THE RIDE

by Steve Clancy

 

It was difficult getting it to fit. The trailer ball shaft was not exactly the size of the hole in the bumper. To make matters worse, it was March, raining, and 8:30 PM on a Thursday evening. Tomorrow, I was to drive “old green” down Whidbey Island and over to Port Townsend to meet Tom for camping and sailing my 16’ Matinicus “double ender.” My thoughts drifted to Tom and the many adventures we had in the past.

 

I first met Tom in high school. I owned a 1949 Packard Climax and he a 1953 Hudson Hornet. We were rivals.  My thoughts flashed to a final show down in front of the high school we attended. While on my way to school in the Packard, Tom appeared driving the Hudson. Apparently the forward gear had gone out, because he was driving backwards as fast as he could to catch me. Pulling along side on the road that paralleled the school, testosterone pumping, we raced -- he going backwards, and I in the only forward gear that worked. It was indeed a time when one could go backwards, forwards and in the same direction simultaneously.

 

As the years went on, Tom and I had become close friends and had other adventures; but the responsibilities of life had relegated our time to morning “chats” via 2-meter amateur radio and a once- or twice-annual get together.  This trip somehow was different. The more recent years as a financial officer had imparted a greater sense of responsibility and missed opportunities to “play” with Tom.  As the rain came down that evening I contemplated the next few days.

 

 ‘Old Green’ was a 1962 Chevrolet Pick Up with 35,000 original miles. The truck of my childhood, it belonged its entire life to my next-door neighbor of the family home in Bremerton. Having not run for seven years, it was a bit of work getting it running again, but I felt I had accomplished the task. Archie, the original owner, was (as most were in Bremerton) a Yard Worker and reader of Popular Mechanics. So it wasn’t a surprise when I noticed that the glove box door had a sticker he had made with the words “ Riders ride at their own risk.”

 

At 9:15 PM I lifted the trailer that cradled my 16’ Matinicus “Matty” and placed it on the ball. It was cold, it was wet, and I was tired. I drove the truck and boat around to the front of the house. It was loaded with camping gear, fire wood and all that I felt I needed for the weekend. Time for bed.

 

The next morning broke with overcast but no rain. Climbing into Old Green, I pushed in the clutch and hit the starter. Wirrr… the engine didn’t turn over. Click… Wirrrr. Still no catch. Then, finally the starter caught. By now, the accountant in me began to “run the numbers”; find the ‘balance sheet’… attempt to find the “result.”  Was this trip on or off? The engine was running. As long as I didn’t turn it off, I was OK.

 

This was the kind of truck you had to drive with your left elbow resting on the door and hanging out the window. It just didn’t seem right any other way. As I bounced down Whidbey Island, I thought about the sailing.  Matty had been a building project in Eugene. The plans were from “Duck Trap Boat Building”, designed by Walter Simmons, and found in the book Lapstrake Boatbuilding Volume 2. Of course, the original designs date back to the late 18^th and early 19^th century around Matinicus, Maine. In fact, the overall style of the boat indicates ancestors that were those launched by Whaling Vessels to chase after Moby Dick. Although smaller at 16’, clearly the lines are that of a whaleboat.

 

Matty was originally designed to be built in the traditional lapstrake method with the planking material long leaf pine riveted at the lap. With traditional boat building materials expensive and in short supply, I proceeded to construct the boat using the Tom Hill method of glued lapstrake with the planking material ¼” marine plywood rather than 3/8”materials called for in the plans. For me, lofting the boat was the most fun.  Building the mold took almost as much time as building the boat. Twisting the plywood planks to conform to the tumblehome at the bow and stern was difficult but the result was a fine hull form with thwarts of Cherry wood, oak centerboard and mahogany gunwales. With an added ¾” white oak keel plank, I was ready for any experience.

 

Tom and I had agreed to meet in Port Townsend and to camp at Fort Warden on Marrowstone Island. I had long studied the Kilisut Harbor that strikes deeply between Marrowstone and Indian Island.  Lying in an almost due north/south direction it would be reasonably protected. Clearly it seemed possible that winds could develop a venturi affect, but I felt that there was adequate opportunity to “abandon to the beach” should it become too wild.  The boat ramp lies at the Northerly end of a small bite aptly named Mystery Bay located on the eastern shore approximately 1.2 miles from the southern end of Kilisut Harbor. It was a nice ramp with adequate space to set up the boat.

 

Having left early on Saturday morning, there would be ample time for a sailing adventure before dark. The problem was what to do when I reached the Keystone/Port Townsend Ferry. I was sure there was no way the deck hands would allow me to continue to run the engine while on the ferry. The question was, would it re-start when I reached the other side. I faintly remembered that at some ferry landings they had a little tractor they used to move things around. In the end, I decided to just ask them to push me onto the dock when we arrive in PT should Old Green fail to start. As I rode through Oak Harbor the clouds began to part and beams of sunlight reflected off the hood of the truck… Things were looking up. So far, so good.  I made it directly onto the ferry when I arrived (who else would be up this early on a Saturday morning). Once parked and blocked in the front of the ferry, I reached down to turn off the engine.  After a quick run upstairs for coffee and a look around, we were on the other side. In that Old Green was in the front, once docked I had this sense that all eyes were on me. I looked down at the fingers grasping the key. I gave it a try… wrrr. The AB began to walk toward me. Once again… the engine caught. I waived and put my elbow out the driver’s window. Raising Tom on the 2-meter radio I found out he was within a few miles of the boat ramp. I picked up some muffins at the Bread and Roses Deli and made straight for the ramp.

 

Tom was at the ramp when I arrived. After stroking Old Green on the hood we began to set up Matty. I had recently built what would be best described as a set of “Moose Antlers” that secured to the top of the centerboard trunk. On these “antlers” rested the four spruce oars, mast boom and sprit pole. I had designed a method to secure them to the antlers while traveling. Everything was where it should be. Tom and I walked to the boat ramp to survey the tide. The tide was out too far to launch from a trailer. It would be at least a couple of hours before it would be high enough. Undaunted, we decided to push it off onto the mud flat and use the rubber fenders as rollers to maneuver it to the water. It worked and within thirty minutes or so we were ready to embark on our adventure. This was only the third time that I had actually sailed Matty. Most often, the family used it as a two-station rowing boat.  With this in mind, Tom and I decided to start off slow with a row down to the southern end of the harbor into Scow Bay to do a little wildlife watching and to evaluate a couple of sail boats moored at the very southern end. The row was easy. There was a slight breeze but the shelter of the cove provided good cover.

 

Spirits were high. There was nothing that could compare with feeling of adventure and excitement as we glided over the bottom in 2-3 feet of water. The further into the head of the harbor we explored the lighter the wind. As was normal for us in this environment we spun the boat around and rowed backwards to provide a forward view of what was to come.  Slowly and quietly we glided further in towards the beach. Our attention turned towards the water under the boat. Crabs scurried about; an occasional Flounder darted by. Matty sat lighter than her designed waterline due to the construction method. ¼” plywood planking is, of course, lighter than 3/8” planking soaked up. In conditions such as this it was an advantage allowing us to traverse deeper in towards the beach. The rudder was shipped as I did not construct it with a “kick up” plate (an error that I plan to remedy some day).

 

The time had come for the run down the harbor. I had calculated that it ran perhaps 3-4 miles in length. We had planned to pull out at the northerly end boat ramp provided at Fort Warden Park. Tom assumed his position lying for-and-aft along the centerboard trunk. I sat in the stern sheets on the opposite side of the boat to counter balance Tom’s weight. Matty is rigged as a sprit, designed as a loose-footed main sail only. In an attempt at providing greater pointing ability, I modified the rig to include a boom. Today, however, it would be “reaching” and “running.”  As we began to exit Scow Bay we picked up the wind blowing from the south directly up the channel. We decided to practice tacking, as it required Tom to shift his weight to the opposite side of the centerboard. When Bishops Point was abeam, we made her close hauled on the port tack. Tom was in the “bunk” wedged between the centerboard and the hull. Main sheet in his hand, I played with the rudder. Pinching, I wanted to see how close to the wind she would sail. The boom definitely helped but for sure it wasn’t a J-24.

 

“Ready about!”

 

Tom responded with “ready.”

 

“Helms alee,” and he rolled over the top of the centerboard at just the right time prior to the sail coming over. Performing this maneuver too soon potentially could dip the starboard gunwale and ship water. We had it down. A few more tacks and we felt ready to move down the channel.  I looked at Tom and his return glance told me it was “go for liftoff.”  “Crack off,” I said, and we eased and ran. Upon clearing Bishops Point, we began to pick up the southerly. Feeling invincible, we laid the wind off the port quarter and struck a course for the end of the harbor 3 miles away.  Matty was feeling her legs. She dearly loved a run. With her mast stepped forward, the additional pressure on the sail and mast brought the nose down and provided a balance helm. When building the mast, I was aware that the plans called for an un-stayed spar. Being the person I am, I built it of Spruce stout at the base. Stepped through the forward thwart, it locked into the keel. As the wind increased, I realized that I had never sailed it this strong of conditions. Tom was charged; we both couldn’t believe our luck. Clearly the weather was cool, but the wind was brisk and building and there was no rain.

 

Onward down the harbor we marched. By now, Matty clearly had a quarter wave building astern. I checked with Tom. “You Ok with this?”

 

He looked up at me from his “bunk.” “No problem”, he said. “She feels great.” The centerboard was beginning to “hum,” indicating that the cord was developing a “harmonic” resonance as the speed increased. It felt good and we settled down for a sleigh ride. I had studied the chart for this area. Not something I would attempt with a larger boat, however, I felt with Matty’s draw there would not be a problem.

 

As we approached the ¾ point, we began to see the bottom. The water was crystal clear and the bottom was in clear view at depths exceeding 5 feet. As I looked down, it came to me that if Matty could fly through the air, this is what it would look like. Suddenly, I was brought back to my senses by a strange sound as if someone was knocking on a door with their hand covered by a glove. Fump…  I turned to Tom, “what was that?” Fump, Fump, BANG! The rudder launched out of the water as if powered by a booster rocket. The safety lanyard held. I grabbed the rudder with both hands and attempted to steer the boat “free hand.” I attempted feverishly to drive the pintles back into the gudgeons but the pressure of the driving water was too strong. By now, Tom had jumped to the mast in an attempt to drag down the sail. I had led all lines aft to the steering station so that I could single hand the boat. The main halyard ran through a cam cleat, and Tom was unable to lower the sail and keep the line out of the cleat at the same time. Bump, bump -- the centerboard was bouncing off the bottom. I lifted the rudder into the boat and looked at Tom. We both couldn’t believe that we were still in the boat and that it hadn’t yawed out of control and broached. With the rudder shipped, Matty sprung forward in speed. It was clear that she was now balanced well enough that she continued in a straight line, flying even faster toward the entrance to the harbor. Unsure of our predicament, Tom gently returned to his position. It was under control for now, as long as we were moving directly down wind.  Looking over the side I could see that we were in about 2.5 feet of water. In any case, with this depth we couldn’t set the rudder. We would need to sail into deeper water. At least for now if something happened we could just step out of the boat. Tom had pulled the centerboard further into the trunk to allow for the depth; but it provided for less stability. Once stable, we decided to attempt to douse the sail while in shallower waters. Tom crept up to the mast while I eased the main halyard and kept it from jamming in the teeth of the cleat. As the sail came down, Matty returned to sub-sonic speed and we sailed under bare pole into deeper water where we could set the rudder again.

 

For a time, we considered a “break out” into open water: To cross the bay would have been the ultimate in freedom and adventure. Even though do-able, it would have compromised the transportation as both vehicles were arranged to transport us from the State Park dock back to the boat ramp.

 

A sand spit that protects the entrance to the harbor runs in an arc from the Fort Warden side to a point almost touching the Indian Island. There are two openings in this spit for access to the Port Townsend Harbor. The openings are available only at certain conditions of the tide. With the recent excitement, Tom and I had decided to acquire the dock at the Fort and take a break. After relaxing and a late lunch, the wind had subsided and we took the opportunity to row over to the sand spit and do some exploring. By then the sun had dropped below the clouds on it’s way to brightening up someone else’s day. As we pulled on the oars, I thought about the words mounted on the glove box of Old Green. “Riders ride at their own risk.” ‘Yes they do,’ I thought, ‘and sometimes when they do, life becomes exciting and wonderful.’