I was on one of my early camp-cruising trips in a 15-foot rowboat when I approached the tiny marina at Blake Island State Marine Park. Two sailors from a 40-foot trawler climbed down from their deck chairs to the dock. “Do you have mooring lines?” one asked.
In the past, I’d used mooring lines while maneuvering in and out of the water at my local boat ramp, tugging my boat this way or that to avoid hitting one of the aluminum fishing craft or fiberglass ski boats that usually rushed past me. This had always been a solo endeavor, however. So what did these guys want with my mooring lines?
Still, they looked friendly. I produced a pair of bow and stern lines, and the strangers reached out for them. Then they pulled me towards the dock and tied off Terrapin to a pair of horn cleats. I was floored. Nobody at a boat ramp had ever offered to lend me a hand.
It was one of my first stops at a marina, and I would soon discover that marina sailors have an unspoken code of conduct, in which the highest virtues are pride in seamanship, camaraderie at the dock, and extending a helping hand to arriving fellow sailors.
Meanwhile, for trailer sailors at the boat ramp, it’s everyone for themselves. Far from the collegial experience one might expect among fellow boaters, launching at a ramp is often an isolating, if not downright competitive experience, especially on a busy afternoon. Approaching the ramp after a peaceful day on the river, relaxation can swiftly evaporate as an ethos of speed and efficiency prevails.
Columbia River, Chinook Landing is one of Oregon’s largest public boating facilities.
Boat ramps (or launches) are typically made of concrete and slope downwards towards the lowest reaches of the tide. The nicer launches have a parallel, articulated dock reaching from the top of the ramp into the water that allows a boater to tie up while they park their rig and trailer. Without a dock, one must launch, then pull the bow slightly ashore to hold the boat in place, perhaps toss out an anchor, and hurry to return, before an errant wave washes your craft ashore.
My early experiences at the boat ramp were challenging. As a new sailor, I had to gain a whole separate set of skills. Learning to rig, de-rig, and stow gear on a sailboat that had to perform well on the river and, minutes later, travel at 60 miles per hour was one factor. I discovered that, if something can come loose, flap, or fly off while moving it down a bumpy road at unnatural speeds, it certainly will. I quickly figured out when to bag, lash, bungee, or stow equipment—or risk losing it.
The other, possibly more intimidating challenge, was mastering the safest way to back an unwieldy trailer in a straight line down a steep hill and (gasp) plunge it into the water to just the right depth so that the boat would float, but not drift away, before I could get out of the car to move it to the adjacent dock. The possibility of forgetting to set the parking brake, or backing just a little too far and accidentally landing the family car in the drink, was almost enough to turn me off of sailing right from the start. Finally, I had to move the boat to the end of the dock that parallels the ramp, tie it to a rail, and quickly move my car, so that the next person could launch their boat.
Boat ramps are theoretically an equitable and common good, intended for everyone to gain access to the water, in what can otherwise be a private or hostile shore. I learned that there’s a definite hierarchy at the ramp. Motorboats dominate, both with speed and their wakes that can impact a small sailboat’s ability to maneuver in tight quarters, risking a collision with the dock or a fellow sailor. Then come the “snake” boaters: fast, aggressive types who sneak into line by moving around or threading between slow moving boats, like mine. Last in line, alas, are the engineless boats.
While snakes are frowned upon, the most universally dreaded users are ramp hogs. Perpetually self-unaware, they lollygag at inconvenient places on or near the ramp, blocking access for all. While they often seem to be kayakers in my experience, hogs come in all types of craft, but engage in the same behavior: loading gear in and out of their boats, talking to passersby, organizing small children, or improbably applying sunscreen at the head of the line, instead of in the prep area.
As I became a more experienced boater and mastered the basics, I traveled farther afield, launching at new-to-me ramps from the Lower Columbia to British Columbia. And from them, I’d head out on multiple day trips. Pretty quickly, I realized that their physical layouts were all basically the same, as is the order of business: be ready, queue up, launch or retrieve as quickly as possible, and enjoy time on the water if not at the ramp.
On these trips when I wasn’t at anchor or snugged up on a beach, I began to explore life at marinas, with their whole new code of conduct and rules. My neighbors were now friendly folks with boats that lived most of their lives in water instead of on trailers. Theirs seemed a more predictable world that was nice to visit, but somehow I found myself drawn to the utilitarian nature of the ramp. The variety of people, although at times confounding, appealed to me. From twenty-somethings with their first motorboat, to working shellfish tenders, to old guys polishing their mahogany runabouts, there was always something new to see, and occasionally someone interesting to talk to.
I realized that you never know what you might see at the ramp, but you do know you’ll end up on the water, even if you have to do everything yourself.
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
