “Two is one and one is none,” and so it would prove later on that day.
ALEDA (Al-LEE-da) is a seventeen foot, lug-rigged CLC Northeaster Dory whose hull weighs half of what I do. Body positioning and balance are important, especially when sailing alone. As designed by John Harris the dory carries a 62 square-foot sail which serves admirably to propel the light hull in a reasonable breeze.
Alas, in July and August what I consider a reasonable breeze for enjoyable sailing is often hard to come by. Many has been the otherwise perfect day when the wind prediction app on my smartphone revealed a forecast of 3 to 4 knots. My wife, who tends to get nervous at certain angles of heel, loves these days. As we ghost along she relaxes in the sun, watches cormorants, blue herons, and transient sea gulls as they float and fish and keeps her eyes open for the occasional bald eagle perched in a dead tree on the bank or soaring high above. Such days are great for nature watching and quality time with one’s spouse, but I tend to prefer a bit more vigorous sailing — which is why half-way through my first season afloat I rigged ALEDA with an 89 square foot balance lugsail originally designed for the Oz Goose. Though the larger sail has nearly 30% more available area than the dory’s stock sail it can be double-reefed down to an area smaller than the boat’s original sail. With the wind as fresh as it was that day I probably should have tied in a reef before leaving the dock. Yet I had sailed my bigger sail in similar wind and gusts at Lake Nockamixion and elsewhere. On those occasions easing the mainsheet during gusts had spilled wind from the sail and decreased my angle of heel. In a pinch if the gusts came too often or increased in force I would turn windward, drop the sail, put in a reef or two and be on my way. I left the dock under full sail and headed toward the middle of the lake where a handful of trailer-sailors and boats from the marina’s docks were heeling slightly as they tacked across the lake’s short axis.
With the wind as fresh as it was that day I probably should have tied in a reef before leaving the dock.
Initially, all went well—at least for me. About seventy yards off my starboard bow a Hobie Cat and her skipper were less fortunate. As I emerged from behind the rip-rap lined breakwater to the SW of the marina I passed the catamaran flipped onto her port hull dangerously near the point of the granite bordered breakwater. Fortunately the wind was blowing both the boat and captain away from land. I drew close to offer assistance and chatted with the captain as I stood by. It was his first capsize and he wanted to try to right the boat on his own based on a video he had watched on YouTube. Simple, they said, but It wasn’t going too well for him.
He had tried to right the boat from the port or leeward side with the mast pointing to windward. The moment the sail broke free of the water the wind caught it, righted the boat, and then immediately capsized the cat’ again, all in one smooth motion. Fortunately, the captain was neither harmed nor entangled. He gamely swam to the starboard, windward side to try again but the wind proved too strong to right the Hobie Cat without lowering the sail. By this time larger, heavier vessels were arriving to assist him. I left them to it. There was nothing further I could do to help.
I passed south of the overturned vessel, sailing on a broad reach out into the middle of the lake. The pattern made by the wind on the surface of the water caught my attention. There was no directional coherence to any of the small wavelets which covered the lake. Rather, there were areas of extremely localized disturbance which made the affected water less reflective than that which surrounded it. Sailing through one such patch of troubled water I saw countless small catspaws wriggling rapidly amongst a few larger waves. They seemed to originate from a point just aft of my boat. Suddenly my sail filled quite full as I surged ahead gaining several knots of speed. It was exhilarating, rather than frightening. Yet it occurred to me that this was rather more wind than had been predicted. I glanced quickly at my (tethered) smartphone. Sure enough, the wind speed application was now predicting gusts up to 24 knots. I considered where to drop sail and tie in a couple of reefs.
By now the Hobie Cat had blown completely across the area just offshore the marina and had turned turtle twenty yards off a lee shore after yet more unsuccessful attempts at righting. Lily pads and reeds marked shallow water where the mast of the catamaran might impale itself in the soft mud. Conceding his need for assistance, the captain was being aided by vessels standing-by. Things in that quarter seemed to be under control. I looked for my own escape from the gusts of increasing frequency and force which seemed to drop from straight above, leaving circular patterns of small waves on the water radiating out from a center point.
To the north of the Hobie Cat and her rescuers was a shark tooth shaped cove at the base of Haycock Mountain, the tallest hill in the county. I made for what I hoped would be a quieter part of the lake. On either side of the cove tall trees came down to the water’s edge. The trees, I knew from experience, provided a bit of a wind screen. At least in the cove I would be out of the way of pontoon boats departing from the marina. Though most were courteous, some were skippered by captains who did not understand the needs of unpowered vessels or the rules of the road. I entered the cove on a beam reach thirty yards off the weather shore and turned into the wind to coast into the tree’s wind shadow. Just then the wind-vane on my masthead spun like a pinwheel - first counterclockwise and then clockwise. My sail flogged violently.
ALEDA drifted stern first out from the shelter of the trees and towards the same lee shore which so recently had nearly claimed the Hobie Cat. Resignedly, I prepared to reposition myself in order to gain space to my leeward before reefing. I turned ALEDA downwind to gain headway and steering. At that moment another gust hit. This time it was my sail which endeavored to play pinwheel. The sail, off to port at the time, filled nicely. I began to make headway, and then abruptly the sail back-filled and came across in an uncontrolled gybe. I heard a thud like the sound one hears when kicking an under-inflated ball as my stoutly constructed boom hit me in the temple an inch or so above the earpiece of my glasses. I sat there for a moment, more disgusted with myself for not anticipating the gybe than anything else. How had this happened? There was no luffing of the sail, no lift of the boom – in short, none of the preliminaries which had preceded other gybes and which I knew from experience were warning signs. I did a perfunctory self-check. There was no blood, no lump, and I still needed to tie in one or possibly two reefs. I turned, tacked my way back into the cove, closed with the tree-line weather shore, lowered sail, and began to reef.
Reefing seemed more difficult than on previous sails. I pondered which sail was on the boat? Had I rigged the original sail for the Northeaster Dory or the sail for the Oz Goose? Should I put in one reef—or two?
Apparently I attempted both. After struggling to tie proper reef knots at the intermediate cringles instead of “granny” knots, I raised the sail only to find it strangely misshapen. Lowering it again, I discovered that I had put in a double reef in the luff but only a single reef in the leech. I untied the knots and tried again, all the while blowing sideways toward land. In my state of mind, it seemed more important to re-tie the knots correctly than to raise sail, gain steerage, and claw my way off a lee shore. The brush of the brush of the lily pads against my hull brought me to my senses. I raised the daggerboard and stepped off into three feet of water.
I should have stayed there in the shallows and called home, or requested a tow, or even furled my sail and rowed the short distance back across the cove to the marina and the ramp where I launched. I did none of these sensible things.
Instead, I put a single reef into my sail (more or less properly this time) and prepared to go back out into the lake against the prevailing wind and sail up to the dock. I was mentally “locked in” to previously made plans or some variant thereof. In spite of my growing cognitive impairment I had a surprisingly easy time getting off the lee shore. With the Goose sail reefed ALEDA had nearly the same sail area as her original, designed rig. The dory handled the gusts better now that she was not so grossly over-canvased for the conditions and with my full faculties I believe I would have been fine, but it was still too much sail for me in the state I now was in.
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