Thursday, dusk. The league race was finished, and I was driving through the marina parking lot with the AC on and my windows down, letting the stale air out. Luke waved me over. He was standing by his car with John, his regular crew on Fillmore. He asked if I was sailing Saturday for the club's Strawberry Festival cruise to Afton. I’m the club commodore, so the default answer is always yes.
“Probably not,” I said. “Unless someone really needs crew, I'll take the rest day.”
Luke shrugged agreeably. He said the forecast didn't look great for Saturday afternoon. “I'm a fair-weather cruiser.”
“So am I.”
“But,” he added, “if the weather turns out to be fair Saturday, I will need crew.”
John’s body language telegraphed that he was definitely not available Saturday.
“Okay,” I said. “If the weather's fair on Saturday and you decide to go, I’ll crew with you. It would be fun to sail together.”
I rolled on. The forecast for sailing Saturday afternoon was several shades of crappy, and we’d all laughed, like Fat chance!
Friday afternoon. Luke: Are you interested in sailing the cruise tomorrow? I'm in if you are. Me: Sure, if the weather's fair!
I still believed it would not be, but Luke put a thumbs-up emoji on my text.
Saturday morning.
In bed, I fumbled for my iPhone to check the forecast. It did not look fair. Coin-flip odds of thunder showers beginning around noon with increasing probability into the evening. I fluffed my pillow, rolled onto my side, my back to the window.
Luke: Weather looks OK to me as long as we're back before 5:00. He included a screenshot: Sunny with steady wind and zero chance of precipitation until after 5:00. Me: I like your weather app more than mine. What time do you want me at the dock?
Still, I thought he’d consult other weather sources and call it off. When he texted again to ask what sandwich I’d like from the sub shop near the marina, I rolled out of bed, put coffee beans into the grinder. Veggie.
Fillmore, Luke’s J22, is efficient and rigged to race. Sailing upwind to Afton was fun. Luke reviewed the rigging for me, and I felt at home on the boat in no time. The wind was the nicest so far this year and the weather was truly fair. Luke was streaming a Spotify playlist of his favorite sailing songs to a ruggedized speaker secured to the boom near the mast.
We got near Afton ahead of schedule, so we spun around to play some more before meeting the others for ice cream at Selma’s. We raised the spinnaker and threw in one jibe before tacking around again toward Afton. I was happy for the opportunity to practice with Fillmore’s spinnaker early, rather than later when the weather might turn, if we hung around at the Strawberry Festival too long, which we did.
At Selma’s we met up with the other sailors. When they all got in line for ice cream, we crossed the street to find the Festival’s beer garden, and some fresh strawberries to carry home, since it was a strawberry festival, after all. Back at Selma’s, we stood with the group for pictures, and then had to break away so that we might still make it back to Hudson by 5:00. The others had decided to wait it out in Afton.
Just before we raised the spinnaker for the downwind run to Hudson, I snapped a picture of Luke standing at Fillmore’s helm. Ahead of us were blue skies and nice wind. Behind, heavy clouds were gathering.
I was able to sit comfortably at the hatch and handle the spinnaker by myself, the trim sheet in one hand and the pole sheet in the other, while Luke had the helm and the main. We were dead down wind, moving along nicely, and I was even able to capture some video. Then the storm overtook us. We shot from seven knots to ten, at which point the boat was up on plane. It’s a long time since I’d been crewing on a sloop-rigged sailboat that was planing. It has never ended well before, but we kept it together. I yelled back to Luke about blowing the spinnaker sheets—not to ask, but to let him know I was prepared to.
The wind lulled. We were still going fast, probably planing. I got the feeling you do when there's a sudden barometric pressure change and you sense something is about to happen.
“This is getting eerie,” I called back to Luke.
“Yeah it is,” he replied, and I could hear the grin in his voice.
Then, the wind spanked us, spanked Fillmore.
Had the wind stayed directly behind we would have been fine—we’d been planing along above hull speed already between nine and ten knots. But now it shifted to starboard, and the spinnaker reeled off to port, driving Fillmore into a roll. Fillmore didn't follow the spinnaker. There was yelling and consensus about blowing the spinnaker and I let both sheets go.
Info-dump for landlubbers: The spinnaker sail is the pretty one that looks like a sideways parachute in front of a sailboat. When in heavy wind if the spinnaker suddenly reels to one side, it will pull the boat over sideways, a situation to be avoided. Completely releasing the sheets (aka “blowing” them) allows the bottom of the sail to run free like a giant streamer, neither pulling the boat forward nor over sideways. Some very confident racers like to put stopper knots at the ends of their spinnaker sheets. If a crewman fumbles the sheet and loses control of the spinnaker, stopper knots will lodge themselves in a block or open cleat, preventing the sheets from running all the way off the boat. This allows a boat to keep racing, if the skipper and crew can avoid a death roll and broach. Also this will force a boat to broach if it’s already too late to avoid, except by blowing the sheets. The bottom of the spinnaker just pops out a few more feet from the beam and continues dragging the boat sideways.
I blew the sheets and they flew away through the open cleats like spaghetti noodles getting slurped up by a hungry kid. This was the moment I discovered the stopper knots. Fillmore lurched over hard to port. From my position at the center of the boat, my feet dangling through the hatch into the cabin, I was protected from falling while the boat tipped sideways. I realized that though the boat should still be trying to point toward the spinnaker, it wasn't. Fillmore was lying mostly sideways on the river, water gushing over the deck into the cockpit. Why wasn’t Luke steering downwind toward the spinnaker?
I twisted to see the helm. Luke was missing. I was alone on Fillmore. The main sheet was still cleated, the main sail sideways to the wind. The tiller shuddered up and down in the cockpit while the rudder dragged sideways across whitecaps. Luke had been washed off the boat and waves were rolling into the cockpit.
I climbed, stretched for the main sheet, released it. Like a guillotine the boom crashed to the water and Fillmore righted herself a little, and that's when I saw Luke's hand, fingers grasping the stainless-steel cleat at the stern on Fillmore’s low side.
I had already understood the challenge it would be to find Luke after regaining control of the boat. No life jacket, his navy-blue Gill shirt—the same color as the river. Seeing his grip on that cleat, him dragging by one arm behind the boat: Profound relief.
But I did still need to regain control. I grabbed Luke’s forearm to heave him back aboard, but he twisted his face above a wave and refused my rescue offer. Amid the howling wind and driving rain, the boat surging and dragging Luke's face beneath the surface about half the time, we had a conversation. With remarkable patience and clarity, Luke explained that if I pulled him onto the broaching boat, his weight at the low side would bring too much more water in. Enough to fill both the cockpit and cabin. “We'll be sunk!” he sputtered between dunkings.
I wasn't feeling as patient as Luke. “I'll cut the spinnaker sheets!” I suggested. This would instantly right the boat and allow control. It would have been the Easy-Button solution: Boom, cut a line or two, nobody drowns.
“No, don't cut the lines!” Luke yelled. (Some skippers get antsy when crew open their knives for anything besides making sandwiches or cutting citrus fruit.)
I really wanted to either haul the man overboard back aboard or cut some lines to stop the boat capsizing.
“Blow the spinnaker halyard!” Luke sputtered.
Why hadn’t I thought of this already? I hesitated before letting go of Luke’s forearm. (There was some assurance from him that he had a good grip on the boat, he’d be fine.) I crabbed forward to find the spinnaker halyard, released it. Normally, the top of the spinnaker will drop onto the water when the halyard is blown. Normally, there isn’t so much wind. The spinnaker maintained altitude, glided a little further from the boat, and continued driving Fillmore onto her side.
My errand failed; I crabbed back to the stern. We continued our negotiation and eventually found agreement in a principled compromise. The wind was gusting hard. Between gusts was opportunity. On the offbeat, so to speak, we could get Luke on board without swamping Fillmore. At the next brief lull in the driving wind, I heaved and Luke lurched. He tumble-splashed onto the cockpit floor and scrambled instantly from the flooding low side ahead to the hatch. He got hold of the spinnaker’s port sheet and muscled it in to make the kite slip sideways above the water. I grabbed the helm, sheeted the main in, aimed upwind. Luke kept hauling the big sail onto the boat while I eased the main sail, swung the boat back around, and, our positions swapped, we were sailing again.
One of us suggested raising the jib.
“I lost my hat,” Luke said, one hand atop his head. “And there’s no music,” he observed. He patted his pockets, realized he'd lost both his hat and his phone. The speaker remained clipped to the boom, but the playlist was gone to the bottom of the river.
“What model iPhone was it?” I asked. “The original Ten.” “You're going to love the 14 Pro,” I assured him. We laughed. Then, “I like your boat! Thanks for giving me a turn helming!” I said. “You're welcome.” “Good that we got the spinnaker down first,” I said. “Yeah, that mighta been a shit show.”
Loved it! Well done!
Really good Steve.😘