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If YOU SAIL ENOUGH
If you sail enough, there will come along a day to remember, a day when, laced with a certain kind of
purity, the memories will be full like the sails were. It will be a day of special combinations of place,
weather with wind, sun and humidity in special mixture – just right.
The place has to be right too. It can be many places and more than one day. The water has to be right
with some wave action and not troubling. Perfection comes out of the amalgam of space, time and you,
the sailor, fitting together in amazing ways that cause you to remember the magic days.
Peapod almost drifted out of the shallow anchorage at Croker Island. Her sails appeared slack yet I
could feel steerage through the tiller and see a tiny line or two of wake behind her. Ghosting out into
the deeper water more wind began to slowly fill out the jib and main. They curved out and filled but not
tightly. There wasn’t enough wind for full bellies.
Gradually the real sailing commenced and Peapod forged ahead in a slow stately fashion rising up and
down in the slight waves. I lolled against the back of the cockpit seat holding the tiller extension in my
hand as if it were a fragile egg. No effort on my part was called for. Peapod held her course. I drove
Peapod – or should I say she sailed herself right into the bald rocks of the Sow and Pigs. Their pink
backs had a piggy color to them and they were fat looking in the morning sunshine. All smooth granite
rock, water worn and lovely, they shown in the early light.
Every color possible reflected in the water. The sky was clear blue. Lichens of very hue were patched
on the rocks and glistened, hinting at their true vibrant colors in the water. I stood now as I steered with
hand firmly on the tiller. The extension was put away. I watched for the depth and room I needed to sail
amongst the rocks. The Piglets and Sow and the Boar. I spent hours doing just that.
The sunlight was right to let me see the depths, the shallows over the bedrocks and the darker blues of
deeper waters. I could easily see down into the water depths as the sun gained in height as the day
wore on. I danced under sail in between and all around these wonderful knobs of pink granite.
Then I sailed over to the Twisted Pine Passage at the south end of South Benjamin Island. The wind was
light from the east but steady enough for good boat control. I sailed in and around the rocky entrance
and along the very narrow passage. When I got to my place to anchor it was empty, not taken by
another boater. ‘Rare’ I thought and I smiled broadly. I could be all alone here all night if lucky. I’d
actually seen no other boats at all.
I dropped the main and furled it as I crept into the narrow slot, V-shaped, that was my anchoring spot. I
let go the bow anchor and sailed the hook well into the soft bottom. When I was at the end of the scope I
needed I dropped the stern hook and centered Peapod between both anchors. Later I would swim lines
ashore to really lock me into the slot so no wind change could rattle my sleep. I was home for the night.
Another day, I heard the gulls cry in the distance and the skree of an eagle. It appeared soaring over
the top of the high range of rocks to the south. Gulls walked along the flat rocks by the storm damaged
pine tree. A duck swam around Peapod and left hungry. The wind seemed to sigh before going to bed
quietly. All was still. I slipped over the side and swam ashore, laid on the still warm rocks for awhile
until hunger called.
A quick swim back and I clambered up the ladder into Peapod. I fixed a light supper which I enjoyed
with my thermos of coffee left from the morning. Sitting in the cockpit I wondered if I would ever get
tired of days like this one had been. It had all the good qualities of a magical day: good weather,
interesting places to sail, easy wave action, no traffic of other boats bothering my little sailboat,
scenery, sunshine, warm water to swim in, a boat that behaved, shorts weather and tee shirt, sun shirt,
sandals, hat. Comfortable day. The colors had been stupendous perhaps it was a quality of the light of
an early September day.
The winds were generally light and sailing not the best, however there were good days and one stands
out in memories of the strange landscape of desert and fresh water. I’d anchored near Bullfrog Marina
in Lake Powell’s upper (river) reaches, and had motored into the marina in the early morning calm for
fuel.
I didn’t linger and set sail as soon as I cleared the marina properly. It is huge and has many constraints
where monster houseboats were stored under cover. It felt like an inner city landscape. I wanted more
of the wilderness of Lake Powell. I sailed slowly to start with. The wind picked up gradually as I cleared
the huge launch area and the filled in behind me as I gained distance.
Peapod settled into a smooth run between the steep walls of the canyons south and west of Bullfrog. All
the colors of the sandstone rock layers splashed up the cliffs and were reflected in the deep blue water
as if sparkles of jewels. I considered the scale of the place. Cliffs over 500 ft. high surrounded the
canyon waters. Here I was on a 15 ft. boat. Tiny by comparison. I could hear the rush of wind on stone
on water and on Peapod as she surged forward, downstream some 500 feet above the bottom of the
Colorado River underneath her.
Above the gnarly Glen Canyon long buried under water by the Glen Canyon Dam. The sailing
demanded attention but was easy. Wing-and-wing is always attention hungry. It was going fast and
easy at the same time. Time flew by as we made way down the river canyon.
I scanned for the hanging gardens of greenery, that grow in the walls where water weeps down,
petroglyph's, and pueblos or houses in the rocks. Steps showed up. Pecked into the rocks where the
Mormons crossed the river and climbed the wall. Two wagon tracks were worn down into the rock from
the wagons and horses passing up the wall. It must have taken a lot of time and energy to do what
remained of their passage. I wondered if people today have that level of persistence and will to do
what the pioneer families did.
As I sailed along there were many controlled gybes as the canyon waters wound along ever
downstream changing direction frequently but always west and a bit south. A sailboat came roaring
upstream, flying by throwing a wake. It was a MacGregor 26 with two people aboard who looked like
they might be Lynn and Larry Pardee. They waved at Peapod with enthusiasm. I imagined Peapod
looked good wing-and-wing with wind in her white sails, her green hull and all the colors of the canyon
behind her.
As the late afternoon approached I found a tiny pocket cove to tuck into for the night. All was quiet as I
furled up the main and bagged the jib. I heard my first canyon wren in the distance. The liquid notes
were really beautiful.
Making my way back to Waweep and take-out, I discovered a whole new Lake Powell. The change of
views from the backside changed all the perspectives and shattered memories. My spatial senses are
keen and I remembered where I had come from, where I had stopped and what I’d seen. The beautiful
Rincon and the buttes were well fixed in memory.
It was if the lake was new coming from the opposite direction to that I’d first taken. It’s an easy place to
get discombobulated. There are certain landmarks that stand out, and in the distance that help along
with the compass. I didn’t use my GPS at all that trip. I don’t trust things that need batteries I guess.
Plus I had learned to navigate before electronics and still use the old ways. They’ve always worked
well for me.
As I moved along slowly I enjoyed the new appearing Lake. My last night I anchored near a sandy
beach area across from the huge Waweep launch ramps. Another sailboat came along and anchored
nearby. The folks invited me aboard for libations and conversation. I accepted and enjoyed meeting
two local folks who had a large trailerable sailboat.
Bear was retired from the park service and had been a ranger on the lake for many years. He had lots
of information for me to absorb as did his wife, Carole, who filled me with information about Baja to
where they towed their boat every winter and lived aboard, sailing that desert region. She thought
Lake Powell was perfectly safe for a solo woman but not the Mexican waters. Neither of them
recommended I sail there alone. The winds are high in the winter they said plus the drug runners
abound. I was at Lake Powell in May and Bear said the best winds were in the fall season.
Magical days come to all who sail. Once in a rare while you can find an anchorage like that.
Peapod and I were exploring. I sailed her into a place where I’d never been before. I sailed her into a
place I’d never been before, an anchorage over the purest white sand ending in a pristine beach.
Amadroz Island in Lake Huron’s North Channel has a rather large bay on the east side and an island at
its mouth with extensive shoaling arms for even more protection from the east.
I came in slowly looking at the rocks; they shelve these rocky shore formations along the edges prior to
the beginning of the white sand beach area. The rocks were layered as if slate. Plate sized pieces lay
along the edges. All were dark grey or black in colors. The rocks shelved perfectly as if cut and laid by
hand. Two deer were in the beach grasses away from the shore as I rounded the northeast corner of the
bay. No other animals were visible and no bird life was seen. I dropped the mainsail and proceeded
by jib alone. Bird songs were loud in the quiet and achingly beautiful in the more calm conditions.
Once the sail cover was on and the jib bagged at the forestay, I dropped the anchor, stripped and
hopped over the side. I moved the anchor so that we were in about three feet of water and the anchor
was hand and foot set for the night. I hoped the wind would not go easterly. I planned to listen to the
weather report when back aboard Peapod. I swam around and cleaned up for the night. As was my
usual drill, I sponged off the waterline to remove any residue of floating scum or plant material the boat
might have picked up during the day. As usual, the boat was clean.
Swimming to shore, I found a way to the beach where there were no small pebbles or stones. I walked
along the beach exploring deer tracks and raccoon tracks. “mental note “ I said aloud. ‘Anchor well off
shore to avoid the raccoons.’ I walked and swam back to Peapod, climbed aboard and made an early
supper. I like to do that in the daylight. The deer were soon back on the shoreline as I ate my meal. It
was fun to watch them graze and later play, bounding along the sand and jumping really high. I
guessed that they like the softer sand between their toes. They also waded in the water to drink. From
time to time they looked at Peapod but seemed to be unafraid of her. I felt good knowing that my
sailboat didn’t really disrupt the life and play of the local deer at that beach.
It had been a really nice day again, another to remember.
Anne Westlund
westlund@lighthouse.net
If you sail enough, there will come along a day to remember, a day when, laced with a certain kind of
purity, the memories will be full like the sails were. It will be a day of special combinations of place,
weather with wind, sun and humidity in special mixture – just right.
The place has to be right too. It can be many places and more than one day. The water has to be right
with some wave action and not troubling. Perfection comes out of the amalgam of space, time and you,
the sailor, fitting together in amazing ways that cause you to remember the magic days.
Peapod almost drifted out of the shallow anchorage at Croker Island. Her sails appeared slack yet I
could feel steerage through the tiller and see a tiny line or two of wake behind her. Ghosting out into
the deeper water more wind began to slowly fill out the jib and main. They curved out and filled but not
tightly. There wasn’t enough wind for full bellies.
Gradually the real sailing commenced and Peapod forged ahead in a slow stately fashion rising up and
down in the slight waves. I lolled against the back of the cockpit seat holding the tiller extension in my
hand as if it were a fragile egg. No effort on my part was called for. Peapod held her course. I drove
Peapod – or should I say she sailed herself right into the bald rocks of the Sow and Pigs. Their pink
backs had a piggy color to them and they were fat looking in the morning sunshine. All smooth granite
rock, water worn and lovely, they shown in the early light.
Every color possible reflected in the water. The sky was clear blue. Lichens of very hue were patched
on the rocks and glistened, hinting at their true vibrant colors in the water. I stood now as I steered with
hand firmly on the tiller. The extension was put away. I watched for the depth and room I needed to sail
amongst the rocks. The Piglets and Sow and the Boar. I spent hours doing just that.
The sunlight was right to let me see the depths, the shallows over the bedrocks and the darker blues of
deeper waters. I could easily see down into the water depths as the sun gained in height as the day
wore on. I danced under sail in between and all around these wonderful knobs of pink granite.
Then I sailed over to the Twisted Pine Passage at the south end of South Benjamin Island. The wind was
light from the east but steady enough for good boat control. I sailed in and around the rocky entrance
and along the very narrow passage. When I got to my place to anchor it was empty, not taken by
another boater. ‘Rare’ I thought and I smiled broadly. I could be all alone here all night if lucky. I’d
actually seen no other boats at all.
I dropped the main and furled it as I crept into the narrow slot, V-shaped, that was my anchoring spot. I
let go the bow anchor and sailed the hook well into the soft bottom. When I was at the end of the scope I
needed I dropped the stern hook and centered Peapod between both anchors. Later I would swim lines
ashore to really lock me into the slot so no wind change could rattle my sleep. I was home for the night.
Another day, I heard the gulls cry in the distance and the skree of an eagle. It appeared soaring over
the top of the high range of rocks to the south. Gulls walked along the flat rocks by the storm damaged
pine tree. A duck swam around Peapod and left hungry. The wind seemed to sigh before going to bed
quietly. All was still. I slipped over the side and swam ashore, laid on the still warm rocks for awhile
until hunger called.
A quick swim back and I clambered up the ladder into Peapod. I fixed a light supper which I enjoyed
with my thermos of coffee left from the morning. Sitting in the cockpit I wondered if I would ever get
tired of days like this one had been. It had all the good qualities of a magical day: good weather,
interesting places to sail, easy wave action, no traffic of other boats bothering my little sailboat,
scenery, sunshine, warm water to swim in, a boat that behaved, shorts weather and tee shirt, sun shirt,
sandals, hat. Comfortable day. The colors had been stupendous perhaps it was a quality of the light of
an early September day.
The winds were generally light and sailing not the best, however there were good days and one stands
out in memories of the strange landscape of desert and fresh water. I’d anchored near Bullfrog Marina
in Lake Powell’s upper (river) reaches, and had motored into the marina in the early morning calm for
fuel.
I didn’t linger and set sail as soon as I cleared the marina properly. It is huge and has many constraints
where monster houseboats were stored under cover. It felt like an inner city landscape. I wanted more
of the wilderness of Lake Powell. I sailed slowly to start with. The wind picked up gradually as I cleared
the huge launch area and the filled in behind me as I gained distance.
Peapod settled into a smooth run between the steep walls of the canyons south and west of Bullfrog. All
the colors of the sandstone rock layers splashed up the cliffs and were reflected in the deep blue water
as if sparkles of jewels. I considered the scale of the place. Cliffs over 500 ft. high surrounded the
canyon waters. Here I was on a 15 ft. boat. Tiny by comparison. I could hear the rush of wind on stone
on water and on Peapod as she surged forward, downstream some 500 feet above the bottom of the
Colorado River underneath her.
Above the gnarly Glen Canyon long buried under water by the Glen Canyon Dam. The sailing
demanded attention but was easy. Wing-and-wing is always attention hungry. It was going fast and
easy at the same time. Time flew by as we made way down the river canyon.
I scanned for the hanging gardens of greenery, that grow in the walls where water weeps down,
petroglyph's, and pueblos or houses in the rocks. Steps showed up. Pecked into the rocks where the
Mormons crossed the river and climbed the wall. Two wagon tracks were worn down into the rock from
the wagons and horses passing up the wall. It must have taken a lot of time and energy to do what
remained of their passage. I wondered if people today have that level of persistence and will to do
what the pioneer families did.
As I sailed along there were many controlled gybes as the canyon waters wound along ever
downstream changing direction frequently but always west and a bit south. A sailboat came roaring
upstream, flying by throwing a wake. It was a MacGregor 26 with two people aboard who looked like
they might be Lynn and Larry Pardee. They waved at Peapod with enthusiasm. I imagined Peapod
looked good wing-and-wing with wind in her white sails, her green hull and all the colors of the canyon
behind her.
As the late afternoon approached I found a tiny pocket cove to tuck into for the night. All was quiet as I
furled up the main and bagged the jib. I heard my first canyon wren in the distance. The liquid notes
were really beautiful.
Making my way back to Waweep and take-out, I discovered a whole new Lake Powell. The change of
views from the backside changed all the perspectives and shattered memories. My spatial senses are
keen and I remembered where I had come from, where I had stopped and what I’d seen. The beautiful
Rincon and the buttes were well fixed in memory.
It was if the lake was new coming from the opposite direction to that I’d first taken. It’s an easy place to
get discombobulated. There are certain landmarks that stand out, and in the distance that help along
with the compass. I didn’t use my GPS at all that trip. I don’t trust things that need batteries I guess.
Plus I had learned to navigate before electronics and still use the old ways. They’ve always worked
well for me.
As I moved along slowly I enjoyed the new appearing Lake. My last night I anchored near a sandy
beach area across from the huge Waweep launch ramps. Another sailboat came along and anchored
nearby. The folks invited me aboard for libations and conversation. I accepted and enjoyed meeting
two local folks who had a large trailerable sailboat.
Bear was retired from the park service and had been a ranger on the lake for many years. He had lots
of information for me to absorb as did his wife, Carole, who filled me with information about Baja to
where they towed their boat every winter and lived aboard, sailing that desert region. She thought
Lake Powell was perfectly safe for a solo woman but not the Mexican waters. Neither of them
recommended I sail there alone. The winds are high in the winter they said plus the drug runners
abound. I was at Lake Powell in May and Bear said the best winds were in the fall season.
Magical days come to all who sail. Once in a rare while you can find an anchorage like that.
Peapod and I were exploring. I sailed her into a place where I’d never been before. I sailed her into a
place I’d never been before, an anchorage over the purest white sand ending in a pristine beach.
Amadroz Island in Lake Huron’s North Channel has a rather large bay on the east side and an island at
its mouth with extensive shoaling arms for even more protection from the east.
I came in slowly looking at the rocks; they shelve these rocky shore formations along the edges prior to
the beginning of the white sand beach area. The rocks were layered as if slate. Plate sized pieces lay
along the edges. All were dark grey or black in colors. The rocks shelved perfectly as if cut and laid by
hand. Two deer were in the beach grasses away from the shore as I rounded the northeast corner of the
bay. No other animals were visible and no bird life was seen. I dropped the mainsail and proceeded
by jib alone. Bird songs were loud in the quiet and achingly beautiful in the more calm conditions.
Once the sail cover was on and the jib bagged at the forestay, I dropped the anchor, stripped and
hopped over the side. I moved the anchor so that we were in about three feet of water and the anchor
was hand and foot set for the night. I hoped the wind would not go easterly. I planned to listen to the
weather report when back aboard Peapod. I swam around and cleaned up for the night. As was my
usual drill, I sponged off the waterline to remove any residue of floating scum or plant material the boat
might have picked up during the day. As usual, the boat was clean.
Swimming to shore, I found a way to the beach where there were no small pebbles or stones. I walked
along the beach exploring deer tracks and raccoon tracks. “mental note “ I said aloud. ‘Anchor well off
shore to avoid the raccoons.’ I walked and swam back to Peapod, climbed aboard and made an early
supper. I like to do that in the daylight. The deer were soon back on the shoreline as I ate my meal. It
was fun to watch them graze and later play, bounding along the sand and jumping really high. I
guessed that they like the softer sand between their toes. They also waded in the water to drink. From
time to time they looked at Peapod but seemed to be unafraid of her. I felt good knowing that my
sailboat didn’t really disrupt the life and play of the local deer at that beach.
It had been a really nice day again, another to remember.
Anne Westlund
westlund@lighthouse.net