Around Cape Cod: Day 3

I only fully understood the cautions on the chart when I looked out the next morning near low tide.  A large reef emerged a little seaward of our route the day before.  Seaward of our anchorage, breaking waves marked a long bar.  With the wind behind us and centerboard up, we might make it after the tide rose a bit, but I was not fully confident, especially with the breakers complicating things.  Fortunately, Chatham has a respectable fishing fleet, and as I prepared breakfast boat after boat emerged from the harbor ahead, followed a line of little buoys through a break in the bar, and turned up the coast.  After a quick breakfast, we followed.

Morning surf on the outer bar--just where we're headed.

Chatham from the water.

As we made the final turn out of the harbor, I discovered more truth to the chart's warnings.  One of the little channel markers seemed to move toward us sideways--a stiff current had us--and before I knew it we had run down the marker.  In the process, the rudder snagged its anchor line and brought the boat, still under full sail, to a near stop.  I fought the rudder uphaul for a moment before realizing it had somehow caught between blade and stock, and then grabbed half of the broken main sprit to lever it free.  All at once we were moving again, and I hoped I hadn't dragged the buoy out of position.

The new Nauset inlet; Henry Beston's "Outermost House" was nearby.

Seeing the new inlet into Eastham, I put the tiller over and we made a brief pilgrimage to the stretch of beach that once hosted Henry Beston's "Foc's'l," where he lived for a year in about 1928, and eventuated in his famous and beloved book, Outermost House.  (That very book lay upon my pillow in the cabin for night-time reading.)  The house itself survived him, becoming a personality of its own, until it broke up and went into the sea during the blizzard of '78.  (I can't recall whether or not that same storm formed the new inlet.)

The old Nauset Coast Guard station. Her "surfmen" used to walk the beach every night looking for ships in trouble.

At this point, we were sailing under only one sail: the mizzen moved into the center step.  The main was out of commission with no sprit.  The wind was light, but more was forecast anyway, and I decided that, with a long day ahead and no shelter anywhere, discretion was the better part.  But as the day wore on, the ten to fifteen knots never materialized, but instead the wind turned foul, and the little mizzen showed little inclination to point to windward in such light winds.  To make matters worse, for once the current went against us, and we began losing ground.  After an hour or so, we had lost a hard-won mile, and I got increasingly discouraged.

Nauset light.

My discouragement was forgotten for awhile by an unexpected sight: whales.  They were small enough that I first wondered if I'd spotted dolphins, but it became clear that--if small for great whales--they were far too large for dolphins.  They were not covering ground, but appeared to wander aimlessly, probably following their food.  Often they were seen silent, at a distance, but more than once they startled us by the "whoosh" of their breath less than a hundred feet away.  They appeared to take no notice of us at all, and I can't say I'm sorry: had one decided to scratch his back on our keel, the results could have been serious.  In truth, that thought only came to me much later; at the time, all I felt was delight at being so favored.  I spun in place for long minutes with my camera trying to get some video and burning up precious battery time.  Later, we found that these whales were not at all shy of the near-shore waters: even when we were close in, they came between us and the beach.

Minke whale upper-right of center.  Their rising--even the sound of their breathing--became familiar.

Storm-petrels, minke whale.

Finally we were almost adrift, and it was time to ignore the tiller in favor of something with more promise: a repaired sprit.  I had taken a mast crutch along on this journey, vaguely thinking that taking the mainmast down at anchor in any stiff wind might help her ride better.  Now the five feet of pressure-treated 2X2 would be put to more necessary use.  Laying the pieces out and applying four bands of duct tape, we had soon splinted the broken sprit back together.  In the midst of this operation, we did not even look up at hearing a whale breathe.  The resulting contraption was ungainly but effective, and was finished just in time to take advantage of a slight breeze.  Mizzen back into its original step, we proceeded under all plain sail.  Now, at 5pm, we were finally moving forward--at 0.4 knots "velocity made good."  Only a half hour later did the wind pick up to move us at three knots and more.  We would keep this wind for the rest of the night.

North of the Nauset the Highlands begin.  These bluffs show layering of sands.

With the day waning and much more than half the day's sail still ahead, it was clear we would not see the top of the cape at all for darkness.  I made the most of the light remaining, taking photos of Nauset Light, and of the bluffs as we proceeded into the Highlands.  But after about five pm much of the shore was in shadow, and finally even twilight gave way to night, with many miles still to go.

Bluffs of the Highlands.

Trevor got his first taste of night sailing that night.  As a rule, his habit had been to make up the beds as full night came on, then climb sleepily into his own, read for a bit, then go to sleep, leaving me to sail in solitude.  That was fine with me.  But this night he stayed up, took the tiller, and steered until he could not see the gps.  Before he turned in, we saw the tiniest sliver of new moon I'd ever seen.  It was worth staying up for.  I called Bea so she'd know where we were, and that I'd leave a message on the phone when we anchored.  I also shared the new moon with her.

 As the hours wore on, our speed went from four nautical miles each hour, to three-and-a-half, then three.  Race Point looked less dangerous as I got sleepier, and I "cut" a few gps "corners" in the interest of shaving off a mile or two.  It was a quiet night, and we rounded Race Point by coincidence near slack current--a lucky break.  As I approached the last few turns into the anchorage, the gps died.  I was a bit surprised it hadn't done so earlier, since a small crack in its display renders it less than weather-proof (and we'd seen a lot of weather), but I was happy it held out so long.  I had only to negotiate my way around Wood End by means of a red ten-second flashing light, then Long Point by means of a green four-second one.  Finally, at 3:30am, I dropped anchor in the lee of Long Point, left a message on the home answering machine, and went to sleep.