Day 3
Day 3

Memorial day—aptly termed—finally rolled around. I thought we would be at least on the road to Florida by now, but what with the crazy weather, having the boat on the water is a feat in itself. We drove back to Rodney’s in the morning of what was expected to be the busiest day on the lake: winds between 20-30 kts, hazy sunshine, and temperatures shooting up in the 90’s. The weather people were right for a change. In the sheltered cove, the boat swayed quietly, making slurping sounds against the muddy bank. The waters had gone up by almost a foot. We started the engine that coughed, gasped, and piously died, but eventually caught on once we changed the gas tanks. Looks like the gas in tank 1 was fouled up—we’ll have to replace it with fresh gas and leave the dregs at Rodney’s, whose machinery is known to run on anything combustible. We motored out of the cove, rounded the bend in a stiff nose wind and passed the McBride dam that was already clustered with vacationers. Powerboats and water scooters roared by, loaded with doughy boys and sun-glasssed maidens that looked mildly confused that they weren’t having the time of their lives yet.

We found a safe place to anchor around Indian point and we proceeded to dismantle the Waeco cooler. That turned out to be a mistake. Whereas yesterday the red light still blinked in series of threes (which, according to an Australian website I found yesterday, bespoke of ominous compressor-related troubles) today the machine simply refused to cooperate, promptly popping fuse after fuse from the main bus. Looks like we will have to rely on the large cooler that fits snugly under the table—until you need to pop up the cover and access what’s insides. We plugged it in and the compressor whirred to life. It went on whirring for hours on end, sucking all the juice from the solar panels. The temperature went down and down and down, refusing to stop at the 38 degree mark that I had set for it. I felt disappointed to let the Waeco go which has been my temperamental companion for ten seasons, but it looks that we won’t have much of a choice. The Edgestar uses twice as much power and it doesn’t seem much roomier on the inside. That’s hard to tell though because its cover can’t be fully opened—unless one removes the table, which is already loaded with crap. Mihai suggested that we should read the manual (safely stored at home) but to my mind, the four buttons on the display were self-explanatory and will allow for only so many permutations. I guess we could let the cooler go down to the appointed temperature level and then surreptitiously unplug it, pretending that all’s done automatically.

From this point onwards, everything felt like going from bad to worse. I was already a little sick on account of the heat and couldn’t even enjoy the brats we cooked on the grill. We moved to a more sheltered cove which was already laced with pontoons and several powerboats, and I got into the water to inflate the flabby dinghy that was losing air (which reminded me that the new one we bought had a conspicuous hole in compartment two which we may—or may not—have patched up successfully) . As the wind picked up, Mike Severino called to announce that he, Carol, and Eben were rounding the Indian point in their kayaks, ready to join us. We hoisted the sails to meet them in the cove (noting en passant that the yellow Marine radio we had left with Rodney cannot be tuned to the one we had on board) and enjoyed a random trip to our home base. The sails looked all right at first, luffing gaily in the wind. I had been a little leery about the jib which I had stitched myself, most professionally and with Dental Floss, since the leech started to unravel two summers ago, but it seemed like my zigzagging stitches still held. The main sail still looked crisp and functional, but a closer examination revealed two small areas chewed by mice below the first attachment point, at the foot of the mast. We discussed the possibility of taping them (the sail area is always puckered there and doesn’t seem to take much wind anyway) The wind kept on shifting unpredictably in the narrow canal at the foot of the McBride dam; at some point, the boat tilted so much that the Italian glass coffee maker slipped off the galley and exploded in countless shards below deck. I managed to sweep away most of them and chuck them overboard, but some insisted on staying aboard, for a free trip to the Bahamas.

We anchored in the cove, while Mike and Eben joined us for a beer; Carol returned home; she would come back later with Rodney, Jackie, Cedric, and the baby, some time in the evening. Mike brought us two catfish to grill, and he promised to haul in some more beer. That was a great relief to our vulnerable sense of hospitality: our supplies were low on all counts, and we could not replenish them since the groceries were closed for the holiday. We chatted a little and shared a pipe before they decided it was time to return to the shore. As they were swimming across the cove, it dawned on me that the guys had actually joined us to do a little sailing. We hailed them and, sure enough, they were too happy to swim all the way back to the boat. By this time, the traffic was noticeably lighter and the winds less unruly, though still strong.

We hoisted the jib first; in a 15 knot wind, it seemed plenty of sail to me. I didn’t want to mess with the main sail and the gurgling sounds behind the transom told me that we were going faster than 5 knots. We approached Sandy Beach where dozens of powerboats were beached one next to another, like so many white piglets at the trough, when crack! A gust of wind filled the jib, tilting the boat spectacularly to one side. The jib sheet I was gingerly holding lashed out, leaving a burning mark on my under-arm and got stuck in the cleat. Mihai tried to turn into the wind. By the time I uncleated the sheet, the microburst had passed and the boat recovered nicely. Good thing we didn’t have the main sail up. As soon as we furled the jib, I noticed that the bottom end of the leech was starting to unravel—though my former stitches still held.

We returned to the cove a little shaken, not so much by the tilting of the boat, but the idea that our sails may rip in a measly 25  knot wind put all things into a whole new perspective. On the other hand, as a rule, we had avoided sailing in 25 knots winds at the Apostle Islands. No reason why we would do it in the Bahamas either.  I was willing to get a new jib, but where to get it on such a short notice? The ETEC engine was due for its first 5 year revision, and that had slipped my mind, too. On the bright side, the waters had gone up another foot, so motoring all the way to the back of the cove, on Rodney’s shore, seemed more feasible. We advanced slowly in the 3 foot canal and I kept telling myself that such a situation would be common in the Islands. We beached the boat easily and the boys left. I always liked beaching the boat on Rodney’s shore rather than anchoring out; it felt much more secure and convenient, too.



By the time Carol, Rodney, Jackie, Mike, and the baby came for a visit, we had been struggling with the grill that would not stay alit. Since it was loaded with two catfish, removing the grill to light up the burner was an impossibility in absence of a long, skinny grill lighter which, naturally, was back home on the porch. We resorted to twisted paper towels that I attempted to light up from the edge of the grill, fuse-fashion. After a while, the catfish were done—a little on the smoky side, but nice and tasty. We finished the brats, the rice, and the asparagus I had prepared for yesterday’s dinner, along with the beer, and the guests left. The weather tomorrow calls for stiff breezes and rain, but we might still be able to get the boat out of the water and fix the mast lights. Most importantly, I need to reach the Doyle sailmakers and see what chances we have to get a new jib on the way to Florida. We should have prepared for this trip from the ground up: sail, engine, and ropes first and foremost, rather than fretting about a compost toilet and a Tacktick electronic weathervane. We have no less than three different GPS on the boat, but much good they will do to us in absence of solid sails and an operational engine.