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DAY SAILING
You know how it is. To go, or not to go, is an every morning question. A look around at the local weather
from the companionway hatch, a look at the barometer and what are the clouds like? Has the wind
shifted? Is there enough wind to sail yet? Should I wait or go now, or not go at all? What does
environment Canada or NOAA say about the weather? Where are the high and low pressure systems?
Where do I want to go or need to go? Is the boat ready? How do I feel – long day or short day? Is it a
lazy day or what should I do? What do I want to do? Stirred around enough all the questions come
together easily and in quick order or slowly, I am getting the cover off the mainsail, stowing loose stuff,
setting aside snacks, lunch and water bottles, then shortening the anchor rode. I’ve decided I’m going
sailing!
I bring up the mainsail and haul up the anchor when it trips free. The sail shakes gently. I tighten the
mainsheet with one hand and free the jib furling line with the other pulling out the sail, grab the jib sheet
and set the jib balancing out both sails as the boat gets underway. I steer out of the anchorage. I’ve
sailed off the hook. I watch carefully for other boats in the small cove and avoid any shoals around. Away
from the confines of the cove, the wind really fills the sails, I trim for comfort and speed and settle down
to cruise wishing I had filled the thermos with coffee. “Next time,” I think. I slide the cushion under my bum
to be able to see better over the cabin top as well as to soften the day.
Heating up from the sunshine, cooled by the wind, I pull up my collar and zip my vest. It’s a lovely
morning. Oops, put on the sunscreen, girl! I do just that, face, ears, hands, arms, legs, feet. Sunglasses
too, and I put on my broad brimmed hat.
The boat surges along gently. I keep a hand on the tiller, feeling direction by the wind as much as visually.
I feel the breeze in my ears, on my neck in my hair. My body is in some constant adjustment for comfort
and balance. I move in complete harmony with my boat. I remember the old rule that the upper half of the
body belongs to the tiller and sheet while the lower half belongs to the boat. It’s like when canoeing or
kayaking. On my sailboat it is the same as those tiny boats, a kind of balancing act. The tiller is the
paddle in that analogy. I move with the boat and am balanced, neither rocking against the motion nor
fighting it. I swivel at the waist as if I have a universal joint there. It feels good and I’m rock solid on my
seat or feet if standing up, which I do from time-to-time.
In the distance the islands blend with the backdrop of forest and mountains. The wind is on the beam.
Peapod, my West Wight Potter 15, rolls a bit in the small waves. She moves well, making good time,
keeping a steady movement forward eating up the distance on a race of her own. I revel in the easy
motion and feeling of speed. Sunlight flashes glints of lights off the waves. I squint in my sunglasses and
pull my hat down farther as I juggle hanging onto the tiller and mainsheet.
The islands separate as I approach, individuate becoming distinct. That one is High Island, then Eastern.
To the left is Louisa Island, five islands from High to the west. I think about Hog Island a bit farther west.
Did hogs run free there, confined to the island away from bears and wolves? Would they have put the
hogs there to kill snakes? Would the island support very many hogs? There used to be schooner docks
there once upon a time. The furs were packed and shipped out at those wharves whose log and stone
cribs still linger in the water. Fort LaCloche was a thriving place back in the days of the voyageurs and
into the early 1800’s. The river and swampy area by the fort were too shallow for the schooners so the
goods for trade were unloaded and furs loaded at Hog Island docks. Large freight birch bark canoes
freighted the goods and furs to and from Hog Island. In my mind’s eye I can see the activity and wonder
if there are “treasures” or artifacts to be found. Someday I want to snorkel there by the cribs.
My island target is Matheson Island. Behind Hog Island is rock soup but I figured it out! If schooners went
in behind the Island where the cribs are then there is deep water there. Certainly it has to be deep enough
for Peapod’s few inches of shallow draft. So, I sneak slowly in behind Louisa Island, passing her white
sand beaches. I kick on the motor, furl the jib and leave the main up. Putzing along I make note of water
depths and wend my way west by the colors of the water. Navy, indigo and blue black are usually deep
water. They can be rocks but not so often as to cause concern. The darker blues are the way to go. I
pass several smaller islands and come into Matheson’s anchorage by the back door, not the usual way
in. I anchor, swim and have lunch. The wind rattles the awning as I settle into a good book and then a nap.
Peapod shifts, moves a bit with the wind. I turn over, flip on the VHF and hear the weather. The winds are
going to die down. It should be a quiet night. At first light I am up and have breakfast. I fill the thermos
with coffee. Before I am ready to haul the anchor, I read the chart as if preparing for an exam, taking
note of bail out points along the way to the next anchorage. I’ve been the way I plan to go many times but
memory dulled by a year or more past is best refreshed. Besides, I love looking at charts as they hold
good memories too. They talk to me and I make a game of learning the chart before I sail and then check
memory with the chart to see if I pass this self imposed exam I set.
A light breeze develops as the sun heats the land. I shorten the scope, raise the mainsail and lift the
anchor, sailing off the hook. I go south and west making for South Benjamin Island. The sailing is very
slow. I dink along at one or two knots Another possible challenge arises. I decide to skirt the south shore
of Fox Island where I have not gone before. It’s full of rocks, coves and channels in the shoals. I turn
more abeam the breeze. Speed picks up and Peapod loves this point of sail. She quietly snores along. It
was a good pick to go this way. The weather and light are perfect for making shoal rocks very visible in
the gin clear water. They show up as pale tan, rosy reds, darker toward mocca and various colors all
lighter than the surrounding darker blues.
I poke long with a lightly slack mainsail, enjoying the ease of a good day avoiding any white knuckled
sailing. At some undefined point, I break for the southerly course out of the rocks and make for the
lagoon in South Benjamin. I feel urgency. Then I realize that the wind is easing east. I turn on the VHF to
the weather channel. Yep, we’re in for some changes in the weather sooner than previously predicted.
Was it a shift in the wind or the pressure changes or a wave change that alerted me? The VHF says it will
be a rather quick low coming through followed by the clear skies of a high pressure system with wind. A
trough is connected to the high. It’s time for me to hole up with my tiny boat. I need a protected place so
am making for the lagoon. I have seven or eight miles to go, a couple of hours more or less. There’s no
need to hurry but I must keep moving. The motor starts with one pull. I leave the mainsail up for efficiency
and drive, tacking and motor sailing, toward the south shore of Croker Island. I do need to get to the safe
anchorage.
Pulling into the shallow lagoon after a delightful sail and motor sail, I feel relieved to be in a favorite
anchorage with protection from all directions. Even though the tiny sandy bottomed lagoon is facing east,
the shoals in front of my boat protect me as does Croker Island a mile away. Plus the low pressure
system will back the wind to the north and west where I have forest and high rocky cliffs for protection.
The anchor bites. The motor is shut off. The mainsail comes down, is furled and covered. I put up the
awning and tighten the bungies that hold it in place. Then pour another cup of coffee. “Not much can get
me here,” I think as I swat a mosquito. Biting insects herald a weather change too. They are right on
schedule. I pull out the screening and fix it over the companionway as I dive below.
The air felt close as the humidity increased. I swim and hike the rocks, up the hills where I sit for awhile to
enjoy the view. A few sailboats come in to anchor farther out in deeper water. I cherish my shoal draft as
I see them try again and again to set their anchors out there where holding isn’t particularly good. Enough
anchors hit bottom out there to create a plowed ground! Some give up and make for Croker Island’s
anchorage where they will get east protection but later less from the winds when they go westerly. They
will get some surge and wave action for sure. Nothing big and if they go to the right spots there will be no
sea at all. Regardless, I’m in a good spot to sit it out. There was no indication of the depth of the low on
the weather radio but the barometer showed a significant drop over the day before by the time I went
swimming.
When I swam back to the boat I hauled out the stern anchor and set it to the west, putting Peapod
between her two anchors on a 180 degree set. She swam a bit on the bow anchor. The stern hook held
her in the location between the shallows to the north and the boulders to the south. There was plenty of
room for some side-to-side movement. I sit in the cockpit and watch. The breeze has picked up putting
the mosquitoes out of business. The air is cooler and still comfortable. Clouds have completely covered
the blue sky. Gusts frequently punch through. Wavelets go past, tiny but solid and steady. The trees have
begun to swish and harp the wind. I hear a scramble out in the deep water. A dragging anchor, rattle of
chain, shouts and motors revved up. The boat takes off for Croker Island. Another boat leaves. Croker
will be crowded. The space there is somewhat limited.
South Benjamin Island has several good spots to anchor. But perhaps the sailors worry about anchoring
in the shallower coves and bays. Most boats are drawing five feet or less so there must be some fear of
hitting bottom. Again I think, “Ah, for the love of a small boat!” I gloat a bit on my fifteen foot boat with its
6-8 inch draft. Peapod shudders briefly in a hard gust. I giggle.
Part two will soon follow...
Anne Westlund
westlund@lighthouse.net
You know how it is. To go, or not to go, is an every morning question. A look around at the local weather
from the companionway hatch, a look at the barometer and what are the clouds like? Has the wind
shifted? Is there enough wind to sail yet? Should I wait or go now, or not go at all? What does
environment Canada or NOAA say about the weather? Where are the high and low pressure systems?
Where do I want to go or need to go? Is the boat ready? How do I feel – long day or short day? Is it a
lazy day or what should I do? What do I want to do? Stirred around enough all the questions come
together easily and in quick order or slowly, I am getting the cover off the mainsail, stowing loose stuff,
setting aside snacks, lunch and water bottles, then shortening the anchor rode. I’ve decided I’m going
sailing!
I bring up the mainsail and haul up the anchor when it trips free. The sail shakes gently. I tighten the
mainsheet with one hand and free the jib furling line with the other pulling out the sail, grab the jib sheet
and set the jib balancing out both sails as the boat gets underway. I steer out of the anchorage. I’ve
sailed off the hook. I watch carefully for other boats in the small cove and avoid any shoals around. Away
from the confines of the cove, the wind really fills the sails, I trim for comfort and speed and settle down
to cruise wishing I had filled the thermos with coffee. “Next time,” I think. I slide the cushion under my bum
to be able to see better over the cabin top as well as to soften the day.
Heating up from the sunshine, cooled by the wind, I pull up my collar and zip my vest. It’s a lovely
morning. Oops, put on the sunscreen, girl! I do just that, face, ears, hands, arms, legs, feet. Sunglasses
too, and I put on my broad brimmed hat.
The boat surges along gently. I keep a hand on the tiller, feeling direction by the wind as much as visually.
I feel the breeze in my ears, on my neck in my hair. My body is in some constant adjustment for comfort
and balance. I move in complete harmony with my boat. I remember the old rule that the upper half of the
body belongs to the tiller and sheet while the lower half belongs to the boat. It’s like when canoeing or
kayaking. On my sailboat it is the same as those tiny boats, a kind of balancing act. The tiller is the
paddle in that analogy. I move with the boat and am balanced, neither rocking against the motion nor
fighting it. I swivel at the waist as if I have a universal joint there. It feels good and I’m rock solid on my
seat or feet if standing up, which I do from time-to-time.
In the distance the islands blend with the backdrop of forest and mountains. The wind is on the beam.
Peapod, my West Wight Potter 15, rolls a bit in the small waves. She moves well, making good time,
keeping a steady movement forward eating up the distance on a race of her own. I revel in the easy
motion and feeling of speed. Sunlight flashes glints of lights off the waves. I squint in my sunglasses and
pull my hat down farther as I juggle hanging onto the tiller and mainsheet.
The islands separate as I approach, individuate becoming distinct. That one is High Island, then Eastern.
To the left is Louisa Island, five islands from High to the west. I think about Hog Island a bit farther west.
Did hogs run free there, confined to the island away from bears and wolves? Would they have put the
hogs there to kill snakes? Would the island support very many hogs? There used to be schooner docks
there once upon a time. The furs were packed and shipped out at those wharves whose log and stone
cribs still linger in the water. Fort LaCloche was a thriving place back in the days of the voyageurs and
into the early 1800’s. The river and swampy area by the fort were too shallow for the schooners so the
goods for trade were unloaded and furs loaded at Hog Island docks. Large freight birch bark canoes
freighted the goods and furs to and from Hog Island. In my mind’s eye I can see the activity and wonder
if there are “treasures” or artifacts to be found. Someday I want to snorkel there by the cribs.
My island target is Matheson Island. Behind Hog Island is rock soup but I figured it out! If schooners went
in behind the Island where the cribs are then there is deep water there. Certainly it has to be deep enough
for Peapod’s few inches of shallow draft. So, I sneak slowly in behind Louisa Island, passing her white
sand beaches. I kick on the motor, furl the jib and leave the main up. Putzing along I make note of water
depths and wend my way west by the colors of the water. Navy, indigo and blue black are usually deep
water. They can be rocks but not so often as to cause concern. The darker blues are the way to go. I
pass several smaller islands and come into Matheson’s anchorage by the back door, not the usual way
in. I anchor, swim and have lunch. The wind rattles the awning as I settle into a good book and then a nap.
Peapod shifts, moves a bit with the wind. I turn over, flip on the VHF and hear the weather. The winds are
going to die down. It should be a quiet night. At first light I am up and have breakfast. I fill the thermos
with coffee. Before I am ready to haul the anchor, I read the chart as if preparing for an exam, taking
note of bail out points along the way to the next anchorage. I’ve been the way I plan to go many times but
memory dulled by a year or more past is best refreshed. Besides, I love looking at charts as they hold
good memories too. They talk to me and I make a game of learning the chart before I sail and then check
memory with the chart to see if I pass this self imposed exam I set.
A light breeze develops as the sun heats the land. I shorten the scope, raise the mainsail and lift the
anchor, sailing off the hook. I go south and west making for South Benjamin Island. The sailing is very
slow. I dink along at one or two knots Another possible challenge arises. I decide to skirt the south shore
of Fox Island where I have not gone before. It’s full of rocks, coves and channels in the shoals. I turn
more abeam the breeze. Speed picks up and Peapod loves this point of sail. She quietly snores along. It
was a good pick to go this way. The weather and light are perfect for making shoal rocks very visible in
the gin clear water. They show up as pale tan, rosy reds, darker toward mocca and various colors all
lighter than the surrounding darker blues.
I poke long with a lightly slack mainsail, enjoying the ease of a good day avoiding any white knuckled
sailing. At some undefined point, I break for the southerly course out of the rocks and make for the
lagoon in South Benjamin. I feel urgency. Then I realize that the wind is easing east. I turn on the VHF to
the weather channel. Yep, we’re in for some changes in the weather sooner than previously predicted.
Was it a shift in the wind or the pressure changes or a wave change that alerted me? The VHF says it will
be a rather quick low coming through followed by the clear skies of a high pressure system with wind. A
trough is connected to the high. It’s time for me to hole up with my tiny boat. I need a protected place so
am making for the lagoon. I have seven or eight miles to go, a couple of hours more or less. There’s no
need to hurry but I must keep moving. The motor starts with one pull. I leave the mainsail up for efficiency
and drive, tacking and motor sailing, toward the south shore of Croker Island. I do need to get to the safe
anchorage.
Pulling into the shallow lagoon after a delightful sail and motor sail, I feel relieved to be in a favorite
anchorage with protection from all directions. Even though the tiny sandy bottomed lagoon is facing east,
the shoals in front of my boat protect me as does Croker Island a mile away. Plus the low pressure
system will back the wind to the north and west where I have forest and high rocky cliffs for protection.
The anchor bites. The motor is shut off. The mainsail comes down, is furled and covered. I put up the
awning and tighten the bungies that hold it in place. Then pour another cup of coffee. “Not much can get
me here,” I think as I swat a mosquito. Biting insects herald a weather change too. They are right on
schedule. I pull out the screening and fix it over the companionway as I dive below.
The air felt close as the humidity increased. I swim and hike the rocks, up the hills where I sit for awhile to
enjoy the view. A few sailboats come in to anchor farther out in deeper water. I cherish my shoal draft as
I see them try again and again to set their anchors out there where holding isn’t particularly good. Enough
anchors hit bottom out there to create a plowed ground! Some give up and make for Croker Island’s
anchorage where they will get east protection but later less from the winds when they go westerly. They
will get some surge and wave action for sure. Nothing big and if they go to the right spots there will be no
sea at all. Regardless, I’m in a good spot to sit it out. There was no indication of the depth of the low on
the weather radio but the barometer showed a significant drop over the day before by the time I went
swimming.
When I swam back to the boat I hauled out the stern anchor and set it to the west, putting Peapod
between her two anchors on a 180 degree set. She swam a bit on the bow anchor. The stern hook held
her in the location between the shallows to the north and the boulders to the south. There was plenty of
room for some side-to-side movement. I sit in the cockpit and watch. The breeze has picked up putting
the mosquitoes out of business. The air is cooler and still comfortable. Clouds have completely covered
the blue sky. Gusts frequently punch through. Wavelets go past, tiny but solid and steady. The trees have
begun to swish and harp the wind. I hear a scramble out in the deep water. A dragging anchor, rattle of
chain, shouts and motors revved up. The boat takes off for Croker Island. Another boat leaves. Croker
will be crowded. The space there is somewhat limited.
South Benjamin Island has several good spots to anchor. But perhaps the sailors worry about anchoring
in the shallower coves and bays. Most boats are drawing five feet or less so there must be some fear of
hitting bottom. Again I think, “Ah, for the love of a small boat!” I gloat a bit on my fifteen foot boat with its
6-8 inch draft. Peapod shudders briefly in a hard gust. I giggle.
Part two will soon follow...
Anne Westlund
westlund@lighthouse.net