prior to docking the boat. As I moved around the cabin the sound of the 13 hp Yanmar knocked loudly; chugga, chugging along, nice and steady.
It was then that I had that strange feeling that something wasn't right. That weird sensation you get at the apex of the first drop on a roller coaster. I stuck my head out and looked at the shore line. Doing quick and complicated trigonometry based on the decibels of the engine and the earths rotation I concluded that we weren't moving as fast as we should be. "Bert, how about giving her a little more juice." Bert responded and added some rpms and the chugga chugging increased. I watched with a discerning eye and realized we were still slowing down instead of gaining speed. Nimbly, I stumbled into the cockpit and took the helm. Shoving the throttle forward the little Yanmar answered back with more noise, more vibration and more diesel exhaust; still the boat continued on the downward slope of the momentum bell-curve. Being the experienced sailor that I am, I did what most of us do in these situations -- expect the worst and panic.
My first inclination was that the prop had fallen off. Why it would do this I had no idea. Just moments ago life had been idyllic; calm waters, light breeze and good companionship had lured me into a sense of self-satisfaction and self-control. Then the reality of mechanical equipment struck and adrenaline washed all those warm fuzzy emotions away.
I opened up the hatch from the cockpit and saw that everything was spinning and that the prop shaft was still in place, which brought me to the quick conclusion that I didn't have a clue about what was wrong. But not knowing has never stopped me from doing anything in the past, so why start now? I began to calculate my chances of success of diving in, locating the prop from the bottom and reattaching it to the shaft; probability of success was determined to be low, so we'd have to go with plan "B".
With steely-eyed conviction and a Errol Flynn devil-may-care attitude I made a command decision and let Bert drive the boat. Bert took the helm and shut off the motor and with a few coughs as the cylinders cleared, the sounds of silence came crashing in. There is an old sailing adage, "a quiet boat is a fast boat". It also plays true when a boat is moving slowly. Everyone took their positions: Bert at the helm, Haley was topside next to the mast and I was set to trim the genoa. I unfurled the full 130% and checked the wind. It was as indecisive as I was, switching from ahead to astern, then to beam and gusting from dead calm to 5-7 knots. Bert and I talked constantly about shallows and heading, trim and angle. We sailed 100 yards ahead of ourselves as we tacked the narrow slough to the dock. My eyes were glued to the tell-tales and Bert's were glued to the depth finder. (Haley was commenting on how cute the neighbors dog was as he stood on the dock and barked at us for getting too close). We were like a tightly wound plate of spaghetti as we participated in our slow speed drama.
Thinking ahead I called Norma, (you may remember her from "Let's Take This Baby Out For a Spin"), to let her know that we would be coming in HOT! I recommended that she call several able-bodied neighbors, the fire department to spray foam on the dock, the DNR to provide assistance if needed, and everyone else should be evacuated from the neighborhood. As we approached the dock it was getting late. The wind was almost nonexistent except for the occasional puff and dusk was moving in like an evil specter determined to foil my best efforts at a successful docking. Not to be daunted, we redoubled our efforts of sitting and waiting on the wind. Suddenly it came...like a gift it came, a breeze straight down the slough. I eased the genoa and the boat gained speed. We tacked toward the opposite bank to set up our final tack to the dock and safety. Our spirits lifted, we laughed, we cried, we congratulated each other on our seamanship. (Haley asked about the green slime floating in the water). As we made the final tack, the wind left as suddenly as it had come. Would our momentum carry us into safety or into the power lines just off the port side? We quickly fell back into a deep depression and resigned ourselves to sit helpless, 40 feet from safety until rescue came. Then in one last gasp the breeze came, the genoa filled, I trimmed for maximum lift and the Swamp Fox responded by heading home. As we slid up to the dock, I furled the headsail and we tossed Norma a docking line. We'd made it!
After it was all said and done, I saw that the prop shaft had slipped out of the coupling that connects it to the transmission. There was a small amount of water leaking in from the stuffing box, which at the time looked like I was shipping water like the Titanic. A few frantic phone calls were made to Joe at Waters Sails and he assured me it would be OK and he would get someone down to take a look at it. He did and it cost me plenty. Since then, the same thing has happened a couple more times but in the tradition of the independent spirit of all true sailors and the fact that I'm cheap, I've learned, with the help of my father-in-law, to fix it myself.
Fair Winds and Following Seas!
For all you fans of the The Tubes who were expecting something else when you read the title, I hate for you to be dissapointed so...
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