Nanaimo Storm - Part One
With Bob’s retirement a year later, we set sail once again. We spent the autumn months in the San Juan Islands and then continued north, a solitary sailboat going in the wrong direction according to most folks. It was during a January storm in Nanaimo that we experienced our first test of the winter, and it happened while we were at dock. The details of that experience were recorded in our separate journals and were later published in the Summer 2000 issue of Canadian Yachting.
Bob’s Journal, 14 January 1998
Today starts with heavy rain and gusty winds. CBC radio (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) reports temperatures at the freezing mark throughout our area. While eating breakfast, I notice a great deal of extra motion of the boat and decide to go out and check the dock lines. As I get ready to go out I can hear the wind increase and feel the boat moving more violently. I dress in my foul weather gear and head topside; I am surprised by the strength of the wind, the slashing rain and the force of the waves pounding against the side of Chiron, pushing it away from the dock. The lines are holding but stretched. We are riding far out from the dock and dancing like a toy on the end of a string.
It is a nasty situation and seems to be getting worse rapidly. It is imperative to tighten the dock lines for lots of reasons; the boat is at risk; we are in a tight moorage and if the lines give way we will quickly be blown into the fuel dock only yards away, or into any one of the other boats moored throughout the harbor. And if the wind shifts, we could be slammed back against the dock. No choice. The lines have to be tightened.
In the few moments that it takes to assess the situation, I am chilled and thoroughly soaked. Horizontal rain – maybe some ice mixed in, stings my face. I step to the edge of the deck ready to jump. The gap seems more ominous as Chiron bounds up and down out of rhythm with the slower rolling motions of the dock. I think I see ice on the dock. I jump. I must look like a giant yellow plastic bird trying to get airborne. I land hard, can feel the impact all the way to my thighs. I try to flex my knees to take the shock, but I am too cold and too unpracticed. At least I don’t fall. Stern line first – it is stretched tight – don’t touch that knot. Up the dock – breast line set like iron – maybe it is taking the full force of the storm. Forward spring has some slack but it is not really relevant yet. The bowline is alternately tensing and slacking as the boat moves with the wind and waves. It has to start here. I loosen the knot knowing that time is running short, fingers already numb and I have to watch them to do the work. I leave one turn of the line under the dock cleat and brace against the cleat and pull with all of my strength. Okay. Okay. Then a sudden surge and I feel like my shoulders are going to rip out of their sockets. I hang on. Then a slight slackening. I tighten the line and quickly throw a temporary knot. I can’t do this alone. I call for Morningstar. Too much storm noise. My words are whipped away in the wind.
I will have to jump back on board – what the f*&*! Lose my dignity maybe. With tons of boat and dock moving – just don’t fall in the gap.
Made it! I open the hatch and look down into Morningstar’s eyes. I keep my voice level and calm. “I need your help.” No hesitation – no questions – she just moves to put on her gear.
Back on deck, I’m not sure what to tell her. I’m not sure how she will react to this. I watch her. She moves to the edge of the deck and looks down. I say, “We have to jump.” She nods. I go first. It hurts more when I land this time. A dull pain in my legs. I can’t feel my feet. I suppose it’s the diabetes. I turn – she’s ready to jump. She is going to land on the very edge of the dock – not so good. I hold out my hand and she grabs it as she hits the dock. I pull her forward. We run to the bowline – loosen the knot again. I stand behind her and we both grab the line. We make several attempts to pull in the bow. The storm seems to be intensifying. She has thrown her hood back and her face is red and her hair plastered against her head. We try again but lose ground. The boat is now even further from the dock and the motion is worse. The docks are deserted. No help. If we wait, the boat may be too far away to re-board. The situation is deteriorating and Morningstar seems confused and uncertain. I can barely make myself heard. Even if I could, I’m not sure that I could say much that was useful.
Last chance. The way we were laying parallel to the dock with the storm abeam and with the stern and breast lines taunt, the spring slack and the bow line swinging – it just might allow me to start up Chiron’s engine and power forward, pivoting on the stern line, forcing the bow into the dock. I explain to Morningstar with a few shouted words… she is to stay on the dock, take in the slack and retie the bow. No questions on her part. She moves to the line and stands ready.
... to be continued
Bob’s Journal, 14 January 1998
Today starts with heavy rain and gusty winds. CBC radio (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) reports temperatures at the freezing mark throughout our area. While eating breakfast, I notice a great deal of extra motion of the boat and decide to go out and check the dock lines. As I get ready to go out I can hear the wind increase and feel the boat moving more violently. I dress in my foul weather gear and head topside; I am surprised by the strength of the wind, the slashing rain and the force of the waves pounding against the side of Chiron, pushing it away from the dock. The lines are holding but stretched. We are riding far out from the dock and dancing like a toy on the end of a string.
It is a nasty situation and seems to be getting worse rapidly. It is imperative to tighten the dock lines for lots of reasons; the boat is at risk; we are in a tight moorage and if the lines give way we will quickly be blown into the fuel dock only yards away, or into any one of the other boats moored throughout the harbor. And if the wind shifts, we could be slammed back against the dock. No choice. The lines have to be tightened.
In the few moments that it takes to assess the situation, I am chilled and thoroughly soaked. Horizontal rain – maybe some ice mixed in, stings my face. I step to the edge of the deck ready to jump. The gap seems more ominous as Chiron bounds up and down out of rhythm with the slower rolling motions of the dock. I think I see ice on the dock. I jump. I must look like a giant yellow plastic bird trying to get airborne. I land hard, can feel the impact all the way to my thighs. I try to flex my knees to take the shock, but I am too cold and too unpracticed. At least I don’t fall. Stern line first – it is stretched tight – don’t touch that knot. Up the dock – breast line set like iron – maybe it is taking the full force of the storm. Forward spring has some slack but it is not really relevant yet. The bowline is alternately tensing and slacking as the boat moves with the wind and waves. It has to start here. I loosen the knot knowing that time is running short, fingers already numb and I have to watch them to do the work. I leave one turn of the line under the dock cleat and brace against the cleat and pull with all of my strength. Okay. Okay. Then a sudden surge and I feel like my shoulders are going to rip out of their sockets. I hang on. Then a slight slackening. I tighten the line and quickly throw a temporary knot. I can’t do this alone. I call for Morningstar. Too much storm noise. My words are whipped away in the wind.
I will have to jump back on board – what the f*&*! Lose my dignity maybe. With tons of boat and dock moving – just don’t fall in the gap.
Made it! I open the hatch and look down into Morningstar’s eyes. I keep my voice level and calm. “I need your help.” No hesitation – no questions – she just moves to put on her gear.
Back on deck, I’m not sure what to tell her. I’m not sure how she will react to this. I watch her. She moves to the edge of the deck and looks down. I say, “We have to jump.” She nods. I go first. It hurts more when I land this time. A dull pain in my legs. I can’t feel my feet. I suppose it’s the diabetes. I turn – she’s ready to jump. She is going to land on the very edge of the dock – not so good. I hold out my hand and she grabs it as she hits the dock. I pull her forward. We run to the bowline – loosen the knot again. I stand behind her and we both grab the line. We make several attempts to pull in the bow. The storm seems to be intensifying. She has thrown her hood back and her face is red and her hair plastered against her head. We try again but lose ground. The boat is now even further from the dock and the motion is worse. The docks are deserted. No help. If we wait, the boat may be too far away to re-board. The situation is deteriorating and Morningstar seems confused and uncertain. I can barely make myself heard. Even if I could, I’m not sure that I could say much that was useful.
Last chance. The way we were laying parallel to the dock with the storm abeam and with the stern and breast lines taunt, the spring slack and the bow line swinging – it just might allow me to start up Chiron’s engine and power forward, pivoting on the stern line, forcing the bow into the dock. I explain to Morningstar with a few shouted words… she is to stay on the dock, take in the slack and retie the bow. No questions on her part. She moves to the line and stands ready.
... to be continued
posted by Looking for Hope | 11:57 AM
1 Comments:
Whoa!
Doc's girl
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