How Kickball Changed My Life

     Or, “Gee – you (used to) walk funny!”

“I’m not clumsy. It’s just that the floor hates me, the tables
and chairs are bullies, and the walls get in the way.”

 Unknown
 

     I was born with mild cerebral palsy (CP), most likely caused because my brain was deprived of oxygen during birth. I say “most likely” because when I was born CP wasn’t well understood. Most people believed that all people with CP also had significantly lower intelligence than average. Since my CP was mild, my parents decided to keep it a secret. They explained all the oddities away – the walking on my toes, the inability to run fast and keep up with my playmates, not riding a bike until I was eight. They didn’t tell the schools. They didn’t tell my doctors. They didn’t tell me –- not ever. I found out when I went to a neurologist for something else –- when I was 30. No kidding. When I called my Mom, she denied it, even then. 

     Luckily, my CP is atypical as well as mild. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with either of my arms. I played the piano well, and at one time typed at about 100 words per minute. However, the CP affects both my legs, the right one more than my left. There’s a lot I can’t do. My legs are simply not as well coordinated as other people’s legs, and they don’t have as much strength, and have little flexibility. They throw me off- balance easily. If I over-use them, the next day they are so stiff I can barely walk, and I’m at great risk of a fall. This is the reason I retired to Florida, to get away from ice and snow. I had to minimize the risk of a bad fall.

     My parents worked relentlessly at keeping my CP a secret. In our small New Jersey town, there were two pediatricians. Mother took me to one of them for my Kindergarten physical, which I remember because I recall him saying something, and then my mother shouting, “She is NOT retarded! She can READ!” I don’t remember what the doctor said, but it was something about my legs and nothing about being “retarded.” Still, she stormed out and took me to the other pediatrician in town.  I’m sure the first doctor called Dr. Pfister and said, “Look, it’s not severe or anything, and here’s how Mom reacted …” because Dr. Pfister never mentioned it that I know of. 

     Although PE classes were always a nightmare for me, trapped in this (slightly) damaged body was the heart of an athlete. My first attempt was ballet. It was a disaster. I tried to put my foot on the barre … and fell down.

     I couldn’t get my feet in all five positions. When I tried to put my feet in fifth position (feet right next to each other but heel-to-toe), I looked like Quasimodo. Then I fell down.

     That’s really not an exaggeration. Ballet class always started with exercises – put your foot up on the barre and stretch (I fell down), plies’ – supposedly beautiful knee squats. I had to “gracefully” bend down (straight back, please! – oh wait, can’t do that), and in fifth position – you guessed it, I fell down. 

     After three months, the ballet teacher saw my mother and me on the street. She said to her, “There’s something wrong with Susan’s legs. There’s no way she can learn ballet!” I don’t remember what Mom said, but it wasn’t polite … and it wasn’t the truth, either. People learned not to mention the obvious to my mother. 

     Physical Education classes were a nightmare, with one remarkable exception. In fourth grade, our town hired a real PE teacher for the first time. He was fresh out of college and I remember that at age 10 I thought him quite good looking. One day he asked me to stay after school.

     He said, “We’re going to play kickball.” I showed him how standing on my left leg and kicking with my right was best for me. I staggered a little when I kicked sometimes, but I never fell down. He gave me some tips, taught me a little more about the game … and then we played a lot of kickball for the rest of the year. I wish I could find that man and thank him today, because he opened my eyes to the concept of compensation. He changed my life.

     At the end of fourth grade we moved to Florida, and I had opportunities to swim to my heart’s content. The pool was next door, and the ocean a block away. I lived in a world of water that summer, and with my legs floating, I was physically liberated! My arms and back could do the work. My inner athlete exploded, and I started swimming laps. One day my dad took me to the pool, measured it, and I swam laps with him as my lifeguard. Hours later he insisted we stop. He said I had swum seven miles.

     So, thinking I was good at swimming, in junior high school I went out for the swim team. They accepted everyone and kicked no one off. For the first few sessions, the coach was just looking at form doing the Australian crawl. My dad had taught me that well, and I had good form, except, the coach said, I needed to kick harder. So I spent a lot of time with a kickboard, but my kick never got stronger. The basics of CP can sometimes be compensated for, but they can’t be fixed. 

     Then the coach started teaching us other strokes. When we got to the butterfly, my inner Quasimodo emerged again. The frog kick wasn’t any better. He let me stay on the swim team, but I was the slowest on the team because I just couldn’t kick hard, and there were strokes I simply could not do. I dropped out.

     So I tried out for cheerleading, and made it to the finals! But that coach had spotted something, and moved me to the opposite end of the line. “Oh,” I said. “I have to be on this end. I can’t do those moves with my right leg.” She moved me anyway. I fell down.

     Meanwhile, after having walked on my toes for 12 years, I got tired of being teased about it. Remembering my kickball lesson, I went into my bedroom, which had a full-length mirror, and figured out how to walk flat-footed. Four hours later I had figured out how to walk normally. If you saw me walking today, unless I were very tired and you were very observant, you would never spot a hint of an odd gait. 

     This was a “Eureka!’ moment for me. At age 12 I realized that although my legs couldn’t do everything, with practice they could do some things I wanted them to do, often by using my arms to help. I learned to do a lot of things in alternate ways, capitalizing on what my left leg could do while figuring out what to do with the right one. Since that day I have gone through life “alternatively coordinated,” but people rarely guess.

     Then one day as a young adult, I saw Edward M. Kennedy, Jr. on TV, skiing downhill. He looked so free! The leg movements didn’t look all that hard. He had had a partial leg amputation due to bone cancer when he was 12, and I figured that if he could learn to ski, then maybe I could also. So when I was 29, I went to Aspen, where they did teach me to ski. I always used shorter skis, and I didn’t become an expert, but I had fun and in fact met my second husband, the father of my children, through skiing. There was finally a sport I could do -- not competitively, of course, but I was happy just to be able to ski. Using my body “alternatively,” I also took up spelunking, rock climbing and even rappelling. 

     Meanwhile, in Florida I had seen my first marina and was fascinated by sailboats. I saw how physical sailing was – just what I wanted! And it looked as if I could probably do it. In fact, in my first, brief marriage, my husband knew how to sail, and we bought a little 14’ sloop-rigged dinghy, sailing it on a tiny lake. We also sailed little Abaco sailing dinghies on our honeymoon in the Bahamas.

     Then I moved to St. Louis, where there really isn’t much sailing. However, sailing always sat in the back of my mind. When I retired to Florida, the call of the sails got more insistent. I would go to the St. Petersburg Pier, buy some lunch and watch the sailboats, thinking, “If only …”

     Finally I one day I had my chance. Some friends invited me join them at “Fun Day” at Boca Ciega Yacht Club (BCYC). A short ride on someone’s sailboat was included, and I signed up for that. Then I found out that BCYC had a sail school, and that after sail school you could sail the club’s little 16.5’ Catalinas! Well, that was enough for me. I joined, and I took sail school.

     Didn’t work out so well (you should know what’s coming by now). Those boats have low benches, and it takes both leg strength and leg coordination to move from one side to the other at the right time. You have to do that to sail them (unless you just kneel in the middle and lean from side to side, but I hadn’t figured that out yet). The little Catalinas weren’t the boat for me: I tried to change sides while tacking, and (wait for it!) – I fell. Right in the middle of the boat. On my ass. Of course. 

     However, I also sailed on other people’s boats, and discovered something wonderfully freeing for me: all those upper body muscles I had built up while compensating for my weak legs were tremendously helpful on a slightly larger sailboat. All I needed was higher benches and I didn’t fall! Not ever. I can easily and confidently compensate for slightly funky legs on a decent-sized sailboat. The rock-climbing skills turned out to be crucial for me when sailing. It’s how I move around a boat safely when the water is rough: three points secure; one point moving.

      My inner athlete is finally completely free, using all four limbs. I move around my boat safely and with ease. I’ve figured out how to do it, just as I figured out how to walk normally when I was 12. I’m not completely reckless, though. My lifelines are completely netted, and if I have to go forward in rough water, I crawl. It works. It thrills me so much that I lived on my sailboat for 3 ½ years, enjoying what it took to move around the boat. My legs are stronger than they were 20 years ago.

     Some people will think my parents were terribly wrong not to tell me, or others, about the CP, not to get me physical therapy, not to “deal” with it proactively, but I’m not so sure they got this one wrong. I can’t imagine that a physical therapist of the 1950’s would have said, “Let’s figure out how you can go hurtling downhill at 20 mph, on a slippery surface, and trees to miss, with a couple of boards strapped to your unstable legs! It’ll be fun! Then you can jump off a cliff with a rope around your waist. You can climb right back up that cliff and hope your legs don’t give out before you get to the top! You can crawl into a cave, and maybe you’ll even be able to get out! Think of the possibilities!” 

     No. I think from an early age I would have gotten a lot of subtle or not-so-subtle messages about what I “could” and “could not” do. Given the beliefs of the time, probably there would have been some suspicions that I wasn’t really very bright, too. And, I would have listened. I listen. 

     Frankly, I’ve never seen another person with CP who walks as normally as I do (of course, maybe I just don’t know). Figuring out how to compensate on my own has been powerful and transformative, and helped create the person I am now. Because I worked through CP “the hard way,” and learned to compensate in so many ways, I learned the value of tenacity at an early age. Not knowing I wasn’t supposed be able to do some things, I worked out creative solutions that have accumulated over the years, resulting in my ability to do this wonderful, freeing, athletic thing, this sailing. I knew when I started sailing that I would find solutions to any temporary obstacles I faced, because I’d done it many times before. As I sat on my behind in the little Catalina I laughed, because I knew what the problem was, and I knew there was a solution if I hunted for it.

     In spite of all my efforts, there are a few limitations. In addition to avoiding low benches, I don’t sail on boats that have skinny or absent “cat walks” – the flat ledge of the deck along the side of a boat you that you can walk on to move up to the bow. And, I don’t race. In racing, everything has to be done fast. If you’re sitting on the rail to help heel the boat, you have to be able to get up quickly, but for me it’s a rock-climbing task. You might have to get up to the bow quickly, and in the thrill of the moment, I might get careless. With my center of gravity above the lifelines I could easily topple into the water. I always wear shoes (no padding on the bottom of my feet; walking barefoot is painful for me). 

     I always move in a planned way, and often not the way others move on a boat. That’s scary to some people. I often use those rock-climbing skills to get around the boat. No, it doesn’t always look graceful, and it’s not fast enough for racing, but it’s extremely safe. I have alternative approaches just for getting on and off a boat, and I need for people to accept that, and not try to help, because I know how my body works. None of this is a big deal, though. After six years of intensive sailing, it’s second nature to me unless I have to explain it to someone else. 

     Stephen Hawking once said, “However difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at.” If you have some physical limitation but want to be active, look at what your body can do, and try to imagine what those moves can do for you. Work with an occupational therapist (therapy is much more empowering now than it was when I was a child). Research online and see if there are programs for what you want to do. We’ve seen double-amputee champion runners, and wheelchair basketball is a lively game full of all the drama present in any other game of basketball. Find your passion, and then search for a path to it. You may surprise yourself.

Teaching Friends to Sail

I've been doing this, and I discovered something.

As we learn to sail, our instructors tend to focus on language. In fact, some of them delight in burying us in new vocabulary. Port and starboard aren't so bad, although only rarely is the reason for not using "left" and "right" explained. That makes all of it look rather arbitrary to some people.

Then we continue to explain, and explain, and explain.

Well, I had three newer sailors on my boat yesterday, two of them children aged 11 and 13. And I discovered something that I instinctively knew but hadn't put into words: learning to sail is largely physical. My friends were lucky. The wind was up, which made it very easy to tell where it was coming from. So with just a few words, they got the physical sensation of feeling the wind on their faces. All three of them actually had no trouble telling where the wind was coming from. Well, that counts. If I tell them to "point the boat into the wind" and I'm on the bow, they need to be able to tell where the wind is.

We only focused on a few things. I want them all, but especially the mother, to be able to handle the helm. I may have to count on the mother to do this while I'm undoing some fairly serious problem. What I noticed was that I was encouraging them to learn through their muscles, but that the mother kept using words to guide her children. I hope I was polite as I intervened and encouraged her to just let them *feel* how it feels to steer the boat. I have a very responsive wheel, and you don't have to move the wheel much at all to turn the boat. All three got that very quickly, and I made an active decision to explain as little as possible and let them experience as much as possible.

The children spent a lot of time crawling around on their hands and knees. Since I have netting around my boat, I explained to them that if the boat did something unexpected while they were forward, they were to immediately drop to their hands and knees. They actually had a lot of fun doing this, as well as walking around the boat.

By using just a few words and not overloading them with instructions, They very quickly got the idea that they must always be holding on to something, and not the lifelines (which pull them to the edge of the boat, but I didn't say that. I will, but I didn't want to scare them the first day out!)

As you may have guessed, we are planning a trip together.

I think that sometimes we bury newer sailors with too much language. They need to know where the luff and the clew are. Both are important to observe as we sail. I particularly want beginners to get familiar with the location of the clew. That will help them backwind the headsail during a tack in light wind, and controlling it will keep the headsail from wrapping around the forestay while jybing.

But they really don't need to know the name of all corners and sides of the sail their first trip out. They really only need to know luff and clew.

They can also learn to help you watch telltails on the headsail and mainsail. We do *not* have to give them chapter and verse of all the information those telltails can give you, or how it may relate to the position of the headsail car on the track (more vocabulary), etc. on the first time out, but if they can look at the telltales when you can't see them, that can be a lot of help.

My opinion? Pick a few things at a time to teach beginners. Don't try to cram in every little nook and cranny of every fact. Don't bury them in details when they're still working on port and starboard. I recently raced with someone who used "left" and "right" because there were beginners on the crew, and they had been so buried in new vocabulary that they couldn't retain any of it.

That was partly why I took this approach. But I also did because with an 11 and a 13 year old on board and actively learning, I knew that if you bury them in too many 'facts' for which they don't see the point, you'll lose their attention. I NEED them to be able to move around the boat safely. I NEED them to remain interested -- they could be tremendous help, say, tailing for an adult on a winch. But most of all, I need them to have a good time, so they don't beg their mom to turn around and go home!

Do you want to sail with these newer sailors? Are they important to you? Then don't use a chance to teach as a chance to show off. Be gentle. It's a lot to learn, and you may have forgotten just how overwhelming it can be. But the beginners on your boat are easily overwhelmed. With a little thought, you can still teach them a lot and have them step off the boat thinking 'Wow -- I learned a lot!" instead of "I'm not sure I'll ever get this."

You're the teacher, so the conclusions they draw about sailing are in your hands.

Dirty Fuel

or, Good heavens -- you have to clean EVERYTHING!

I have had this experience with both outboard and diesel engines. I've never had a gas inboard (ex: Atomic 4), so I can't speak to that.

You wouldn't think anything could grow, thrive and even make huge problems in something that seems as noxious to us as diesel fuel, but unfortunately (as the fellow said in JURASSIC PARK) -- life seems to find a way.

There are critters, most typically a type of algae, who think your tank of diesel is heaven on Earth. Unfortunately like all life forms, they reproduce. Unfortunately like all life forms, they also die.

Once they've died, they settle to the bottom or stick to the sides of your tank, where they may make no problems for years. They may not show up as dirt in either of your fuel filters. They may, however, gather in your fuel line.

You may have no awareness of this until something disturbs either your fuel lines or your fuel tank. 

I have often said that my experience is not as extensive as many, but I have sailed intensively since I started, and I have had several experiences with dirty diesel fuel. Fortunately for me, the first time it happened, I was on someone else's boat. He had been in a three-day race in early January. Now, sailing off Florida in January can be pretty dicey, because when fronts come through from the North, they often pack a punch. On the East coast, the northern wind pushes against the Gulf Stream, which flows roughly from south to north at a pretty good clip. When the two collide, very large waves (especially for newer sailors like us) can be the result. You want to check the weather carefully before crossing the Gulf Stream any time, but in winter it is often a problem.

On the west coast where I live, we have a different set of problems. We get the same north winds, this time blowing over lots of open, relatively shallow water. A minor front can create 8' waves in the Gulf of Mexico near the shore, with even larger waves further off shore. 

But none of this mattered to my friend, who is a master sailor and ardent racer. Nothing stops him, and with his experience he has a solution for everything. One race unfortunately coincided with a stalled front, and winds were high and the waters rough throughout the race. When one of his crew members got so seasick she was dizzy and disoriented, making bad judgment calls and a danger to herself, the rest of the crew simply tied her to the mast so there was no risk of her going overboard. 

His boat performed well in the race, but then he had to move his boat from Clearwater back to Gulfport. It was still too rough to go outside without a full crew, so I went up to Clearwater just to keep him company as he brought the boat down via the more sheltered Intracoastal Waterway. This man loves to teach and pointed out a lot of valuable information to me.

Then came the unintended lessons: right as we were about to go under a bridge, his diesel engine died. He steered the boat through the bridge, glided over to the side of the waterway, and put an anchor down. The problem was immediately obvious: both his Racor filter and his engine filter (often called the "secondary" filter) were black with dirt. He put a plastic red Solo-type cup under the Racor and drained the fuel. He passed the cup to me, and I set it on the nearby galley counter. He changed that filter and the engine filter, and we were shortly on our way. About a half an hour later he pulled the boat over again, put the hook down, and checked the filters, which were clogging up again. He has some clear tubing in his fuel system. He looked at the fuel going to the engine, and it seemed clean, so he started her up again. Eventually she sputtered, but we made it back to Gulfport with just one more round of filter changes.

Unfortunately, it's a very bad idea to drain fuel into a Solo cup. Diesel dissolves that kind of plastic, and we had a mess to clean up in the galley. Keep a glass jar (maybe the size spaghetti sauce comes in) with your engine tools, wrapped against breakage, in case you have to drain your Racor filter.

So then the question was "why?" My friend believes that the rough three days of racing sloshed the fuel around with vigor, essentially scrubbing a lot of dirt collected over years of use back into the fuel. Diesel engines are very sensitive to supply interruption. A tiny air bubble can bring it to a stop, which is why your manual explains how to "bleed" the engine of air bubbles. A tiny bit of water can stop it, which is why you should have a Racor-type filter, which catches water as well as dirt. Dirt in the fuel can stop it. This is all because of the way diesel engines work: very small jets spray a very fine mist of fuel through injectors. Because that spray is so fine, the smallest (noncombustible) thing can replace the diesel, depriving the engine of fuel. Gas engines aren't as sensitive to these things as diesels are. My friend got rid of his fuel and cleaned his tanks, and solved the problem, at last for then.

Eventually my friend needed a new engine, and then he suddenly had fuel interruption problems again. He had his tank cleaned, and got rid of the old fuel (if your boat holds a lot of fuel, there are companies that will "polish" it for you and clean it up) -- but the problem persisted. What my friend eventually discovered was that his fuel lines were so clogged with dirt that it didn't matter how clean his fuel and tank were. He replaced those hoses and had no more problems.

Later on, I also had the same problem, again stemming from sailing in rough water, but in spite of my previous experience with my friend, I didn't realize what the problem was at first. All I knew was that the engine would unexpectedly die. The first time it happened, someone suggested that my propeller had caught a piece of line floating in the water and then released it. He said, "Sometimes that happens." When it happened two more times, however, I discounted that theory. I didn't picture a stray rope catching on my propeller *and* spontaneously freeing itself three times. Each time I bled the engine, and each time the engine started up. I was thinking I had a little air leak in the fuel system somewhere, but I took a "wait and see" attitude. Then one evening while taking the boat out for a moonlight sail on the Gulf with friends, she died completely, and bleeding didn't get her going again. Now, on this engine, parts had to be taken off the engine to get at that filter, and the Racor was in an inaccessible place (if your boat is like that -- move it!) I thought I was out of fuel. With no fuel gauge, it can be hard to know when getting fuel is crucial.

At the fuel dock, the boat took only five gallons. That's when it dawned on me -- dirty fuel. 

Several days later, a friend climbed down into the very deep lazarette at the back of the boat, we pumped out all the dirty fuel, and he cut a hole in the tank. We started passing him pieces of oil pad. My oil pads are about 24" square, and we cut one into fourths. We passed a piece down to him, and he passed it back up soaked up at least 2 lb. of sludge -- and he had barely begun. What a mess, but it had to be done.

This is a big pile of oil pads, sometimes called "engine diapers," but that is also the correct name for

something else, so at the store I suggest you ask for oil pads. You lay one under your engine to catch

oily drips so they don't go into the bilge. Unless you have a big clean-up, if your engine is running properly,

you should just put one under your engine, check it periodically, and replace as necessary. One may

well last a year or more. The material they are made of absorbs petroleum products but not water,

making them very good for cleaning up small petroleum spills. You can buy them in smaller quantities

and for most people, having three or four on hand is plenty.

I was lucky, and my fuel hoses were OK. We had a fabrication shop make a cover for the hole in the fuel tank, with a diesel-resistant gasket (I had them make me a second one to have on hand just in case something happens to the one I have, since it was custom). Surprisingly, that fabrication was inexpensive.

It was a real hassle to do all of that, but I don't worry about getting caught in rough water now. Think about it -- as I've said before, when the ship hits the fan, turning the engine on and being ready to use it can be a good strategy, especially for newer sailors. You need to be sure your tank isn't all clogged up with gunk.

However, I urge you to check with your engine manufacturer and find out which algae-controlling additive they recommend -- and then use that specific brand (and do use it)! I say to check with the manufacturer because part of my problem was that I just picked something off West Marine's shelf. I knew no anti-algae agent had been in the fuel, so I followed the  instructions on the bottle to "shock" the tank by using a larger dose than usual. As it turns out, that can be a very bad idea, because if you have lots of live algae in the tank, they will all die at once, and sink to the bottom, which is where your fuel line picks up its fuel. My problem started when I shocked the fuel with this stuff. When my friend cleaned the tank, he found extra heaps of sludge around the fuel pickup. We had to pass him other tools to clean that area out well.

My Yanmar manual actually states not to use the product I used (sorry but I don't remember the name), so I went to the Yanmar dealer. They showed me exactly what to use and made sure I knew how to use it.

Check both your Racor (a valuable and relatively inexpensive engine protection) and your "secondary" filter (the one built into the engine) periodically as part of sensible routine engine maintenance.



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Sailing in Gusty Winds -- a great link!

People who have sailed for many years mostly know this information, but this blog is for people with less experience, and one of the more challenging situations for newer sailors is when the weather turns gusty. You could be unexpectedly caught in gusty weather for a number of reasons. You might have expected to get back in long before the bad weather hit, but something goes wrong and you don't make it.

You need to know how to handle gusty weather. Not only will you and your companions be uncomfortable otherwise -- someone could be hurt. They could be moving toward the head when a gust hits and fall in the cabin (fall in the cabin and you're very likely to have a bad fall), or sprain something when thrown off balance, or be hurt while moving forward to deal with something.

The webpage listed below covers what to do extremely well. I'll just make a few comments in case the information doesn't quite make sense. Here's the website:

http://learntosail.hubpages.com/hub/Three-Sailing-Tips-for-Less-Heel-in-Gusty-Breezes

And here's the core, with my comments in blue:

"1. Luff up on a Gust
Watch the water to windward. Look for dark, ruffled spots that signal the arrival of a gust. Point up toward the wind just before the gust arrives. This will luff the forward part of your sails and depower them--but keep the boat driving and on her feet!"

 Start learning to read the surface of the water now. The surface does change as the wind changes. On a light wind day, you can see puffs of stronger wind coming to take advantage of them. On rough days, you can see them coming and strategize.

So what does "luff up" mean? It means to make the sales "luff," or shake. It typically (but not always) starts at the luff, or leading edge, of the sail. You make the sail luff by steering more directly into the wind. A sailboat pointing into the wind can't sail because it can't catch any wind, and it can't use the sails as an air foil. The boat is depowered, which is what you need in too much wind. You need to depower the sails. This is one way to do it, and if the gusts are significant, you need to be in position before the gust hits.

You can also steer into the wind as you feel the wind rising. Gusts often occur on a curve -- the first increase will not be the peak, and you still have time to ease its impact on your boat, but also learn to read the waves.

What does "still driving the boat" mean? The writer is suggesting that you don't point the boat completely into the wind -- just enough to weaken the effects of wind on your sail. You're still moving, and the boat is "on her feet" -- not heeling excessively.

So what this is really about is steering. Now, steering is easier when the boat is in balance, which is covered a little further below.

"2. Ease your Sheets / Back your Blocks
Move the mainsheet car down the traveler track to leeward. Ease the mainsheet a few inches. Then, set your headsail sheet blocks back a few holes along the Genoa tracks. These actions cause the top of your sail to open--or twist--to spill high octane wind up high. This keeps heel down for a more balanced boat."

What's the "mainsheet car?" I could show you a picture of mine, but yours might look different. The "traveler track" moves across the beam of the boat. Sometimes it's across the cabin top, as mine is. Sometimes it's in the floor of the cockpit, right in front of the companionway. Sometimes it's at the back of the boat. Some smaller boats don't have travelers -- my little 25' Irwin didn't have one.

If you have a traveler, you release both traveler lines, and then pull on the leeward line. If the wind is coming over your port side, you pull on the starboard traveler line, and move the sail controls to starboard. This causes "twist" at the top of the sail. You can spot this because the curve of the leech -- the back edge of the sail -- will now have a more exaggerated curve in it, especially toward the top. This makes the sail more inefficient. It's an easy and quick way to depower your mainsail. If the gust was significant enough to make your boat heel too much, she should immediately settle down and heel less, what the author means by "keeping heel down."

But what does a "more balanced boat" mean? Without getting technical, the more balanced the boat is, the less physical exertion it takes to steer the boat. But it *also* means that the boat is more in control. Using the traveler to move the sail to leeward is a quick and effective method to "spill the mainsail" so it can't hold as much wind. You have effectively, temporarily turned your mainsail into a smaller sail.

OK, so what does "back your blocks" mean? The sheets for your headsail come back to the cockpit after being led through a moveable block that sits on a long track. The position of that block can dramatically affect the shape of your headsail. When the winds pick up, adjusting your mainsail as described above may not be enough to get your boat back in balance and sailing easily (which you judge easily by the amount of effort needed to steer her). If you move those blocks back toward the stern, you ... twist the headsail as well, causing wind to spill out of the top, and in effect, making your headsail smaller. 

Now, this isn't as easily (or as safely) done as adjusting the traveler. To move the blocks you have to first notice where the load is. Which is the working sheet? Well, in the scenario above, the wind was coming across the port side of the boat (a "port tack"). This makes the STARBOARD sheet carry the load. The port sheet is slack. So that's the one to adjust first, even though it won't change the sail. Slide it back as much as you think you need. Now, if you've gone out and practiced, you'll be able to make an educated guess. If you haven't practiced that yet, then your rule of thumb might be -- the stronger the gusts are, the more you should move it back.

Now you have to move the loaded block, and that can be more dangerous. You have two choices.

First choice is to switch to a starboard tack. The problem with that choice is that tacking isn't a lot of fun in rough water and winds that are overpowering your boat. It's not impossible, but make sure there's no one in the cabin and that everyone is secure (they do have PFD's on, right?) After the tack, your starboard sheet will be the "lazy" sheet and you can move the block toward the stern easily.

If tacking seems like a bad idea (whoever works the sheet is going to have to pull hard and fast on the new working line, and the helmsman should watch his or her progress, and not complete the turn until the new working sheet is under control and tight enough), here is how to move the block while the sheet is under load:

Always remember: ONE HAND FOR YOU AND ONE FOR THE BOAT. Don't use both hands doing this in rough water. 

Step firmly on the working jib sheet FORWARD of the block. Keep the tension on that sheet with your foot, hold on to something firm (not just a life line, but a stanchion or cabintop handhold, or bimini frame if it's very secure), and slide the block back. If you have to do this more than once to make sure you are holding on to the boat, so be it. You can do this twice. 

If you have two people on the boat, that second person should be on the helm. You'll be standing on the high side of the boat, and that will make it easier for you to do this.
 
"3. Reef your Sails
Combine the first two actions with sail reefing. One of the great misconceptions in sailing is that reefing is a heavy weather tactic. Nope--it's a balancing tactic. Reef earlier than you think necessary. Reduce or change out the headsail. Tuck a reef or two in to the mainsail. Reefing keeps the boat on her feet and the helm light as a feather."

 If you're going to change your headsail, please be aware of the weather before you are in it, and change the sail before it's actually needed. Changing a headsail can be extremely dangerous in high winds and/or rough water. When a boat is out of balance, the bow bounces around and moves unpredictably. If you slip up and the sail goes into the water, do you know what you have to do? You have to whip out your knife, cut the sail free and let it go, because a sail in the water at the bow can sink a boat. 

So do it while the winds are low.

Another option is to partially furl your roller furler, but understand that if you do that more than a couple of times it will permanently deform your headsail. This is not something covered by insurance, even though it's weather related. The result is that your headsail will always perform more inefficiently, and your boat will slow down some. Well, that's life -- safety first, but if you pay attention to the weather, you may avoid having to use your headsail in this way.

There's a hidden, important message in all of this: how the helm feels may be your best sign of whether it's time to twist the sails, and if that doesn't do the job, to start reefing.

What this all means is that you mustn't be shy about taking your boat out, little by little, in stronger winds than you're used to. If you're used to 10 mph winds, take her out in 15. Sail her on all points of sail. Make judgments about whether your boat needs to be reefed at this point. Some smaller boats probably should be reefed at 15 mph. 

Then take her out at 18 mph, and then 20, etc. Most people are not this methodical (and it's not typical for me, but I realized that sailing was a little more risky for me than some other people, and I just made myself do it. I am now convinced it's a good idea for all newer sailors.)

Three simple tips in that article -- simple for experienced sailors, that is. As you take your boat out for recreational cruises, pick one new skill to practice each time. Then when the ship hits the fan, you'll already know how to execute the excellent tips in that article. 



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Ramp Your Skills and Experience Up Quickly!

Or, "What? This is a GREAT day to sail!"

Ever since I first started sailing, I had set myself a goal to sail every day for a week. I had no particular reason to set that goal except that I thought it would be fun and a bit of a feather in my cap.

It actually took several years to pull it off, even after I moved onto this boat. You'd think seven days of good weather would be easy to find in Florida, but we'd have two good days, and then the winds would pick up, or die down, or we'd have a low tide that would make it tricky to get the boat out of the marina. All sorts of things.

Then I joined a MeetUp group. This group connected people who had boats with people who wanted to sail. So I picked the best weather window I could spot, and started inviting people to sail. That was what did it, because I had made commitments to people who would be very disappointed if the sail were cancelled.

I did not sail seven, but eight days in a row, sailing with different people every day.

I learned something remarkable. I had, without realizing it, picked rather narrow parameters regarding when I wanted to sail. If the waves were too high from a previous storm, I wouldn't take the boat out. If the winds were over 15 mph I thought twice as my roller "furler" can't partially furl. I could always find reasons to not sail that day. But with these commitments, we went out anyway. We went out in 4' waves. We went out when the winds were up to 20 mph. We went out when the winds were 5 - 7 mph.

I learned more about sailing that week than I had in the previous year, because I had challenged myself to accept slightly more challenging conditions. My boat isn't going to sink in 4' waves, but she handles differently. That's no surprise ... but I hadn't actually *done* it.

I took a bit of ribbing at the end of the eight days, because on the eighth day I got myself in a bit of a mess and ended up with a bent rudder shaft. I can't count the ninth day as sailing, because we were towed back -- with no steering, in rough water. It was hard on us and even harder on the poor guy piloting the towboat as we jerked from port to starboard to port behind his boat in rough water.

But in thinking about it, I realized that a lot of people who belong to my club are sailing a lot if they take their boats out four times a year. I bet a lot of them are doing what I was doing -- skipping a sail unless things were perfect.

Set yourself a goal like that -- maybe more modest, since most people have to balance their sailing with work and family commitments. Aim for three days (barring severe storms -- don't go sailing out into dangerous weather just because you said you would!) -- Leave on Friday, anchor or stay at a different marina, sail again on Saturday, and return home Sunday.

It's a lot of work, to have a boat ready to go out several days in a row, but the rewards are worth it. If you can't set a string of days, think about what your preferred parameters are, and change them a little. I was astounded the day I put a smaller headsail on my little Irwin, reefed the main, and took her out in 20 mph. She sailed like a little cream puff. Set to handle the winds, it was just no big deal.

Stretch yourself. Don't let yourself get set in a rut. You'll learn things.

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Oops -- What Do We Do Now?

I have some sailing friends who, like me, are newer sailors. They're working hard to improve their skills and split their time between improving their boat and sailing it.

They were out a couple of weeks ago when they suddenly had trouble with their roller furler. They were jybing, and I suspect the headsail wrapped around the furler. Jybes can be easy, but you have to keep control of the lines. Of course, a sheet can slip out of anyone's hands (gloves help, but ... stuff happens.)

So they did the logical thing. One stayed on the helm, and one went forward to straighten out the sail.

While they were doing that, they ran aground. Oops. Things tend to cascade like that.

What could they have done to avoid it?

Sometimes there's nothing you can do. One time as I was leaving a marina, my outboard died. It was a lowering tide, and I knew there was a shallow area just to starboard. Unfortunately there was a strong wind from the east. When the engine died, that wind had us solidly aground within five seconds. There was nothing we could have done.

However, in retrospect, my friends had some choices. Here's what I and others recommended to them for next time:

1) quickly check for lines in the water (a real possibility when the headsail is out of control)

2) start the engine

3) notice where you are before deciding what to do.

If they'd stopped to think about where they were, they would have known they were near shallow spots. A better option probably would have been to turn around and move to a place with room to work. The sail would flap around a bit, but that's not the end of the world. Engine power would keep the boat from "sailing crazy" while the headsail was tangled (the time this happened to me, the boat sailed in circles until I got it untangled).

What if you have a different problem, and you don't have power, or you can't steer? I told a story a week or so ago where someone ended up with a line wrapped around both the rudder and the propeller. They were in very deep water, but if you aren't, put the anchor down.

Your goal should be to prevent things from getting worse as well as solving the original problem. If you're lucky you may prevent one thing from leading to another and another and another ...

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Why Sailing is not Like Driving a Car, No. 2

In yesterday's entry I wrote about how important it is to train your crew well, teaching even total newcomers some useful skill that you can count on in a pinch.

For how to teach, I used the example of how one club instructor put her hands over her mouth to force her to not give too many prompts when her students should have been performing independently.

While teaching sail school, she had realized that her students couldn't dock a sailboat unless they could do it without her giving them a single prompt, and she had her hands over her mouth as they approached the safety boat to dock next to it.

Last night I happened to speak with the father of this instructor. Her father said that she had been steering their tiller sailboat for 10 years when she signed up for driver's ed at school. Neither she nor her parents expected any problems. She was a straight-A student, and many students took "Driver's Ed" for the easy A of it.

Not this young lady. She was flunking driver's ed. HUH? NOBODY flunks driver's ed!

So her dad took her to a large, empty parking lot one Sunday, one without parking bumpers or other barriers, to see what was going on.

She started out driving straight, just fine. He didn't see a problem. Then he told her to turn left -- and she turned the car right!

She was handling the steering wheel like a tiller!

So if you have a crew member struggling with some basic skill, isolate that skill and watch carefully what is going on. Several months ago, I did this with a sailor I knew. He had been sailing the Catalinas for five years but his movement across the water was often erratic and unpredictable. He obviously struggled with tacking to the point that he would know he was going to run aground on a known high point, but seemed unable to turn the boat in time to get out of the way.

So I went out with him, and discovered that he really didn't have any solid idea of how to tack the boat. He just tried something new each time, hoping he would figure it out and get it right (it turned out that someone had told him to do this -- see my many references about people who give one bad advice!)

I wrote a very detailed, 15-step method for tacking and gave it to him. He said he would read it and study it, and agreed to go out with me on one of the little 16.5' Catalinas to sort it out.

After reading the list, he politely canceled the sailing date.

He canceled s similar date with someone else.

Finally he said to me one day, "I just want to be the best sailor I can." I said, "Then go out with me and let's sort this out."

So we did, and I and my list of things to do were driving him crazy. Finally he said, "Just let me do it my way," and I said "OK."

Turned out he was doing everything right -- except for one thing: he didn't know where to start the tack. Somewhere in sail school he had not learned that (probably because instructors always prompted  him -- too much "help"). So he would, say, have the wind nearly astern when he started the tack. Of course the boat would make a broad, slow turn, and it might end anywhere, including moving in a complete circle, ending where he had been before.  If you don't tack with a plan, how will you know when to end it? Or he might not have had enough speed by the time he got to the "no-go" zone, and the boat would swing back over to starboard.

All I had to do was remind him of the "no go" zone, and explain that he should sail along, say, the starboard side, build up speed, spot where he wanted to end, move through the "no go" zone -- and stop the tack.

He did it perfectly the first time -- with no prompts. Then he did it perfectly three more times.

So then we expanded the concept to a controlled jybe, keeping the boom close to center so there wouldn't be a huge snap when the sail picked up the wind on the other side. Then he did THAT perfectly with no prompts.

So then we just sailed around, and he started calling all the moves very well: "prepare to tack," and I had to hustle to keep up with him, because he now knew exactly what he was doing. Acting as skipper and calling all the shots, sometimes he tacked and sometimes he jybed, getting it all right every single time.

Meanwhile, the wind shifted to northerly. Uh-oh! When the wind is from the north, to get into the marina you have to sail up a narrow north-south canal to get to the entrance. It certainly isn't impossible, but unless you have a motor, you have to make a series of short, quick tacks -- or run aground at a place where this man had been notorious for running aground.

No problem this time!. He took charge as skipper, executed the tacks crisply and accurately, turned into the club's basin, and expertly sailed the little boat into its slip. He told me what to do, when to do it, and used one sail, expertly managed, to get the boat home -- just as he had been doing most of the afternoon.

Give too many prompts, and you keep your crew member from learning. This person's problem with tacking is the most concrete and perfect example I can think of to demonstrate just how important it is to let anyone you're teaching to perform completely independently, even if you see them making a mistake.

If they make a mistake, discuss it *afterwards.* Give them a chance to practice it, and when they get to that point on the next attempt, put your hands over your mouth if you have to, but DO NOT PROMPT THEM OR GIVE THE CLUES. Just don't. Discuss it afterwards.

Even then, don't tell them what they did wrong. ASK them if they know what mistake they made. Give them time to think. Give them a chance to learn.

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Why Sailing is not Like Driving a Car, No. 1

Two days ago I wrote about how a sailor and his two friends ended up in a lot of trouble, going way too fast to be able to control the boat in winds and waves much too big for the sails they had up (which included a giant asymmetrical spinnaker). The title of it is "Too Much Sail Up!"

Nothing like that ever happens in a car. Cars aren't moved around by wind, waves, and current. This is why we get speeding tickets -- because we have such effective ways to slow our cars down. In the article named above, Dick ended up in a very dangerous situation because sailboats don't have brakes -- and because no one else on the boat knew how to steer her well.

The problem is that most of the people who read this blog are going to end up in a situation somewhat like Dick's some day -- unless it's happened already. Even then, something just as dangerous could happen to us again. And, like Dick, as our enthusiasm and confidence grows, we'll start inviting other people to sail with us, including some people who perhaps have never sailed before or who have very litttle experience. We'll think "I know everything I need to know to get my boat and friends in safely," but it doesn't always work out that way. All the adults on your boat should learn some skill that can help in a pinch, even if it's just "tailing" the sheets as you change a tack, or steering for short distances.

I'm going to list some reasons sailing a boat is different than driving a car, and explain a few things I feel are important about those differences. This is important because people new to sailing will tend to think about sailing as they think about driving. It's important that they know the differences.  I invite *anyone* who has a similar example comparing driving to sailing to send me an email at

Rakuflames@gmail.com

I know it can be hard to participate on this board and I want to fix that.

For now, please send only things you've noticed have to be done very differently on a sailboat than in a car. If it works well, we will open the blog up to other topics later. I have always wanted this board to be more interactive, and this may be one way to do it.

So here's some big difference between driving and sailing that occurred to me this morning. I hadn't really thought about this first one one before:

WHEN WE DRIVE, we drive in two dimensions. We're driving on what geometry calls a two-dimensional plane. No matter where we go, unless the car becomes airborne in an accident, we only have to deal with flat surfaces. We don't have to worry about whether the keel is going to catch on something. We don't have to worry about whether a mast is going to hit something. Length ("Are we there yet, Daddy? Are we there?") is an issue. Width (is that oncoming truck crossing the center line?) is an issue. But we don't have to worry about what is under or over us.

BUT WHEN WE SAIL, we sail in three dimensions. We have to pay attention to what is above and below us as well as what is all around us. Driving is like moving over a long piece of paper. Sailing is like moving through a very large tube.

WHEN WE DRIVE, it's very clear where our car is supposed to be. This makes both our car and other people's cars much more predictable than boats.

BUT WHEN WE SAIL, except in rare circumstances, there are no "lanes" on the water when sailing. Even when in a channel, often there's no hard and fast rule about which side of the channel to be on. I try to stay to the starboard side of the channel when I can, but if a section of channel is "shoaling," or starting to fill up with sand, I may have to move more to center or even port side of the channel so my keel won't play tag with the bottom.

WHEN WE DRIVE, we have brakes.

BUT WHEN WE SAIL, the closest thing we have to brakes is to put the boat in reverse. This takes several seconds. First you have to slow down in forward to a dead crawl. Then you have to shift into neutral, and then into reverse. The time we're most likely to do this is while docking, and timing can be critical. Tricky judgments have to be made at that point, so we don't give the boat too much throttle in reverse, but enough to keep from hitting that big cement pier that's coming closer and closer to our bow. (Of course if you are bringing your boat in stern first, that's all changed. You're in reverse, and now you have to move your gear shift from reverse, to neutral, to forward.)

WHEN WE DRIVE, steering is simpler. Unless we're driving on a very slippery surface such as ice, steering is easy.  There's a direct relationship between how much you turn the steering wheel on a car and exactly how far that car turns. That's why we can change lanes safely as well as parallel park without causing a traffic jam. It's very clear when to stop a turn, and the car straightens out immediately. That's because the car has traction.

BUT WHEN WE SAIL, we don't want traction. We want the boat to glide as effortlessly through the water as possible. The things that can give us traction in the water, such as barnacles and other crud on the hull, are bad, and we work hard to get rid of them.

In addition, because of lack of traction on a sailboat, deciding when to end a turn is trickier. We may spot a point on the land that we want to be the end of our turn, but we have to stop turning the wheel or pushing the tiller before we get to that point because the boat glides with no traction. It will continue to turn after we have "centered up" the wheel or tiller.


That's a very short and incomplete list of some of the important differences. Why waste blog space on it? If you're going to sail with beginners, you have to lead them past that stage where they're clueless to a point where they can seamlessly step up to their assignment and know how to do the job. If you have to go up to the bow to do something difficult like changing a sail, the boat has to be under control by a helmsman who understands the differences between driving a car and piloting a boat.

And unless you train them well, beginners will look to their driving skills to help them out. While there's some overlap, the differences are important and have to be acknowledged.

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Too Much Sail Up!

I heard about a sailor the other day who, as they say, ended "up to his neck in alligators." I'll call him "Dick."

Dick had taken a several-day sailing trip with a couple of friends who had sailed some with him before but who didn't have a lot of experience yet.

Dick was the person at the helm. they were sailing with an asymmetrical spinnaker out. An asymmetrical spinnaker flies to either the port or starboard side of the boat, not out in front while running downwind, as a symmetrical spinnaker is used.

Asymmetrical spinnaker deployed on port side
Source for photo: http://www.yagersails.com/spinnaker.html

As you can see, that's a lot of sail. Now, there are some basic rules about sails.

• The heavier the weather for which the sail is designed, the heavier and stiffer the fabric will be. My ATN Gale Sail is only tricky to attach to the roller furler because the fabric is so stiff. But because it is stiff, I can make that sail completely flat, something you want in higher winds. 
• The higher the wind, the smaller you want your sails to be. This is why mainsails can be reefed. 
• The higher the wind, the stronger you want that sail fabric to be, so it can take the extra wind pressure without ripping.
• The higher the wind, the flatter you want the sail to be. A big belly in a sail catches a lot more wind than a hard, flat sail. Look at the belly in that picture above -- wowsa!

A spinnaker sail fails on all four points. Spinnaker cloth is just about the lightest-weight sail cloth made. When the winds pick up significantly, at some point it's time to take the spinnaker down, or "douse" it.

Well, Dick didn't pay full attention to what we call "rising conditions." Both the winds and the waves were picking up. All of a sudden his boat took off, racing on the overpowered spinnaker. The boat was out of control.

So now he had some decisions to make -- who does what? (Remember my article "Ten Minutes to Prepare?") Part of deciding who will do what is making sure that the person will know how to execute his or her designated task. Unfortunately, Dick is an optimist and did not anticipate this change in conditions. He also didn't assign tasks ahead of time, and he didn't train those people for their assignments.

But I know what the BIG thing is that went wrong for Dick -- he's a helm hog. He doesn't want to share the helm. Because of that, he did not have a skilled backup helmsman.

When he found himself overpowered, he had to go up to the bow in rough seas and douse that great big sail, keeping it under control and out of the water (having that sail go into the water would have been extremely dangerous. It could have pulled the boat over and then under like a submarine.) He had two relatively inexperienced people back in the cockpit, one of them on the helm. The person on the helm couldn't hold a steady course with the increased wind and waves, and who could blame him? You need to have someone else who can take the helm, but you have to teach that person and give him or her time to practice. Otherwise your backup helmsman is going to have a hard time. You have to share the helm if you're going to have an adequate backup helmsman in a pinch.

Dick called out instructions, but the new helmsman either didn't understand the instructions or couldn't execute them. It could have been a combination of both. In any case, they ended up with a line in the water AND wrapped around the rudder. When the people in the cockpit realized they couldn't steer, they started the engine. That is only a good choice if the helmsman and crew are certain that there are ... no lines in the water. The line then very efficiently wrapped itself around the propeller as well.

Again, this is a problem resulting from poor crew training and lack of time doing important things on the boat, what a friend of mine calls "time over water" (and not just as a passenger). There are extremely directive skippers out there, who give so many detailed instructions that the crewmember is just an extension of the skipper, doing no thinking for himself (picking a sex). The more prompts you give as a skipper, the less your crew member will actually learn.

Your crew has to practice these things under calm conditions, and "checking for lines in the water" needs to be drilled into everyone's head before they go *anywhere* near that engine -- in fact, all the time. That line wrapped itself around the rudder without any help from the engine. If you're going to take beginners out on your boat, you have a responsibility to teach them those basic things. If something happens, starting the engine is a very reasonable thing to do. They need to know how to do it safely.

He had to cut the spinnaker lines and let it drift away, but all's well that ends well. The skipper also had to go over the side to untangle that line from the rudder and propeller. That's not so good; he had to leave his boat for the water with crew on board who were already struggling. Again, all's well that ends well.

BUT:

You can avoid a lot of this by discouraging a casual attitude toward sailing on your boat. Make sure that your crew knows that it can be a little dangerous. Make sure they truly know how to perform the tasks you're going to assign them. Teach them patiently and give them a chance to practice.

I was on the sail school's safety boat one day when the students were learning to dock (those of us on the safety boat call that "target practice.") Each student boat made pass after pass, and we could hear the instructors giving tips and encouragement to their students. If the students were doing the docking, they should have been giving the directions to the teacher and other student, but each time, it was the teacher speaking.

Then one of the boats approached. I looked at the instructor, and she had her hands over her mouth! One student was in charge of the docking with the other student crewing. The student did a great job. Then they made another pass, and the other student executed the "mock dock." He did a great job too, and the teacher still had her hands over her mouth.

Hats off to her. She knows that unless those students can dock the boat without any prompting from her, they can't dock the boat. That's what you should do, too. If you want your crew to be able to tack the boat without your help, put one of them on the helm and one of them on the sheets -- and then zip your lips.

And for heaven's sake, don't be a helm hog. One day it could be your life on the line.

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A Tale of Two Sailors

“Abilities wither under faultfinding, and blossom under encouragement.”
— Donald A. Laird

The other day, I spoke with two different sailors about two different issues. Neither of them are close friends of mine.

Person A greeted me cordially and then went about his business. Later on I ran into him, and we chatted about several things. This ended with a discussion about the very clever way he has rigged his mainsail halyard to make it easier to pull, using blocks. He calls it his "geezer halyard." He showed me exactly how he made it. He made sure I got safely on and off his boat, showed me how it was all set up, and let me try the halyard myself (easy with one hand -- I hope to have an article about it shortly, because it's not only "geezers" who have bad shoulders or backs). 

Then there was Person B. I had sought out this person's advice because I respected his expertise. I did not know him well.

To my surprise, every single sentence I started got cut off in mid-stream without being finished. The conversation was immediately derailed to some thought that what I had said had triggered in his mind. The observations were always negative, and the comments always condescending.  I was there to gather information, while he was there to prove that he knew more (uh -- no contest -- could we please move on?). This person still has no idea of what I know and do not know, what I have and have not done, and, I am quite certain, thinks he knows a great deal more about me as a sailor than he actually does. In fact the interchange ended with some really bad advice, that "with the kind of sailing I do" (something we didn't discuss) I "don't even need a chart plotter. Just use your cell phone."

Really? I should cross Florida Bay using a cell phone to navigate? I don't think so! There really isn't any cell phone reception out there. But we didn't discuss my intention to sail to the Tortugas one day.

So what was going on?

Well, both people wanted validation for their knowledge and expertise. Don't we all? One person has my renewed respect. He talked to me in a friendly and encouraging way. He has in fact done this since I first started sailing. We have never socialized outside the club, but he has been unfailingly supportive. He's never blown smoke up my skirt, and I came out of this exchange feeling validated as well. This very experienced man thought I was worth his finite time. He was patient and waited to see whether I understood. We both participated in that discussion and demonstration. Hopefully all of you will soon benefit from his generosity of spirit and have great pictures of his "geezer halyard," too. He got his validation from helping out someone with less experience than him.

In my opinion, the second person was so interested in getting validation that he lost track of the conversation. I would say something and he would actually say virtually the same thing not five minutes later, presenting it as something he was sure I didn't know. For instance, I pointed out that celestial navigation will not be a lot of use if caught in a hurricane. Not two minutes later he explained to me that one can't use celestial navigation in a hurricane. He simply was not hearing anything I had to say. He has walked away from our "conversation" remembering only what he thought up, because the only reason he listened to me was to find a new tangent to redirect the conversation to. Those new conversations always included assumptions (big assumptions) that I didn't know very basic things, followed by condescension. He got his validation by looking down his nose at someone else.

I'm not passing that cell phone "advice" on to you. Do NOT rely on a cell phone for navigation. It can be a backup, but you can't count on getting a signal. For instance, I know as a fact that I will get no cell phone signal off the coast of Venice, but the entrance into Venice Inlet is tricky and you need accurate information, and you may need it rapidly.

And there's the "smoke up your skirt" test: I don't know another sailor who would recommend a cell phone over a chart plotter. But it was a great put-down. The more important the advice you're being given is, the more necessary it is to double-check it. 

Standard disclaimer applies: I'm not disparaging charts here, and I encourage people to use both charts and chart plotters. I encourage people to do things like put Navionics on their cell phones. Just don't *count* on it to be there when you have to make a five-second decision about where the sand bar is, because that might be exactly when you "drop carrier."

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Celestial Navigation

     Or, the stars may not actually hold your future

I just read online about a Great Schism in sailing. The publication Ocean Navigator reports that the Coast Guard Academy will continue to teach celestial navigation -- navigation using the stars, the moon and the sun. Amazingly, the  the U. S. Naval Academy will be moving in a completely opposite direction, They will rely totally on GPS technology. Presumably they will have redundancies built in -- more than one chart plotter, and probably more than one brand of chart plotter.

Those sticking to celestial navigation will have a little more difficult time with redundancy strategy. The obvious strategy there is to have two teams performing their calculations completely separately. However, that won't solve the problem of extended, heavy cloud cover -- for instance, in a hurricane, where it might be extremely important to know exactly where the ship is, which would identify which quadrant of the storm the ship is in. The four quadrants of a significant hurricane vary significantly in strength, so obviously, being in a weaker quadrant can be a valuable strategy.

But practically speaking, for the newer sailor, they need to know accurately where they are. We can talk about dead reckoning -- and it can work -- but only an idiot would rely solely on dead reckoning when it's a new skill. Likewise, using sextants involves using multiple charts along with taking accurate positional readings for celestial bodies, on a pitching boat. It isn't going to be terribly reliable for a newer sailor.

Celestial navigation is difficult and expensive to learn. There's no doubt it works, when you can be sure of the time and actually see celestial bodies -- but it's not fast, and there are meteorological limits.

We've talked about this chart plotter debate before, and I'm going to come back to my earlier suggestion that you use a chart plotter -- actually two. If you have a hand-held backup chart plotter and your electrical system goes out, you will still have very accurate access to your latitude and longitude.

Mark those readings on your chart at an accurate time table -- say, every half hour. Then you'll have a visual representation. You can easily compare this to your efforts at both dead reckoning and celestial navigation. 

I'm not saying that celestial navigation should go the way of the dinosaurs. Clearly, many find real value in it. I'm also not saying that chart plotters are for lazy people. But in fact, a chart plotter can you assist you as you learn both celestial navigation and dead reckoning by double-checking the conclusions you drew from the older methods. And in an emergency, let's face it -- for most people a chart plotter is going to give you information more rapidly and more simply.

Chart plotters are not the tools of the devil, and those who use celestial navigation aren't inherently superior to others. It's just a matter of interest for the great majority. So be tolerant -- "The farmer and the cowman should be friends!"

Bottom line: don't let those who know celestial navigation try to lord it over you because you don't know it yet. You're a newer sailor, and that's NOT a moral flaw. Maybe excessively harsh judgment of those coming behind one IS a serious character flaw. NO ONE PERSON represents the minimum standard to which all must line up -- especially when that status of "I'm the best and the rest of you are unworthy" is self-appointed.

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BRIDGES

     They’re more complicated than scary

Going through bridges -- I remember the first time I did it. I fumbled with the radio, sweated bullets over the timing, and was relieved when it was all over.

Those are the two big issues: using the radio and timing your passages. I’m going to talk about them one at a time, with a few comments at the end.

USING THE RADIO

The reason for following these steps when using the radio is out of courtesy to the bridge tender, who is juggling multiple balls at once sometimes. Predictable conversations make life easier for him or her. What you say will also make sense to the other boats around you, who will then know what to expect.

When you see the bridge in the distance, switch to Channel 9.

Call the radio when you are clearly visible and identifiable to the bridge tender. Here’s the language to use (the bridge tender will call you “Captain” out of courtesy. He or she doesn’t care whether or not you handed the radio over to a crew member).

1.   Call the bridge three times – “Corey Bridge, Corey Bridge, Corey Bridge…”

2.   Identify your boat: “This is the sailing vessel ‘Pink Floyd.’”

3.   Identify where you are: “I’m approaching from your north side.”

4.   Identify what you want: “I’m waiting for your next opening.”

5.   Make it clear that it’s the bridge tender’s turn to talk: “Over.”

The bridge tender may have a question or two for you. Always say “over” when you’re done answering.

The bridge tender will tell you when the next opening is. Thank him/her, and say, “Standing by.”

        

TIMING YOUR PASSAGE

There will be a main path through the bridge. For sailboats, that path is through the span opened up when the bridge is raised. If the bridge does not open, there is usually a small light at the center, on the edge of the bottom of the bridge surface. That will be lit at night but you’ll be able to spot it during the day.

For bridges that open, wait to one side of the path through the bridge and back some distance, as powerboats without a lot of height can go through at any time. If you want, you can sail or motor around, but keep a 360º lookout as bridges are heavy traffic areas but with no easy rules about where any one boat should be. If you wait in place, leave the engine in neutral.

The best advice I can give you is “Don’t hit the bridge.” You may have seen sailboats squeaking through the bridge as soon as there’s a crack at the top wide enough for their masts. Actually, according to the bridge tender I spoke with, you’re not supposed to do that. Both current and wind are shifty under a bridge. Leave yourself a good margin of safety. The two boats in this video did not leave a good margin of safety, as you’ll see (turn your sound on for this):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2AZ21k4mfSQ

 If no one was hurt in that accident, they're very, very lucky. Several things were probably in play in that accident. First, the bridge tender may not have been able to see the boats trying to get through. They often can't see boats that are very close. Second, once a bridge has started to close, the bridge tender cannot always interrupt that process. In that video, incredibly, it appears that not one but two sailboats were going to try to go through a closing bridge.

Don't do that.   :)

However, the bridge tender is obligated to keep both boaters and drivers in mind. So you don’t want to waste his or her time, either. So what do you do? Tell the bridge tender that you’re familiar with your boat’s capabilities and speed but that this is your first time going through a bascule bridge.

Then, as the time to opening gets closer, zig zag a little closer to the opening so you’re ready to turn toward the bridge when the time is right. But when is that?

        

Well, it depends. The bridge tender uses a specific sequence of signals that can help. First, he or she sounds a horn five times. Five blasts of a horn is a warning sign. Then you’ll hear bells and see traffic gates drop down. The next step is that the bridge will start to open, but scan the bridge. If there are bike riders or pedestrians on the bridge, that will delay the opening.

As you start to approach the bridge, go slowly, and gradually increase your speed as the spans open.

As soon as you’re sure your mast is through, Say “Thank you, Bridgetender.”

WHAT CAN GO WRONG?

        

Wind: when the wind gets to a certain level, bascule bridges cannot be opened safely. Lower than that speed, the wind may push your boat about, another reason to make sure the bridge is wide open before you go through.

                 

Current: any current can be exacerbated by things like dredging. It may be more of a “water funnel” than it looks like. Watch the water swirling around the bridge supports as well as pilings (ex: “low wake” signs) near the bridge. In addition, if you poke around on your chart plotter, you may find a feature for currents. It can’t tell you what the current actually is where you are, but it may be able to tell you what the current is likely to be at that time (based on tide and history).

Engine problems: I was on a friend’s boat once when his engine died just as we were about to go under the bridge. We glided under; he steered the boat to the side; and we immediately put the anchor down. He had previously been sailing in rough water, and dirt from the side of his fuel tank got sloshed around. He had a clogged filter, easily solved because he had a spare filter. Make sure you have typically needed spare parts on your boat.

        

But wait – it’s a sailboat, right? Why not just sail through the bridge?

Well, let’s think this through. Do you have many years’ sailing experience? If so, why are you bothering to read someone telling you how to go through a bridge? Going through a bridge is not a dangerous thing to do with engine power. Under sail is a different matter.

The wind shifts unpredictably under a bascule bridge. In fact, a bridge tender can refuse to let a boat go through under sail. Some sailors leave a sail up as they go under, but the smart ones are still under engine power.

But it’s not just bascule bridges. Where I live, recently a bascule bridge was replaced with a 65’ high span. Most sailboats go right under with no problem – some very big sailboats will just have to go outside. I have a friend who has been sailing for many, many years. He could truly be called a master sailor, and would be the “go to” person for many, many people if they needed sailing advice.

And yet, when he tried to sail under that new bridge, he ended up in a real pickle. The wind shifts weirdly under the bridge. I’ve experienced it although I wasn’t able to identify the cause. Worse, he had a current against him – he estimated that it was moving at about 3 knots. Before he knew it, he was through the bridge but the current had sucked him over and jammed his boat against a large construction barge still finishing the bridge up. He and his companion were trying to fend the boat off with little success. Fortunately a power boater came by and gave them a tow (another choice for people in my area would be to call Eckerd College, who would be likely to get there before Boat US). He had three stanchions badly bent, but it could have been much worse.

In retrospect, he believes that he should have realized that the current would make it hard to sail safely under the bridge, especially given the obstacles on the other side. In retrospect, he believes he should have put the anchor down and just waited for the tide to slacken.

This proves there is always something more to learn about sailing!

There’s one more thing you can do before going through a bridge, and that is to gather local knowledge. You can make a general call on your radio to find out if there’s anything unusual about the bridge. You might try calling Boat US, as they will be familiar with bridges in the area since they often have to tow boats through that bridge.

Finally, Bridge Malfunctions: It happens. One time I went through a bascule bridge that could open only one span. There were three or four sailboats on each side waiting to go through. The bridge tender told us all frankly that it was up to us to decide what to do, so we did. We decided that southbound boats would go through first, and then northbound, since there wasn’t room for two boats to pass at the same time safely.

Unfortunately, every once in a while a bridge tender will make a request that just isn’t reasonable. I know of one case where the bridge tender kept insisting that the waiting boat get closer. The skipper did that – and ended up with his boat wedged sideways against a bridge piling. I have to wonder about this incident. I find it hard to believe that the bridge tender didn’t know that this could happen, given the current at the time. Politely tell the bridge tender that you need to keep a safe distance for your boat but that your boat will have the power to get through in a timely way when the bridge opens.

Another time, I was “buddy boating” with another boat. I had been leading the way toward the bridge, but all of a sudden the other boat put more power down, passed me, and headed for the bridge first. The water was very rough, and I think they just wanted more speed going through. Then the bridge tender said to me, “Can you catch up with the other boat?” If I had had one day’s more experience, I would have said, “I’m sorry, sir, but my boat is going as fast as she can.” Instead, I gave the boat more throttle … and she overheated. I ended up being towed under the bridge, and towed home the next day.

FINALLY – and this one is really scary – I know someone for whom the bridge came down on their mast while they were going through. This unfortunate couple owned the last boat in a group sailing together. As in the video, their boat was demasted. It might be that the boat before them said something that led the bridge tender to believe the entire group had passed. I don’t know whether they radioed the bridge tender or not, but every single boat going through should radio the bridge. However, don’t count on the bridge tender to remember how many are going through or to count them accurately. They are only human and may be dealing with other issues at the same time. Given what happened to the people I know who got squashed by a bridge, if I’m the last boat in line, I contact the bridge tender again and tell them that I am the last boat and will be entering the bridge shortly: “Bridge tender, this is the sailing vessel ‘Pink Floyd,’ about to go under your bridge. I am the last boat in the group.” I don’t risk having the bridge close one boat early.

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