Waypoints on the GPS seemed perpetually just out of reach, due to the somewhat exaggerated scale. The little boat symbol would move a quarter of an inch across the screen, and we’d still have hours to go. The plan was to get to Charleston that night. As the sun went down, I took the wheel. The wind was very favorable, so I told Josh we should put the sails up. He was pretty reluctant to put them up in any case where two hours of good, usable wind did not seem to be guaranteed, cases where he might have to take them down again soon. It only took about five minutes to put both of them up. I was the happy-go-lucky Sunfish sailor, willing to give any bit of wind a chance. Josh had mostly only been sailing on his dad’s 44’ Reliance (which he built in the backyard), the kind of boat that requires plans. Float plans, conditions checks-you don’t just head up to the lake one afternoon with it on the roof of the minivan. I thought about those days in the Sunfish then, as the Manerva heeled over hard. The wind was perfect, thirty degrees off the port bow. There was going to be no standing on the keel and hauling her back upright, should something happen. I didn’t really think the Nerve could tip over, but who knows? Enough wind, hitting her just the right way…She didn’t tip, she just turned uncontrollably into and across the wind. The sails tore across to the other side, the boom like a deadly swing with a giant’s baseball bat. The jib lay plastered across the mast, making me cringe. Josh stood up in the cabin. “What happened?”
“Nothing. We’re fine.” Fine, and headed due South into the dark sea of the last two nights. After about five minutes with the wheel cranked to port, she finally started to come around. The sails whipped across again, like some giant man shaking out his canvas sheets, really beating the dust out of them. Or shoving the Nerve’s mast over with one finger, taunting us little people, threatening capsization.
Well, that was really stupid of me, I thought. (Losing control, not the giant man).
Then it happened again. Twice. The last time it was dark out. We could see the lights of Charleston (when I got us facing North again). The lights of the channel became clear. The channel sticks out from the harbor almost fifteen miles into the Atlantic. There was no way I was going to make this official-we could easily cut in closer and not have to worry about shallow water. We dropped the sails and got in the channel maybe 3 miles offshore. It looked like a jumbo jet runway, red and green lights all the way. There was a lighthouse on the shore to starboard. Several spotlights at its base flashed in succession, like some colorless attempt at a Close Encounters of the Third Kind display. As we came between the two dark humps of land, I felt the Nerve slacken her pace drastically, and start to bounce about. The GPS screen told me we were making 1.3 knots. It told us, from its tide charts, that the tide wasn’t supposed to be going out for another couple hours. It also told us that it was about eight PM. (It was 11:30). I realized that there wasn’t any way we could have scheduled differently. We were just going to have to go till we got there.
“So, yeah, Charleston tonight…”
We were turning left at a fork by another flashing lighthouse. The green marker to port got closer. It came alongside us. Then it stayed there, flashing at us every couple seconds, mocking. After about ten minutes, we put it behind us and put the sails up. She heeled over on a reach and we gained…half a knot. A boat came along with what looked like a traffic light mounted on the roof. It was the coast guard, we realized as they passed. Another one came along half an hour later. I wasn’t sure we were going to be in port tonight. I hadn’t realized how far inland the city actually was. At about 1:30, I saw the houses, right on the water, immense three story doll houses lined with clumpy Seuss-like palm trees. Someone was jogging, someone walking their dog. We almost turned up the wrong branch of the river. The little boat on the GPS still had time to decide which way it was going.
Then, the expanse of orb-lit concrete fuel dock of the Charleston City Marina. The wind was still ripping, and the water to a lesser extent. It was clear that we were going to be comin’ in hot. We chugged along parallel to the dock, the water pushing us gradually over to it. Josh got the bumpers ready, and we eased up to the dock, smooth like extra virgin. We stepped onto the concrete, which seemed to be grounded in the very crust of the earth. We looked at the nearest fuel pump, but it wasn’t on. Then we hit the hay, the warm wind whistling over the Nerve, rattling the stays.
“Nothing. We’re fine.” Fine, and headed due South into the dark sea of the last two nights. After about five minutes with the wheel cranked to port, she finally started to come around. The sails whipped across again, like some giant man shaking out his canvas sheets, really beating the dust out of them. Or shoving the Nerve’s mast over with one finger, taunting us little people, threatening capsization.
Well, that was really stupid of me, I thought. (Losing control, not the giant man).
Then it happened again. Twice. The last time it was dark out. We could see the lights of Charleston (when I got us facing North again). The lights of the channel became clear. The channel sticks out from the harbor almost fifteen miles into the Atlantic. There was no way I was going to make this official-we could easily cut in closer and not have to worry about shallow water. We dropped the sails and got in the channel maybe 3 miles offshore. It looked like a jumbo jet runway, red and green lights all the way. There was a lighthouse on the shore to starboard. Several spotlights at its base flashed in succession, like some colorless attempt at a Close Encounters of the Third Kind display. As we came between the two dark humps of land, I felt the Nerve slacken her pace drastically, and start to bounce about. The GPS screen told me we were making 1.3 knots. It told us, from its tide charts, that the tide wasn’t supposed to be going out for another couple hours. It also told us that it was about eight PM. (It was 11:30). I realized that there wasn’t any way we could have scheduled differently. We were just going to have to go till we got there.“So, yeah, Charleston tonight…”
We were turning left at a fork by another flashing lighthouse. The green marker to port got closer. It came alongside us. Then it stayed there, flashing at us every couple seconds, mocking. After about ten minutes, we put it behind us and put the sails up. She heeled over on a reach and we gained…half a knot. A boat came along with what looked like a traffic light mounted on the roof. It was the coast guard, we realized as they passed. Another one came along half an hour later. I wasn’t sure we were going to be in port tonight. I hadn’t realized how far inland the city actually was. At about 1:30, I saw the houses, right on the water, immense three story doll houses lined with clumpy Seuss-like palm trees. Someone was jogging, someone walking their dog. We almost turned up the wrong branch of the river. The little boat on the GPS still had time to decide which way it was going.
Then, the expanse of orb-lit concrete fuel dock of the Charleston City Marina. The wind was still ripping, and the water to a lesser extent. It was clear that we were going to be comin’ in hot. We chugged along parallel to the dock, the water pushing us gradually over to it. Josh got the bumpers ready, and we eased up to the dock, smooth like extra virgin. We stepped onto the concrete, which seemed to be grounded in the very crust of the earth. We looked at the nearest fuel pump, but it wasn’t on. Then we hit the hay, the warm wind whistling over the Nerve, rattling the stays.
No comments:
Post a Comment