An Egregious Error 2013 The last rigger made the last half turn on the turnbuckle on the starboard lower shroud, pinned and taped it, and said good-bye. GANNET’s rig was finally in place. Beautiful designed and manufactured custom Ballenger mast and boom and almost everything else were new, from one size larger than standard rigging, chainplates, line below deck for the backstay adjustor, to the Windex on the masthead. Those few pieces that had not just been replaced, such as the headstay and halyards, I had already replaced since buying the little sloop. Only the spinnaker halyard remained from when GANNET was GROWLER. After Scott left, I scrubbed the deck, sorted out halyards, replaced whipping on lines I noticed needed it, and considered where I might sail for a shakedown. That evening, sipping my customary libation on deck, the obvious answer came. Before setting off on my first attempt at Cape Horn in 1974, I sailed EGREGIOUS, my then new Ericson 37, from San Diego down around Mexico’s Guadalupe Island, five hundred total miles, the farthest I had sailed non-stop until then. Within two years my longest non-stop passage would be 20,000 miles. It is a good course and distance, a reach down, a beat back with the port tack favored. I put a waypoint off Guadalupe into iNavX on my iPad and one of my Garmin handhelds. I left the slip two mornings later. Reconfiguring cabin from dock to sea mode took a while. The starboard quarter berth on which I sleep while underway must be cleared and the bags on it--clothes, foul weather gear, laundry--moved to the v-berth. Lee cloths for both quarter berths freed and hooked. Two five gallon jerry cans filled and stowed behind the lee cloth on the port quarter berth. Laptop and iPad and a few other electronics into waterproof cases. Tool kit wrapped in plastic trash bag. I also had to raise the mainsail at dock to reeve reef lines on the new boom. The tide strong against us, It took more than an hour to clear the ends of the channel breakwaters, and as soon as we did, fog thickened and fog horns began to sound. With visibility down to a few boat lengths, I sailed into the kelp bed off Ocean Beach, was stopped dead, and had to make a slow full circle before turning south again. Finally clear and with the fog lifting, I was able to ease off the wind, and for the first time removed the Torqeedo from the stern while underway. In light conditions this was easy, though I did tie a line around the shaft before I loosened it from the bracket. I also removed the outboard bracket and stowed all below. By sunset, the fog had burned off, and I had the world to myself. I smiled. It had been a long time. Four years. Two fishing boats off the Coronado Islands faded behind me, as did the mainland of Baja California to the east. Now it was just GANNET and me on the open ocean. The wind had never been above ten knots, and usually less than eight; but during the afternoon our boat speed increased from fives to sixes to sevens, and then even into the eights. The maximum I saw on the Velocitek, which measures by GPS, was 8.7. This is remarkable. THE HAWKE OF TUONELA often reached eight knots, but not in such light conditions. And GANNET’s sails are built to survive a circumnavigation, not race. Small waves pushed some water over the foredeck, yet GANNET’s hollow bows deflected much of the spray. The wind had never been aft of the beam and usually was ahead. GANNET heeled 20º and often 30º. As I heated water for freeze dry Chicken Teriyaki and poured a plastic tumbler of boxed red wine, I knew that there are going to be a lot of spills in the Great Cabin. The starboard quarter pipe berth was to windward that night and difficult. The lee cloth was essential, but releasing it and climbing out of the deeply angled berth required Olympic acrobatics. Only a couple of positions were acceptable after wedging a flotation cushion between my back or knee, depending on which way I was facing, and the partial companionway bulkhead. Sunset the following evening found us forty-three miles from the north end of Guadalupe Island, making six knots across a molten sea of burnished metal, having covered 139 miles noon to noon in wind that never rose above ten knots. With more wind GANNET is obviously capable of 1000 mile weeks, which has long been my measure of good progress. I had seen no one and nothing that day, except for some dolphin who swam around the little sloop while I was on deck. GANNET being what she is, I could almost reach out and touch them, which might have been a surprise to us both. Twenty-four hours later found GANNET in almost the same location, but headed the other direction. At midnight we had been drifting with bare steerage way five miles by GPS off Guadalupe. The overcast night was so starless and black that I could not see the least sign of the more than four thousand foot high island, so I slowly turned GANNET around, which was just as well because the next day we were mostly becalmed. I futilely chased puffs; but only when I was eating dinner on deck did cats-paws darken glassy water and a light breeze fill in. Close-hauled the following morning in five to six knots of wind and smooth seas, GANNET sailed at wind speed. When the wind later increased to twelve knots, creating short, choppy waves, she didn’t go any faster. She needs to dance above water, not pound into it. But she kept on keeping on. More spray was being blown aft, and I was glad to be wearing my light foul weather parka and to have a waterproof bluetooth ECOXBT speaker that I set on the cockpit sole for music. Life going to windward with GANNET heeled 30º was hard. On THE HAWKE OF TUONELA and RESURGAM, I reduced sail when they heeled more than 20º, but GANNET needs sail and is going to heel. It was up to me to adapt. One lesson learned was that my stowage needs refining. Objects slide when heeled 30º and weren’t where I had come to expect them. This was particularly a problem with my eyeglasses at night in a dark, inclined cabin. Converging with the land as I sailed north--Guadalupe Island is 140 miles off the Baja coast--I no longer had the world to myself. Several commercial fishing boats were to the west, and one passed close astern. The sea continued lumpy until almost midnight. Then the wind went light and veered, forcing us between the shore south of Tijuana and the fleet of fishing boats out to sea. I tacked between coast and fishing boats and a light on South Coronado Island, until black night become grey dawn, without gaining much. Knowing that I’d probably be awake later, I had climbed--literally--into the quarter berth at 1930 and snatched three brief intervals of sleep, not more than two hours total, until I was up for good at 0300. Making only two or three knots against a shifting northerly headwind on a grey, overcast morning, it took me forever to get past the Coronado Islands. Or so it seemed. I tried to pass east of the three barren islands, the largest of which is less than two miles long, was headed; tried to pass west, was headed; tried to sail between them, was headed; until finally the wind backed and I cleared them to the west. A few hours later, GANNET was making 7.6 knots as I angled her toward the entrance to the Mission Bay channel. A lot was going to happen soon, some of which I had not done before, but I had a plan. Once centered in the channel, I’d engage the tiller pilot to steer, then lower the main to reduce speed and give us more time. The tail of the halyard had already been removed from its cockpit bag and was free to run. Mainsail secured to the boom by sail ties, I would bring the outboard bracket from the cabin, slip it into the stern; then the Torqeedo--shaft, battery, tiller arm, pin to secure battery to shaft--onto the bracket. Then two fenders on the starboard side and the bow dock line. I’d already put the stern dock line in place. Then furl the jib and proceed to the slip under Torqeedo. Nothing wrong with the plan. I’d thought it through. But I was tired. Far more tired than I realized. GANNET moved quickly between the breakwaters. I engaged the tiller pilot. Climbed onto the deck, released the halyard clutch. And nothing happened. GANNET’s fully battened mainsail is set on a Strong System track made by Tides Marine specifically designed to let the mainsail slide up and down in all conditions. I had the same system on THE HAWKE OF TUONELA and it never failed me. I went to the mast and pulled on the luff of the sail. Nothing. It was stuck. GANNET was still sailing fast. I returned to the cockpit, furled the jib instead, which didn’t slow us much. Into the cabin and out repeatedly. Bracket and Torqeedo in place and assembled in probably world record time. I didn’t have time to worry about doing it. Onto the foredeck to get the bow dock line onto its cleat. We were running out of channel. Fenders tied on. Back to the Torqeedo, which I used to make the turn to port and then, where there was more room off the entrance into Quivira Basin, I powered slowly into the wind, went to the mast, pulled, shook. Nothing. I circled and tried again. Nothing. The mainsail was not coming down. I’ve sailed boats into slips before, with or without engines. I headed into Quivira Basin, with the Torqeedo in neutral, sailing under mainsail with the sheet almost all the way out. A fully battened mainsail continues to have shape and power even when improperly trimmed. Usually this is desirable, but not when you are trying to slow down. I sailed close to the bait barge, past a row of mildly interested pelicans and cormorants. Two sea lions raised their heads, glanced at me, lowered them, and closed their eyes. From as far away as possible, I made the turn toward ‘A’ Dock. The main was now out at a 90º angle, but still driving. We were moving faster than I wanted, but I needed to concentrate on steering, not turn around and put the Torqeedo in reverse, which I don’t think would have helped much. With the boom out that far, I had to keep away from the boats on the dock to leeward. Only when I turned into the slip a boat length out would the main luff. As I know, GANNET doesn’t carry much way. I turned. She went for the slip. I leapt onto the dock and grabbed her by the lifeline. Light boats are easy to stop. I did before her bow hit. Walked forward, secured the bow line. Aft the stern line. Breathed the traditional sigh of relief. With no longer any urgency, I climbed aboard and tried to get the mainsail down. I loosened the backstay, pulled on the luff, made sure the halyard wasn’t jammed at deck level, shook the mast. Nothing. An hour later, Kasey, the rigger, solved the problem for me: I had released the wrong halyard clutch. Of course the main wouldn’t come down when the main halyard clutch was still engaged. A flip of the lever was all it took. The right lever. That the mast was new was in no way mitigating. The halyards are the same and exit on the same sides as they did on the old mast. The main and spinnaker to starboard. The two jib halyards to port. The main halyard is red and yellow. Spinnaker blue. Jib halyards brown and red and blue and red. No way to confuse them. I can think of three possible explanations. I am stupid. I reject this one, but can understand opinions to the contrary. I am getting senile. This might be true. I was very tired. This is true. I’d had limited sleep for four nights and been awake since 3 a.m. But even so, how I could have prepared to lower the spare jib halyard on the port side of the mast rather than the main halyard to starboard is troubling. Once in the channel, I had to act quickly, not ponder, and I did get GANNET safely into her slip. But even then my mind remained closed to the solution. I have never before felt the sensation of movement continuing after a sail, not even after five months, mostly in the Southern Ocean, in EGREGIOUS. Yet beating to windward for two hundred miles in GANNET caused the dock and land to seem to move for a couple of hours more, particularly when I closed my eyes in the marina shower, which leapt up, down and around. I needed a lee cloth more than a wash cloth. I slept ten hours that night and came right.

An Egregious Error

2013

The last rigger made the last half turn on the turnbuckle on the starboard lower shroud, pinned and taped it, and said good-bye. GANNET’s rig was finally in place.

Beautiful designed and manufactured custom Ballenger mast and boom and almost everything else were new, from one size larger than standard rigging, chainplates, line below deck for the backstay adjustor, to the Windex on the masthead.

Those few pieces that had not just been replaced, such as the headstay and halyards, I had already replaced since buying the little sloop. Only the spinnaker halyard remained from when GANNET was GROWLER.

After Scott left, I scrubbed the deck, sorted out halyards, replaced whipping on lines I noticed needed it, and considered where I might sail for a shakedown. That evening, sipping my customary libation on deck, the obvious answer came.

Before setting off on my first attempt at Cape Horn in 1974, I sailed EGREGIOUS, my then new Ericson 37, from San Diego down around Mexico’s Guadalupe Island, five hundred total miles, the farthest I had sailed non-stop until then. Within two years my longest non-stop passage would be 20,000 miles.

It is a good course and distance, a reach down, a beat back with the port tack favored.

I put a waypoint off Guadalupe into iNavX on my iPad and one of my Garmin handhelds.

I left the slip two mornings later.

Reconfiguring cabin from dock to sea mode took a while.

The starboard quarter berth on which I sleep while underway must be cleared and the bags on it--clothes, foul weather gear, laundry--moved to the v-berth. Lee cloths for both quarter berths freed and hooked. Two five gallon jerry cans filled and stowed behind the lee cloth on the port quarter berth.

Laptop and iPad and a few other electronics into waterproof cases. Tool kit wrapped in plastic trash bag.

I also had to raise the mainsail at dock to reeve reef lines on the new boom.

The tide strong against us, It took more than an hour to clear the ends of the channel breakwaters, and as soon as we did, fog thickened and fog horns began to sound.

With visibility down to a few boat lengths, I sailed into the kelp bed off Ocean Beach, was stopped dead, and had to make a slow full circle before turning south again.

Finally clear and with the fog lifting, I was able to ease off the wind, and for the first time removed the Torqeedo from the stern while underway. In light conditions this was easy, though I did tie a line around the shaft before I loosened it from the bracket.

I also removed the outboard bracket and stowed all below.

By sunset, the fog had burned off, and I had the world to myself. I smiled. It had been a long time. Four years. Two fishing boats off the Coronado Islands faded behind me, as did the mainland of Baja California to the east. Now it was just GANNET and me on the open ocean.

The wind had never been above ten knots, and usually less than eight; but during the afternoon our boat speed increased from fives to sixes to sevens, and then even into the eights. The maximum I saw on the Velocitek, which measures by GPS, was 8.7. This is remarkable. THE HAWKE OF TUONELA often reached eight knots, but not in such light conditions. And GANNET’s sails are built to survive a circumnavigation, not race.

Small waves pushed some water over the foredeck, yet GANNET’s hollow bows deflected much of the spray.

The wind had never been aft of the beam and usually was ahead. GANNET heeled 20º and often 30º. As I heated water for freeze dry Chicken Teriyaki and poured a plastic tumbler of boxed red wine, I knew that there are going to be a lot of spills in the Great Cabin.

The starboard quarter pipe berth was to windward that night and difficult. The lee cloth was essential, but releasing it and climbing out of the deeply angled berth required Olympic acrobatics.

Only a couple of positions were acceptable after wedging a flotation cushion between my back or knee, depending on which way I was facing, and the partial companionway bulkhead.

Sunset the following evening found us forty-three miles from the north end of Guadalupe Island, making six knots across a molten sea of burnished metal, having covered 139 miles noon to noon in wind that never rose above ten knots. With more wind GANNET is obviously capable of 1000 mile weeks, which has long been my measure of good progress.

I had seen no one and nothing that day, except for some dolphin who swam around the little sloop while I was on deck. GANNET being what she is, I could almost reach out and touch them, which might have been a surprise to us both.

Twenty-four hours later found GANNET in almost the same location, but headed the other direction. At midnight we had been drifting with bare steerage way five miles by GPS off Guadalupe. The overcast night was so starless and black that I could not see the least sign of the more than four thousand foot high island, so I slowly turned GANNET around, which was just as well because the next day we were mostly becalmed. I futilely chased puffs; but only when I was eating dinner on deck did cats-paws darken glassy water and a light breeze fill in.

Close-hauled the following morning in five to six knots of wind and smooth seas, GANNET sailed at wind speed. When the wind later increased to twelve knots, creating short, choppy waves, she didn’t go any faster. She needs to dance above water, not pound into it. But she kept on keeping on. More spray was being blown aft, and I was glad to be wearing my light foul weather parka and to have a waterproof bluetooth ECOXBT speaker that I set on the cockpit sole for music.

Life going to windward with GANNET heeled 30º was hard. On THE HAWKE OF TUONELA and RESURGAM, I reduced sail when they heeled more than 20º, but GANNET needs sail and is going to heel. It was up to me to adapt.

One lesson learned was that my stowage needs refining. Objects slide when heeled 30º and weren’t where I had come to expect them. This was particularly a problem with my eyeglasses at night in a dark, inclined cabin.

Converging with the land as I sailed north--Guadalupe Island is 140 miles off the Baja coast--I no longer had the world to myself. Several commercial fishing boats were to the west, and one passed close astern.

The sea continued lumpy until almost midnight. Then the wind went light and veered, forcing us between the shore south of Tijuana and the fleet of fishing boats out to sea.

I tacked between coast and fishing boats and a light on South Coronado Island, until black night become grey dawn, without gaining much.

Knowing that I’d probably be awake later, I had climbed--literally--into the quarter berth at 1930 and snatched three brief intervals of sleep, not more than two hours total, until I was up for good at 0300.

Making only two or three knots against a shifting northerly headwind on a grey, overcast morning, it took me forever to get past the Coronado Islands. Or so it seemed.

I tried to pass east of the three barren islands, the largest of which is less than two miles long, was headed; tried to pass west, was headed; tried to sail between them, was headed; until finally the wind backed and I cleared them to the west.

A few hours later, GANNET was making 7.6 knots as I angled her toward the entrance to the Mission Bay channel. A lot was going to happen soon, some of which I had not done before, but I had a plan.

Once centered in the channel, I’d engage the tiller pilot to steer, then lower the main to reduce speed and give us more time. The tail of the halyard had already been removed from its cockpit bag and was free to run.

Mainsail secured to the boom by sail ties, I would bring the outboard bracket from the cabin, slip it into the stern; then the Torqeedo--shaft, battery, tiller arm, pin to secure battery to shaft--onto the bracket. Then two fenders on the starboard side and the bow dock line. I’d already put the stern dock line in place. Then furl the jib and proceed to the slip under Torqeedo.

Nothing wrong with the plan. I’d thought it through. But I was tired. Far more tired than I realized.

GANNET moved quickly between the breakwaters. I engaged the tiller pilot. Climbed onto the deck, released the halyard clutch. And nothing happened. GANNET’s fully battened mainsail is set on a Strong System track made by Tides Marine specifically designed to let the mainsail slide up and down in all conditions. I had the same system on THE HAWKE OF TUONELA and it never failed me. I went to the mast and pulled on the luff of the sail. Nothing. It was stuck.

GANNET was still sailing fast.

I returned to the cockpit, furled the jib instead, which didn’t slow us much.

Into the cabin and out repeatedly. Bracket and Torqeedo in place and assembled in probably world record time. I didn’t have time to worry about doing it.

Onto the foredeck to get the bow dock line onto its cleat. We were running out of channel. Fenders tied on.

Back to the Torqeedo, which I used to make the turn to port and then, where there was more room off the entrance into Quivira Basin, I powered slowly into the wind, went to the mast, pulled, shook. Nothing. I circled and tried again. Nothing. The mainsail was not coming down.

I’ve sailed boats into slips before, with or without engines.

I headed into Quivira Basin, with the Torqeedo in neutral, sailing under mainsail with the sheet almost all the way out. A fully battened mainsail continues to have shape and power even when improperly trimmed. Usually this is desirable, but not when you are trying to slow down.

I sailed close to the bait barge, past a row of mildly interested pelicans and cormorants. Two sea lions raised their heads, glanced at me, lowered them, and closed their eyes.

From as far away as possible, I made the turn toward ‘A’ Dock. The main was now out at a 90º angle, but still driving. We were moving faster than I wanted, but I needed to concentrate on steering, not turn around and put the Torqeedo in reverse, which I don’t think would have helped much.

With the boom out that far, I had to keep away from the boats on the dock to leeward. Only when I turned into the slip a boat length out would the main luff. As I know, GANNET doesn’t carry much way.

I turned. She went for the slip. I leapt onto the dock and grabbed her by the lifeline. Light boats are easy to stop. I did before her bow hit. Walked forward, secured the bow line. Aft the stern line. Breathed the traditional sigh of relief.

With no longer any urgency, I climbed aboard and tried to get the mainsail down. I loosened the backstay, pulled on the luff, made sure the halyard wasn’t jammed at deck level, shook the mast. Nothing.

An hour later, Kasey, the rigger, solved the problem for me: I had released the wrong halyard clutch. Of course the main wouldn’t come down when the main halyard clutch was still engaged. A flip of the lever was all it took. The right lever.

That the mast was new was in no way mitigating. The halyards are the same and exit on the same sides as they did on the old mast. The main and spinnaker to starboard. The two jib halyards to port. The main halyard is red and yellow. Spinnaker blue. Jib halyards brown and red and blue and red. No way to confuse them.

I can think of three possible explanations.

I am stupid. I reject this one, but can understand opinions to the contrary.

I am getting senile. This might be true.

I was very tired. This is true. I’d had limited sleep for four nights and been awake since 3 a.m. But even so, how I could have prepared to lower the spare jib halyard on the port side of the mast rather than the main halyard to starboard is troubling.

Once in the channel, I had to act quickly, not ponder, and I did get GANNET safely into her slip. But even then my mind remained closed to the solution.

I have never before felt the sensation of movement continuing after a sail, not even after five months, mostly in the Southern Ocean, in EGREGIOUS. Yet beating to windward for two hundred miles in GANNET caused the dock and land to seem to move for a couple of hours more, particularly when I closed my eyes in the marina shower, which leapt up, down and around. I needed a lee cloth more than a wash cloth.

I slept ten hours that night and came right.