A delightful, weeklong cruise in Long Island Sound in mid-August had come to a bad end, leaving me essentially boatless until early October. Despite an oil leak, the Yanmar inboard diesel in Kirsten, my Mystic 20 catboat, had given its last breath to get us safely through Plum Gut against the flood tide and wind. The following month and a half were filled with frustrations in diagnosing the engine's problems, and an obsessive drive to buy a well-founded cruising sailboat, in particular, a Stone Horse. I'd been eyeing Stone Horses for two years or more, and as the cruising itch got stronger, the hunt to find one intensified.
The August cruise had whetted my appetite for venturing farther beyond the bays, and with Kirsten out of commission, the idea of trading up to a Stone Horse became all-consuming.
Designed by Sam Crocker for the blustery conditions of Buzzards Bay, the 23-foot Stone Horse has a full keel drawing three and half feet, 2,000 pounds of ballast, 339 square feet of sail divided among a mainsail, furling jib and self-tacking staysail, with a roomy cockpit and cozy cabin. Perfect for solo daysailing in the shoal waters near where I live as well as for coastal cruising.
By late September, the Yanmar had been declared dead and Kirsten had been sold (for a price minus the cost of a replacement engine). After a comic-opera series of last minute reversals and obstacles in pursuit of two other Stone Horses, a 1971 Stone Horse named Patience was purchased at her builder's yard, Edey & Duff in Mattapoisett, MA and delivered on her trailer. But my job schedule and bad weather made it impossible to find more than a few hours here and there to sail Patience. Despite the boat's name, the desire to take at least an overnight cruise was building up to an irresistible urge. The weekend after Thanksgiving, I hastened down to the marina before any new shore-side obligations could stop me.
The forecast was worrisome. Winds were expected to blow in the 20s and 30s in the evening and in the 40s after midnight. Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind I was thinking, 'Well, if I have to anchor and wait out the weather somewhere, so be it. At least I'll have my cruise.' The wind was a fair 15 knots, offering a fast downwind sail with the ebb tide toward Robins Island and its protected anchorage.
What follows is a good illustration of why two rules in sailing exist. First rule, applicable anywhere at any time, is that a schedule should never override caution about the weather. The second rule is for sailors in regions where the four seasons mean something. End-of-season haul-out dates are not just for the convenience of the marina staff. Freezing temperatures make outdoor work around water difficult, sometimes impossible, and sometimes dangerous for both people and boats.
Instead of sitting down with my work calendar and the long range forecast and coming to grips with the fact that it would be best to call it a season, I tucked in a reef, cast off and raised sail.
It was a gloriously fast sail. The bite of the cold west wind never had a chance to make itself felt as the jib and mainsail bellied out before it. In better time than I had ever managed in Kirsten, I was at the South Race of Robins Island and hardening up into a beam reach along its eastern flank. In short order, Patience rounded the north end of the island. There, for the first time that day, the strength and cold of the west wind made itself fully felt. I motored into the wind and the quieter waters behind the long sand spit stretching north from the island. After coming in as close as I could to the beach, I dropped the spade anchor from the bowsprit, paid out scope as the wind pushed us back, and tied off.
Unsure if I would be heading back with the turn of the tide or staying the night, I went below to stoke up the cabin warmer, light the oil lamps and listen to the NOAA broadcasts. Snug and warm as the wind strummed the rigging, the prospect of beating back in the dark against a steep chop was eventually rejected, and I turned in for the night hoping that the dawn would bring a calm.
The wind's force picked up after midnight as forecast, and shifted back and forth from west to north and back, waking me repeatedly to check on the anchor, which was holding fast. Spray showered me whenever I stepped into the cockpit, and when dawn finally came, it was clear that it was coming without any letup in the wind. Whitecaps and spindrift surrounded us despite the sandspit. According to NOAA, the west-northwest winds were in the 20s with gusts in the 30s and 40s, the temperature was right around freezing, and a storm was on its way with below-freezing temperatures and snow.
Thinking it might be possible to tie up at an empty slip in a nearby creek and come back next weekend, I motored up to the anchor and hauled it aboard, then headed for the creek. The wind heeled us over sharply when beam to, even with no sail up, and it was necessary to fall off wind to stay dry, increasing my resolve to tie up locally and wait for a better day. I tied up at a dock at the end of a creek and called my wife for a ride home.
Three days later, almost six inches of snow fell, the temperature dipped below freezing and held, and the pond across from my house froze overnight. Armed with a shovel, broom, extension cord and work lamp, I drove to the dock.
A slushy looking layer of ice had formed across the creek. Inside the boat's cabin, a jug of lamp oil had frozen, but not the few inches of drinking water in a plastic gallon container. The liquid water seemed promising for the engine. Supposedly, engines are warmer when the boat is in the water than when on land. But I wasn't sure if that remained true when the water was more solid than liquid.
The boat would have to be moved a few slips over to reach the power outlet. After starting a fire in the cabin warmer, lighting the oil lamps, and sweeping and shoveling away most of the snow, I pressed the starter button. It sounded promising. After several more tries, the engine began burbling and coughing. I threw off the lines and slowly backed away from the dock through the slushy pancakes of ice, the rigging of the boomkin helping to slice a way through. I pushed the gear into forward, and Patience eased ahead and then stopped. The ice was too thick.
Up on the bow, I poked and whacked at the ice with the boathook, and then snagged a cleat on the dock and pulled in close enough to step onto the dock, break more ice, haul in the boat and tie a line to a cleat. After more ice breaking, the entire sheet of ice between the two docks broke free and, with prodding from the boathook, slowly eased out into the middle of the creek. I wondered if similar successes had buoyed up Shackleton's spirits before the Antarctic ice finally squeezed and cracked and sank Endurance.
After fixing the 100 watt work light above the engine and dousing the lamps and the fire in the cabin warmer, I drove to Patience's home port in Reeves Bay to see what conditions were like there. The view from the bridge was not encouraging. The river was frozen. At the marina, ice covered the bay as far as I could see.
The long range forecast showed a warming trend for the coming weekend. Temperatures would climb out of the teens and into the 40s. It looked like the time to continue the cruise or head back was then or, who knew, not until next spring. If it was to be the weekend, some crewmembers seemed like a good idea. Even in the 40s, beating back would be a very wet and chilly experience. The option of taking turns below and at the tiller seemed wise.
Fred Endemann had mentioned that he'd like to go for a sail sometime because the Stone Horse was similar to a boat he'd gotten his first sailing experience on. Now a delivery captain, ferry pilot and J22 skipper, he was game to go on Saturday. I still wasn't sure at that point whether I would continue east to go around Shelter Island before heading back, or go straight back to my marina. Tom Cowan, who also owns a Stone Horse, agreed to come as well, at least for a short sail.
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Saturday morning, after we dropped my car off at my marina, my wife took me to Patience. Fred was already busy on board, and Tom was looking for a parking space on the narrow street. Fred had taken off the sail covers and was shoveling snow over the sides. Another boat had broken most of the ice in the creek. Tom joined us, and we prepared to shove off, stringing a jackline from the bow to the cockpit and handing out inflatable PFDs, harnesses and tethers. The engine crankily came to life, and we pushed through the broken ice out to the bay.
It was blowing 10-15 knots from the west, against the incoming tide, and the cold convinced me that this was no time for an extended cruise. Home port became the destination. Under the lee of the shore, we raised the mainsail, with one reef in, and the staysail and headed for the north race of Robins Island. Whitecaps were visible in the shallows along the shore beyond the race, but not in the deeper water. Soon we were out in Great Peconic Bay on a southwesterly course, and began flying along at over 5 knots.
Fred wanted to see what she could do and had been disappointed about starting off with a reef in, but Tom and I wanted the reef to stay, as the wind was expected to strengthen. We unfurled the jib, but soon found that it was creating some lee helm, probably because it overbalanced the reefed mainsail, and furled it again. I turned the tiller over to Fred and we continued on the close reach toward the south end of the Great Peconic Bay, tacked to the north, getting very wet on that course as the waves took us on the windward side. The lee was nearly buried. As we tacked once more to the southwest, the wind was strengthening and the staysail was beginning to get unmanageable.We doused it with the downhaul. When we were as close to shore as it looked possible to get, I took the tiller for the last stretch to the north before turning on the engine and heading into the wind to enter Flanders Bay. Squeaking past the red nun at the entrance, we dropped the mainsail and continued under power alone.
As we approached Reeves Bay, a thin white line grew on the horizon. The line expanded into a crystal clear sheet of ice. Fred stood forward on the raised deck and began rocking back and forth to help break our way through. Chips of ice flew to either side and skittered away across the smooth clear surface. Deeper into the bay the ice was thicker and milky colored. Clouds of red bottom paint swirled in the wake of the propeller among the floating scraps of ice as we burrowed our way closer to the marina.
The narrow trail of broken ice and open water stretched behind us, and while the ice got thicker, we managed to keep moving ahead. Unpleasant thoughts of Shackleton's men working with pickaxes to free up Endurance came to mind. What if the ice became too thick for the boat to break through, but wasn't strong enough for us to walk to shore....?
Patience prevailed, however. We finally came alongside the docks, tied up and ran the extension cord and lamp below to keep the engine warm. All told, we'd covered more than 12 miles in three hours. Not bad time at all considering that the last mile was through ice. We piled into my van, cranked up the heater, and headed off to a restaurant for a well-deserved meal.
A week later, Patience was hauled out, set in her trailer, winterized and put to bed under a cover of white shrinkwrap. Her hull was bare of bottom paint in patches, but showed no gouging or scars from the ice.
No harm, no foul, the score is Patience 1, winter 0, and I think I can now contentedly wait for next season. Let's see, if the painting and varnish work is done by March, maybe mid-March, I could launch by the end of the month, early April at the latest...
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