Essays | Themes | Research
Never Again
–— Judy Harwood
There have been times when I have wished I could call upon a deity to rescue me, calm me, console me but these acts don’t come naturally to my mind. Twice in my life I recall spontaneous prayers and both occurred during an overnight sailboat race on Lake Champlain.
The weather on Lake Champlain that morning, situated between northern New York and Vermont, was sliding toward winter. My crew consisted of Ed, a real estate flipper; Maureen, graduate student in the Psychology department; and Ralph, a colleague from the Sociology department. We motored toward Shelburne Bay, on the Vermont side of the lake, for the start of the final race of the season.
This was the culmination of a successful season of racing and there was some ranking to be defended; otherwise, I would not have been out there in the fog with wind and towering waves. Our captain, my husband, was absent—on his way back to Buffalo where law school beckoned. Despite his proffered encouragement and belief in us, it felt as if he had abandoned ship, and us.
Our twenty-three-foot, Sonic sailboat Close Encounters would be among the smallest in the race and one of the first groups to cross the start line, giving us time to clear the crowded mouth of the bay.
I had used the time on our trip across the lake to note the kind of sea we would have at the sailboat’s stern, followed quickly by memory of the recent repairs to its rudder. Waves pushing us would give us impressive speed but added stress on what was, in effect, our steering wheel.
Miraculously, we made the start time, checked in with the race committee, got into position for the starting gun and were off in a hail of “Safe Sailing, Good Luck and Stay Warm.”
Immediately, on leaving the shelter of the bay, the winds threatened to overpower us. I shouted to overcome the howling of the wind in the rigging, “Shorten the mainsail.”
That familiar maneuver seemed to take hours and when I looked to port, I realized we were too close to Jamieson’s Reef, a few hundred yards off Vermont’s shore. We were being pushed East by winds coming from the South and East. Things were happening at an overwhelming rate and I seemed unable to do more than one thing at a time. To boot, my foul-weather gear leaked the frigid lake water around the cuffs of my sleeves, the opening around my face, and the cuffs above my deck shoes.
An unbelievably loud crack distracted me from my misery before I saw the lower part of our rudder float away in our wake. It had succumbed to the forces of the waves and was lost to us. I shouted to Ed, the most mechanically minded of us, “Fire up the Sea Gull!” The Sea Gull was our transom-mounted outboard. Using it would disqualify us from the race but it could keep us off the ever-nearing reef. I no longer had thoughts of protecting our standing in the club’s statistics; instead, I concentrated on saving our necks.
Ed cranked and cranked but nothing happened with the Sea Gull. “It’s flooded!” he yelled.
It took a few moments for the seriousness of our situation to register in each of the eyes of my crew. We would have to steer by flying our jib on one side of the boat and then switching it to the opposite side to keep us headed North and out of the paths of the bigger, heavier boats now barreling out of the bay and bearing down on us.
I made a mental check-list: a reef off my port side, no directionality except North, limited maneuverability, and the prospect of being over-run by the bigger boats whose spinnaker sails billowed in front of them, providing tremendous speed. I could almost hear those big-bellied sails being stretched tighter and tighter.
It was just then I caught a glimpse of Maureen leaning over the gunwale as she quietly lost her breakfast.
Oh, please. I thought, do not let Ed or Ralph get sick. We need them to tack the jib sail back and forth to keep us going straight.
That might have been a prayer but I had a feeling I might need godly intervention further on –- if we got any further into this lunacy.
“Guys,” I shouted above the roar of the wind, “I’m thinking of issuing a Mayday but it would mean the end of the race for us. What’s your vote?”
Hearing no responses, I looked at my watch. It was only ten in the morning but already my arm and leg muscles twitched with the effort of trying to keep the foreshortened rudder straight so we would not get broadsided by a rogue wave. If that happened, our cockpit would fill with frigid water and then roll completely over before the boat righted itself. The potential for losing one or more of my crew— I had begun to think of them as mine—propelled me toward the cabin to retrieve the ship-to-shore radio.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” I croaked, then paused to listen for a response.
After what seemed like hours but was more likely, minutes, I exhaled at the response, “What’s your emergency?”
I could write that my prayers were answered by the Vermont Sheriff’s Department but we still had work to do before we were safe. When they were within eyesight our would-be saviors communicated via bullhorn, “Keep your boat steady in order for our crew to throw you a line which you will have to attach to a forward cleat.” It became clear to us we were to remain with Close Encounters.
After a tumultuous period, during which we tried to maintain a safe distance between ourselves and our rescuers, a voice drifted back to me, “Where do you want to go?”
By this time, we had gained enough northerly distance to see our home berth on the New York shore.
I pointed and yelled simultaneously, “Valcour. That’s our anchorage.”
“No can do,” came the startling reply. “We can’t take you out of Vermont waters.”
“But I can see our slip.” I stammered.
“We can cut you loose to try to make your way home or we can take you to an emergency berth on a private island.”
Exhausted and flabbergasted me weighed the probabilities of safely docking at Valcour and decided to regain some strength overnight before that tricky maneuver.
Mid-afternoon found us approaching Tsar Island still under tow by the Vermont Sheriff’s Department but in much calmer waters and under less wind.
“This is it.” Came the message via bullhorn from the Vermonters. “This is privately owned land by Russian citizens so you do not have permission to go ashore. Perhaps you can arrange for someone from New York to tow your vessel tomorrow when the wind has abated somewhat.”
With conflicting emotions of relief and forlornness, I searched my crew’s faces for ideas. I was coming up empty when Ed volunteered, “I think I can make an extension to replace the rudder if I could go ashore to look for a plank, a board, anything flat and long to hold us steady in the water.”
“I can’t let you do that,” I protested. “What if there are automatic gun emplacements, guard dogs, other security devices we don’t know about?”
Ed relented but then proved to be the most restless of our marooned crew as the afternoon brought lighter winds and sunny skies, “What do we have on board we can sacrifice to repair our rudder?” he asked. “Nobody knows we are stuck out here! Nobody is going to come looking for us and we’re not expected back until tomorrow night!”
“Not exactly true.” I countered. “The captain of the Sheriff’s Patrol took my neighbor’s phone number, promising to give them a call to tell them where we are.”
“Will your neighbor send out a rescue boat? How long will that take? I wouldn’t disrupt anything if I went to look in that barn over there. I just need a piece of lumber.”
“Look!” Maureen whispered, as if she didn’t want to startle the black Giant Schnauzer, looking like the Hound of the Baskerville, coming around the corner of the distant house.
All our eyes followed the dog as it advanced down the road leading to the wharf. Instinctively, I reached for a paddle lying in the cockpit.
“I wonder how many there are?” Ed had regained his voice.
“Look.” Maureen pointed for the second time.
A man, bundled up in a brown canvas jacket, a plaid hat with ear flaps and Wellington boots rounded the house corner and followed the huge dog toward our boat.
“I hope he’s friendly.” Ralph whispered.
“I hope he speaks English.” I added.
The dog stopped fifty yards away, woofing deep in his throat but still audible to us. His body language conveyed how unwelcome we were.
“What can I do for you?” The man’s voice wafted across the fifty yards with a North Country accent. He could have been from northern New York or Vermont, not Russia. And he spoke English!
“We need a stout piece of lumber, yea long.” Ed demonstrated with outstretched arms. “Our rudder broke off in the huge waves coming out of Shelburne Bay. We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we jerry-rig the rudder.”
“I guess the Sheriff’s Patrol told you this island is sovereign Russian territory,” came the reply. “You would have to have all kinds of permission to come ashore.”
“We don’t need to come ashore if you could see your way clear to find a piece of stout lumber for us.” Ed’s wheedling voice continued as he tried to figure out if this was friend or foe. I had never seen him display so submissive an attitude.
Whatever it takes to get us across that lake, I thought.
The man who might be our savior continued to walk slowly toward the dock, the over-sized dog at his side. When he was within easy conversational distance he stopped to survey the boat.
I knew we presented a sorry sight: mainsail in a sloppy reef, jib sail plastered to the bow, and four shivering crew members with pleading eyes trained in his direction.
“Let’s get a look at your situation so I can come up with something to get you on your way. Where are you heading to, anyway?”
“Valcour.” I pointed across the lake. “But we can’t get there without the rudder to steer.”
Mr. North County dropped down to the planks forming the boat slip hugging Close Encounters. Now that he had a clear view of our stern, a whistle escaped his teeth. “A clean break, right at the water line! Where’s the rest of it?”
“Somewhere outside Shelburne Bay.” Ed shrugged.
I decided to let the males conduct the repair discussions since I was not confident one was possible. “How deep you figure that board has to reach down in the water?” I heard Mister North Country ask Ed.
I breathed easier, figuring he was not going to leave us high and dry.
“Come up to the storage barn and look around for some piece of lumber you can lash to the butt of the tiller. But the rest of ‘em has to stay put.”
Maureen and I hugged each other with relief as we sank into a puddle in the middle of the cockpit.
“I feel so lame, having gotten you’all into this predicament.” I confessed with heartfelt regret. “I don’t know if you know how close we came to losing the boat and drowning. Even with our life jackets, hypothermia was a threat.”
Hearing Maureen’s forgiving response I felt encouraged to voice my weightiest concern. “I don’t know how to tell Tom I lost the rudder and we didn’t finish the race. We barely started.” Tears stung my eyes but I refused to let her see me fall apart.
Ralph avoided looking at the two of us as we went below deck to replace sleeping bags that littered the cabin’s floor. While we were down below, Maureen and I took stock of our larder.
“Hot dogs! I exclaimed, pulling a package of wieners from the cooler with as much gusto as if I hadn’t packed them myself less than twenty-four hours ago.
“And canned beans,” Maureen pantomimed a quiz show beauty presenting a valuable prize.
“Let’s not get carried away,” I cautioned. “Check out the propane stove. See if still works.”
And just like the rest of the ill-fated trip, the stove appeared to be water-logged. It was no wonder, considering the amount of water that had crashed into our cockpit and down the open hatch to the cabin.
But, for some reason, my mood began to lift and I said, “Hot dogs can be eaten uncooked.”
Just then I heard Ed and the island keeper nearing the boat. Between them, they dragged a length of board. It looked like we were going to have a happy ending, after all.
After the rudder had been repaired and the hot dogs roasted on an impromptu firepit on shore, I brought out all the beer and wine on board to share with our savior who then took us on a tour of the island, including the communication tower, but not inside the house. And he never told us his name!
Maureen and I happily agreed to Ed and Ralph’s suggestion that they would place their sleeping bags in the cockpit while we ladies bunked inside the cabin. We slept the sleep of the weary before Sunday’s bright sunshine woke us.
Our sail across Lake Champlain proved to be a piece of cake. As we pulled into our slip at Valcour, I promised the universe I would never get on another boat as long as I lived.
Judy Harwood retired from a rewarding career as a school psychologist which shaped her into a skilled problem solver. A native of Eastern Kentucky and graduate of Berea College, she embarked on a second career as a writer resulting in her memoir, Swimming Upriver, a coming-of-age story of growing up in Appalachia in the 40’s and 50’s. She has lived in many interesting places, including Columbus, Ohio, Charleston, W. Va, Buffalo, NY, Plattsburgh, NY, where she earned her MA at the State University of NY, a summer in Chautauqua, and American Samoa. Now a permanent resident of Temple Terrace, she enjoys sharing moments with her two daughters, one son, four grandchildren, four step-grandchildren and four great grandchildren. In addition to writing, Judy’s interests include OLLI, Toastmaster Clubs and gourmet cooking. “I have lived as though I would live to be one hundred and thought I could do anything I put my mind to,” she says, “but lately, I have begun to wonder.”
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