I surveyed the dishes piled in the sink and groaned. The night before, we had discovered the drain was plugged, and we knew we had a plumbing job ahead of us. But the sun was blazing in a sky scrubbed bright by recent rains, and we were impatient to hoist sail. I added the breakfast dishes to the pile and headed on deck.
Whitecaps skidded over the wave crests as we left the shelter of the Longbranch harbor. Dick headed south, holding the bow into the wind as I raised the main, foresail and then the jib. Falling off, Sirena leapt into the waves. After four months at the dock, she was ready for a workout. But ten minutes later, foam bubbling enthusiastically over the rail, we had to admit that we were overpowered.
“Why don’t we heave to?” I suggested. “We need to practice that together, and it would give us time to think things through.” Nodding agreement, Dick put the helm over, and Sirena forereached slowly as we prepared to reduce sail.
Junk rigs are typically a cinch to reef. Start the halyard, and let the battens fall. With a 4 inch aluminum pipe for a yard, and 5 doubled fir battens, its own weight brings the sail down quickly. Now, with two reefs in the main, we headed south once more toward Devils Head, but the winds were rising and the rail was still awash.
“Why don’t we run off and get in the lee of Eagle Island?” I suggested. “We can practice reefing the foresail and get some time to think through where to go next.” Dick fell off, and Sirena straightened up on a broad reach.
By the time we cleared Eagle Island, we had three reefs in the main, two in the foresail, no jib, and a plan to head for Oro Bay. Emerging into an estimated 25 knots of wind, Sirena’s motion was easier, and we congratulated ourselves on a good decision.
Approaching Dupont on a starboard tack with no jib, our attempts to tack through the wind and waves were futile. Wearing around is the best option in those condition, so Dick put the helm over and she headed to port. As the boom came over, we heard a dull crack. Startled, we stared in disbelief at the mainsail: the second batten, a fir plank 2 inches wide by 1 inch thick and 16 feet long, was in two pieces.
Sirena held her main like a proud bird with a broken wing. The sail was, amazingly, still drawing. With less than half our normal sail area, we were surfing along at a stunning 8 knots. But this was the first gear failure I’d experienced with her, and the winds were not abating.
“Why don’t we hid behind McNeil Island?” I suggested. It was definitely time to think something through.
Behind McNeil, conditions were not as calm as we had hoped. The seas were as confused as a herd of pogo stick jumpers, and the wind was fluky. I watched in amazement from the helm as a huge trough opened below me on our port quarter, and a comber crashed over the deck before I had time to shout a warning to Dick.
We struggled to lift the boom the mainsail into the crutch. “Why don’t we turn on the engine?” Now it was Dick’s turn with the suggestions. “It should give us some way against these seas, and it will give us time to think about where to head next.” I turned the key in the ignition. The familiar Whump! Whump! Whump! of the single cylinder was interrupted by an abrupt BANG!!!! Then silence.
What now? Dick was in the engine room faster than I could think about what the problem might be. Just as quickly an LPG canister flew out of the engine room onto the deck, rimmed with frost and spewing propane. Reflexively, I threw it overboard, and called down to Dick for an update. In the heavy seas, the canister had rolled into the bilge and been punctured by the set screw on the cranking shaft.
Finally, engine thrumming, we shouldered the main into its crutch. Hugging the north shore of McNeil, Sirena made her way to Penrose Point, where we picked up a reluctant mooring in the face of a gusty north wind. Collapsing onto the settees, we shook our heads as the weather channel announced the small craft warning still in effect.
Then we remembered the sink full of dishes.
Stretched out on the galley floor, arms pretzeled under the sink, I dismantled the gusher pump and reassembled it twice before finding the cause of the blockage: the missing stem from my pressure cooker glinting in a plumbing elbow just beyond the pump.
“I’ll wash if you dry,” Dick suggested. “We can heat up the leftover curry and turn in early.” We didn’t need to think that one through.
After a rolly Sunday night at Penrose Point, we scooted home on the north wind and incoming tide the following day.
Mary Campbell, Sirena
Note: Their boat, soon to be christened Sirena, is the 34 foot junk schooner formerly known as Sea Witch.
photos of other boats coming home from the Halloween Cruise