This is about a cruise many years ago. The people are real. The names, however, are borrowed from Arthur Ransome’s crew of the Death and Glory, who were pirates in the Norfolk Boards until they discovered salvage paid better.
One summer we expanded upon the racing by cruising the Stars a bit. Overnighting anyhow. It was late May when Bill and I decided to sail around Bainbridge Island. His friend Joe, from Ohio was coming to visit and to go sailing. My boat had an outboard bracket so we rented a small motor for the occasion. We drafted Pete, who raced with us often, to come along as my crew.
All three guys had been in the Navy, so I left the navigation to them, forgetting they were all from the Midwest. Supplies? No problem they said. We will just go to restaurants. To be on the safe side, I took along a big bag of apples, tucked under the deck with our sleeping bags, air mattresses, and change of clothes each, in case of falling overboard.
From Leshi, we sailed up Lake Washington and powered under the Montlake Bridge. We set sail again through Portage Bay, Lake Union. Then, the motor on and towing Bill’s Star, we charged the Fremont Bridge. Of course they would want a signal. So I dug out the battered trumpet I had thought to bring. Standing on the after deck I blew the appropriate blasts, absolutely all I could play on the instrument. The bridge tender tooted back. Lights flashed and warnings jangled. Up went the bridge while our masts, just a mite too tall for the bridge, paraded through.
Motoring up the Ship Canal didn’t take long. We were waved right into the lock, alongside the Navy Reserve’s little submarine Puffer. The sub had lots of lumps and rails to hang onto, so we didn’t even have to produce lock lines as we were lowered to the level of Puget Sound. Puffer went ahead. Soon we were motoring into Shilshole Bay. We dropped Bill’s towline and hoisted the mainsail. Ohhh! It was torn right across, just above the star. Down came the sail. As Bill and Joe sailed by they threw us the towline and we pulled close to decide what to do.
I dug into the parts drawer. A palm, sail needles, waxed thread; I would mend the sail. Bill towed and Pete steered and trimmed our jib for a bit of added power. Thus we set off for Port Madison. We never considered using the motor. All was under control except I had forgotten patching material. Nothing in our dry clothes bags seemed appropriate. Then under everything an old red raincoat came to light. Heavy twill, rubber coated, probably would work. Minutes later I was settled on the floorboards, busily installing a knife-cut patch across the sail. Stars move easily. The sail power of one, plus a jib, seemed quite adequate to propel the boats across the miles from Shilshole to Port Madison. We were just coming onto the wind, entering Agate Pass, when the sail was finished. We dropped the tow, let the jib luff, and set the mainsail once more.
Here, luck was with us, rather than good planning. We enjoyed a fine beat through Agate Pass and south, toward Bremerton. We would have liked some lunch, but didn’t see any promising place to stop. Apparently in the east there are resorts on the lakes, where you can put in for a meal. Here we saw nothing inviting, so sailed on. Bill had tucked a couple of packages of cookies in his duffel bag. We rafted the boats momentarily, swapped apples for cookies, and sailed on munching as we went.
The wind was steady, out of the south, the tide, I now realize, was rising, carrying us forward. We made splendid time right to the entrance to Rich Passage. The channel was like a millpond. Slack tide was better than we deserved. No current, no wave action, but plenty of wind for the tall sails of a Star boat. We wended our way through the dog leg channel, rounded the spit at the end of Bainbridge, slipped north past Blakely Rock to the entrance to Eagle Harbor and past Creosote, which in those days was easily identified by the permeating odor. As we ghosted up the bay, side by side, we discussed where to moor.
We discovered a float beside a long legged pier, right at the end of a street lined with business buildings. That got my vote. Since there was no one to welcome or repel us that Saturday evening, we tied up and walked up the street searching for dinner. One restaurant, obviously Chinese, a tavern, offices, Winslow was not yet a “cruising destination”. Dinner was fine, ample I thought until the guys decided ice cream sundaes sounded good. Egg drop soup, chow mein, fortune cookies, chocolate sauce and ice cream! We had sailed hard all day with nothing but apples and cookies!
As we were finishing the last drops of dessert, the floor show came on!! Well, the bus boy came galloping out of the kitchen, leaving the swinging doors flapping. Close behind charged the cook, waving the sharp and businesslike cleaver that Chinese cooks favor. They bounced through the restaurant, slammed out the door, and vanished into the night. The waiter brought our check without comment. We assembled the appropriate funds and paid the bill. No explanation from the waiter, or the cashier. Neither looked concerned. As we were leaving, the cook marched back, carrying his cleaver at his side. It was not dripping blood.
We returned to the dock. After inflating air mattresses we decided they were inadequate to pad the frames of the Stars. So, leaving the boats tied to the float, we spread our bedding on the dock above and settled in, by the light of my little kerosene lantern. Pete smoked a final cigarette. We told a few sailing stories soon were all asleep.
Morning came with thick mist. The outsides of our sleeping bags were damp, although we found we were under a partial roof. Over our heads, on metal stands, stood a row of drums marked kerosene, gasoline, oil, etc. We considered Pete’s cigarettes, my lantern, and thanked our lucky Stars that we had not blown the whole pier right off the map.
The Stars! Where were they? We were sitting up, startled by the danger overhead, but the boats and the float they were tied to were gone. When we got to our feet we could see over the edge. Oh Oh! They floated below, still securely moored to the float, some 15 feet lower than the evening before. Three sailors from Ohio and one who should have known better, learned something about tides. Bill took advantage of the situation by hanging over the end of the dock and adjusting the spreaders, which had been sagging below their usual jaunty angle.
No one came to collect moorage or to order us off the fuel dock. The janitor cleaning a tavern up the street let us use the wash rooms. We soon made sail despite the persistent drizzle.
The wind against the tide provided a bouncy reach across the sound to Shilshole Bay where we powered into the locks and down the Ship Canal. Having cleared the Fremont Bridge with the aid of the trusty trumpet, and the Montlake Bridge with a few paddle strokes, we sailed triumphantly back to Leshi. It was possible to cruise in a Star. Next time we would take a map, maybe even a real chart, a compass, a stove, some food, and perhaps we would consult the weather forecast too.
Good Sailing.
Jean Gosse