Though much
conspires against it, solo sailing is still my aim. No longer the
muscled, younger man of my earlier sailing days I need some help on
the beach moving Onawnd Blue to the water and back, particularly when
there is some urgency to get her out of the waves. Passers-by are
undependable, difficult to control if once they get their minds fixed
on the idea of moving the boat, and sometimes downright
dangerous. And reliable crew, well...
As I've so often
found it is better for all concerned if I am independent. To this end
I decided to make some blocks and asked my stepfather Bob to turn
some oak sheaves. This he did with surprising alacrity given the
temperature of his workshop on the welsh borders.
Most of the tools in
the Invisible Workshop have rusted or become irrevocably blunt but at
least the belt sander can be relied upon to munch unappeasably
through soft woods. Thanks to this, plenty of filler and some
ropework in the evenings, I bungled together a pair of blocks.
I let some bad
weather pass through and with only a few little waves remaining
decided to test it. All my calculations had been based on the merest
speculation so I had no idea if a 5:1 reduction would be sufficient,
or a 9 cm diametre sheave or an 8mm fibreglass axel made from an old
flexible tentpole. With this reassuring level of uncertainty I made
for the beach with the blocks, a tangle of assorted lines and the
dog. (The only family member to show any interest in witnessing what
might evolve into a minor nautical disaster.)
I set up the tackle
as I thought best and left it laid out on the sand for my return,
then rowed out through the waves. Sharper and more powerful than they
appeared from the beach, not to say wetter, a couple of waves came
rowidly over the bow. I rowed in circles waiting for onlookers to
stop examining the blocks or devine whether the dog, who'd set up a
desolate whinning, was lost, before pointing the bows at the waiting
tackle.
My aim was good and
I'd waited for a gap in the sets of waves but the boat made as if to
broach on the first wave and was pushed off downsea at a dangerous
angle. My adrendaline up I flailed at the oars to right OB and got
her stern on to the next wave but again she tried to broach and
slewed off side-on to the next breaking wave. Surely a capsize, but
no, I earned a soaking but kept her righted by getting my wieght on
the rail. I flailed again and her bows ground on the sand. I hopped
out, immediately grabbing the eyelet on the bow to avoid her being
dragged off by the backwash from the waves.
I was 15 metres from
where the block lay waiting, I couldn't leave the boat to go and get
it as she'd drift off and the tackle wouldn't reach that far anyway.
What's more I lacked the strength to move the boat that critical one
or two metres onto the safety dry sand, especially when a quarter
full of water.
The situation was a
familiar one and I'd learnt that I couldn't yield one inch to the sea
that would drag the boat away from her destination with every wave
that washed under her. However, with every wash of water that floated
her I managed to gain a small amout of ground. In this way I took a
very long time to travel the short distance to the waiting tackle, I
hooked on with relief and started to haul on the line. I hauled and
hauled some more. Nothing appeared to be happening, other than an
ominous tension growing in the line. Then suddenly the boat lurched
and turned to face up the beach. I tied off the line to a cleat in
the boat and got a fender under her bow then unscrewed the drain
plugs and pulled again. She came forward another metre and there, out
of danger from the sea she could drain while I pondered. The line was
far too elastic. For two metres of ground I should have hauled ten of
line but there seemed to be rope everywhere.
I didn't like the
looks I was getting from the people stepping over the taughtly
streched lines crossing the beach, but the tackle had done its job
and I now had as long as I needed to heave and harumph the boat, on
fenders, the 20 metres to her place in the dunes. Then I stowed her
gear, replaced the cover and tidied the lines away.
I got home, ate a
large plate of potatoes, took a hot tot of brandy, put on my best
woollens and went to bed for the rest of the afternoon.
