Well okay, the refurbishments aren't done yet... Deanna has nicely done combings in her shop just waiting on the indolent helmsman to get off his duff and varnish the suckers, but time is a wasting... so on a nice breezy Sunday, the Admiral threw the old half-decayed combings in the car and we headed to the boat... the helmsman and the grandson (now promoted to navigator) scrapped the lower unit of the motor, the same motor helmsman was supposed to bottom-paint, and headed out for a day sail... We threw in one reef in the main since it was kicking up a bit from time to time and just enjoyed whooshing along... the reef took care of the weather helm we get from time to time with these elderly, and baggy, sails (helmsman has a "new" mainsail just waiting to be bent on, but does he get with it.... noooo...). But the day was sunny and pleasant, we switched roles from time to time so everyone got a little more accustomed with several more boaty things, and when the reefing hook jammed itself in the cringle, it became apparent that the helmsman has yet another chore he must attend to... boy, something defective with that helmsman... hope the Admiral doesn't run an inspection before we get Wings in shape...
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Well, the Admiral's fleet has expanded... fishing off the back of Wings has proven unproductive so far, and besides for some, 5 knots just doesn't cut it all the time... I mean why glide serenely over the waves powered by the summer breezes when you can smash and bash throwing foam and spray every which way and keeping some middle east Sheik in business... okay, okay just kiddin'... Deanna has been wanting a little "speed boat" for some time and one day while the helmsman was at work, this little guy just followed her home - honest injun'... There is a little matter of needing a motor, but the search is in high-gear and there are high-hopes of boating a tuna or marline, or at least a croaker, before the north wind blows... had one similar to this one decades ago and enjoyed it immensely, trekking far too far out into the Atlantic in search of Mackerel and Wahoo's, so here we go again...sure am glad I ordered those spare reels to upgrade the trolling poles...
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A warm, sunny summer day with number-one son, Bud, in town is an excellent excuse for some lazy time on the water - number one son being a curious blend of rabid dirt-track aficionado, consummate computer geek/gamer and professional long-haul trucker, far more at home shepherding 40 tons of freight across the North American continent, than piddling around on reality-sized sailboats...
Trying to skate out before dead low tide would imprison us in our slip, we hastily undocked Angels Wings in the usual manner, semi-rigged for day sailing -- and proceeded to idle past the other boats, except the little outboard wasn't idling! Indeed, the usually effective little motor was running wide-open and Wings was going almost nowhere, but quickly creating a haze of blue-gray 2-cycle lube... All this mechanical commotion quickly drew a skeptical look from trucker son and while the little Evinrude provided just enough oomph to get us away from the safety of our slip, but with no control once broadside to the feeble breeze wafting across Monroe Bay... a breeze that eventually snuggled us sideways against some pilings despite our best efforts to be almost anywhere else...
Something was terribly amiss - and, embarrassingly so... Enter, deliverance by jack-knife... Bud and I worked the motor out of the motor-well while Deanna held us against the pilings -- we had to laugh when we saw what used to be the prop... it was just one huge nest of barnacles and other encrusting marine life, only roughly reminiscent of a propeller shape... whew... well, now we knew the problem and, thankfully, in short order a folding knife that had spent recent years forgotten in a galley drawer dispensed with all those cavitation producing creatures...
After that little escapade, sailing in the soft zephyrs of early afternoon was anticlimactic, and eventually proved a tad boring... in time we decided to try trolling under sail. In the past I'd met with some success catching blues and mackerel, while dragging lures behind a sailboat, so I had some hope... But, No Joy! For awhile we seemed to be at the right speed for offshore saltwater fishing, but even at our dawdling pace I'm not convinced we were slow enough for the brackish-water fish of the middle Potomac... in any case, neither shiny lures nor tasty squid strips could tempt a fish hungry enough (or stupid enough) to rise to our barbed enticements and eventually Deanna retired to an empty berth for a summer catnap ...
Almost on cue, the afternoon wind piped up and over an hour or so, we went from barely any discernable wake at all to a nice boiling wake trailed behind Angels Wings. Although we were not at remotely the speeds Bud is used to at his beloved Midwestern dirt tracks, the sensation of speed is a well known intoxicant to sailors and soon had us trimming sails, "racing" after a larger boat flying a Jolly-Roger and speculating how we must have terrified the opposing skipper because of the speed with which he went hull down in front of us - this incredible sea-battle was soon captured on Bud's digital "film" from almost every reasonable angle -- with the promise that it would fuel many stories and tales back home over the coming months.
It was great fun and tacking across the Potomac we got finally curious how fast Angles Wings really was going, so we started the handheld GPS... Unless we or our GPS was hallucinating, Wings was doing nicely above theoretical hull-speed for its meager 19 foot LWL. We were seeing pretty consistently 6.8 knots; however, I finally suspected we might be getting some assistance from the river current and tide, so we reversed and sailed on a reach the other direction -- still logging around 6.4-6.5 knots... exhilarating, entertaining and pleasant... at least I figured that even though the unpainted motor lower-unit had succumbed to the marine life, Wings' hull was still reasonable clean - all in all the day provide fertile recollections for all the stories we'll embellish this winter (and a few we'll conveniently forget...).
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There is something in the American Contract that commands that on Memorial Day weekend we must eat a burger or something previously alive, take in a sporting event of some sort and do something out of doors with the family, while we pause to remember all those who made it possible - it is in the agreement, trust me I've seen it.
Saturday night the grandson and I took in the sprint car race (checking off the sporting event requirement) , so bright and (not so) early on Sunday we checked the tides, winds and forecast... yep tide was okay, we'd be back before low-tide prevented us from getting back into our slip; winds were supposed to be 8-10 kts, super... great sailing although the forecast said there was a possibility of drizzle here and there... no biggie, it is warm... so pack the sodas, chips, snacks and sandwich making stuff and throw an extra gallon of gas in the kicker's nearly empty tank, and we're off...
15:45 -- Three or four hours of more or less downwind sailing found us well out of sight of the village, at which point we decided to start our beat home - as we said at the time, expecting some smashin' and bashin' as we wended our way back through the occasional whitecaps we'd been softly sliding over... a few passing raindrops were of no great threat, so we did our 180, avoiding three tugs wrestling with a couple of coal barges...
An hour later we had made almost no progress... the wind had died, dead calm... okay, crank the kicker go find some wind... save gas we don't have much - oops no running lights either other than battery operated flashlights... better hurry, but still have three hours until sundown...
18:15 - Whew... wisp of a breeze... motorsailing... breeze adds about half a knot, throttle back to save our meager gas... Rory suggests the drifter... super, that seems to get us another quarter knot or so... Deanna on the tiller as we nurse Wings along, playing with the wind and trying to use minimal throttle...
19:45 -- Wind died again -- okay we'll cut the corner around the village point, maybe save thirty minutes as dusk draws... Deanna asks how much water is under us because we're well to the side of our normal track... "Oh, about six inches to a foot..." I shrug with false confidence... within the minute we crunch to a halt... aground... oops.
Getting dark, aground... we try all the usual - weight forward, weight to the side, crawl out on the boom, use precious gas gunning the kicker harder - it labors dutifully making frothy bubbles in the water, but Wings just laughs at us... okay, last resort... Deanna suggests one of us gets off and push... skipper is the biggest lardbutt aboard, may as well be him... one lardbutt over the side, Wings chuckles quietly and then floats free... push to deeper water... now to get back aboard in the dark... no working ladder... after several attempts it clear that ol' lardbutt is about thirty too many years out of shape to scale the side - getting seriously dark now, but desperation is the mother of invention... handy mooring line makes for an expedient, if sloppy, Swiss-seat, hook to the jib halyard, Deanna and Rory hoist ol' lardbutt aboard... whew... totally dark now... three miles to go...
22:00 -- Putted home slowly, navigating the old-fashion way by chart and flashlight -- without further fanfare, should have been outa gas long before, almost five hours of motorsailing on a gallon and a half - the Lord supplies... yep ran aground at the slip... no matter, thirty minutes later Wings floats free in the tide, a little before midnight we walk her safely back in her slip looking no worse for her Memorial Day, and then dash to the village McDonalds just before the drive-in window closed (to satisfy the burger requirement). So much for day-sailing... gas? It took almost 3.7 gallons to fill the 3.5 gallon tank, go figure... Angels Wings has re-verified her name, despite seriously ham-fisted skippering...
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What to do when week after week of bleak, chilly and soggy weather unexpectedly gives way to three or four beautiful days of almost too-bright sun, unseasonably 80-90 degree temperatures and just enough wind to whisper, "drifter..." Go day-sailing, of course... More to the point was to give Deanna's long-suffering grandson, Rory, a little taste of what his year and a half worth of assistance made possible.
Rory was appointed Skipper-for-a-Day once we cleared the marina; however, once in the Potomac it still took an hour or so to work free of the lee of the shore. It was an exercise in patience weaving in and out of dozens of crab pot floats, but avoiding them was not an altogether unwelcome means of working out some of the kinks (both boat and crew) accumulated over the winter.
The usual skipper, an increasing rotund and still lame gallute following a winter motorcycle mishap, filled in where he could, but Rory and Deanna shepherded Wings back and forth until we got enough room to begin to pick up a breeze... then it was Katy Bar the Door... the GPS zoomed right up to 1.5 knots for awhile, then teased us with blistering 2.0 knots and then fell back as the wafts disappeared again- eventually, however, Rory coaxed Wings up to nearly 4.0 knots during a fleeting interval of more obliging wind... all in all a wonderful day of modest sun-burn, some low key deck scrubbing and just enjoying the water and each others company...
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Unlike the last few years, global-warming has yet to rear its head in the Northern Neck of Virginia this year. The lagoons and estuaries of the mid-Potomac have been partially iced for some weeks and the marina around Angels Wings is no exception. Previously, winter sailing was often possible, but this year a small icebreaker would be needed to get a reliable channel to the river most days. So, we sit and try to putter on other projects.
Deanna, ever the perfectionist, has become dismayed with the dissimilarity between the various tones of the woods she's working with for our little chunk's cockpit - to me, they look great, but Deanna wants even nature's random splendor to match as much as possible. I figure by the time we replace the combings, handrails, drop-boards and other wood, we'll have multiple tones and I find that pleasant, but to the thorough craftsman it must be disconcerting.
The New Year was ushered in as I begin a frustrating recovery after a pre-dawn encounter between my motorcycle and one of the many deer here about. The rider will mend after a few months and the deer seemed to escape essentially unscathed, but the bike was trashed and until the docs get this hunk of steel out of the shoulder, setting off metal detectors is a way of life - not to mention typing essentially one-handed... shop work in a sling is tedious at best, and each step must be planned in advance so to be accomplished wrong-handed. Happily Rory, the affable and lively grandson who was such a dependable associate when painting the hull, is back with us and readily lends a willing and enthusiastic hand. A year later his proficiency and talents have increased exponentially and any sunny day provokes pleas to go sailing. We're gunna get there...
A small victory was the installation of a modest charting/GPS package on the laptop. Largely, the skipper is techno-gizmo averse, but this seemed simple enough and after the success with the handheld GPS a couple of years back, seemed like a logical step. The SeaClear installation went without hiccup, always encouraging, and preliminary tests indicate this should be a pleasurable asset for regional navigation at least. It uses NOAA digital charts that can zoom to scary detail and the little hockey-puck GPS antenna is unobtrusive. So, once the basic electrical system is rewired this spring, we are hopeful this will be a nice gadget for sneaking up the many rivulets and creeks on the Bay and river...
We're learning patience - it's all in the nature of messing about with small boats I suspect...
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