Mattapoisett Solo
20 October 2014
2014.VIII.14 -- Mattapoisett
Voyage #29 (Solo #5)
Thursday, 14 August 2014
HW 1126; LW 1714
HW 1126; LW 1714
Clear, 70º F
Winds W 10-15, gusts 25
Seas 3+ feet
20.5 nm
5hr 20min
3.9 knots ave speed (8.3 kts max)
20.5 nm
5hr 20min
3.9 knots ave speed (8.3 kts max)
On Thursday, August 14, I went out to the boat for my fifth solo sail. I was starting to feel comfortable handling the boat alone and thought to myself, "I need some challenges now." Hah! Be careful what one wishes for.....
The night before, I had decided to sail down the coast that day to the neighboring town of Mattapoisett and Ned's Point Light. Dropping the mooring at 11:40am, I motored down the river to the R6 buoy, where I set the mainsail at 11:45.
I had been having trouble all season getting the mainsail up to the top of the mast (it seems to jam about six inches short of full deployment). So this time I wrapped the halyard around the starboard winch for a couple of turns, stuck in the winch handle, and began to grind. Haha! I was finally able to get that sucker all the way up! I felt pretty smug about that. Hoho! Then I noticed that the halyard had become tangled on the winch, having somehow run under itself. Now this was a bit of a problem. The mailsail was fully deployed, there was a brisk breeze, and I could not free the halyard from being fouled in the winch. There was a great deal of tension on the line, and it refused to slack up even after I released the clutch (a piece of deck-mounted hardware that secures the halyard and prevents it from slipping back down).
This was not good. "Keep Calm and Sail On." I swallowed my rising panic and did my best to maintain composure. With the clutch lever free, I stood over the winch and pulled on the halyard with both hands, leaning back and hauling with all my strength. Pull! Tug!! Heave!!! Ho!!!! Eventually, after much perspiration, I was able to pull enough slack (only about an inch or so) into the halyard to enable me to loosen its wrap around the winch. Wow. That was exciting.
Afterwards, it was a pleasant and uneventful sail down Buzzards Bay, passed Bird Island and the 'Bow Bells,' then around the rocks at Angelica Point and Strawberry Point, and up into Mattapoisett harbor to the lighthouse.
The lighthouse at Ned's Point is an attractive local landmark, and a popular site for weddings (at least two of the Admiral's cousins have been married there). It is named after the former owner of the land, Edwin 'Ned' Dexter, a relative of Tom Dexter who owns the dock I use to access my mooring in Marion. Tom claims his ancestors have lived in the area since the seventeenth century. I've lived in the area about three years now.
Mattapoisett, which took me a long time to learn how to say and an even longer time to learn how to spell, is said to be a Wampanoag term meaning 'Place of Resting.' The present town, settled in 1750 and incorporated a century later, is a charming coastal community with some serious property values. It was an important local center for trade (especially lumber), shipbuilding, and whaling through the mid- to late-1800s. The whaler, 'Acushnet,' upon which Herman Melville spent eighteen months, was built there in 1840, as was the barque 'Wanderer' (1878), the last whaleship to sail from nearby New Bedford, and which famously wrecked on the rocks off Cutty Hunk in early twentieth century.
The lighthouse at Ned's Point was built back in these halcyon days of Mattapoisett whaling and shipbuilding with the help of federal funding secured by John Quincy Adams. Constructed in 1838 from locally-sourced stone, the tower stands thirty-nine feet high and features a climb of thirty-two shallow hand-hewn cantilevered steps of granite to its light, which was automated in 1923. It is one of the smallest working lighthouses of Buzzards Bay, but it is a very pretty one and a source of local pride.
After taking in a view of the lighthouse from the water, I turned the boat around and sailed back out into Buzzards Bay for my return trip home. Unbeknownst to me, however, conditions in the bay had changed significantly during the time I had loitered in Mattapoisett harbor. Winds had picked up considerably to a steady 20 knots, and were driving some pretty big waves up the bay. As I came out of the harbor on a beam reach, heading SE with both sails set, I was taking those rollers on the beam.
The SW wind gusts soon had the boat healed far over to port. Eyeing the inclinometer nervously, as it tilted up and beyond 35 degrees, I didn't need three stripes to appreciate that I was not in a good place and needed to reduce sail immediately. Since this was neither the time nor place to reef the mainsail, I thought it would be easiest to furl in the jib. To do that, I needed to turn into the wind, but the waves were so large and coming at such short intervals that they kept pushing the bow back to leeward. I loosened the jib sheet only to have a sudden strong gust of wind heal the boat far over to port. Really far over. So far over that I did not even have the time or the mind to look at the inclinometer reading. The deck was almost vertical, and I felt the boat was dangerously close to broaching.
All I could do was mutter "holy sh*t," and cling to the companionway opening with both hands, hanging on for dear life. I could not even climb to the windward gunwale (well, maybe I could have, but I did not dare try). But in clinging with both hands, I inadvertently let go of the jib sheet. This is, generally speaking, usually an unwise thing to do, but in this case it was a blessing from Poseidon. Now loosened, the jib sheet ran all the way out to the stopper knot and the wind spilled out of the violently fluttering foresail. This eased the strain on the bow, and the sailboat quickly righted itself and turned itself into the wind (I was subsequently told that O'day boats are very good at this, provided they are under mainsail alone -- a very forgiving boat for a jackass crew of one).
Head into the wind, I was now able to furl in the jib. Then I bore away and turned northward on a run, headed for home. Looking up to the masthead to check the wind direction (very eager to avoid an unplanned jibe in these conditions), I discovered that the near-broach had carried away my wind indicator. Wow. I was really quite fortunate that the windex had been the only thing lost overboard.
The run home was smooth (it is a comfortable point of sail), but the waves of the following seas were pushing past me sometimes at the height of my head. So much for the "Yeeeeee-ha!" excitement of sailing.
The Admiral often teasingly calls me "Safety Sam" (for what she sees as my excessive precautions). Now indelibly etched in my mind is the old sailing adage that one should reduce sail before one needs to reduce sail.
It was not until I had safely returned to the mooring (and took a very big sip from my onboard reserve of bourbon) that I noticed the Garmin GPS had recorded a top speed of 8.3 knots. Power-boaters may scoff at that, but some of them can be γάιδαρια anyways (though not my buddies Jack and Kirk, mind you!). For me, however, this was an amazing piece of data. Generally speaking, there is a formula for calculating the maximum hull speed of a boat: 1.34 x the square root of the length at waterline (1.34 x √LWL). For my O'Day 23, with a LWL of 19'6", max hull speed should be 5.96 knots (if my math is correct -- you'd better double check, because there is a reason why Mr. Three Stripes has a degree in cultural anthropology rather than science). Maybe my GPS unit needs calibration, maybe that is hull speed PLUS the speed of the following seas. I dunno. All I do know is that was a fast ride home, no boubt adout it.
Wishing for some challenges? Be careful what you wish for. I got my ass kicked on this sail to Mattapoisett......
Notes to self:
1) Get a tether and harness if I am to continue sailing single-handed
2) Clip the handheld marine VHF to the body rather than stowing it inside the cabin
The night before, I had decided to sail down the coast that day to the neighboring town of Mattapoisett and Ned's Point Light. Dropping the mooring at 11:40am, I motored down the river to the R6 buoy, where I set the mainsail at 11:45.
Chart showing my mooring ("M") in Marion and my destination, Ned's Point Light ("NP"), in Mattapoisett
I had been having trouble all season getting the mainsail up to the top of the mast (it seems to jam about six inches short of full deployment). So this time I wrapped the halyard around the starboard winch for a couple of turns, stuck in the winch handle, and began to grind. Haha! I was finally able to get that sucker all the way up! I felt pretty smug about that. Hoho! Then I noticed that the halyard had become tangled on the winch, having somehow run under itself. Now this was a bit of a problem. The mailsail was fully deployed, there was a brisk breeze, and I could not free the halyard from being fouled in the winch. There was a great deal of tension on the line, and it refused to slack up even after I released the clutch (a piece of deck-mounted hardware that secures the halyard and prevents it from slipping back down).
Halyard running through a clutch, with the locking lever down
(not from my boat -- a random picture stolen from the inter-webs)
This was not good. "Keep Calm and Sail On." I swallowed my rising panic and did my best to maintain composure. With the clutch lever free, I stood over the winch and pulled on the halyard with both hands, leaning back and hauling with all my strength. Pull! Tug!! Heave!!! Ho!!!! Eventually, after much perspiration, I was able to pull enough slack (only about an inch or so) into the halyard to enable me to loosen its wrap around the winch. Wow. That was exciting.
Afterwards, it was a pleasant and uneventful sail down Buzzards Bay, passed Bird Island and the 'Bow Bells,' then around the rocks at Angelica Point and Strawberry Point, and up into Mattapoisett harbor to the lighthouse.
Ned's Point Light, Mattapoisett
The lighthouse at Ned's Point is an attractive local landmark, and a popular site for weddings (at least two of the Admiral's cousins have been married there). It is named after the former owner of the land, Edwin 'Ned' Dexter, a relative of Tom Dexter who owns the dock I use to access my mooring in Marion. Tom claims his ancestors have lived in the area since the seventeenth century. I've lived in the area about three years now.
Mattapoisett, which took me a long time to learn how to say and an even longer time to learn how to spell, is said to be a Wampanoag term meaning 'Place of Resting.' The present town, settled in 1750 and incorporated a century later, is a charming coastal community with some serious property values. It was an important local center for trade (especially lumber), shipbuilding, and whaling through the mid- to late-1800s. The whaler, 'Acushnet,' upon which Herman Melville spent eighteen months, was built there in 1840, as was the barque 'Wanderer' (1878), the last whaleship to sail from nearby New Bedford, and which famously wrecked on the rocks off Cutty Hunk in early twentieth century.
1840 Crew List from the whaler, 'Acushnet,' which sailed out of nearby Fairhaven
Herman Melville, age 27, is listed near the bottom
(source: http://todaysdocument.tumblr.com/post/12812629728/the-acushnets-crew-list-december-1840-herman)
The 'Wanderer' on the rocks at Cutty Hunk, 1924
The lighthouse at Ned's Point was built back in these halcyon days of Mattapoisett whaling and shipbuilding with the help of federal funding secured by John Quincy Adams. Constructed in 1838 from locally-sourced stone, the tower stands thirty-nine feet high and features a climb of thirty-two shallow hand-hewn cantilevered steps of granite to its light, which was automated in 1923. It is one of the smallest working lighthouses of Buzzards Bay, but it is a very pretty one and a source of local pride.
Ned's Point Lighthouse
After taking in a view of the lighthouse from the water, I turned the boat around and sailed back out into Buzzards Bay for my return trip home. Unbeknownst to me, however, conditions in the bay had changed significantly during the time I had loitered in Mattapoisett harbor. Winds had picked up considerably to a steady 20 knots, and were driving some pretty big waves up the bay. As I came out of the harbor on a beam reach, heading SE with both sails set, I was taking those rollers on the beam.
The SW wind gusts soon had the boat healed far over to port. Eyeing the inclinometer nervously, as it tilted up and beyond 35 degrees, I didn't need three stripes to appreciate that I was not in a good place and needed to reduce sail immediately. Since this was neither the time nor place to reef the mainsail, I thought it would be easiest to furl in the jib. To do that, I needed to turn into the wind, but the waves were so large and coming at such short intervals that they kept pushing the bow back to leeward. I loosened the jib sheet only to have a sudden strong gust of wind heal the boat far over to port. Really far over. So far over that I did not even have the time or the mind to look at the inclinometer reading. The deck was almost vertical, and I felt the boat was dangerously close to broaching.
All I could do was mutter "holy sh*t," and cling to the companionway opening with both hands, hanging on for dear life. I could not even climb to the windward gunwale (well, maybe I could have, but I did not dare try). But in clinging with both hands, I inadvertently let go of the jib sheet. This is, generally speaking, usually an unwise thing to do, but in this case it was a blessing from Poseidon. Now loosened, the jib sheet ran all the way out to the stopper knot and the wind spilled out of the violently fluttering foresail. This eased the strain on the bow, and the sailboat quickly righted itself and turned itself into the wind (I was subsequently told that O'day boats are very good at this, provided they are under mainsail alone -- a very forgiving boat for a jackass crew of one).
Head into the wind, I was now able to furl in the jib. Then I bore away and turned northward on a run, headed for home. Looking up to the masthead to check the wind direction (very eager to avoid an unplanned jibe in these conditions), I discovered that the near-broach had carried away my wind indicator. Wow. I was really quite fortunate that the windex had been the only thing lost overboard.
The run home was smooth (it is a comfortable point of sail), but the waves of the following seas were pushing past me sometimes at the height of my head. So much for the "Yeeeeee-ha!" excitement of sailing.
Piao rides through the waves during the sail home.
They got bigger than this, but I dared not distract myself with the camera at that point.
The Admiral often teasingly calls me "Safety Sam" (for what she sees as my excessive precautions). Now indelibly etched in my mind is the old sailing adage that one should reduce sail before one needs to reduce sail.
It was not until I had safely returned to the mooring (and took a very big sip from my onboard reserve of bourbon) that I noticed the Garmin GPS had recorded a top speed of 8.3 knots. Power-boaters may scoff at that, but some of them can be γάιδαρια anyways (though not my buddies Jack and Kirk, mind you!). For me, however, this was an amazing piece of data. Generally speaking, there is a formula for calculating the maximum hull speed of a boat: 1.34 x the square root of the length at waterline (1.34 x √LWL). For my O'Day 23, with a LWL of 19'6", max hull speed should be 5.96 knots (if my math is correct -- you'd better double check, because there is a reason why Mr. Three Stripes has a degree in cultural anthropology rather than science). Maybe my GPS unit needs calibration, maybe that is hull speed PLUS the speed of the following seas. I dunno. All I do know is that was a fast ride home, no boubt adout it.
Wishing for some challenges? Be careful what you wish for. I got my ass kicked on this sail to Mattapoisett......
Notes to self:
1) Get a tether and harness if I am to continue sailing single-handed
2) Clip the handheld marine VHF to the body rather than stowing it inside the cabin
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