RE: [bolger] Your Tax Dollars at Work
>David,A little informative reading:
>
>Great reading....glad to hear you are ok. I've had a few boughts with
>hypothermia. Not fun at all.
http://www.seagrant.umn.edu/tourism/hypothermia.html
YIBB,
David
CRUMBLING EMPIRE PRODUCTIONS
134 West 26th St. 12th Floor
New York, New York 10001
http://www.crumblingempire.com
(212) 247-0296
>I also think leaving the boat would have been a mistake.Leaving the boat would have been a calculated risk. With her down as
hard as she was, there's no guarantee anyone would have noticed I was
out there. It was just by chance that people living on the lake where
watching and saw me go over. If it came to staying past dark, I would
have taken the swim.
The swim to shore was 10-15. The cold water
exhaustion/unconsciousness time table for those conditions is 30-60
minutes. I am quite sure I would have made it to shore, but the boat
would have been left to fetch up on the cobble beach. That's why I
decided to try and right her. If I fell in, I knew I could deal with
the swim to the beach.
OTOH: If I were in conditions where I couldn't rescue myself by
swimming, I'd definitely stay with the boat.
>I've become a convert to the trimaran concept and I'm converting myI'm thinking a trimaran modified surf would be a good beach fishing
>Windsprint to just that. Don't know if I'll be successful, but I'm 50 years
>old, live on Puget Sound (cold water) and the possibility of capsize doesn't
>add to the enjoyment of sailing.
boat for me. I've been using my teal, but I know at some point I'm
going to put her over and in the process probably lose rod, reel,
tackle and maybe the boat herself.
>- Could scooner be modified to be safer or at least more easily righted andThe aft locker of my scooner is sealed (no motor well) and I plan on
>bailed out?
making hatches for the middle and forward lockers. I don't have the
specified foam under the deck, but I think the foam alone is
insufficient for self-rescue. Based on the way the stern floated nice
and high, I think the three lockers will do the trick. But be sure
there will be testing before I put the LSME in a situation that
demands self-rescue
>- Had the the mainsheet been in your hand, would all this have beenI regularly single-hand the scooner under main, fore, and jib. The
>prevented?
clubfooted jib is self-tending, so make is fast; I keep the fore and
main sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other. When you loose
the foresail, and keep the main hard, the boat rounds up quickly with
no tiller adjustment. The stonger the puff, the quicker it rounds up.
Yesterday I was under foresail alone; if I had had the sheet in my
hand, I'd have had nothing to write about but the seal.
>- Or is dumping the scooner an inevitability?The light scooner could be called a double sized laser, rigged to
look like an old pirate ship. Is dumping her inevitable? I suppose if
you sailed her specifically to avoid going over the answer is "no."
But she's not that kind of boat. She's a suped up racing dinghy with
an antique look. Sooner or later you're going over!
YIBB,
David
CRUMBLING EMPIRE PRODUCTIONS
134 West 26th St. 12th Floor
New York, New York 10001
http://www.crumblingempire.com
(212) 247-0296
Quite a saga, David Ryan of Montauk. Frankly, I would feel very happy
if I knew it was my tax dollars that called out the Guardian Angels
of the Coast Guard on the chance that they could help. It would mean,
among other things, that none of those particular dollars were spent
on taking "distinguished visitors" on nuclear submarine rides.
Anyway, glad to know you made it ok, and thanks for sharing.
I was just down to take a walk in one of our seaside parks. Long
Island Sound-side parks, if you want to be partcular. It is gusty
from the north and northwest about 25 kts and 35 degrees F. I was not
interested in going sailing. The oystermen were out, either dumping
seed oysters in the bed, or picking up small ones to take to deep
water.
Peter
if I knew it was my tax dollars that called out the Guardian Angels
of the Coast Guard on the chance that they could help. It would mean,
among other things, that none of those particular dollars were spent
on taking "distinguished visitors" on nuclear submarine rides.
Anyway, glad to know you made it ok, and thanks for sharing.
I was just down to take a walk in one of our seaside parks. Long
Island Sound-side parks, if you want to be partcular. It is gusty
from the north and northwest about 25 kts and 35 degrees F. I was not
interested in going sailing. The oystermen were out, either dumping
seed oysters in the bed, or picking up small ones to take to deep
water.
Peter
David,
Thanks for sharing your experience. Personally I'm glad the Coast Guard was
on its way in case you couldn't do what you did. I also think leaving the
boat would have been a mistake.
I've become a convert to the trimaran concept and I'm converting my
Windsprint to just that. Don't know if I'll be successful, but I'm 50 years
old, live on Puget Sound (cold water) and the possibility of capsize doesn't
add to the enjoyment of sailing.
I have a couple of questions:
- Could scooner be modified to be safer or at least more easily righted and
bailed out?
- Had the the mainsheet been in your hand, would all this have been
prevented?
- Or is dumping the scooner an inevitability?
Mike Masten
In a message dated 3/10/01 10:06:09 AM Pacific Standard Time,
david@...writes:
<< FBBB --
As some of you may have inferred from the slow down in my rate of
posts, I've been doing no building, and very, very little sailing this
Winter. The LSME has been on the sand at South Lake Beach taking all
the punishment Winter has to offer and not being sailed at all.
Now the fact is, South Lake is really not a very good Winter anchorage
or beaching place. All of our really big blows come out of the northern
quarter and South Lake is really exposed. The big Nor'easter of earlier
this week pushed the tide about 3 feet above normal maximum high, and
float the boats down there all up and down the beach. The LSME did a
little modification to the starboard rudder of a hobbycat before
settling a considerable distance away from the water.
So yesterday I decided I'd do with the Margaret Ellen what the baymen
do with their boats when the weather turns in the Fall: sail her less
picturesque, but more sheltered spot protected from the West, North,
and East. I'd get a little sailing in, and while I was at it, I could
slosh a little salt water around the boat to ward off any mold that
might have gotten a toe-hold over the last few months.
Maggie toddled up and down the beach while I walked the scooner to the
water's edge. The I took her home, picked of the foresail rigging, went
down to the marina and bought a pair of rubber boots to keep my feet
dry, and a piston type bilge pump, and headed back to the beach. The
wind was light to nonexistent -- no flapping or flogging as I rigged
the sail. In no time I was gliding ever so slowly away from the beach.
About 200 yards out I was joined by juvenile harbor seal. The little
thing swam right up along side the boat and looked my right in the eye
as I ghosted along. The he dropped back to examine the rudder, then
came along the port side and gave me another wink. I was in heaven;
calm grey-green water, slate skies, and a seal escort. At this pace it
was going to take at least an hour to cross the lake, but I didn't
care.
The seal peeled off to do whatever seals do and the wind picked up ever
so slightly, putting a nice shape in the sail. I threw a hitch in the
sheet around one of the unused mainsail halyard cleats, then stood
astride the tiller steering with my knees. To the West I could see the
clouds giving way and the orange of an impending sunset
Everything was perfect, everything was about to go wrong.
I won't say without warning, rarely do such things happen without
warning, but without warning that *I* saw we were hit with a strong
gust. The boat heeled sharply. I went to cast off the sheet, then
thought I was too far away and too late for that and turned to through
the tiller a'lee. Then I was too late for everything and she went over.
Right there in the middle of Lake Montauk, in the middle of Winter, she
went over.
And she kept going! As I scrambled over the rail, and then onto the
bottom I felt the mainmast stick into the silty bottom. As I sat
perched on the daggerboard I though "David, you are stuck and stuck
good." I saw the rudder had fallen out of the gudgeons and along with
my new bilged pump, was drifting away.
The last of the clammers headed in just before I headed out; they're
the only ones on the lake this time of year. But just incase, I scanned
the water, hoping against hope. Nothing, no one. The grey-green water
had lost all its appeal now that I contemplated a 300 yard swim through
it.
Now I have lots of good cold water gear. In fact the reason we moved to
Montauk was for the Winter surf. With the proper wetsuit you can spend
a few hours frolicking in the 40 degree water and subfreezing air and
suffer no lasting effects. Modern wetsuits are cut to give good
mobility while keeping you warm. Unfortunately, my wetsuit was back at
the house. There I was, perched on the bottom of the scooner in my
jeans, sweater, jacket and new rubber boots. I had a feeling my feet
weren't going to stay dry for long.
I have a *very* healthy respect for cold water; I've seen it reduce
strong men to jibbering fools; I've seen it take lives. But I also knew
the swim I was contemplating was not a killer. Cold? Yes. To the first
house with the lights on, pound on the door I need to use your bathtub?
Yes. But not a killer. So I decided to see if there was any hope of
improving my condition before abandoning my boat and making for shore.
I put all the weight I could on the dagger board while maintaining a
grip on the rail. Ever so slowly I could feel her coming up, inch by
inch. The "pop" the mud let loose of the mast and she began to roll up
quickly. I scrambled onto the port topsides, ready to keep going if she
kept rolling up. But she didn't. She settled on beam ends, me perched a
top her. Free of the mud, we began to drift to leeward. Sitting on her
rail, I could ride the LSME to the lee shore and might yet keep my feet
dry.
But it was going to take a long time. The wind was up enough now there
were whitecaps on the lake, but our progress was slow. I decided I try
to get her upright. I still hadn't closed off the midships or forward
lockers and suspected self-rescue wasn't possible, but I didn't know
for sure, and this seemed like a good time to find out.
I climbed back out onto the daggerboard and put my weight into it. Of
course before it was wet for sure vs. staying dry. Now it was dry for
sure vs. maybe getting dumped in the drink. I had no idea how quickly
she might roll up. I leaned back a little harder, waiting to feel her
coming upright.
It turns out, she came up pretty smoothly and I didn't too much trouble
getting onto the rail and back onto the poop deck which rode high
enough to keep my dry. The boat was shifty with all that water in her,
so I stood up to better shift my weight port or starboard as she
sloshed back and forth.
She was down by the bow, floating so low in the water there was no hope
of bailing out the forward cockpit. There was also a good 12 inches of
water in the after cockpit, but some hope of reducing that. I started
in with my pail, but about every minute or so, a good sized whitecap
would come combing over the rail and put all the water I had just
removed back in the boat. It didn't take many go arounds at this to get
discouraged. I looked around for another way to improve my situation.
Now all this time I had been making progress to leeward, and as I
looked downwind, it looked more and more like I was going to fetch up
on a private jetty in the southeast corner of the lake. All that gentle
shoreline and I was headed for the one spot that presented a hazard. I
decided it was time to make a play for getting control of the foresail.
If I could get ahold of the sheet, perhaps I could coax a little
headway out of my swamped craft and avoid the rocks.
I made my way forward and the scooner responded by sinking lower in the
water. By the time I was at the mainmast, it was clear that going any
further forward would mean getting very wet and possibly capsizing
again, and the sheet was still well out of reach. I retreated to the
poop deck, wet from the knee down, and re-accessed.
To this point I've left out one important detail. Being out in the wet
and the weather all winter had caused the dagger board to swell, and I
had to stand on it while clinging to the mast and jump up and down to
drive it home. It now well jammed in the slot, presenting a substantial
impediment to making it into shallow water. I went forward again to
check on it, only getting wetter and confirming that it was indeed
stuck. Once again I retreated to the poop deck. It was beginning to get
dark.
While I was standing there, I noticed a dark figure back at South Lake
Beach. I couldn't make out any detail, but it was clear the figure was
looking at me. Not wanting to raise any alarm, but wanting to
acknowledge that I saw him (her?) I gave a casual wave with one arm. I
hoped the gesture would say "Yes, I've had a bit of trouble. No, I'm
not in any danger. Yes, if you wanted to meet me at the beach I could
use some help bailing this mother out."
The figure turned and left the beach. I saw some motion in the parking
lot and saw the light bar of a police cruiser peeling out of the lot in
a hurry. The "dark figure" had been the navy blue uniform of the East
Hampton town police. Someone must have spotted me and phoned it in.
Nuts!
I was looking more and more like I was going to miss the jetty and
fetch up on the cobbley beach just to the West. I thought some more
about my jammed dagger board and decided that when I hit ground with
it, I'd put the boat over on her side. That would let me get into about
two and a half feet of water. From there I could get out, try to do
something about the board, unrig, right, and bail the boat out. In the
bushes above the beach I saw someone moving around, and figured it was
the policeman come to check up on me. Well at least when I got within
shouting distance I could tell him I was uninjured, not yet
hypothermic, and unless he wanted to get soaked, there was nothing he
could really do for me. About 200 yards out, the daggerboard grounded,
I tipped the boat on beam ends, and resumed my sheepish pose on the
topsides.
As I drifted closer, the figure emerged from the brush. It wasn't the
police, it was a woman in a dark coat, spying at me through a pair of
binoculars. Well actually , she wasn't spying at me. She was spying
past me. Strange. It was still to far to yell, and getting darker by
the minute.
Finally at about 75 yards she called out, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"The Coast Guard is one their way!"
The Coast Guard? Oh no. I'm in three feet of water. I'm not in any
danger. There's nothing they can do for me now, except put my name in a
report. I feel totally humiliated. I want to tell her to go back to the
house and tell them I'm fine, but I know that will just confuse things.
Then the policeman appeared on the jetty to my East, only about 20
yards away.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm not sure if I am more cold, or more embarrassed."
"Do you need any help?"
"Not really."
"The Coast Guard is on the way."
"I know." My tone must have revealed my humiliation at the prospect of
being "rescued."
"Do you want me to tell them to cancel?"
"Um, yeah. That would be great."
The policeman brought his radio to his mouth. Thank God for small
favors.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Unless you want to get soaked helping bail her out," knowing there was
no chance he would, but hoping none the less, "I don't think so." I
continued my slow drift to shore.
"What's your name?" the policeman asked. Instantly I saw the right up
in the local paper.
"Do I have to tell you?" I pretended to make myself busy with my inert
craft so as to better ignore him. I heard him saying something, but the
only word I made out was "report." My sense of civic duty told me to
just give him the information he needed to do his job, my sense of
embarrassment told me to say nothing.
"What's your name?" he called again.
"Daaaaaviiiiiid," the word slowly crawled out of my mouth as my two
emotions clashed.
"And your last name?"
"I really don't want to tell you." I really, really didn't want to.
"I need it for my report."
Yes, I know you do. I know you're just doing your job. I don't want to
be a pain in the ass, but I really, really, really want to remain
anonymous. Finally my last name crept out of my throat
"Rrrryyyyaaaaaaaannn." I was in agony.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Maaawwwntaaalllkk." It told a full 10 seconds for the word to cross
my lips. Have some compassion man, haven't I told you enough?
"What street?"
I can see it now: David Ryan of 190 S.Fairview Ave is a complete idiot.
His total lack of judgement necessitated a Coast Guard rescue. His
foolishness put the lives of our brave boys in jeopardy and cost tens
of thousands of taxpayer dollars.
"It's not true, it's not true! I just went for a little sail on the
lake. Had a spot of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. Why here I am,
just yards from shore. I'm not even that wet! And I'm not in any
danger!" I decided these were thoughts best kept to myself.
"South Fairview Avenue," I answered slowly, the house number
conspicuous in it's absence. If it was really important they had more
than enough information to find me.
"I think I see them coming!" It was the woman again, binoculars to her
eyes, looking out onto the lake.
I turned and saw the launch about half a mile away. They had there
search light on and were looking for me. Clearly there had been a
communication breakdown between the officer, his dispatcher and the
Coast Guard. He was back on the radio, but whatever instructions he was
giving were being garbled in the relay and they weren't getting any
closer. Beside, the water was much to shallow now. With luck they
wouldn't even be able to get within shouting distance.
Finally the rail grounded. It was time to get wet for real. The water
was cold, but once you got used to it... I got the sail down, I managed
the work the daggerboard out, and without my weight I could get her
into about a foot of water. The policeman left, the woman left and the
Coast Guard disappeared into the darkness. Whether they had listed me
as missing at sea, or the police had finally managed to tell them I was
ashore, I didn't know.
I got the scooner bailed out, and as I walked her down the shore to
South Lake Beach, I found the rudder and tossed it in the boat. The
tide was near flood, so I tied her off and hurried back to the car. On
the way home, it became clear that I was in the grips of hypothermia --
I used to kayak in the mountains in the Winter, the feeling was not
unfamiliar. My body shook violently and my feet hurt so much all I
could do was cry out in pain. Fortunately, home was only five minutes
away.
I burst through the door and headed straight for the tub, climbing in
fully dress and turning on hot tap. We put in a tankless water heater a
couple of years ago, and if necessary I intended to stay in until our
500 gallon propane tank was empty. The shaking got worse before it got
better, and the daughter Margaret Ellen looked a little worried at her
daddy's distress. My wife made me a big cup of Earl Grey. That seemed
to do the trick.
This morning, as I wrote this up, the phone rang.
"This is David," I answered.
"Mr. Ryan?"
"Yes," I answered.
"This is Coast Guard Petty Officer Buddy Hinkle."
"I deny everything. I wasn't even in Montauk yesterday, let alone out
sailing."
Buddy was a little bit thrown.
"Look, tell me what you need to fill out your report."
Buddy asked me the name of the vessel, the length, the registration
number. I asked Buddy if they ever even made visual contact. He said
they did, but by that time I was in too close for them to render
assistance. Thank goodness.
I thanked him and his colleagues for coming out, but felt compelled to
tell him I never really felt like I was in danger. I'm not sure why I
needed to say it,but I did, and that was that.
There's another fact I haven't mentioned. Aside from not doing any
sailing or building, I've done almost no surfing or shelf-fishing. The
last couple of weeks I've slept terribly. suffering nightly from very
upsetting dreams. The night before last I dreamed I unwittingly became
involved in an S&R for a woman who went missing at the beach. I had the
dubious honor of being the one who found her body, and am now saddled
with a vivid image of her grey, lifeless, open-mouthed corpse wedged
under a the ledge of a reef. Needless to say, I haven't been waking
from these dreams feeling refreshed.
Last night I slept like a baby.
YIBB,
David
Thanks for sharing your experience. Personally I'm glad the Coast Guard was
on its way in case you couldn't do what you did. I also think leaving the
boat would have been a mistake.
I've become a convert to the trimaran concept and I'm converting my
Windsprint to just that. Don't know if I'll be successful, but I'm 50 years
old, live on Puget Sound (cold water) and the possibility of capsize doesn't
add to the enjoyment of sailing.
I have a couple of questions:
- Could scooner be modified to be safer or at least more easily righted and
bailed out?
- Had the the mainsheet been in your hand, would all this have been
prevented?
- Or is dumping the scooner an inevitability?
Mike Masten
In a message dated 3/10/01 10:06:09 AM Pacific Standard Time,
david@...writes:
<< FBBB --
As some of you may have inferred from the slow down in my rate of
posts, I've been doing no building, and very, very little sailing this
Winter. The LSME has been on the sand at South Lake Beach taking all
the punishment Winter has to offer and not being sailed at all.
Now the fact is, South Lake is really not a very good Winter anchorage
or beaching place. All of our really big blows come out of the northern
quarter and South Lake is really exposed. The big Nor'easter of earlier
this week pushed the tide about 3 feet above normal maximum high, and
float the boats down there all up and down the beach. The LSME did a
little modification to the starboard rudder of a hobbycat before
settling a considerable distance away from the water.
So yesterday I decided I'd do with the Margaret Ellen what the baymen
do with their boats when the weather turns in the Fall: sail her less
picturesque, but more sheltered spot protected from the West, North,
and East. I'd get a little sailing in, and while I was at it, I could
slosh a little salt water around the boat to ward off any mold that
might have gotten a toe-hold over the last few months.
Maggie toddled up and down the beach while I walked the scooner to the
water's edge. The I took her home, picked of the foresail rigging, went
down to the marina and bought a pair of rubber boots to keep my feet
dry, and a piston type bilge pump, and headed back to the beach. The
wind was light to nonexistent -- no flapping or flogging as I rigged
the sail. In no time I was gliding ever so slowly away from the beach.
About 200 yards out I was joined by juvenile harbor seal. The little
thing swam right up along side the boat and looked my right in the eye
as I ghosted along. The he dropped back to examine the rudder, then
came along the port side and gave me another wink. I was in heaven;
calm grey-green water, slate skies, and a seal escort. At this pace it
was going to take at least an hour to cross the lake, but I didn't
care.
The seal peeled off to do whatever seals do and the wind picked up ever
so slightly, putting a nice shape in the sail. I threw a hitch in the
sheet around one of the unused mainsail halyard cleats, then stood
astride the tiller steering with my knees. To the West I could see the
clouds giving way and the orange of an impending sunset
Everything was perfect, everything was about to go wrong.
I won't say without warning, rarely do such things happen without
warning, but without warning that *I* saw we were hit with a strong
gust. The boat heeled sharply. I went to cast off the sheet, then
thought I was too far away and too late for that and turned to through
the tiller a'lee. Then I was too late for everything and she went over.
Right there in the middle of Lake Montauk, in the middle of Winter, she
went over.
And she kept going! As I scrambled over the rail, and then onto the
bottom I felt the mainmast stick into the silty bottom. As I sat
perched on the daggerboard I though "David, you are stuck and stuck
good." I saw the rudder had fallen out of the gudgeons and along with
my new bilged pump, was drifting away.
The last of the clammers headed in just before I headed out; they're
the only ones on the lake this time of year. But just incase, I scanned
the water, hoping against hope. Nothing, no one. The grey-green water
had lost all its appeal now that I contemplated a 300 yard swim through
it.
Now I have lots of good cold water gear. In fact the reason we moved to
Montauk was for the Winter surf. With the proper wetsuit you can spend
a few hours frolicking in the 40 degree water and subfreezing air and
suffer no lasting effects. Modern wetsuits are cut to give good
mobility while keeping you warm. Unfortunately, my wetsuit was back at
the house. There I was, perched on the bottom of the scooner in my
jeans, sweater, jacket and new rubber boots. I had a feeling my feet
weren't going to stay dry for long.
I have a *very* healthy respect for cold water; I've seen it reduce
strong men to jibbering fools; I've seen it take lives. But I also knew
the swim I was contemplating was not a killer. Cold? Yes. To the first
house with the lights on, pound on the door I need to use your bathtub?
Yes. But not a killer. So I decided to see if there was any hope of
improving my condition before abandoning my boat and making for shore.
I put all the weight I could on the dagger board while maintaining a
grip on the rail. Ever so slowly I could feel her coming up, inch by
inch. The "pop" the mud let loose of the mast and she began to roll up
quickly. I scrambled onto the port topsides, ready to keep going if she
kept rolling up. But she didn't. She settled on beam ends, me perched a
top her. Free of the mud, we began to drift to leeward. Sitting on her
rail, I could ride the LSME to the lee shore and might yet keep my feet
dry.
But it was going to take a long time. The wind was up enough now there
were whitecaps on the lake, but our progress was slow. I decided I try
to get her upright. I still hadn't closed off the midships or forward
lockers and suspected self-rescue wasn't possible, but I didn't know
for sure, and this seemed like a good time to find out.
I climbed back out onto the daggerboard and put my weight into it. Of
course before it was wet for sure vs. staying dry. Now it was dry for
sure vs. maybe getting dumped in the drink. I had no idea how quickly
she might roll up. I leaned back a little harder, waiting to feel her
coming upright.
It turns out, she came up pretty smoothly and I didn't too much trouble
getting onto the rail and back onto the poop deck which rode high
enough to keep my dry. The boat was shifty with all that water in her,
so I stood up to better shift my weight port or starboard as she
sloshed back and forth.
She was down by the bow, floating so low in the water there was no hope
of bailing out the forward cockpit. There was also a good 12 inches of
water in the after cockpit, but some hope of reducing that. I started
in with my pail, but about every minute or so, a good sized whitecap
would come combing over the rail and put all the water I had just
removed back in the boat. It didn't take many go arounds at this to get
discouraged. I looked around for another way to improve my situation.
Now all this time I had been making progress to leeward, and as I
looked downwind, it looked more and more like I was going to fetch up
on a private jetty in the southeast corner of the lake. All that gentle
shoreline and I was headed for the one spot that presented a hazard. I
decided it was time to make a play for getting control of the foresail.
If I could get ahold of the sheet, perhaps I could coax a little
headway out of my swamped craft and avoid the rocks.
I made my way forward and the scooner responded by sinking lower in the
water. By the time I was at the mainmast, it was clear that going any
further forward would mean getting very wet and possibly capsizing
again, and the sheet was still well out of reach. I retreated to the
poop deck, wet from the knee down, and re-accessed.
To this point I've left out one important detail. Being out in the wet
and the weather all winter had caused the dagger board to swell, and I
had to stand on it while clinging to the mast and jump up and down to
drive it home. It now well jammed in the slot, presenting a substantial
impediment to making it into shallow water. I went forward again to
check on it, only getting wetter and confirming that it was indeed
stuck. Once again I retreated to the poop deck. It was beginning to get
dark.
While I was standing there, I noticed a dark figure back at South Lake
Beach. I couldn't make out any detail, but it was clear the figure was
looking at me. Not wanting to raise any alarm, but wanting to
acknowledge that I saw him (her?) I gave a casual wave with one arm. I
hoped the gesture would say "Yes, I've had a bit of trouble. No, I'm
not in any danger. Yes, if you wanted to meet me at the beach I could
use some help bailing this mother out."
The figure turned and left the beach. I saw some motion in the parking
lot and saw the light bar of a police cruiser peeling out of the lot in
a hurry. The "dark figure" had been the navy blue uniform of the East
Hampton town police. Someone must have spotted me and phoned it in.
Nuts!
I was looking more and more like I was going to miss the jetty and
fetch up on the cobbley beach just to the West. I thought some more
about my jammed dagger board and decided that when I hit ground with
it, I'd put the boat over on her side. That would let me get into about
two and a half feet of water. From there I could get out, try to do
something about the board, unrig, right, and bail the boat out. In the
bushes above the beach I saw someone moving around, and figured it was
the policeman come to check up on me. Well at least when I got within
shouting distance I could tell him I was uninjured, not yet
hypothermic, and unless he wanted to get soaked, there was nothing he
could really do for me. About 200 yards out, the daggerboard grounded,
I tipped the boat on beam ends, and resumed my sheepish pose on the
topsides.
As I drifted closer, the figure emerged from the brush. It wasn't the
police, it was a woman in a dark coat, spying at me through a pair of
binoculars. Well actually , she wasn't spying at me. She was spying
past me. Strange. It was still to far to yell, and getting darker by
the minute.
Finally at about 75 yards she called out, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"The Coast Guard is one their way!"
The Coast Guard? Oh no. I'm in three feet of water. I'm not in any
danger. There's nothing they can do for me now, except put my name in a
report. I feel totally humiliated. I want to tell her to go back to the
house and tell them I'm fine, but I know that will just confuse things.
Then the policeman appeared on the jetty to my East, only about 20
yards away.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm not sure if I am more cold, or more embarrassed."
"Do you need any help?"
"Not really."
"The Coast Guard is on the way."
"I know." My tone must have revealed my humiliation at the prospect of
being "rescued."
"Do you want me to tell them to cancel?"
"Um, yeah. That would be great."
The policeman brought his radio to his mouth. Thank God for small
favors.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Unless you want to get soaked helping bail her out," knowing there was
no chance he would, but hoping none the less, "I don't think so." I
continued my slow drift to shore.
"What's your name?" the policeman asked. Instantly I saw the right up
in the local paper.
"Do I have to tell you?" I pretended to make myself busy with my inert
craft so as to better ignore him. I heard him saying something, but the
only word I made out was "report." My sense of civic duty told me to
just give him the information he needed to do his job, my sense of
embarrassment told me to say nothing.
"What's your name?" he called again.
"Daaaaaviiiiiid," the word slowly crawled out of my mouth as my two
emotions clashed.
"And your last name?"
"I really don't want to tell you." I really, really didn't want to.
"I need it for my report."
Yes, I know you do. I know you're just doing your job. I don't want to
be a pain in the ass, but I really, really, really want to remain
anonymous. Finally my last name crept out of my throat
"Rrrryyyyaaaaaaaannn." I was in agony.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Maaawwwntaaalllkk." It told a full 10 seconds for the word to cross
my lips. Have some compassion man, haven't I told you enough?
"What street?"
I can see it now: David Ryan of 190 S.Fairview Ave is a complete idiot.
His total lack of judgement necessitated a Coast Guard rescue. His
foolishness put the lives of our brave boys in jeopardy and cost tens
of thousands of taxpayer dollars.
"It's not true, it's not true! I just went for a little sail on the
lake. Had a spot of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. Why here I am,
just yards from shore. I'm not even that wet! And I'm not in any
danger!" I decided these were thoughts best kept to myself.
"South Fairview Avenue," I answered slowly, the house number
conspicuous in it's absence. If it was really important they had more
than enough information to find me.
"I think I see them coming!" It was the woman again, binoculars to her
eyes, looking out onto the lake.
I turned and saw the launch about half a mile away. They had there
search light on and were looking for me. Clearly there had been a
communication breakdown between the officer, his dispatcher and the
Coast Guard. He was back on the radio, but whatever instructions he was
giving were being garbled in the relay and they weren't getting any
closer. Beside, the water was much to shallow now. With luck they
wouldn't even be able to get within shouting distance.
Finally the rail grounded. It was time to get wet for real. The water
was cold, but once you got used to it... I got the sail down, I managed
the work the daggerboard out, and without my weight I could get her
into about a foot of water. The policeman left, the woman left and the
Coast Guard disappeared into the darkness. Whether they had listed me
as missing at sea, or the police had finally managed to tell them I was
ashore, I didn't know.
I got the scooner bailed out, and as I walked her down the shore to
South Lake Beach, I found the rudder and tossed it in the boat. The
tide was near flood, so I tied her off and hurried back to the car. On
the way home, it became clear that I was in the grips of hypothermia --
I used to kayak in the mountains in the Winter, the feeling was not
unfamiliar. My body shook violently and my feet hurt so much all I
could do was cry out in pain. Fortunately, home was only five minutes
away.
I burst through the door and headed straight for the tub, climbing in
fully dress and turning on hot tap. We put in a tankless water heater a
couple of years ago, and if necessary I intended to stay in until our
500 gallon propane tank was empty. The shaking got worse before it got
better, and the daughter Margaret Ellen looked a little worried at her
daddy's distress. My wife made me a big cup of Earl Grey. That seemed
to do the trick.
This morning, as I wrote this up, the phone rang.
"This is David," I answered.
"Mr. Ryan?"
"Yes," I answered.
"This is Coast Guard Petty Officer Buddy Hinkle."
"I deny everything. I wasn't even in Montauk yesterday, let alone out
sailing."
Buddy was a little bit thrown.
"Look, tell me what you need to fill out your report."
Buddy asked me the name of the vessel, the length, the registration
number. I asked Buddy if they ever even made visual contact. He said
they did, but by that time I was in too close for them to render
assistance. Thank goodness.
I thanked him and his colleagues for coming out, but felt compelled to
tell him I never really felt like I was in danger. I'm not sure why I
needed to say it,but I did, and that was that.
There's another fact I haven't mentioned. Aside from not doing any
sailing or building, I've done almost no surfing or shelf-fishing. The
last couple of weeks I've slept terribly. suffering nightly from very
upsetting dreams. The night before last I dreamed I unwittingly became
involved in an S&R for a woman who went missing at the beach. I had the
dubious honor of being the one who found her body, and am now saddled
with a vivid image of her grey, lifeless, open-mouthed corpse wedged
under a the ledge of a reef. Needless to say, I haven't been waking
from these dreams feeling refreshed.
Last night I slept like a baby.
YIBB,
David
>>
In a message dated 3/10/01 12:06:22 PM Central Standard Time,
david@... writes:
david@... writes:
So yesterday I decided I'd do with the Margaret Ellen what the baymen
Wow! This a GREAT STORY and deserves to be saved in a less ephemeral medium
than e-mail (or e-groups, or whatever). If not in WoodenBoat, then in MAIB.
If not print, then in "Duckworks". I have had my moments of being cold, alone
and scared in small sailboats and your account has brought back long dormant
memories with a vividness that has me shivering. GREAT STUFF!
Bill in MN
David,
Great reading....glad to hear you are ok. I've had a few boughts with
hypothermia. Not fun at all.
Jim
Great reading....glad to hear you are ok. I've had a few boughts with
hypothermia. Not fun at all.
Jim
> -----Original Message-----
> From:david@...[mailto:david@...]
> Sent: Saturday, March 10, 2001 10:04 AM
> To:bolger@yahoogroups.com
> Subject: [bolger] Your Tax Dollars at Work
>
>
> FBBB --
>
> As some of you may have inferred from the slow down in my rate of
> posts, I've been doing no building, and very, very little sailing this
> Winter. The LSME has been on the sand at South Lake Beach taking all
> the punishment Winter has to offer and not being sailed at all.
>
> Now the fact is, South Lake is really not a very good Winter anchorage
> or beaching place. All of our really big blows come out of the northern
> quarter and South Lake is really exposed. The big Nor'easter of earlier
> this week pushed the tide about 3 feet above normal maximum high, and
> float the boats down there all up and down the beach. The LSME did a
> little modification to the starboard rudder of a hobbycat before
> settling a considerable distance away from the water.
>
> So yesterday I decided I'd do with the Margaret Ellen what the baymen
> do with their boats when the weather turns in the Fall: sail her less
> picturesque, but more sheltered spot protected from the West, North,
> and East. I'd get a little sailing in, and while I was at it, I could
> slosh a little salt water around the boat to ward off any mold that
> might have gotten a toe-hold over the last few months.
>
> Maggie toddled up and down the beach while I walked the scooner to the
> water's edge. The I took her home, picked of the foresail rigging, went
> down to the marina and bought a pair of rubber boots to keep my feet
> dry, and a piston type bilge pump, and headed back to the beach. The
> wind was light to nonexistent -- no flapping or flogging as I rigged
> the sail. In no time I was gliding ever so slowly away from the beach.
>
> About 200 yards out I was joined by juvenile harbor seal. The little
> thing swam right up along side the boat and looked my right in the eye
> as I ghosted along. The he dropped back to examine the rudder, then
> came along the port side and gave me another wink. I was in heaven;
> calm grey-green water, slate skies, and a seal escort. At this pace it
> was going to take at least an hour to cross the lake, but I didn't
> care.
>
> The seal peeled off to do whatever seals do and the wind picked up ever
> so slightly, putting a nice shape in the sail. I threw a hitch in the
> sheet around one of the unused mainsail halyard cleats, then stood
> astride the tiller steering with my knees. To the West I could see the
> clouds giving way and the orange of an impending sunset
>
> Everything was perfect, everything was about to go wrong.
>
> I won't say without warning, rarely do such things happen without
> warning, but without warning that *I* saw we were hit with a strong
> gust. The boat heeled sharply. I went to cast off the sheet, then
> thought I was too far away and too late for that and turned to through
> the tiller a'lee. Then I was too late for everything and she went over.
> Right there in the middle of Lake Montauk, in the middle of Winter, she
> went over.
>
> And she kept going! As I scrambled over the rail, and then onto the
> bottom I felt the mainmast stick into the silty bottom. As I sat
> perched on the daggerboard I though "David, you are stuck and stuck
> good." I saw the rudder had fallen out of the gudgeons and along with
> my new bilged pump, was drifting away.
>
> The last of the clammers headed in just before I headed out; they're
> the only ones on the lake this time of year. But just incase, I scanned
> the water, hoping against hope. Nothing, no one. The grey-green water
> had lost all its appeal now that I contemplated a 300 yard swim through
> it.
>
> Now I have lots of good cold water gear. In fact the reason we moved to
> Montauk was for the Winter surf. With the proper wetsuit you can spend
> a few hours frolicking in the 40 degree water and subfreezing air and
> suffer no lasting effects. Modern wetsuits are cut to give good
> mobility while keeping you warm. Unfortunately, my wetsuit was back at
> the house. There I was, perched on the bottom of the scooner in my
> jeans, sweater, jacket and new rubber boots. I had a feeling my feet
> weren't going to stay dry for long.
>
> I have a *very* healthy respect for cold water; I've seen it reduce
> strong men to jibbering fools; I've seen it take lives. But I also knew
> the swim I was contemplating was not a killer. Cold? Yes. To the first
> house with the lights on, pound on the door I need to use your bathtub?
> Yes. But not a killer. So I decided to see if there was any hope of
> improving my condition before abandoning my boat and making for shore.
>
> I put all the weight I could on the dagger board while maintaining a
> grip on the rail. Ever so slowly I could feel her coming up, inch by
> inch. The "pop" the mud let loose of the mast and she began to roll up
> quickly. I scrambled onto the port topsides, ready to keep going if she
> kept rolling up. But she didn't. She settled on beam ends, me perched a
> top her. Free of the mud, we began to drift to leeward. Sitting on her
> rail, I could ride the LSME to the lee shore and might yet keep my feet
> dry.
>
> But it was going to take a long time. The wind was up enough now there
> were whitecaps on the lake, but our progress was slow. I decided I try
> to get her upright. I still hadn't closed off the midships or forward
> lockers and suspected self-rescue wasn't possible, but I didn't know
> for sure, and this seemed like a good time to find out.
>
> I climbed back out onto the daggerboard and put my weight into it. Of
> course before it was wet for sure vs. staying dry. Now it was dry for
> sure vs. maybe getting dumped in the drink. I had no idea how quickly
> she might roll up. I leaned back a little harder, waiting to feel her
> coming upright.
>
> It turns out, she came up pretty smoothly and I didn't too much trouble
> getting onto the rail and back onto the poop deck which rode high
> enough to keep my dry. The boat was shifty with all that water in her,
> so I stood up to better shift my weight port or starboard as she
> sloshed back and forth.
>
> She was down by the bow, floating so low in the water there was no hope
> of bailing out the forward cockpit. There was also a good 12 inches of
> water in the after cockpit, but some hope of reducing that. I started
> in with my pail, but about every minute or so, a good sized whitecap
> would come combing over the rail and put all the water I had just
> removed back in the boat. It didn't take many go arounds at this to get
> discouraged. I looked around for another way to improve my situation.
>
> Now all this time I had been making progress to leeward, and as I
> looked downwind, it looked more and more like I was going to fetch up
> on a private jetty in the southeast corner of the lake. All that gentle
> shoreline and I was headed for the one spot that presented a hazard. I
> decided it was time to make a play for getting control of the foresail.
> If I could get ahold of the sheet, perhaps I could coax a little
> headway out of my swamped craft and avoid the rocks.
>
> I made my way forward and the scooner responded by sinking lower in the
> water. By the time I was at the mainmast, it was clear that going any
> further forward would mean getting very wet and possibly capsizing
> again, and the sheet was still well out of reach. I retreated to the
> poop deck, wet from the knee down, and re-accessed.
>
> To this point I've left out one important detail. Being out in the wet
> and the weather all winter had caused the dagger board to swell, and I
> had to stand on it while clinging to the mast and jump up and down to
> drive it home. It now well jammed in the slot, presenting a substantial
> impediment to making it into shallow water. I went forward again to
> check on it, only getting wetter and confirming that it was indeed
> stuck. Once again I retreated to the poop deck. It was beginning to get
> dark.
>
> While I was standing there, I noticed a dark figure back at South Lake
> Beach. I couldn't make out any detail, but it was clear the figure was
> looking at me. Not wanting to raise any alarm, but wanting to
> acknowledge that I saw him (her?) I gave a casual wave with one arm. I
> hoped the gesture would say "Yes, I've had a bit of trouble. No, I'm
> not in any danger. Yes, if you wanted to meet me at the beach I could
> use some help bailing this mother out."
>
> The figure turned and left the beach. I saw some motion in the parking
> lot and saw the light bar of a police cruiser peeling out of the lot in
> a hurry. The "dark figure" had been the navy blue uniform of the East
> Hampton town police. Someone must have spotted me and phoned it in.
> Nuts!
>
> I was looking more and more like I was going to miss the jetty and
> fetch up on the cobbley beach just to the West. I thought some more
> about my jammed dagger board and decided that when I hit ground with
> it, I'd put the boat over on her side. That would let me get into about
> two and a half feet of water. From there I could get out, try to do
> something about the board, unrig, right, and bail the boat out. In the
> bushes above the beach I saw someone moving around, and figured it was
> the policeman come to check up on me. Well at least when I got within
> shouting distance I could tell him I was uninjured, not yet
> hypothermic, and unless he wanted to get soaked, there was nothing he
> could really do for me. About 200 yards out, the daggerboard grounded,
> I tipped the boat on beam ends, and resumed my sheepish pose on the
> topsides.
>
> As I drifted closer, the figure emerged from the brush. It wasn't the
> police, it was a woman in a dark coat, spying at me through a pair of
> binoculars. Well actually , she wasn't spying at me. She was spying
> past me. Strange. It was still to far to yell, and getting darker by
> the minute.
>
> Finally at about 75 yards she called out, "Are you okay?"
>
> "Yes, I'm fine."
>
> "The Coast Guard is one their way!"
>
> The Coast Guard? Oh no. I'm in three feet of water. I'm not in any
> danger. There's nothing they can do for me now, except put my name in a
> report. I feel totally humiliated. I want to tell her to go back to the
> house and tell them I'm fine, but I know that will just confuse things.
>
> Then the policeman appeared on the jetty to my East, only about 20
> yards away.
>
> "How are you doing?"
>
> "I'm not sure if I am more cold, or more embarrassed."
>
> "Do you need any help?"
>
> "Not really."
>
> "The Coast Guard is on the way."
>
> "I know." My tone must have revealed my humiliation at the prospect of
> being "rescued."
>
> "Do you want me to tell them to cancel?"
>
> "Um, yeah. That would be great."
>
> The policeman brought his radio to his mouth. Thank God for small
> favors.
>
> "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
>
> "Unless you want to get soaked helping bail her out," knowing there was
> no chance he would, but hoping none the less, "I don't think so." I
> continued my slow drift to shore.
>
> "What's your name?" the policeman asked. Instantly I saw the right up
> in the local paper.
>
> "Do I have to tell you?" I pretended to make myself busy with my inert
> craft so as to better ignore him. I heard him saying something, but the
> only word I made out was "report." My sense of civic duty told me to
> just give him the information he needed to do his job, my sense of
> embarrassment told me to say nothing.
>
> "What's your name?" he called again.
>
> "Daaaaaviiiiiid," the word slowly crawled out of my mouth as my two
> emotions clashed.
>
> "And your last name?"
>
> "I really don't want to tell you." I really, really didn't want to.
>
> "I need it for my report."
>
> Yes, I know you do. I know you're just doing your job. I don't want to
> be a pain in the ass, but I really, really, really want to remain
> anonymous. Finally my last name crept out of my throat
>
> "Rrrryyyyaaaaaaaannn." I was in agony.
>
> "Where do you live?" he asked.
>
> "Maaawwwntaaalllkk." It told a full 10 seconds for the word to cross
> my lips. Have some compassion man, haven't I told you enough?
>
> "What street?"
>
> I can see it now: David Ryan of 190 S.Fairview Ave is a complete idiot.
> His total lack of judgement necessitated a Coast Guard rescue. His
> foolishness put the lives of our brave boys in jeopardy and cost tens
> of thousands of taxpayer dollars.
>
> "It's not true, it's not true! I just went for a little sail on the
> lake. Had a spot of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. Why here I am,
> just yards from shore. I'm not even that wet! And I'm not in any
> danger!" I decided these were thoughts best kept to myself.
>
> "South Fairview Avenue," I answered slowly, the house number
> conspicuous in it's absence. If it was really important they had more
> than enough information to find me.
>
> "I think I see them coming!" It was the woman again, binoculars to her
> eyes, looking out onto the lake.
>
> I turned and saw the launch about half a mile away. They had there
> search light on and were looking for me. Clearly there had been a
> communication breakdown between the officer, his dispatcher and the
> Coast Guard. He was back on the radio, but whatever instructions he was
> giving were being garbled in the relay and they weren't getting any
> closer. Beside, the water was much to shallow now. With luck they
> wouldn't even be able to get within shouting distance.
>
> Finally the rail grounded. It was time to get wet for real. The water
> was cold, but once you got used to it... I got the sail down, I managed
> the work the daggerboard out, and without my weight I could get her
> into about a foot of water. The policeman left, the woman left and the
> Coast Guard disappeared into the darkness. Whether they had listed me
> as missing at sea, or the police had finally managed to tell them I was
> ashore, I didn't know.
>
> I got the scooner bailed out, and as I walked her down the shore to
> South Lake Beach, I found the rudder and tossed it in the boat. The
> tide was near flood, so I tied her off and hurried back to the car. On
> the way home, it became clear that I was in the grips of hypothermia --
> I used to kayak in the mountains in the Winter, the feeling was not
> unfamiliar. My body shook violently and my feet hurt so much all I
> could do was cry out in pain. Fortunately, home was only five minutes
> away.
>
> I burst through the door and headed straight for the tub, climbing in
> fully dress and turning on hot tap. We put in a tankless water heater a
> couple of years ago, and if necessary I intended to stay in until our
> 500 gallon propane tank was empty. The shaking got worse before it got
> better, and the daughter Margaret Ellen looked a little worried at her
> daddy's distress. My wife made me a big cup of Earl Grey. That seemed
> to do the trick.
>
> This morning, as I wrote this up, the phone rang.
>
> "This is David," I answered.
>
> "Mr. Ryan?"
>
> "Yes," I answered.
>
> "This is Coast Guard Petty Officer Buddy Hinkle."
>
> "I deny everything. I wasn't even in Montauk yesterday, let alone out
> sailing."
>
> Buddy was a little bit thrown.
>
> "Look, tell me what you need to fill out your report."
>
> Buddy asked me the name of the vessel, the length, the registration
> number. I asked Buddy if they ever even made visual contact. He said
> they did, but by that time I was in too close for them to render
> assistance. Thank goodness.
>
> I thanked him and his colleagues for coming out, but felt compelled to
> tell him I never really felt like I was in danger. I'm not sure why I
> needed to say it,but I did, and that was that.
>
> There's another fact I haven't mentioned. Aside from not doing any
> sailing or building, I've done almost no surfing or shelf-fishing. The
> last couple of weeks I've slept terribly. suffering nightly from very
> upsetting dreams. The night before last I dreamed I unwittingly became
> involved in an S&R for a woman who went missing at the beach. I had the
> dubious honor of being the one who found her body, and am now saddled
> with a vivid image of her grey, lifeless, open-mouthed corpse wedged
> under a the ledge of a reef. Needless to say, I haven't been waking
> from these dreams feeling refreshed.
>
> Last night I slept like a baby.
>
> YIBB,
>
> David
>
>
>
>
> Bolger rules!!!
> - no cursing, flaming, trolling, or spamming
> - no flogging dead horses
> - add something: take "thanks!" and "ditto!" posts off-list.
> - stay on topic and punctuate
> - add your comments at the TOP and SIGN your posts
> - To order plans: Mr. Philip C. Bolger, P.O. Box 1209,
> Gloucester, MA, 01930, Fax: (978) 282-1349
>
>
> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject tohttp://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/
>
>
FBBB --
As some of you may have inferred from the slow down in my rate of
posts, I've been doing no building, and very, very little sailing this
Winter. The LSME has been on the sand at South Lake Beach taking all
the punishment Winter has to offer and not being sailed at all.
Now the fact is, South Lake is really not a very good Winter anchorage
or beaching place. All of our really big blows come out of the northern
quarter and South Lake is really exposed. The big Nor'easter of earlier
this week pushed the tide about 3 feet above normal maximum high, and
float the boats down there all up and down the beach. The LSME did a
little modification to the starboard rudder of a hobbycat before
settling a considerable distance away from the water.
So yesterday I decided I'd do with the Margaret Ellen what the baymen
do with their boats when the weather turns in the Fall: sail her less
picturesque, but more sheltered spot protected from the West, North,
and East. I'd get a little sailing in, and while I was at it, I could
slosh a little salt water around the boat to ward off any mold that
might have gotten a toe-hold over the last few months.
Maggie toddled up and down the beach while I walked the scooner to the
water's edge. The I took her home, picked of the foresail rigging, went
down to the marina and bought a pair of rubber boots to keep my feet
dry, and a piston type bilge pump, and headed back to the beach. The
wind was light to nonexistent -- no flapping or flogging as I rigged
the sail. In no time I was gliding ever so slowly away from the beach.
About 200 yards out I was joined by juvenile harbor seal. The little
thing swam right up along side the boat and looked my right in the eye
as I ghosted along. The he dropped back to examine the rudder, then
came along the port side and gave me another wink. I was in heaven;
calm grey-green water, slate skies, and a seal escort. At this pace it
was going to take at least an hour to cross the lake, but I didn't
care.
The seal peeled off to do whatever seals do and the wind picked up ever
so slightly, putting a nice shape in the sail. I threw a hitch in the
sheet around one of the unused mainsail halyard cleats, then stood
astride the tiller steering with my knees. To the West I could see the
clouds giving way and the orange of an impending sunset
Everything was perfect, everything was about to go wrong.
I won't say without warning, rarely do such things happen without
warning, but without warning that *I* saw we were hit with a strong
gust. The boat heeled sharply. I went to cast off the sheet, then
thought I was too far away and too late for that and turned to through
the tiller a'lee. Then I was too late for everything and she went over.
Right there in the middle of Lake Montauk, in the middle of Winter, she
went over.
And she kept going! As I scrambled over the rail, and then onto the
bottom I felt the mainmast stick into the silty bottom. As I sat
perched on the daggerboard I though "David, you are stuck and stuck
good." I saw the rudder had fallen out of the gudgeons and along with
my new bilged pump, was drifting away.
The last of the clammers headed in just before I headed out; they're
the only ones on the lake this time of year. But just incase, I scanned
the water, hoping against hope. Nothing, no one. The grey-green water
had lost all its appeal now that I contemplated a 300 yard swim through
it.
Now I have lots of good cold water gear. In fact the reason we moved to
Montauk was for the Winter surf. With the proper wetsuit you can spend
a few hours frolicking in the 40 degree water and subfreezing air and
suffer no lasting effects. Modern wetsuits are cut to give good
mobility while keeping you warm. Unfortunately, my wetsuit was back at
the house. There I was, perched on the bottom of the scooner in my
jeans, sweater, jacket and new rubber boots. I had a feeling my feet
weren't going to stay dry for long.
I have a *very* healthy respect for cold water; I've seen it reduce
strong men to jibbering fools; I've seen it take lives. But I also knew
the swim I was contemplating was not a killer. Cold? Yes. To the first
house with the lights on, pound on the door I need to use your bathtub?
Yes. But not a killer. So I decided to see if there was any hope of
improving my condition before abandoning my boat and making for shore.
I put all the weight I could on the dagger board while maintaining a
grip on the rail. Ever so slowly I could feel her coming up, inch by
inch. The "pop" the mud let loose of the mast and she began to roll up
quickly. I scrambled onto the port topsides, ready to keep going if she
kept rolling up. But she didn't. She settled on beam ends, me perched a
top her. Free of the mud, we began to drift to leeward. Sitting on her
rail, I could ride the LSME to the lee shore and might yet keep my feet
dry.
But it was going to take a long time. The wind was up enough now there
were whitecaps on the lake, but our progress was slow. I decided I try
to get her upright. I still hadn't closed off the midships or forward
lockers and suspected self-rescue wasn't possible, but I didn't know
for sure, and this seemed like a good time to find out.
I climbed back out onto the daggerboard and put my weight into it. Of
course before it was wet for sure vs. staying dry. Now it was dry for
sure vs. maybe getting dumped in the drink. I had no idea how quickly
she might roll up. I leaned back a little harder, waiting to feel her
coming upright.
It turns out, she came up pretty smoothly and I didn't too much trouble
getting onto the rail and back onto the poop deck which rode high
enough to keep my dry. The boat was shifty with all that water in her,
so I stood up to better shift my weight port or starboard as she
sloshed back and forth.
She was down by the bow, floating so low in the water there was no hope
of bailing out the forward cockpit. There was also a good 12 inches of
water in the after cockpit, but some hope of reducing that. I started
in with my pail, but about every minute or so, a good sized whitecap
would come combing over the rail and put all the water I had just
removed back in the boat. It didn't take many go arounds at this to get
discouraged. I looked around for another way to improve my situation.
Now all this time I had been making progress to leeward, and as I
looked downwind, it looked more and more like I was going to fetch up
on a private jetty in the southeast corner of the lake. All that gentle
shoreline and I was headed for the one spot that presented a hazard. I
decided it was time to make a play for getting control of the foresail.
If I could get ahold of the sheet, perhaps I could coax a little
headway out of my swamped craft and avoid the rocks.
I made my way forward and the scooner responded by sinking lower in the
water. By the time I was at the mainmast, it was clear that going any
further forward would mean getting very wet and possibly capsizing
again, and the sheet was still well out of reach. I retreated to the
poop deck, wet from the knee down, and re-accessed.
To this point I've left out one important detail. Being out in the wet
and the weather all winter had caused the dagger board to swell, and I
had to stand on it while clinging to the mast and jump up and down to
drive it home. It now well jammed in the slot, presenting a substantial
impediment to making it into shallow water. I went forward again to
check on it, only getting wetter and confirming that it was indeed
stuck. Once again I retreated to the poop deck. It was beginning to get
dark.
While I was standing there, I noticed a dark figure back at South Lake
Beach. I couldn't make out any detail, but it was clear the figure was
looking at me. Not wanting to raise any alarm, but wanting to
acknowledge that I saw him (her?) I gave a casual wave with one arm. I
hoped the gesture would say "Yes, I've had a bit of trouble. No, I'm
not in any danger. Yes, if you wanted to meet me at the beach I could
use some help bailing this mother out."
The figure turned and left the beach. I saw some motion in the parking
lot and saw the light bar of a police cruiser peeling out of the lot in
a hurry. The "dark figure" had been the navy blue uniform of the East
Hampton town police. Someone must have spotted me and phoned it in.
Nuts!
I was looking more and more like I was going to miss the jetty and
fetch up on the cobbley beach just to the West. I thought some more
about my jammed dagger board and decided that when I hit ground with
it, I'd put the boat over on her side. That would let me get into about
two and a half feet of water. From there I could get out, try to do
something about the board, unrig, right, and bail the boat out. In the
bushes above the beach I saw someone moving around, and figured it was
the policeman come to check up on me. Well at least when I got within
shouting distance I could tell him I was uninjured, not yet
hypothermic, and unless he wanted to get soaked, there was nothing he
could really do for me. About 200 yards out, the daggerboard grounded,
I tipped the boat on beam ends, and resumed my sheepish pose on the
topsides.
As I drifted closer, the figure emerged from the brush. It wasn't the
police, it was a woman in a dark coat, spying at me through a pair of
binoculars. Well actually , she wasn't spying at me. She was spying
past me. Strange. It was still to far to yell, and getting darker by
the minute.
Finally at about 75 yards she called out, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"The Coast Guard is one their way!"
The Coast Guard? Oh no. I'm in three feet of water. I'm not in any
danger. There's nothing they can do for me now, except put my name in a
report. I feel totally humiliated. I want to tell her to go back to the
house and tell them I'm fine, but I know that will just confuse things.
Then the policeman appeared on the jetty to my East, only about 20
yards away.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm not sure if I am more cold, or more embarrassed."
"Do you need any help?"
"Not really."
"The Coast Guard is on the way."
"I know." My tone must have revealed my humiliation at the prospect of
being "rescued."
"Do you want me to tell them to cancel?"
"Um, yeah. That would be great."
The policeman brought his radio to his mouth. Thank God for small
favors.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Unless you want to get soaked helping bail her out," knowing there was
no chance he would, but hoping none the less, "I don't think so." I
continued my slow drift to shore.
"What's your name?" the policeman asked. Instantly I saw the right up
in the local paper.
"Do I have to tell you?" I pretended to make myself busy with my inert
craft so as to better ignore him. I heard him saying something, but the
only word I made out was "report." My sense of civic duty told me to
just give him the information he needed to do his job, my sense of
embarrassment told me to say nothing.
"What's your name?" he called again.
"Daaaaaviiiiiid," the word slowly crawled out of my mouth as my two
emotions clashed.
"And your last name?"
"I really don't want to tell you." I really, really didn't want to.
"I need it for my report."
Yes, I know you do. I know you're just doing your job. I don't want to
be a pain in the ass, but I really, really, really want to remain
anonymous. Finally my last name crept out of my throat
"Rrrryyyyaaaaaaaannn." I was in agony.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Maaawwwntaaalllkk." It told a full 10 seconds for the word to cross
my lips. Have some compassion man, haven't I told you enough?
"What street?"
I can see it now: David Ryan of 190 S.Fairview Ave is a complete idiot.
His total lack of judgement necessitated a Coast Guard rescue. His
foolishness put the lives of our brave boys in jeopardy and cost tens
of thousands of taxpayer dollars.
"It's not true, it's not true! I just went for a little sail on the
lake. Had a spot of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. Why here I am,
just yards from shore. I'm not even that wet! And I'm not in any
danger!" I decided these were thoughts best kept to myself.
"South Fairview Avenue," I answered slowly, the house number
conspicuous in it's absence. If it was really important they had more
than enough information to find me.
"I think I see them coming!" It was the woman again, binoculars to her
eyes, looking out onto the lake.
I turned and saw the launch about half a mile away. They had there
search light on and were looking for me. Clearly there had been a
communication breakdown between the officer, his dispatcher and the
Coast Guard. He was back on the radio, but whatever instructions he was
giving were being garbled in the relay and they weren't getting any
closer. Beside, the water was much to shallow now. With luck they
wouldn't even be able to get within shouting distance.
Finally the rail grounded. It was time to get wet for real. The water
was cold, but once you got used to it... I got the sail down, I managed
the work the daggerboard out, and without my weight I could get her
into about a foot of water. The policeman left, the woman left and the
Coast Guard disappeared into the darkness. Whether they had listed me
as missing at sea, or the police had finally managed to tell them I was
ashore, I didn't know.
I got the scooner bailed out, and as I walked her down the shore to
South Lake Beach, I found the rudder and tossed it in the boat. The
tide was near flood, so I tied her off and hurried back to the car. On
the way home, it became clear that I was in the grips of hypothermia --
I used to kayak in the mountains in the Winter, the feeling was not
unfamiliar. My body shook violently and my feet hurt so much all I
could do was cry out in pain. Fortunately, home was only five minutes
away.
I burst through the door and headed straight for the tub, climbing in
fully dress and turning on hot tap. We put in a tankless water heater a
couple of years ago, and if necessary I intended to stay in until our
500 gallon propane tank was empty. The shaking got worse before it got
better, and the daughter Margaret Ellen looked a little worried at her
daddy's distress. My wife made me a big cup of Earl Grey. That seemed
to do the trick.
This morning, as I wrote this up, the phone rang.
"This is David," I answered.
"Mr. Ryan?"
"Yes," I answered.
"This is Coast Guard Petty Officer Buddy Hinkle."
"I deny everything. I wasn't even in Montauk yesterday, let alone out
sailing."
Buddy was a little bit thrown.
"Look, tell me what you need to fill out your report."
Buddy asked me the name of the vessel, the length, the registration
number. I asked Buddy if they ever even made visual contact. He said
they did, but by that time I was in too close for them to render
assistance. Thank goodness.
I thanked him and his colleagues for coming out, but felt compelled to
tell him I never really felt like I was in danger. I'm not sure why I
needed to say it,but I did, and that was that.
There's another fact I haven't mentioned. Aside from not doing any
sailing or building, I've done almost no surfing or shelf-fishing. The
last couple of weeks I've slept terribly. suffering nightly from very
upsetting dreams. The night before last I dreamed I unwittingly became
involved in an S&R for a woman who went missing at the beach. I had the
dubious honor of being the one who found her body, and am now saddled
with a vivid image of her grey, lifeless, open-mouthed corpse wedged
under a the ledge of a reef. Needless to say, I haven't been waking
from these dreams feeling refreshed.
Last night I slept like a baby.
YIBB,
David
As some of you may have inferred from the slow down in my rate of
posts, I've been doing no building, and very, very little sailing this
Winter. The LSME has been on the sand at South Lake Beach taking all
the punishment Winter has to offer and not being sailed at all.
Now the fact is, South Lake is really not a very good Winter anchorage
or beaching place. All of our really big blows come out of the northern
quarter and South Lake is really exposed. The big Nor'easter of earlier
this week pushed the tide about 3 feet above normal maximum high, and
float the boats down there all up and down the beach. The LSME did a
little modification to the starboard rudder of a hobbycat before
settling a considerable distance away from the water.
So yesterday I decided I'd do with the Margaret Ellen what the baymen
do with their boats when the weather turns in the Fall: sail her less
picturesque, but more sheltered spot protected from the West, North,
and East. I'd get a little sailing in, and while I was at it, I could
slosh a little salt water around the boat to ward off any mold that
might have gotten a toe-hold over the last few months.
Maggie toddled up and down the beach while I walked the scooner to the
water's edge. The I took her home, picked of the foresail rigging, went
down to the marina and bought a pair of rubber boots to keep my feet
dry, and a piston type bilge pump, and headed back to the beach. The
wind was light to nonexistent -- no flapping or flogging as I rigged
the sail. In no time I was gliding ever so slowly away from the beach.
About 200 yards out I was joined by juvenile harbor seal. The little
thing swam right up along side the boat and looked my right in the eye
as I ghosted along. The he dropped back to examine the rudder, then
came along the port side and gave me another wink. I was in heaven;
calm grey-green water, slate skies, and a seal escort. At this pace it
was going to take at least an hour to cross the lake, but I didn't
care.
The seal peeled off to do whatever seals do and the wind picked up ever
so slightly, putting a nice shape in the sail. I threw a hitch in the
sheet around one of the unused mainsail halyard cleats, then stood
astride the tiller steering with my knees. To the West I could see the
clouds giving way and the orange of an impending sunset
Everything was perfect, everything was about to go wrong.
I won't say without warning, rarely do such things happen without
warning, but without warning that *I* saw we were hit with a strong
gust. The boat heeled sharply. I went to cast off the sheet, then
thought I was too far away and too late for that and turned to through
the tiller a'lee. Then I was too late for everything and she went over.
Right there in the middle of Lake Montauk, in the middle of Winter, she
went over.
And she kept going! As I scrambled over the rail, and then onto the
bottom I felt the mainmast stick into the silty bottom. As I sat
perched on the daggerboard I though "David, you are stuck and stuck
good." I saw the rudder had fallen out of the gudgeons and along with
my new bilged pump, was drifting away.
The last of the clammers headed in just before I headed out; they're
the only ones on the lake this time of year. But just incase, I scanned
the water, hoping against hope. Nothing, no one. The grey-green water
had lost all its appeal now that I contemplated a 300 yard swim through
it.
Now I have lots of good cold water gear. In fact the reason we moved to
Montauk was for the Winter surf. With the proper wetsuit you can spend
a few hours frolicking in the 40 degree water and subfreezing air and
suffer no lasting effects. Modern wetsuits are cut to give good
mobility while keeping you warm. Unfortunately, my wetsuit was back at
the house. There I was, perched on the bottom of the scooner in my
jeans, sweater, jacket and new rubber boots. I had a feeling my feet
weren't going to stay dry for long.
I have a *very* healthy respect for cold water; I've seen it reduce
strong men to jibbering fools; I've seen it take lives. But I also knew
the swim I was contemplating was not a killer. Cold? Yes. To the first
house with the lights on, pound on the door I need to use your bathtub?
Yes. But not a killer. So I decided to see if there was any hope of
improving my condition before abandoning my boat and making for shore.
I put all the weight I could on the dagger board while maintaining a
grip on the rail. Ever so slowly I could feel her coming up, inch by
inch. The "pop" the mud let loose of the mast and she began to roll up
quickly. I scrambled onto the port topsides, ready to keep going if she
kept rolling up. But she didn't. She settled on beam ends, me perched a
top her. Free of the mud, we began to drift to leeward. Sitting on her
rail, I could ride the LSME to the lee shore and might yet keep my feet
dry.
But it was going to take a long time. The wind was up enough now there
were whitecaps on the lake, but our progress was slow. I decided I try
to get her upright. I still hadn't closed off the midships or forward
lockers and suspected self-rescue wasn't possible, but I didn't know
for sure, and this seemed like a good time to find out.
I climbed back out onto the daggerboard and put my weight into it. Of
course before it was wet for sure vs. staying dry. Now it was dry for
sure vs. maybe getting dumped in the drink. I had no idea how quickly
she might roll up. I leaned back a little harder, waiting to feel her
coming upright.
It turns out, she came up pretty smoothly and I didn't too much trouble
getting onto the rail and back onto the poop deck which rode high
enough to keep my dry. The boat was shifty with all that water in her,
so I stood up to better shift my weight port or starboard as she
sloshed back and forth.
She was down by the bow, floating so low in the water there was no hope
of bailing out the forward cockpit. There was also a good 12 inches of
water in the after cockpit, but some hope of reducing that. I started
in with my pail, but about every minute or so, a good sized whitecap
would come combing over the rail and put all the water I had just
removed back in the boat. It didn't take many go arounds at this to get
discouraged. I looked around for another way to improve my situation.
Now all this time I had been making progress to leeward, and as I
looked downwind, it looked more and more like I was going to fetch up
on a private jetty in the southeast corner of the lake. All that gentle
shoreline and I was headed for the one spot that presented a hazard. I
decided it was time to make a play for getting control of the foresail.
If I could get ahold of the sheet, perhaps I could coax a little
headway out of my swamped craft and avoid the rocks.
I made my way forward and the scooner responded by sinking lower in the
water. By the time I was at the mainmast, it was clear that going any
further forward would mean getting very wet and possibly capsizing
again, and the sheet was still well out of reach. I retreated to the
poop deck, wet from the knee down, and re-accessed.
To this point I've left out one important detail. Being out in the wet
and the weather all winter had caused the dagger board to swell, and I
had to stand on it while clinging to the mast and jump up and down to
drive it home. It now well jammed in the slot, presenting a substantial
impediment to making it into shallow water. I went forward again to
check on it, only getting wetter and confirming that it was indeed
stuck. Once again I retreated to the poop deck. It was beginning to get
dark.
While I was standing there, I noticed a dark figure back at South Lake
Beach. I couldn't make out any detail, but it was clear the figure was
looking at me. Not wanting to raise any alarm, but wanting to
acknowledge that I saw him (her?) I gave a casual wave with one arm. I
hoped the gesture would say "Yes, I've had a bit of trouble. No, I'm
not in any danger. Yes, if you wanted to meet me at the beach I could
use some help bailing this mother out."
The figure turned and left the beach. I saw some motion in the parking
lot and saw the light bar of a police cruiser peeling out of the lot in
a hurry. The "dark figure" had been the navy blue uniform of the East
Hampton town police. Someone must have spotted me and phoned it in.
Nuts!
I was looking more and more like I was going to miss the jetty and
fetch up on the cobbley beach just to the West. I thought some more
about my jammed dagger board and decided that when I hit ground with
it, I'd put the boat over on her side. That would let me get into about
two and a half feet of water. From there I could get out, try to do
something about the board, unrig, right, and bail the boat out. In the
bushes above the beach I saw someone moving around, and figured it was
the policeman come to check up on me. Well at least when I got within
shouting distance I could tell him I was uninjured, not yet
hypothermic, and unless he wanted to get soaked, there was nothing he
could really do for me. About 200 yards out, the daggerboard grounded,
I tipped the boat on beam ends, and resumed my sheepish pose on the
topsides.
As I drifted closer, the figure emerged from the brush. It wasn't the
police, it was a woman in a dark coat, spying at me through a pair of
binoculars. Well actually , she wasn't spying at me. She was spying
past me. Strange. It was still to far to yell, and getting darker by
the minute.
Finally at about 75 yards she called out, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"The Coast Guard is one their way!"
The Coast Guard? Oh no. I'm in three feet of water. I'm not in any
danger. There's nothing they can do for me now, except put my name in a
report. I feel totally humiliated. I want to tell her to go back to the
house and tell them I'm fine, but I know that will just confuse things.
Then the policeman appeared on the jetty to my East, only about 20
yards away.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm not sure if I am more cold, or more embarrassed."
"Do you need any help?"
"Not really."
"The Coast Guard is on the way."
"I know." My tone must have revealed my humiliation at the prospect of
being "rescued."
"Do you want me to tell them to cancel?"
"Um, yeah. That would be great."
The policeman brought his radio to his mouth. Thank God for small
favors.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.
"Unless you want to get soaked helping bail her out," knowing there was
no chance he would, but hoping none the less, "I don't think so." I
continued my slow drift to shore.
"What's your name?" the policeman asked. Instantly I saw the right up
in the local paper.
"Do I have to tell you?" I pretended to make myself busy with my inert
craft so as to better ignore him. I heard him saying something, but the
only word I made out was "report." My sense of civic duty told me to
just give him the information he needed to do his job, my sense of
embarrassment told me to say nothing.
"What's your name?" he called again.
"Daaaaaviiiiiid," the word slowly crawled out of my mouth as my two
emotions clashed.
"And your last name?"
"I really don't want to tell you." I really, really didn't want to.
"I need it for my report."
Yes, I know you do. I know you're just doing your job. I don't want to
be a pain in the ass, but I really, really, really want to remain
anonymous. Finally my last name crept out of my throat
"Rrrryyyyaaaaaaaannn." I was in agony.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Maaawwwntaaalllkk." It told a full 10 seconds for the word to cross
my lips. Have some compassion man, haven't I told you enough?
"What street?"
I can see it now: David Ryan of 190 S.Fairview Ave is a complete idiot.
His total lack of judgement necessitated a Coast Guard rescue. His
foolishness put the lives of our brave boys in jeopardy and cost tens
of thousands of taxpayer dollars.
"It's not true, it's not true! I just went for a little sail on the
lake. Had a spot of trouble. Nothing I couldn't handle. Why here I am,
just yards from shore. I'm not even that wet! And I'm not in any
danger!" I decided these were thoughts best kept to myself.
"South Fairview Avenue," I answered slowly, the house number
conspicuous in it's absence. If it was really important they had more
than enough information to find me.
"I think I see them coming!" It was the woman again, binoculars to her
eyes, looking out onto the lake.
I turned and saw the launch about half a mile away. They had there
search light on and were looking for me. Clearly there had been a
communication breakdown between the officer, his dispatcher and the
Coast Guard. He was back on the radio, but whatever instructions he was
giving were being garbled in the relay and they weren't getting any
closer. Beside, the water was much to shallow now. With luck they
wouldn't even be able to get within shouting distance.
Finally the rail grounded. It was time to get wet for real. The water
was cold, but once you got used to it... I got the sail down, I managed
the work the daggerboard out, and without my weight I could get her
into about a foot of water. The policeman left, the woman left and the
Coast Guard disappeared into the darkness. Whether they had listed me
as missing at sea, or the police had finally managed to tell them I was
ashore, I didn't know.
I got the scooner bailed out, and as I walked her down the shore to
South Lake Beach, I found the rudder and tossed it in the boat. The
tide was near flood, so I tied her off and hurried back to the car. On
the way home, it became clear that I was in the grips of hypothermia --
I used to kayak in the mountains in the Winter, the feeling was not
unfamiliar. My body shook violently and my feet hurt so much all I
could do was cry out in pain. Fortunately, home was only five minutes
away.
I burst through the door and headed straight for the tub, climbing in
fully dress and turning on hot tap. We put in a tankless water heater a
couple of years ago, and if necessary I intended to stay in until our
500 gallon propane tank was empty. The shaking got worse before it got
better, and the daughter Margaret Ellen looked a little worried at her
daddy's distress. My wife made me a big cup of Earl Grey. That seemed
to do the trick.
This morning, as I wrote this up, the phone rang.
"This is David," I answered.
"Mr. Ryan?"
"Yes," I answered.
"This is Coast Guard Petty Officer Buddy Hinkle."
"I deny everything. I wasn't even in Montauk yesterday, let alone out
sailing."
Buddy was a little bit thrown.
"Look, tell me what you need to fill out your report."
Buddy asked me the name of the vessel, the length, the registration
number. I asked Buddy if they ever even made visual contact. He said
they did, but by that time I was in too close for them to render
assistance. Thank goodness.
I thanked him and his colleagues for coming out, but felt compelled to
tell him I never really felt like I was in danger. I'm not sure why I
needed to say it,but I did, and that was that.
There's another fact I haven't mentioned. Aside from not doing any
sailing or building, I've done almost no surfing or shelf-fishing. The
last couple of weeks I've slept terribly. suffering nightly from very
upsetting dreams. The night before last I dreamed I unwittingly became
involved in an S&R for a woman who went missing at the beach. I had the
dubious honor of being the one who found her body, and am now saddled
with a vivid image of her grey, lifeless, open-mouthed corpse wedged
under a the ledge of a reef. Needless to say, I haven't been waking
from these dreams feeling refreshed.
Last night I slept like a baby.
YIBB,
David