The Business of Raising Sails on a Maine Windjammer
Ben McCanna
Cully Furls the topsail.
(page 1 of 2)
Last night after the lobster bake, we motored through drizzly darkness and dropped the hook in Allen Cove near the town of North Brooklin. Yesterday’s weather had alternated between rainy, foggy, and overcast, so when I woke this morning to bright blue skies and warm temperatures, it was as much a shock as a relief.
After breakfast, Captain Garth tunes to the weather band and gets today’s forecast. The barky, computerized NOAA voice offers a maddeningly vague prediction: sunny skies with winds somewhere between 15 and 30 knots. That’s a big range. In sailing, it doesn’t take much before an ample wind turns to a terrifying overabundance: a wind of 10 knots is pleasant; 20 knots is exciting; 30 knots is pants-shitting scary.
Nevertheless, we raise full canvas and sail off the anchor into Blue Hill Bay. For now anyway, the wind is a mild 12 knots. The Bay is fairly well protected from southwesterly winds and the placid water glimmers yellow in the mid-morning light. It’s so calm, in fact, you could fool yourself into believing this is New Hampshire’s Lakes Region; the looming mountains of Acadia National Park help complete the tranquil illusion.
It’s a relaxing scene on the Lewis R. French: Captain Garth quietly turns the helm; Cully reads a book atop the strongback; the guests lounge on sun-warmed housetops; and, below, Jenny and Hilary fix lunch.
Garth and Jenny.
As we leave Blue Hill Bay toward Swans Island, however, the wind gains force. It’s now blowing close to 20 knots and whitecaps are forming. When lunch is ready, Captain Garth turns the Lewis R. French 180 degrees and we sail back toward the protection of Blue Hill Bay.
After lunch, Captain Garth gives me a turn at the helm. We’re in the lee of Tinker Island; the water is relatively smooth and the helm is responsive. When we reach the northern tip of Tinker Island and sail into exposed waters, however, the helm develops a mind of its own. When Captain Garth asks me to bring the wheel about, I feel as though I’m trying to pry loose a rusty lug nut. I put my whole body into the task, yet the rudder is still winning.
It’s easy to assume the captain’s job is easiest. During any given day, you’ll see the mate elbow-deep in the thankless chore of cleaning the heads, the messmate peeling countless potatoes, and the cook rising at an ungodly hour to light the stove. By comparison, the captain’s job looks like cake: He’ll rise after a ten- to twelve-hour slumber, eat breakfast, listen to the weather, and steer the vessel to his whim. And, during long tacks, the captain will stand at the helm and shoot the breeze with his guests.
After fighting the wheel in this blow, however, I’ll never take the captain’s job for granted again. It is hard, physical labor.
The captain’s job is mentally taxing as well. In the back of his or her mind, a captain is constantly evaluating the wind direction, the tide, the sail trim, the heading, the chart, and the clock. He needs to keep his vessel off the rocks, and find a safe anchorage before suppertime.
Captain Garth describes his daily work as this: “I make short-term plans and change them frequently.”
And, while a captain’s subconscious mind processes all the information at hand, he also plays host to a bill of curious passengers. All day long, a captain fields questions on sailing, local history, and the natural world. Yesterday, while navigating through the tricky, shoal-strewn waters off Deer Isle, Captain Garth graciously and enthusiastically identified all the parts of his Lewis R. French — and I mean all — for an eager crowd of inquisitive guests.
Cully on the strongback.
Posted on Thursday, August 21, 2008 in Permalink
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