Silver Heel Sailing

After the excitement of the early morning, we threw up the mainmast and finished rigging the Heel, and we were looking good to get out to the race course on time for the 10 o’clock start.  Of course, some sort of cruel karmic retribution was still in order for our having dared raise the masts a day early, so even leaving the dock didn’t go as easily as it should have. 

This is about to go bad.

With the Heel made fast aside the Yetsgo, the crew prepared to cast off from the slip.  Apparently the aft spring was already released, because as the Yetsgo roared to life already in forward gear (oh…shit…), the two boats lurched forward towards the dock, which couldn’t seem to catch a break this morning.

It was 9am and this was the second time already on the day that I cringed in anticipation of the damage clearly about to occur.  I was facing aft while turning the chainplate for the port spreader, and all I could do was keep my head down and grimace while waiting for the results of the upcoming duel between dockboards and the Heel’s bowsprit. 

I wasn’t too optimistic at the bowsprit’s chances.

The two seconds it took for the bowsprit to reach the dock seemed to last a lifetime as our season looked to be going up in smoke (or in bowsprit splinters, to be exact).  Perhaps these things tend to seem to be happening in slow motion as some sort of cosmic punishment to amplify oncoming disaster—who knows?

Miracle of miracles, though, the tide was so high after the night’s southwest breeze, the bowsprit slide tidily over the dock and the Yetsgo got away with little damage before being wrestled back under control, and amidst all the F-bombs and various other curses being hurled around, all were shocked (happily) that the worst had been averted.  What luck, though—on any other year, a dead calm Chester would not have filled with windswept water from the bay the night before, and our bowsprit would have been a former bowsprit just like that.  After our two-second mini-disaster, however, all that was shaken were nerves, and the Silver Heel was still in one piece!  Still, the two boat-meets-dock incidents of the morning weren’t the best omen for getting our weekend going. 

Then again, log canoes never go as planned, so even though there were a few people (including yours truly) who were a little put-out on the way to the course, there was no reason to get our panties all up in a bunch, as we were still about to be sailing canoes on a beautiful day on the Chester!