10-3-18 ABOARD PINEAWEIGH (CRISES!!)
How ever do I tell this story. It’s a Blog Slog. It’s long. But, not nearly as long as my trauma.
I’ll start at peaceful Blake Island where, on Tuesday morning, we were one of only four boats in the entire marina. Dave took a vigorous Island walk and I, a slow, low tide beach walk, collecting agate. My best hunting day yet. As I walked, surf snorted strong warnings that Wind had not finished yesterday’s bluster. I noticed, because, yesterday, Monday, our short trip of a few miles from City of Bainbridge Island, Bainbridge Island (why no longer, “Winslow”?) to Blake Island took over two hours, careening into and out of four-foot waves while somewhere along the way Wind ripped off our Bremerton Yacht Club Burgee and its stanchion from the bow railing, and if that weren’t enough, rattled and battered the flybridge canvas to the point of Skoshi hiding under his blanket and my being thrown about the flybridge floor recovering rocks violently spit from the basket where usually they lie in place. Dave manned the wheel. I muttered about preferring boating season done by September’s end.
This morning, ambling along surf’s edge and jumping out of its sneaky attack on my leather Keds, I noticed the rising Wind.
“Dave,” I said when both back aboard. I pointed to the American flag flapping rather vigorously. “Tomorrow’s forecast is much better than today’s. What about staying here tonight, then to Des Moines tomorrow for the fish&chips lunch you want, then head on home?”
“I’d miss the walk along the creek if we do that,” he said. “Nah,” he said.
“Look,” I said, pointing. I’d never done said Creek walk so it didn’t matter to me. “There are already whitecaps out there.”
“The wind is in our favor,” he said. “We won’t have any problem with the water going south. It’s your leg,” he said. I admit, all was well but for a bit of wind out of the south. Dave hopped off to release the lines and just as he threw the bow-line onboard, Wind shifted and sent said bow floating eastward.
“Hey, there’s a line in the water!” Dave yelled from the dock. “Don’t go into gear!”
But, I was in gear, urging bow back to the dock. I got out of gear. I ran from the flybridge down to the cockpit, pulled the loose cross-stern line out of the water, climbed the ladder back up, went into gear, backed the stern to the dock where Dave stood, picked him up and managed my way out of the spacious third finger, through the channel and commenced our 17-mile journey to Des Moines.
Dave was right. The wind was up but the water was in our favor. The the run parallel to Vashon and Maury Islands non-eventful enough.
I was searching for the red channel marker, the “nun.” I said goodbye to a friend on the phone. I needed to pay attention. Oh, good, there—the green “can.” I knew to stay to the right of it but the red? Where was the darned “red”? Ah! It was along a long the rock breakwater. I was figuring that out as Dave and I noticed a wind-whipped orange crab-trap float swiftly approaching from starboard, then heard its engagement with one of our propellers. A grand, crunching sound; the probable sound of loops of line embracing swirling blades.
“Get out of gear!” yelled the man who was now a the cockpit frantically trying to loosen a boat pole from its secure storage space.
Of course I got out of gear, but not happily. Wind buffeted us, chopping water bounced us, a sea wall blocked our starboard side, and channel pilings warned me of collision possibilities on the port side.
“Reverse the port engine!” said he now standing on the swim-step with boat-pole expanded hoping to unravel some line. Reverse, I did.
“Neutral!” He yelled. “Pop the port to reverse and back out instantly!”
I did.
“One more time!” came the message before finally he said, “Okay, we’re free.”
Once I managed to right our course and make the 90° turn into the marina, I looked back at the 150’ or so of encrusted line Dave had pulled from our port prop.
I looked up, at the flags of the hundreds of boats docked in narrow fingers of water. They were not flapping in favor of my docking on the Reciprocal Dock, Des Moines Yacht Club. This was not the forecasted five knots with ten-knot gusts. This (I measured later) was twenty-knots of Wind (with gusts that felt like 110kts) blowing against PineAweigh’s very wide beam and daring her to sidle up and tie to dock’s edge.
I brought her in. Dave stepped to the dock to secure the stern line when he noticed the cleat seemed rather insecure. He stood for an instant with line in hand, thinking. Thinking was the last thing he ought to have done. Wind shoved. PineAweigh honored Wind’s wishes and slid to starboard. Dave noticed the slide and did the right thing with the bit of line yet in hand. He managed to secure half a turn around the cleat while I fought to keep PA’s cruising nose from connecting with either of the two small sailboats moored on the next finger, now a matter of a few feet from my drifting bow.
Stern somewhat secure, but on a stretch of line that permitted no control at all, bow borrowing all the water there was between our dock and the one I was dangerously being blown into; the one holding two small and unsuspecting sailboats now in imminent danger of being slain.
There is no way to describe the next, what, ten minutes? Not even Steven King, with the absence of adjectives or John Gresham with all those he employs, could describe the crisis underway. Skoshi ducked his head under his blanket.
My feet were planted before the flybridge wheel—which one doesn’t use in such a situation—working throttles and gears like a sloppy drunk works a series of slot machines in Vegas.
I was bow-over two small sailboats, furiously rocking between forward power, back power, no power, drifting forward, shooting back, popping gears, adjusting throttles, listening to Dave wisely yelling from the dock, “Outboard forward! Whoa! Whoa!” “Whoa, whoa” came when my port-side swim-step threatened to cleave the dock he was standing on but without PA’s cooperation.
Back I was blown, sideways in the narrow channel where PineAweigh fit between dock fingers like a Fiberglas dam. I could see the roofs of small sailboats slip from my sight, tucked now, safely, under my bow. Powerrrrrrr!
Starboard engine screamed in pain, pulling forward against my use of her brother engine, Port, forced by me to a well-fueled reverse reining Starboard back, trying to force PA to heel to port; like two teams on a tug-a-war rope with one leaning while tugging.
“Pivot, PineAweigh!” I demanded. She was trying. Wind was laughing, exhaling gales of glee. I shoved rpm power forward, back, then back more, then forward—damn stubborn old gearshift handles requiring my full body weight for response.
Pop! Pop!” Gears flying forward and back. Whine, whirl, throttles trying to keep up with my demands.
Forward. Reverse. Forward and Reverse with power divided equally or differently. PIneAweigh slipped stern-back, her swim-step crashing (gently) into our dock more than once . . . Until finally I managed to pull her very nearly straight in the middle of the channel.
“Release the line!” I yelled to Dave. He did. I powered backward from between dock fingers and came to rest near the rock sea wall. I saw that no damage had been done to the the small sailboats. My bow had towered over one or the other at one time or another but had not touched either. Skoshi peeked out. I patted his head.
A worker named John came along side Dave. While Wind and I argued about what was next, I powered PineAweigh against the dock, and this time two men managed to corral her by quickly securing three lines. I turned off the sonar and VHF radio, gathered iPad, travel mug, dog blankets, and dog; stepped the ladder down to the cockpit, stepped down to the salon, moved to the helm, turned off engines, stuck my head out to thank the guys, and crashed to the couch.
After quick naps, Dave and I walked into town for fish and chips. Then, as the sun burned orange across the western sky, we three PineAweigh-ers walked along the waterfront against fierce Wind to the park where I saw why Dave wanted this walk. Mallards and geese talking among themselves and crows cooing and songbirds singing and trees hovering, and clear, cold creek water welcoming wanderers so fortunate to have found such hidden beauty. Another day Aboard PineAweigh.
