Are You Ready to Self-Recover?

I distinctly remember the gray November day when I sat on Row Bird’s sheerstrake, looking down into the murky water of the Columbia River, where my sails were rippling below the surface.

I wasn’t in trouble yet, but this wasn’t good.

With surgical clarity I observed my water bottle tumble out of the bailing bucket, closely followed by my seat cushion, and drift downriver. Moments earlier I’d been hit by an errant gust so strong that I didn’t even have time to try adjusting my heading or feathering the main; my 18-foot sailboat was simply knocked over.

From my perch, safe and dry, I studied my situation. The bucket, at least, was tethered to the thwart and just an arm’s reach away; that is, if I could right the boat.

Fortunately, I’d practiced for this very occasion. True, my own capsize drills had taken place on a mild summer day in a placid cove along the Willamette River. A friend in a motorboat stood by, ready to assist if needed. Having sailed Laser sailboats for a few years, I knew the drill: find your way to the centerboard, climb on, and use your weight to right the boat. Jump over the gunwale as the boat comes up. Bail if needed.

Unlike a racing dinghy, Row Bird is an unballasted, open-cockpit yawl, designed to be operated more like a very small cruising boat, with the occupants typically staying dry and vertical. However, push either type of boat too hard, and it will capsize. And here in the Pacific Northwest, capsizing is more than an inconvenience. With water temperatures in the fifties for most of the year, accidentally ending up in the drink is both unpleasant and dangerous. Nobody wants to capsize. But it happens.

So what is a sailor to do? Practice, practice, practice. My capsize drills paid off on that November day, and by the time a nearby fisherman had approached to help, Row Bird was fully upright and 90% bailed out. Aside from being unnerved and warm from all that bailing, the only assistance I needed was some help finding my errant belongings.

Still the incident only reinforced what I told my friend Mark a few years later, when he was conducting his own capsize drills in Sparrowhawk, the 19-foot wooden Ness Yawl he had recently built, and that he sails with his wife, Fern.

“You want to sail Sparrowhawk like a little keelboat,” I said. “Except for today, under no circumstances are you to let it capsize.”

It was a sunny September afternoon, and my friend Lev and I hovered in a small boat nearby as Mark and Fern prepared to purposely swamp their own vessel. With a “Here goes!” Fern stood on the rail, turning the boat rapidly onto its side and filling the cockpit with water. In their farmer John wetsuits and polyester tops, my friends were well prepared; and with their experience sailing Buccaneer dinghies, they knew what to do and launched into action like a practiced team.

In the submerged cockpit, Mark huddled near the centerboard trunk; while outside the boat, Fern swam around to use the centerboard like a lever and right Sparrowhawk. It came up as planned, but then flipped from port to starboard and back into the river. A second attempt righted the boat, but with so much water sloshing in the cockpit, the mast now swayed unsteadily.

Mark had constructed a flotation chamber in Sparrowhawk’s aft end, leaving the bow open for aesthetics and ease of setting an anchor. In place of a matching chamber, he had lashed a yellow inflatable buoyancy bag near the mast, but it wasn’t equal in volume to the aft tank. As the boat filled with water, the bow dipped markedly, and I began to worry.

“This isn’t going to be good,” I whispered to Lev, hoping that I was wrong.

Then the buoyancy bag came loose itself and popped up amidships. “Oh jeez,” I gasped, wondering whether I should leave Lev at the oars and jump in to help.

But Mark and Fern know how to collaborate. In an earlier conversation, he’d described how much they enjoy the teamwork of sailing the Buccaneer together; it’s part of how they bond on the boat. Now, although the situation looked dim, Fern was still smiling. Mark’s tone stayed calm and polite, even as he struggled to stuff the flotation bag back into a useful location. They chatted about solutions, and then Fern scooted towards the rudder to balance the boat. Things were looking up.

“Hey Bruce,” Mark called, “toss us something to stuff in the centerboard trunk slot.” I threw a towel, and with one source of water now staunched, Mark bucketed out the bulk remaining, while Fern helped with a hand pump. Although they’d been in the river far longer than desirable, they were learning rapidly, and the boat was floating higher by the minute.

This capsize drill was a wise precursor to a trip to the San Juan Islands. Curious to hear how it went, and to see what they learned from their drill, I caught up with my friends in Mark’s workshop after their cruise.

“During the drill, I did not like it one bit when the bow went under,” Fern said.

Mark shot her a sympathetic look, “But we went back the next day and did a second capsize test.”

“I still wasn’t excited about it,” Fern admitted. “But then I understood a lot more about the boat.”

“The second time, I lashed flotation closer to the middle of the boat, which helped with stability,” Mark said, “and we had fewer things float away.”

They also added a canvas bucket, which tucks securely under a thwart. It’s handy, saves space, and avoids scratching the paint or the sailors. Their experimentation and teamwork seemed to pay off. Not everyone is enthusiastic about taking a new craft to lesser known waters, but Fern said that she was, “Confident in our ability to manage Sparrowhawk.”

When I asked Mark why they chose to build another small craft, one that could tip, rather than getting a larger boat, Mark replied, “Because this boat puts me closer to the elemental experience.”

They both seemed taken by Sparrowhawk and saw the process of learning how it works as something fun and interesting—not at all a stressful chore—even if it could put them a little too close to the element. It was a calculated risk worth taking, as is so often the case when playing or adventuring in small boats.

Bruce Bateau sails and rows traditional boats with a modern twist in Portland, Oregon. His stories and adventures can be found at www.terrapintales.wordpress.com