There's bad luck . . . and bad luck

OKAY, WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS. The flu doctor knew his business and the computer is sputtering along nicely again.  I’ve been looking at pictures of that monster of a cruise ship that was adrift in the Gulf, and thinking what a scandal it is that the engineering crew didn’t have the skills and/or resources to get her engines going again after the breakdown. Shame on them.

The rescue tugs seem to have had a time of it, too, what with the tow line breaking and all. One begins to wonder what has happened to the art of seamanship in these days when cruise ships are shaped like gigantic apartment blocks and the air-conditioned bridge stands a hundred feet up in the air, remote and isolated from that nasty old sea.

It all reminded me of the only time so far I have needed a tow into port.  I was singlehanding back from Canada on a dead calm day when the Westerbeke’s water pump quit and I had to shut it down.  It took me six hours to sail the four miles to the nearest marina at Chemainus, on Vancouver Island.

I dropped the sails about a quarter mile outside the harbor entrance, hopped into my 10-foot fiberglass dinghy, and attached a tow line to the thwart.  I sculled with one oar over the stern, and noted how little power it took to move the boat, a Cape Dory 27-footer displacing between 7,500 and 9,000 pounds, depending on which marina crane driver you believed.  I waggled the oar back and forth, keeping a nice steady pressure on the tow line, and the boat followed obediently at perhaps a knot or so in the calm water. I didn’t even raise a sweat.

A couple of kind Canadians came running when I entered the marina on a shortened tow line, probably more concerned about the damage I could do to their boats, but I managed to nudge the Cape Dory sideways into a vacant berth and they helped me make fast.

A kind skipper of a 50-footer from the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club invited me to supper aboard his boat with friends, and also gave me a 10-mile tow to Maple Bay next day, after I discovered there was no marine mechanic available in Chemainus.

I found one in Maple Bay all right, but he discovered that the water pump was beyond repair, so I had to order a new one from Seattle, which meant a wait of four days. I couldn’t complain, though.  Maple Bay was a good place for an enforced stay.  It had a pub and restaurant just a few steps away from my berth.  It wasn’t a totally luxurious holiday, but it was heaven compared with what the thousands of passengers on that cruise ship have had to put up with. At least I didn’t have to eat raw onion sandwiches or dodge streams of sewage coursing through my cabin.

Today’s Thought

What evil luck soever

For me remains in store,
’Tis sure much finer felows
Have fared much worse before.
— A. E. Houseman, Last Poems

Tailpiece

“Did you see the doctor?”
“Yeah, he said I had water on the knee.”
“Did he fix it?”
“Yeah, he gave me a tap on the leg.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)

The Terrors of Being Towed

I ONCE SAILED a 17-foot sailboat across the English Channel from Dover to Calais. But I didn’t sail back. I was towed by a cabin cruiser. And I’ve never been so scared in my life.

I was young then. I knew it all. I gave the towboat my anchor chain and shackled a concrete weight in the middle to prevent snatching. I lowered my heavy metal centerboard for maximum stability. Big mistakes.

We left Calais at dusk in a dead calm. The other skipper had promised to go no faster than 6 knots, but we took off at 10. The tow line stretched bar taut. The concrete black slammed into the swells, showering the open cockpit with heavy spray and drenching me.

Every few minutes she’s heel far over, staggering and juddering as the centerboard gained lift. I strained against the tiller, trying to keep her in line astern. I heard water swishing down below, but couldn’t leave the helm to pump. I daren’t go forward to cast off the tow for fear of immediate capsize. I couldn’t communicate with the cruiser.

In pitch darkness, rigid with fear, I was dragged at 10 knots toward the Goodwin Sands lightship, which had its name painted on its sides in 6-foot white letters. The idiot powerboat skipper circled it and yelled: “Where are we? Which way to Dover?”

When we finally got to Dover he towed us into the Royal Navy’s submarine pen. Police pounced on us and searched both boats. Turned out there had been a big jewel theft in France. A getaway cruiser had been stolen in Calais.

The cops removed the idiot skipper and his friends, and I didn’t feel at all sorry for them. I collapsed on a damp bunk strewn with debris from the police search and vowed never to be towed again if I couldn’t cast off the tow line from the cockpit at any time I wanted.

Today’s Thought
There are many advantages in sea-voyaging, but security is not one of them.
—Sadi. (Emerson, English Traits: The Voyage.)

Tailpiece
Another notice we noticed:
In a bar’s non-smoking section:
“If we see smoke we will assume you are on fire and take appropriate action.”