It seems that I have yet to make it a habit to insure all lines are free and will not snag in such a way as to require extra hands and arms in such places as my body is not. This was the case with bringing down the jib off the roller furler. Despite the lethal-weapon quality of a heavy metal clew flapping in a strong breeze, en-shrouded (as in ancient burial preparations) in a partially unhanked jib, I was able to make it back to the mast and unwrap the neatly bundled lower rope-length of the halyard. At this point I would have been glad that I was not at the dock with onlookers. If, of course, I had been able to think of anything but that clew lurking around somewhere.
On Monday, I got down to the harbor with a bag lunch and prepared for the run to Belfast harbor. My first stop there would be at the Town's fuel dock to get my holding tank pumped. The breeze was fresh and generally out of the west. I prepared dockline and fenders on the starboard side. My rationale must have been that the conditions in Belfast would generally reflect those in Stockton Harbor. As I found out, this was not the case.
After rounding the Green #1 Gong off Sears Island I bent a course to Belfast. The wind was now only a point off the starboard bow. Despite my attempts to get a picture of the spray, the latency in my little Olympus Camedia was such that, even attempting to anticipate the event as the bow began its descent, the excitement was all over by the time the picture was captured. I rather successfully captured a sequence of over a dozen totally boring pictures just like the one below.
In Belfast Bay, my wind gauge was showing gusts to 25 KTs apparent wind, at best I was making 5 KTs over the ground, and the spay was reaching all the way back to the helm; the dodger having been stowed on Sunday. At this point I probably could have gotten a picture if it weren't that I wanted to keep the camera dry and both hands on something tied to the boat.
At the Red #2 Gong I bent course to shoot right up Belfast Harbor. Now the wind was dead ahead and it was obvious that my docking preparations, for starboard, should have been for port. Reaching calmer water I slowed to steerage way, locked the helm and ventured on deck to re-rig.
I had previously checked out the Belfast Town dock, but had failed to notice something extremely important, under current conditions; the fuel dock was a finger pointing up the harbor with no possibility of coming alongside headed into the wind. Rats! Furthermore, there were people fishing off the dock. I continued to survey the situation as I called the Harbor Master on channel 9.
With approval to dock, I was now committed, but still exploring the alternatives. I could head downwind and try to dock with port to the dock, but this side offered no more than a boat length with a wooden dinghy I would hit broadside if I over shot. I ruled this out. The other side of the dock offered much more space, but there was no room to come about between it and an outer dock which at the time was home to a large lobster boat. The fuel dock extended a boat length or so further out than this, so there was a chance to come about off the exposed part. As I explored the possibility, the wind and current committed me. I found my stern five or ten feet off the lobster boat's bow and closing.
Recalling the maneuvers of Meaghan K II's skipper at the Stockton dock, I finessed the maneuver and would have been able to jump the life line and taken care of the dock lines myself, if it hadn't been for waiting hands. Having commended that skipper, saying, "I wish I could handle my boat one tenth as well as you do yours." He responded, "I didn't think it was that good." I realise now that what goes on in the onlookers mind can be far from what's going on in the skipper's. As skippers, we know that every moment on board has a new trial waiting, there never comes a time when all of the lessons have been learned. I guess that's why I occasionally remark that life is like sailing and proceed to give a short litany of the "last" lessons learnt and the eventual realization there never would be a "last" lesson.
Having tied Dream Weaver to a "Yard" mooring I took the dinghy to the town ramp, called the boatyard and Steve, my neighbor.
As I waited for Steve with truck and trailer, I took time to relax and enjoy the sights. My cell phone rang. It was a call from Emily, my recruiter, with a job offer "verbal" from Metatomix. I accepted with enthusiasm.
It was the end of the first season with Dream Weaver, an end to a wonderful summer and the extended time to prepare her after two years "on the hard", a time to get my sea legs back and begin building some soloing skills. And, it felt good to get a good mark or two.
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