a true story

Posted By: Richard L. Poletti
Date: 9/6/99 10:54a.m.

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Forty Something By Richard L. Poletti "To sleep ,perchance to dream"...... Shakespeare had never encountered an efficient State dock attendant. But it WAS 1300 hours. We must have used up all ten of the recuperation points awarded for the long night-time sail across Lake Huron. "Yes, we are planning to stay the night, ... yes , we will check in , thank you", I yawned Caffeine from our loyal pot would pump us up for the pier hike to the showers and keep us alert to familiar masts or opportunities to make new friends. On finger #3 we struck a conversation with a forty something fellow who was tidying an over forty foot sloop. After the usual banter about where we had been and where we were headed next, we landed on the common ground of yesterday's storm. We both had prudently chosen to run before it's fury, he with a single reefed main and I with a jib only. As I excitedly related pegging my knotmeter as we surfed, fortysomething stopped me with,"which is your boat?" I proudly pointed to my Aquarius 23 which was dwarfed by the large boats alongside. When I turned back to continue the talk, I found I was staring at the back of a seemingly disgusted fellow. At first I imagined some crisis below, then fears not resurrected since adolescence surfaced. Hurriedly I checked my person for bad breath, smelly armpits and zits ; reviewing every word I had said in the past few minutes. Failing to find any horrendous fault, I concluded that the fellow just didn't like something about my Aquarius and tried to dismiss the rudeness. Migratory habits have been forged on Lake Huron.. Each year in July and August boaters of every description converge on her premier cruising grounds, the North Channel. Those smitten by the call will follow two basic water routes. Along her Canadian shore past Bayfield , Goderich and on to Tobermory and Little current is the fastest route, but with mid-summer winds from the Southwest it is probable to encounter a pileup of waves from the long fetch and an exciting, even scary Georgian Bay crossing .Small boats like ours often choose a float plan along the more protected , but longer route next to Michigan's sunrise side ,or simply to trailer there. We had originally chosen the Canadian side, but fancied the storm an "omen" and reconsidered in favor of the safer side. So, after several days of sailing, we found ourselves only a few miles North of our usual cruising grounds on Saginaw Bay in this chance meeting with fortysomething. We left Tawas early with full fuel tanks just in case NOAA had lied to us about the beautiful sailing conditions they promised. . Motoring along in the windless haze, we doubted the wisdom of our decision to bypass all the marinas and anchorages in favor of the direct assault on the pink granite of distant Manitoulin Island. With the monotonous drone through the "oily" swell as an incubator to introspective self-flagellation, I began to doubt myself regarding the causes of yesterday's snub at the pier. Had I done something to offend ? " Not so", opined Mary , my mate for forty years and one who has considerable sensitivity in such matters. " That fellow was just having a bad day or has bad manners. Don't spoil the trip by dwelling on it. Besides, things usually work out for the best. Remember the sails?"She was referring to an extensive refit after a dismasting a few years back. The sailmaker was to have made our new sails bright red. When we picked them up they had become candy canes due to communication problems. We actually came to like the "mistake " better than an uneventful single color. Mary was right ,as usual, but I still found scant joy in a boorish sailing cousin. At 1200 hours we would have to change from our three gallon tank to the six gallon one, or the weatherman would have to make good on his promise of some wind. I switched tanks with the side thought that four hours at five knots should put us near Oscoda..We should be able to make some visual confirmation soon. Before we could scan the coastline our outboard coughed and died. not to be restarted. My mental checklist scanned the possibilities ; loose fuel connections ,fouled spark plugs, air bleeder closed, dirty fuel. I opened the tank and the fuel smelled like DIESEL!!!!Omigod, fortysomething again! All the blanks filled as I recreated the fuel dock scene. A few minutes before 0800 but seconds behind a larger sloop we had set our tank containing just the right amount of oil into the filling basin to wait our turn. .Because we were ready and the other skipper was still making his lines fast , the young attendant started to fill our tank ahead of the other sloop. Fortysomething came unglued;` he shouted and ranted until the young lady was nearly in tears. She would resume filling our tank after she had served him ,she apologized. As an added gesture , she had set the full tank in our boat and refused payment. We thanked her profusely , offered apologies for the rudeness of others and left with a tankful of diesel. Of course ,I was at fault, I should have paid attention. My only excuse was my embarrassment for the sailing community. All that recollection conjured up a small trickle of wind . The decision was made to hoist my biggest genny and to press on for Harrisville for a refill. It was only 13nm ahead and if we could make just three knots we would arrive before the fuel dock closed at 1800. Using our last pint of uncontaminated fuel to negotiate the fuel dock, we made the crawl to Harrisville by 2230 . We tied off at the pumps and crashed until growls of thirsty engines shattered our sleep. Sure, they would be happy to sell us some gas, a courteous attendant explained, but the problem of contaminated fuel disposal was insurmountable at this time..... and would we please clear the area for other boats. We bought three gallons , found a local who for ten bucks poured our six gallons of diesel into his can and by 1100 left Harrisville sans breakfast or lunch, but nine precious gallons of gas richer. A high that was dictating our weather stayed pretty much where it was with the winds freshening a bit and clocking to East Northeast. We were on a very fast beam reach that required hand holding the mainsheet and soon the psyche -healing rhythm of a good boat moving well pushed my mood more into the positive zone. Time flew as I recounted more gracious moments with our boating family; the patch party where a group of sailors came together, resin and glass in hand to help repair a new sailors damaged boat; the skipper of a none hundred foot ore carrier who had changed course to smooth the seas for a small sailboat that was getting beat up; a group of runabouts who, by their combined wakes had managed to nudge a grounded motor-sailor into deeper water; the marina group that had conspired to time a BBQ to exactly coincide with the return of some very cold ,wet and shaky boaters. This was the family I loved .These were the sailors that made sailing something of which to be proud. By 1630 we had raised Sugar and Thunder Bay islands to starboard, Northpoint to port. We had crossed Thunder Bay. Two more course changes, a little sail reduction and a whole bunch of two hour watches would find us at Bois Blanc island harbor. Usually sailors going from Michigan to the North Channel leave the mainland at Rogers City or Presque Isle ,but we wanted to visit the antique boat show in the Les Cheneaux islands so we took the longer route. Bois Banc, or Bob Lo as the natives call it, gave us a good starting point and a safe haven from the nasty weather we were beginning to encounter. For the two days that it took for the cold wet low pressure system to move on we watched the ferry load and unload, walked the mile to the general store , reread the double sided placard that gives a brief history of the island and got some needed rest. Both the thermometer and the barometer said that we could leave early tomorrow on day three. Just before dawn we were zapped from our slumber by a SCREE ...CLANK ....THUMP against a background of shouting. Peering through the raised hatch ,I could see a large mouth pasted on a reddened face with a retreating hairline. It was raining down epithets disparaging my seamanship, my tie up, my parentage and my right to be on the water at all. The mouth was attached to a body which stood on the pulpit of a much larger sloop . Fortysomething's bowsprit overhung our cockpit . The gods were toying with me. Lake Huron isn't the largest of the great lakes, but it is sufficiently large that chance meetings in the same season are infrequent. Usually when they did happen they called for celebration and a review of all that had happened since the last meeting . They are an uplifting event. NOT THIS!!! Trying to shake off sleep, I stood speechless while assessing the situation. Upon arriving , we had docked close behind a carmine colored Dufour 30 so as to allow room behind us for another boat to tie up. Two spring lines in addition to bow and stern lines were deployed to restrict our motion in the limited space. A quick check revealed no change in our position relative to the Dufour. All lines were secure. Evidently, Fortysomething had tied off in last nights Northerly. The wind now stood out of the South and it had driven his bow over my tilted outboard shaft and across my canted Loran antenna. It was now my turn to do some shouting. Alerted by the clamor , the two young men from the Dufour stood aside for a while, observing the exchange. Then one of them , a football player type , motioned my opponent closer, said a few words quietly and stepped back. As the red drained from his face, fortysomething wordlessly cast off and motored away. I looked at the young man questioningly" what did you say to him?"The young man smiled" Oh, I just told him that he would be more comfortable elsewhere". I'll never know what was really said, but noticing the N.Y. registration on the departing boat I couldn't help but to speculate that the young man spoke fluent NEW YORKESE. Finally it was our turn to go . We wished the Dufour crew fair winds and started to back away. Our outboard failed to stay locked down and very close inspection revealed a hairline crack through the yoke that holds the motor to the transom. We had checked earlier, but had only noticed scratches on the motor shaft and to the other boats hull. From this angle the damage was evident. The trip was over for us, since negotiating the North Channel without a motor is akin to voluntarily scuttling your boat. A friend helped us trailer our boat back to Saginaw Bay. Three weeks after this fiasco, I met my friend Pete who, on his Hatteras 50 , had returned just in time for our monthly lunch date. Pete was his usual pleasant self but it was clear that something was agitating him. "What gives, Pete?" I inquired. My pal exhaled deeply," Yesterday, docked at Harbor Beach, a guy on the boat next door accosted me with 'your boat is sinking'. I checked her waterline carefully, then turned back to him. What makes you think so ? " That bilge pump isn't shutting off,' he spouted. I explained to him that in 95 degree temperatures that I had to run my air conditioner. ‘ you'll have to shut it off ‘, he demanded, ‘ it bothers my peace and quiet'. Well you can always move, I suggested. He stormed off mumbling ,‘we'll see who moves'. This morning the harbormaster asked me if I had an argument , so I related the sinking story. That character had insisted that my boat should be moved, so to appease him the harbormaster had offered him a choice slip by himself. The guy went bananas, got in his boat and left." I came to attention. "Pete", I asked , " can you describe this guy and his boat"? "Well", said my friend, "It was a white sloop with NY registration , the guy was thin, balding and Oh, fortysomething" I laughed hysterically. Note: as the boating grapevine continues to inform me of further indelicacies committed by fortysomething it is clear that he is many .TOO many. Bad manners are never acceptable; divisiveness based on our toy's size age , number of hulls or method of propulsion is ridiculous. While the identity of my particular villain was obtained from the registration numbers, there is one inside each of us that needs to be held up to the light. I hope that the telling of this tale will contribute to that end; reinforcing my wife's observation that things have a way of ,"turning out for the best