April Surprise to Prudence Island

I hadn't been sailing in almost two years--a far cry from my regular adventures of a few years ago.  The itch had been growing, so I decided upon a trip during the April school vacation.  My fifteen-foot, full-cabin Jewelbox Jr, Surprise, would keep me comfortable in the cool weather, since she is sailed from inside the (relatively) roomy cabin.  It would also enable me to carry my bicycle: five-mile-long Prudence Island--a whale-shaped island in the middle of Narragansett Bay--I had found a little too big for comfortable walking.  This would be a welcome trip for Surprise, as well--she had spent three years quietly rotting in the backyard under various inadequate tarps--in fact since the last time I'd made this very trip.  

The first order of business was to make Surprise seaworthy.  This trip would be entirely in protected waters, so I hoped that wasn't asking too much.  A rotten wale was cut out, and the aft deck reinforce with inside bracing.  Decks and roof were scraped and painted just in time to cure for the trip.  I ran out of time and had to leave with a sail in need of patching.  

The trip would take me from Fall River, MA down Mount Hope Bay, under the Mt. Hope Bridge, across the entrance to Bristol Harbor and finally to Potter Cove on Prudence Island, RI--a modest ten nautical miles altogether.

The trailer was the next obstacle.  When I built Surprise I bought a Harbor Freight utility trailer to carry her with.  Right after I finished recent boat work, I discovered that--true to her low cost--the trailer had rusted into brown crud leaving only a pair of wheels on either side of a half-inch plywood bed. With the Fall River launch ramp twenty-five miles away,  I wasn't willing to blow more money on another Harbor Freight trailer.  Craigslist had nothing appropriate close by, even at twice the price.  I was nearly in despair.  

But U-Haul came to the rescue, sort of.  Renting a trailer was a reasonable expense for my rare sailing trips.  But none of the trailers were simple flat bed affairs that I could load the boat onto with both ends overhanging.  I had to rent a massive, two-axle 6X12 foot trailer and even then leave the tailgate open to accommodate Surprise's fifteen feet.  The trailer was so wide I could get it down my narrow driveway only by running one pair of tires atop a curb.  (Leaving the driveway to return the trailer at the end of the voyage, I accidentally allowed both pairs of wheels to slip down, wedging the trailer so effectively that the car's wheels spun and skidded trying to move it.)

The only problem with a rented trailer--and it's a big one--is the time it requires.  I picked up the trailer from UHaul on the summer-ish Monday morning at 8:30, got the boat loaded onto it with the help of my son, loaded the boat (cool weather gear for an expected temperature drop), got it down to Fall River and left it on a dock, and returned the trailer to UHaul at 4pm.  I was finally able to go aboard just before six pm.  

I went aboard then...and waited.  NOAA's marine forecast had five to ten knots out of the south with gusts to twenty, but the wind was blowing a steady fifteen from the northwest.  Much better direction, but too much wind for me, and maybe too much for my torn sail and weakened boat.  I determined to anchor a little way off the ramp and spend the night, sailing in the morning.  Because the wind was on the ramp, I couldn't drift off the dock but had to rig and actually sail off close-hauled--even though I only wanted to go a few dozen yards.  

Shortly before six pm with the wind easing, I shoved off.   Sliding sideways until moving fast enough for the leeboard to bite, I missed the adjacent seawall by only inches. But I was so tickled to be under way after so long, that I didn't drop the anchor I had ready.  On impulse I determined to sail on, with evening coming on and without any clear plan.  Consulting the chart showed that there was no protected anchorage until reaching Hog Island after sailing the six-mile length of Mt. Hope Bay.  With the wind continuing to decline and sunset an hour away, I could not reach the anchorage without a fair bit of night sailing, but so be it.  At least I had anchored at Hog Island several times before.  And I did have a nine-volt charging system for my phone and camera that I could use to power the navigation lights.

The plan.

Day fades.

You can't make these colors up.

Except when I hooked up the lights, they didn't work.  Unable even find my flashlight in the dark cabin, I had to trust to the fact that few boats were in the water this early in the year, and even fewer were dumb enough to be out at night.  (Hopefully none so dumb as to be out at night unlit.) 

Passing under Mt. Hope Bridge and by Hog Island light, I paralleled the south shore of the island, judging the distance to trees silhouetted against the night sky.  But the shore simultaneously curved and the water shallowed, and the leeboard hit bottom as I approached my turn into the lee of the island.  I accomplished the rest of that trip splashing through the water in galoshes, pulling the boat by her painter, and finally dropped anchor just a few yards from shore in shallow water.  I had done nearly the entire sail on one tack, but the failing wind meant I only dropped anchor about ten pm.  Too tired to light the stove, I had a snack and a little wine and turned in.

--only to wake up a few hours later with gravel crunching under the bottom.  The wind had shifted from nw to ne (not predicted by NOAA) and put me on the beach.  Back into galoshes to move the boat once more, and finally to bed for good at 1:30am.  Slept very little after: the leeboard rattles when it is not locked down, and I'd forgotten how much this boat pounds in even the slightest sea.

Hog Island anchorage.  (I goofed--start at 52 seconds in.)

On Hog Island.

 Black-backed gulls on Hog Island headed for safety as I approached.

 Osprey platform on Hog Island.

 Surprise riding to a batwing gunter mizzen and a shore anchor on Hog I.

After a late breakfast of oatmeal and strong coffee in the growing wind and cold, I went ashore on Hog Island for a bit, then made the last part of the trip and dropped anchor near the nw shore of Potter Cove--hoping that the wind wouldn't push the boat ashore again.  (My plan was to anchor close in with a separate line ashore, so that I could pull the boat in to go back and forth--avoiding the need for a tender.)  By about 11am I was ashore with the bike and my backpack. 

Sailing from Hog Island to Prudence.

House porn.  I especially enjoy the decks and porches.

West shore.

More house porn.

Broad Street crosses the island.

More houses of interest.

On the trail.

I rode the rock-strewn unpaved roads of the island most of the day, fascinated as always with how homes--large and small, palatial and modest--are designed to take advantage of their location.  I took many photos of "house porn." I also spent a little time at the Narragansett Bay National Estuarine Research Reserve station near the south end of the island: the NBNERR holds a large fraction of the 85% of Prudence Island that is protected land, and is a site of long-term ecological research.  My mother phoned that evening--knowing I was planning this trip--to tell me of a news article she had read about funding being cut for the NBNERR, which is one of a handful of such organizations that carry out long-term ecological research.  I assume this was a Trump budget cut.  I ended the day walking nature trails around a historical farm site in the middle of the island. 

Bicycling back to the cove in the early evening, I found the boat high-and-dry with the tide coming in.  This didn't worry me: a drying berth is a quiet berth--at least until the tide returns.  But as the water rose after dinner, the wind was also shifting to blow the boat up the beach.  Nothing for it but to pull the galoshes on once more and head up the curving coast until I could anchor safely once more.  But as the wind continued to shift, it became clear there would be no accessible windward shore I could hang off from on the hook: I needed to get out into the cove.  The wind was up again and I didn't want to rig to sail, so I finally managed to get a dozen or so yards off the beach by a combination of "sailing" the bare hull, wild paddling, and kedging with the big anchor.  The job was the more frustrating because I was trying to control a boat with neither leeboard nor rudder fully deployed in the shallow water.  I dropped the oversize claw over on a very short scope, and pulled off soaking wet socks at about ten pm.  I went to bed wrapped in all my clothing: even out of the wind, it was hard to keep completely warm.

After another loud night, I awoke to find the boat riding snug in a reasonable depth: the wind had shifted once more, this time for the better.  At this point I was due to head home, but Beatrice needed the van (tow vehicle) all day, so I'd decided to stay an extra day.  The only wrinkle was that I'd failed to pack the customary extra day's coffee: I do not willingly go without my special morning java.  I'd somehow managed not to pack even a few teabags.  (I was also out of wine, but sacrifices must be made.)  So after a relaxed morning, tucked half into my sleeping bag for warmth, dozing and reading, I went ashore in search of coffee. 

 A walk to the store.

The island has a little general store (and Post Office) by the ferry dock three or four miles away from the cove.  I decided to walk there, since the distance was not great and man-handling the bike ashore and over rocks to the road was a pretty major undertaking.  For once my scheme for going ashore dryshod worked perfectly, and I swung off down the road at a good walking pace. 

The woman who runs the store is getting on in years and doesn't keep usual business hours; I arrived at the store to find it locked and with a sign announcing the re-opening three hours hence.  Damn.  I was not hanging around all that time, so began the trek back to the boat.  The walk was not wasted, though: I took many photos of trees flowering and leafing-out, and walked some unfamiliar roads.

Back at the cove at midafternoon, I found the tide high and the boat inaccessible: somehow the amount of rode I'd left out was not enough to reach the shore at high tide.  Unless I wanted to wade in hip-deep water, I'd need to wait for the tide to drop.  I took up station on a convenient log out of the wind to wait, nodding off repeatedly, for almost two hours.  Then I was able to get aboard by leaping from a hummock without wetting my feet. 

I buttoned up the cabin against the cold wind and, after more reading and dozing and a dinner of stew and bread, I turned in wearing everything I had.

Ramp bow makes this seem something like a WWII "LST."

Line to shore allows boat to be pulled in to go aboard dryshod--in theory.

Potter Cove anchorage.

Potter Cove to Mt. Hope Bridge.

Mt. Hope Bridge.

Osprey perched on the 6A daymark by Mt. Hope Bridge.

Mt. Hope Bay.

Help arrives!

Around midnight, for the first time this trip, the wind and waves died completely away and it became quiet.  Given lack of sleep and the exercise I'd gotten, I should have slept very well, but still found sleep difficult. 

I was up at before seven, got under way quickly in the light winds, and ate a breakfast of granola and milk at the tiller.  NOAA's predicted moderate tailwind never materialized: the light wind died to bare steerageway by mid-morning, then became a strengthening headwind as the afternoon wore on.  The return trip was uneventful if slow as I tacked up Mt. Hope Bay, but it became more exciting as I approached the Braga Bridge. 

A strong current ran beneath the bridge--stronger than I'd ever experienced there.  I judge the current to have been running at well over one knot.  This might not seem like much of an impediment, but I was sailing close-hauled a tubby little boat, and trying to get under a bridge that baffled the wind in unpredictable ways.  In the end, I finally got though after tacking twice directly under the bridge and fending off one of the bridge piers with a paddle.  Once under the bridge, I still had to go up-current almost a mile to the ramp: the current was so strong that I could watch myself going downstream against the bank when sailing close-hauled--sometimes losing ground on both tacks.  I finally landed on the ramp at about 6pm to find my middle son Trevor waiting to help me; the extra hands and muscle were very welcome.

As soon as the boat was unloaded and the trailer returned, it was time to get some sleep: we would leave the next morning for Washington, D.C. and the March for Science.  More on the natural history of the trip can be found here.

Lessons from Cold, Wet Camping

Some lessons learned from a little Columbus Day weekend overnight adventure that turned a lot rainier than expected.

I decided to take my sailing kayak a few miles down the Assonet River to the Taunton and camp overnight by a creek I know--my first time out all year.  I thought I'd rough it just a bit, in the interest of being more "outdoors" (and save the fuss of set up), by leaving the tent at home.  When I heard it might shower in the night, I added a small tarp to the load. 

My sailing rig was useless in the light headwind, and was in the way on the port coaming, forcing me to paddle only on the starboard side.

The rest is predictable: the rain began falling in early evening and didn't stop for the next eighteen hours.  The tarp kept my sleeping bag dry--as long as I didn't move, since the tarp barely covered my sleeping area.  One reason I had been comfortable leaving the (screened) tent behind was that I expected few mosquitoes since it had been such a dry year.  (I had a piece of net that would serve should I be wrong.)  What I hadn't counted on was the quantity of insect life attracted to my light as I tried to read in the night.  In the end, I went to sleep much earlier as a result.  The drumming rain and need to keep the sleeping bag from pooching out from under cover made the night Very Long.  The lack of any discernible sunrise made it even longer. 

I finally sprang into my clothes in the drizzle and set about getting hot breakfast and coffee--but found both my butane lighters refused to light.  When I managed to get fitful flames out of them hours later, the pressurized white gas stove wouldn't light.  (The stove, at least, had been under my overturned saucepan, but it had fallen off in the night.)  Only in late morning did I get the thing going.

After hot coffee and oatmeal, I packed up and loaded the boat, only changing into dry clothes just before leaving. 

I paddled against an increasing headwind, but finally got to unfurl the sail for perhaps a mile's welcome run right at the end. 

Despite my change of clothes, I was wet and shivering when I landed, and the shivering was bad enough to slow the loading. 

What did I learn, or relearn?

First, having all my clothing and bedding, etc in dry bags was smart.  My main worry had been spray or capsizing, but it was smart either way.  Everything was dry as dry could be. 

Second, tents make life more comfortable on long fall nights--even in the absence of rain.  I could have left off the fly to see the stars (had there been any), and still read by my headlamp without large insects buzzing in my face.  To be sure, the area where I put up my tarp was too small to have accommodated a tent, and I arrived too late to be willing to bushwack through the briars to find a better.  But I probably could have gotten away with pitching it on the high salt marsh, since tides were at neap.  And I had to dress in the rain--my little tarp was not high enough to sit or stand under until I moved it too a new location in the morning. 

Third, although fiberfill sleeping bags are heavier and bulkier than down, they remain warm (if clammy) even when wet--as it was in places--while down becomes a thin, lumpy mess.  (I would have brought a light fleece bag if it had been warmer; that would have been a disaster.)  When I buy a new one, it will have a nylon lining rather than flannel: the cold initial feel of nylon is more than compensated by the ease in getting in and out, and by nylon's not absorbing water.  The big bag took up a lot of space in the big dry bag, but it was well worth it.

Fourth, lighters and stove must be well-covered overnight.  Bring kitchen matches for backup just in case.  A solid fuel stove (I keep one on the big boat for emergencies) is compact and wouldn't be a bad backup. 

Fifth, a headlamp is the most useful light I have ever owned.  Put that thing on your head in low light and you can forget about it: anywhere you look, you can see--it's that simple.  (Keep that thing dry, dry, dry!)  It was so dim in the morning that I continued using it.  By contrast, a lantern is perhaps the least useful form of light for anything but stationary area lighting or to mark your location (say, an anchorage) for others: having light shining in your eyes is simply stupid: it partly cancels itself out by ruining your night vision.

Sixth, my old Tilley hat, inherited from my uncle, was a very smart impulse-grab on the way out the door.  This canvas hat stiffens when wet and keeps rain off my glasses, out of my open jacket, and off my vulnerable headlamp. Always, always have a hat good against sun and rain. 

Seventh: I always carry my cell phone on trips--even miles off the coast I have good cell reception, probably partly because there is nothing blocking signals.  I always buy a gasketted water-tight box for carrying it--and then test to make sure it is truly water-proof.  (It's important to realize that salt water destroys electronics in very short order.)  However Teacher Appreciation Day recently brought teachers at my school little zip-lock + velcro soft phone cases.  Lo and behold it really is waterproof--and I can operate the phone (with some difficulty) without opening the case.  This would be especially welcome if I had to call for help when actually in the water!  This is a Very Good Thing.  (Amazing to think of the sailing and camping I did in my youth--with no possibility of communication.  My, the difference forty years makes!)

Eighth: I was well-equipped with warm clothes, but chose poorly when I changed into them in the morning.  I had a old, nylon jacket that is now barely water-resistant.  I put this on over a fleece jacket.  I love fleece, but it soaks up water like a sponge, and it was wet through by wind-driven rain before I got back to the boat ramp.  Meanwhile, my favorite wool sweater was sitting at the bottom of the dry bag.  Wool doesn't absorb much water, and is the far better insulator when wet.  I was also in shorts, mainly because I needed to be able to wade almost knee-deep to get in and out of the kayak.  (Due to an unfortunate deep-mud landing in the marsh, I was a good deal deeper than knee-deep at one point.)  But trousers loose enough to be pulled up would often be useful, and lots warmer.  I have an inexpensive rain shell on order, as well as water-resistant, lined trousers. 

Paddling hard against a headwind both going and returning left my hand blistered.  Next time, bandaids will protect my fingers in warm weather, or my neoprene gloves in cool. 

The short and sweet--
1.  Keep clothing and anything vulnerable in dry bags.  Rain, spray or capsize can ruin a trip and even endanger life. 
2. Bring a decent tent, no matter the weather expected.  Especially when nights are long.
3. A fiberfill sleeping bag is heavy and bulky, but can keep you pretty warm even if it gets wet. 
4. Keep your stove, lighters and matches dry, and consider a backup plan.
5. A headlamp is a must, especially for late arrivals and long nights.  Protect it!
6. Always have a hat.  In warm weather I carry a well-ventilated hat against sun, but a rain hat is also important.
7. Carry your phone in a waterproof case.  If there is any danger (of capsize, say), make sure it is attached to you.  My hard phone case clips on to my life jacket if things get dicey.  My soft case has a neck lanyard.
8. Have several changes of clothes, keep them dry, and make sure some will function well even wet.  Hands need to be kept warm to function! 

Right now Serendipity is getting fresh coats of paint, and the tent a little maintenance.  Next up? maybe a late fall kayaking trip, or maybe a winter float down the Taunton in my handy little pram, Bebe.