August 28 we tied up at Dockton, our last stop in a 14 day trip aboard String Games. The weather was gorgeous, the sun hot, and I indulged in a refreshing swim. That night we dined on game hens, fresh corn and salad.
In pitch dark, while granddaughter Kiki and poodle Rudi slept, we got up. By 0415 we were putt-putting slowly down Quartermaster Harbor, straining to see the buoys, crab pots and boats which clog the waterway. As day broke we passed under the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. Adverse winds began building. Sharp one and two foot waves foamed toward us. Despite the favorable current, our speed slowed. Capt. Jim raised the head sail and gained four-tenths of a knot in speed.
She said, “What was the weather report?”
He said, “Oh, a little more wind than yesterday.”
Both of us cast occasional looks back at the Kon Kiki, our little sailing dinghy. It bobbed behind on a tow rope, sometimes lurching to one side or the other. Until we got to the mouth of Henderson Inlet in Dana Passage, the participants seemed to have a common vision of their experience. Suddenly the dingy capsized and filled with water. Our attention diverted, we neglected to control the head sail. A sheet escaped. Abruptly the engine stopped. After this point it seemed that reality split and two parallel but different experiences occurred. Our lone sailboat might have been in two different seas.
He, “(*&%!!!”
She, “Maybe we’re out of fuel.”
He, “The propeller is fouled! Get the bailer!”
So the first order of business was to bail the dinghy.
She, “Don’t you think you should wear a tether when you’re leaning out over the water?”
He, “&(%$#@”
She, “If you fall in, it will be hard to retrieve you!”
He wore the tether, but found numerous times to complain about it. Eventually the dinghy was hoisted up and emptied, and clamped onto the swim step.
By the time the dinghy was secured, we had been pushed back up Dana Passage to the north of Hartstene Island. Using the head sail only, we began laboriously tacking back and forth. Our speed was good, our rail almost in the water, but every tack gained us only about a quarter mile. And we had evening plans in Olympia.
She, “Shouldn’t we call Zittle’s for a tow?”
He, “Why? This is a sailboat.”
She, “Something else could go wrong.”
He, “Why think of something else. What else could go wrong?”
She, “We could blow out the head sail. We could lose the forestay. You could fall over board.”
He, “Why think of those things?”
She, “But we can’t really maneuver.”
He, “Ready about! Grind!”
Back and forth. Back and forth. Foamy water started spraying over the bow.
She, “Don’t you think there’s a lot of wind? Maybe 25 knots?”
He, “Crank. Harder!”
She, “I’m thinking that Capt. Aubrey with his 24 sails and 200 men had a lot more refinement in direction that we do. One sail, or two, seems pretty clumsy.”
He, “Ready about. Grind!”
She, “I think we should call Boston Harbor Marina and warn them we’ll need help at the dock.”
He, “We might as well sail the boat into Olympia.”
She, “I’m ready to be OFF this boat. We have a grandchild and a dog below. Why put four lives in jeopardy? I’m going to call the marina.”
He, “Helm’s a’lee. Grind!”
The Boston Harbor Marina antenna is apparently very weak. We didn’t receive a reply to our hail until we were about half a mile out. Our tacks took us closer and closer to the dock but the wind would sweep us out of range. By the tenth pass or so, five people were poised tensely on the marina’s outer dock, ready to receive us. Finally we got the correct angle on the wind and headed straight at the dock. The captain loosed the head sail and String Games was captured at last. By chance we encountered a diver on the dock. He agreed to cut away the tangled sheet.
She, “I’m going to get a ride into Olympia to get the van.”
He, “We can sail the boat home now.”
She, “I’m going to get the van so we can unload the boat. We can get her home tomorrow.”
Throughout this adventure, the captain was exhilarated, ecstatic, focused, frenetic, masterful, in command. Two days later, submerged in the tedium of life ashore, the captain seemed listless, bored, low in spirits. She, happily poking green beans and dill into canning jars, said: “I suppose you’d much rather be out rescuing the dinghy and fighting the elements instead of doing e-mail and paperwork.”
You know what he said.
Emily Ray, String Games