By Warren Milberg The wind had been rising all morning long. When I left the Rhode River a few hours before, the wind was blowing from the east at about eight knots—perfect sailing for my good old C&C Niagara sloop, I thought. Earlier, after weighing anchor I had hoisted up the 155 genoa and a full main—the largest sail combination I have available on my boat. After a brief period of really sweet sailing, I knew, without having to use my hand-held windmeter, that the wind was higher than when I started out.
As soon as I had cleared Dutchman Point and gotten into the mouth of the West River, conditions became distinctly different. The little prepubescent wavelets were trying desperately to mature into whitecaps, which I knew tend to start at about 12 knots. Little wisps of foam were blowing against the topsides. I tried to imagine the shallow underwater topography of Curtis Point in order to avoid the shoals there as I picked out the best course to take me to Eastern Bay and the Miles River just beyond. My chart book was open and sitting on the cockpit floor; yet I felt no need to consult it. Bloody Point Light, about eight miles to the east, beckoned me on.
When sailing alone, I like to use my ears to tell me what the wind is doing. Moving my head from side to side, I can feel the differential pressure as the wind passes over my ears. I've become more adept at determining wind direction this way than by looking at the Windex at the top of the mast. It’s one of those little skills you learn that make sailing so much fun. Simple is always better. If it worked for Joshua Slocum more than a hundred years ago, it works for me now.
| 
|
|
Well, not always. The truth is that Slocum didn't have the choices that I have and that I may decide to avail myself of, albeit reluctanctly so far. Take roller furling, for instance. I knew that at some point that day, probably sooner rather than later, I was going to have to make a headsail change. My mind at once became occupied with thoughts of how I was going to do it, where to do it, and when to do it. It also occurred to me, for the 1000th time, that none of this would be on my mind if I had a furling and reefing headsail.
In this day and age, most boats have roller furling, and reefing, headsails. Many now have mains that can furl into the mast or boom. I have neither. My sailing friends jocularly “accuse” me of taking purism to an extreme.
While the cost of buying, installing, and maintaining these systems is certainly a consideration, the predominant reason I don't have them is that I feel no particular need for these systems on my boat. Something in the back of my mind keeps saying to me that these systems will fail just when I need them most. When I tell you how I reached this conclusion you may consider it a hasty generalization on my part, but what might seem to you as insufficent evidence came across as a very compelling and unforgetable argument.
My conclusion was built upon the premises of the one time I saw the crew of a 30-something footer trying to furl its jib in a 30-something knot breeze: it fouled for some reason or other. I stood off and watched the drama of this scene unfold for over half an hour. In some ways I felt like a nautical voyeur. It was painful to watch, and listen to. It was clear that their recalcitrant jib had no intention of being furled that day, no matter what the captain and mate tried. The captain of the vessel gave increasingly louder "instructions" to a woman I presumed to be his wife (at least at that time) who was struggling on the foredeck with many square yards of dacron that had a mind of their own. This poor soul was getting flogged by the clew of the sail, which refused to obey her efforts to bring it under control. At some point in this one-act play, the captain and mate were able to scream louder at each other than the wind was screaming. Every now and then I heard the term "Womanship...!" being used as some sort of contemptuous epithet. Soon thereafter, the captain and mate changed roles. He came forward, she aft. As the man went from flogger to “floggee,” I could hear how unhappy the captain was with his mate's inability to follow his instructions from the bow about how he would like the boat to be kept into the wind. Little hairs were now standing up on the back of my neck. I thought about why it appeared that so few women really liked to sail.
| 
|
|
I had to take my eyes off this scene in order to take my own headsail down. I headed my boat upwind, locked the tiller-tamer, ran up to the mast, and dropped the headsail all in the space of minute or two. The big hanked-on headsail dropped instantly to the deck, where I bundled it up and tied it off to the lifelines with bungee. I doubt five minutes had elapsed by the time I was back in the cockpit putting the engine in gear. Meanwhile, I took one final look over at the boat with the fouled furler and noted that the captain now seemed to be tugging, unsuccessfully, at the luff as he attempted to bring his sail to the deck. I lost sight of the boat, but not the memory of the two people on board, nor my aversion toward unreliable gadgets.
I imagine that a lot of owners of good old boats like mine also continue to be sailing anachronisms. In some ways, that is what owning and sailing a good old boat is all about: simple pleasures coming from simple, fool-proof systems. My system for changing from a large to smaller headsail, while admittedly somewhat dangerous and dicey, has always worked for me. It involves heading the boat up slightly into the wind, easing off the mainsail a bit until it is just about to luff, and then setting the tiller to hold the boat in that position. I then dash forward, letting the headsail halyard fly as I pass the mast. Sitting on the foredeck to keep my center of gravity as low as possible, I haul down the sail and stuff it into a bag. I then reverse the procedure by dragging the sail back to the cabin, drag the smaller headsail out to the foredeck, and reattach the sheets, all from the sitting position. Another quick dash back to the mast to raise the new sail and I’m underway again. Most of the time, this whole procedure can be accomplished in less than 10 minutes.
| 
|
|
Yet there are times when I honestly wish I had a roller-furling headsail on my boat. I sail alone a lot, and sometimes, by choice or chance, the weather turns nasty. Leaving the relative safety of the cockpit to go out on to a pitching or rolling foredeck that is often awash as the bow takes a wave on the nose is not for the faint of heart. While I always wear a PFD, I normally suit up with a safety
harness as well at those times. Even so, I’m not quite sure I could get back aboard if a rogue wave washed me over board. There! I've said it.
All this has me thinking that perhaps it’s time to reconsider my previous aversion to roller furling and to join the ranks of today’s multi-furled sailors. My boat would still be a good old boat and my reputation as a sailing purist would still be intact. All in favor say yea.
Warren Milberg has been racing and sailing for over 25 years. He keeps his C&C Niagara sloop Flexible Flyer at Herrington Harbour North Marina in Deale, MD, and invites comments and commentary at hmseconomy@aol.com.
If you'd like to contribute to Our Readers Write section, please send your submissions to submit@sailnet.com.
