Sailing with a hurricane

[Riley Smith]

 A few years ago, I wanted to take advantage of the perfect September weather and go for a night on the sand bar at Chemise Bayou. It's a great sandbar and right in the middle of the lower river delta, surrounded by a sea of grass and towns to the east and west. The weather was forecast to be righteous and the temps were great after a scorcher of a summer. A small hurricane was forecast to hit Florida somewhere around Tampa that night but you'd never know it looking at the sky. It was perfect.

So, I hie me to the river about mid-day and launch at Moss Point, upriver from Chemise Bayou. You know, BEFORE the 2pm forecast update. It was a nice sail down and I pulled the boat aground and set up camp. The sky was as clear as it ever gets and I anticipated a great night. I had brought the radio for some music, a chair, and fishing rod. The moon was going to be shining and I relaxed as the quiet washed over me. There was a nice breeze to keep the bugs away and things couldn't be better.

Sonya had decided not to come, so I called and rubbed it in that I was on the river and she wasn't. I drank a beer or two and rustled up some grub before sunset. The wind had started to pick up some and the forecast wasn't panning out. I still wasn't worried, as there are a plethora of ramps about and I actually didn't HAVE to sail if it got too bad. There wasn't a cloud in the sky except hundreds of miles away toward the southeast where the hurricane appeared as a very faint mass of high cirrus very low on the horizon and told the story something was happening there.

The wind kept increasing as the hurricane sucked air toward it. And the temperature started dropping. Now, for those of you that live anywhere else but the Southland, the typical attire of shorts and tee shirt is good here from May until November. Except it wasn't. I started to get cold and the sand on the sandbar started blowing around. I decided to put up the tent and get inside to ward off the chill.

By now, the wind was a full blown gale. With a shocking clear bluebird sky overhead.  I was scared to light a fire to get the chill off because it had been so dry and the swirling wind might carry a spark to the thousands of acres of marsh grass. And the strong wind kept blowing the tent down. This was turning into MUCH more than I had bargained for. And I was cold. Not chilly, COLD. The blowing sand was making things miserable and terribly gritty. As the night wore on it just got worse. My wife called and rubbed it in that SHE was warm and comfortable at home in our soft bed.

I huddled behind a stump on the shore to ward off the wind and sand but it didn't' help much. Finally I wrapped a towel around me, and snuggled into the pocket formed by the not-erected tent and wrapped it all around me. It sounded like I was being sandblasted. And I itched all over. But at least I got some warmth going on and began to think about some of the snacks I'd brought. Let me assure you, snacks covered in sand are not very palatable. This went on ALL night. I listened to the radio for a long time to try and take my mind off my misery and finally got sleepy and turned it off. I must have finally nodded off around 2am, but suddenly the dang squawk box came on full volume and scared me half to death.
 
It was a VERY long and VERY miserable night.

Finally, dawn came and I was so glad to see it I was happy for all of thirty seconds. Until I discovered the north wind had blown the water out of the river and the catboat was hard aground. I mean, ON DRY LAND. And a look at the river made me quiver because I've never seen it so rough in such protected water. I was in a real fix. Going back upriver to the trailer was definitely OUT. My stomach did flip-flops looking at the whitecaps that shouldn't be there.

First things first. I had to line my wife up to go get the truck and trailer and head to a ramp downwind. My wife is NOT a morning person so that took a while, as well as requiring me to be a diplomatic as humanly possible because of involving her in MY catastrophe. Coffee was out of the question and it was just one more thing in a long list. I packed all the camping stuff back aboard the catboat and began wiggling her toward water. I realized it wasn't going to work, it was too heavy. So I UNPACKED everything to lighten the load. After what seemed like an eternity and barely avoiding a heart attack from the exertion, I was able to get her afloat. Then I had to repack everything once again.

I called and coordinated and got Sonya on the way to the Hwy 90 ramp. I got the outboard fired up and with great trepidation, climbed aboard and pushed off. The boat scraped the lee shore for two hundred yards at a frightful wind-driven speed before I got her in water deep enough to navigate. And then it was as easy as pie. The catboat is built with a good bit of rocker and it'll take some rough water. The outboard purred. The adventure had been weathered. Literally. The ride to the ramp was as easy as it gets.

That was the worst night I've ever spend camping. It was AWFUL. The sandbar at Chemise Bayou is a popular camping spot but I was the only soul stupid enough to be out in such conditions. I've since made it a solemn promise not to put the boat in the water if a hurricane is in the Gulf of Mexico.

[Norm L.]

your last sentence was the words of a wise man. Something with which I agree. Now. Forty years ago, I would have been looking for "fun winds", safely away from something nasty to the far east or far west.
Only those low-pressure vacuum cleaners inhale everything for a long distance.

[Krusen]

Hurricane Rachel retired that name, and it passed directly over Washington DC.  My Lightning sailboat was in the Washington Sailing Marina, just south of National Airport.  When the rain stopped, I went to the marina to check my boat, pumped out the water, and went to the clubhouse.

There, I met the sailor who had taught me to sail the previous year, racing on his Lightning.  He was a bone specialist, and had a patient with him, full leg plaster cast, fresh applied that day.  He asked if I would sail with him, as the wind was still very strong, and his "crew" was not very agile.

I said yes, his crew put on two life jackets, we each put on one, and out to the Lightning.

The Potomac River off the airport is north south, the wind 30 plus gusts from the west.  We hoisted his storm main, the only main with a reef in it and heavier fabric than his racing sails.

Beam reach up the river, tack, and beam reach back down.  Continuously on a plane, and taking on copious water from spray, filling the bilge up to the floor boards with milky water.  The cast was dissolving.  The patient was concerned, Doc said no problem, I have all the materials at home, I will make a new one, and we kept sailing.  I pumped the water out on each run after we were properly trimmed and balanced.

After more than an hour of thrilling sailing, we returned to the marina, wrapped the cast in a spare jib to keep Doc's car clean, they went to Doc's home for supper, which faithful wife was keeping warm as we sailed, and a complete removal and replacement of the cast.

I sailed with Doc 2 years, all the training was on the race course.  I advanced fast enough that he moved from the lower third to the upper third of the fleet my first year, and he won the "Most improved Skipper" trophy that year.  The good luck of being introduced to him by a respected old sailor was impossible to be matched.  From studying good books on sailing, I was well prepared to learn the actual techniques on the water, and I was mainly learning how to trim sails for maximum drive, and pick when to tack to just barely make a buoy.

Many years later, I sailed my Neptune 16 in 40 knots of wind, again beam reach, 25% white caps, a mile of fetch, and took NO water into the cockpit.  There was continuous swings up over waves just before they broke, then back on course, to keep from having waves break on the bow.  That was equally thrilling and exciting, but as we went south on the Patuxent River, it became wider, and the waves larger, so we quit a day earlier than we had planned.

[Norm L.]

You were not a callow (shallow or hollow) youth 35 years ago. That is an impressive outing.