Chased by gales across the Gulf
By Jeff Aumuller
For Points East
Published April, 2004
I am 63 now and it's been 10 years since I have taken Grebe on a journey. My daughter Hannah says, "Dad, go for it!" It seems every year I get the urge but don't quite make it. After all, it's not too bad being nestled along a dock, close to a wood stove, playing music for a winter.
Still, boats need to move and sailors need to sail, so here it is Thursday, Dec. 4 and I'm trying to catch the last of the ebbing tide from Custom House Wharf in Portland, Maine. My shipmate for the trip to the Cape Cod Canal is Adam Turner, who last year took his own 40-foot sailboat to the Bahamas. He is tossing the black locust firewood onto the deck for a hasty departure. We are off and waving goodbye as a friend holds up a jug of homemade applejack, beckoning that it is for me. I decline; no time left, have to make that tide in a steady but slowly diminishing northwest wind.
Portland Head slips astern, a cold but beautiful sunset. The Aries self-steerer is set, reefed main, stays'l and working jib. We're off.
Rocket ship through the night. Grebe, a 40-foot, 20-ton gaff-rigged cutter built in France in 1933 true to the lines of a Colin Archer pilot boat, is a powerful sight under the stars with a 6-knot wake glistening astern. It's a bumpy first night and, of course, something breaks — the work bench collapses and my single-sideband antenna comes apart, but morning finds us well on our way after a watchful eye on Cape Ann.
Then the skyline of Boston seems to stand still, and we are losing our wind. There is talk of a powerful nor'easter late this evening. Northwest to north to northeast — already it is freshening, and it looks like the tide at the Cape Cod Canal and the increasing wind make for a safe harbor In Plymouth, Mass.
The harbormaster in Plymouth says we can't anchor in his harbor and steers us to a boatyard and a slip. It always irks me when there is no place to anchor, a sailor's undeniable right
After a few anxious moments to find an entrance and a slip, we are tied up facing northeast. Two heavy bowlines, three springs and even still Grebe suffers some chafing. When you're working dock lines and you have to watch your step or the wind will knock you over, it's blowing.
Adam gets a ride back to Portland; I've got to face the marina alone. Turns out to be $2 per foot per night, but the ladies in the office worked some magic and I am down to a $1 a foot, winter rates. They help me order a half-cord of firewood. Four nights in the Brewer boatyard — where does the time go? Loading one half a cord of firewood from a handcart out on a dock goes pretty fast if you are paying for the night and there is an outgoing tide. Gotta make the Cape Cod Canal by tonight. I haven't failed to notice that I am iced in, but I'll deal with that later. It's thicker than I thought, but after winching my bow around, and with help from my 10-horsepower Sabb diesel, I am pushing though the ice to catch the tide.
I arrive at the Cape Cod Canal just as the east flood is starting (the canal floods to the east and ebbs west). Grebe makes just enough headway, though at one time it looked doubtful, to slip into the Harbor of Refuge. Time to stack the firewood properly, then it's out of the Gulf of Maine and on to warmer waters.
***
Ah, the coffee klatch. There we were sipping our high test at Portland Coffee Roasters on Commercial Street. An offhanded remark to my boatbuilding friend, Chip Flanagan, something about not going south again and that my tender was in pretty rough shape. Chip says "Jeff I've got the weekend off. Why don't we rebuild it?" With that major hurdle overcome, the next weeks were frantic. Hatch work, charts, single-sideband installed, EPIRB, etc.
So here I am as snug as a bug in a rug with two hooks out facing a southeast gale in Pocasset Harbor, Mass. I'm listening to the stretching and creaking of my two nylon anchor rodes as the gusts reach 45 knots. Pocasset Harbor is not a bad place to be. Well protected, secluded, just a few houses and most empty for the winter. My ground tackle is getting quite a workout as the wind shifts to the northwest, still blowing gale force.
Agonizing over a decision to leave Pocasset's safety for the only chance to make some westing — there is another southeast gale coming up the coast. The wind drops to 10 to15 knots from the northeast. Dec. 14, 5 a.m., looks like a go. I've only got until this afternoon but if it gets iffy I can run into New Bedford. I'd like to get to Point Judith, only 45 miles, but the gale could beat me.
The wood stove is such a comfort. I prepare the self-steerer — should be a nice ride for a while anyway. Old thumper, my diesel engine, is running great — a heartbeat. It has been a long time since I really sailed, and it feels good. The alone time has been good, I seem to be getting along well with myself, keep calling myself "old buddy." I begin to pull the two Danforths. My hands get numb, so it's down to the woodstove then back on deck.
Dec. 14. Gale after gale. Ten days so far and I am sailing into New Bedford Harbor, Mass. I think it figures out to about 15 miles a day. I could do this faster by walking. It is starting to come easterly. I get the sails down just at the entrance to the harbor. It's like a big pond behind a huge, riprap breaker wall. I motor over to New Bedford looking for a berth. The huge fleet, makes Portland look small. I turn to the Fairhaven side and see some schooner sticks tucked away.
I work my way around some rafted fishing boats and tie up to a steel-hulled, burnt-out handsome vessel called the John Wannamaker. Well protected from the southeast gale, snow is soon covering Grebe, and after a nip on the Jim Beam I'm battened down, but listening for the returning ship whose spot I'm in, ready to slip my lines as soon as I hear, "Watta you doin' In my *!A%A berth?" I hate it when it happens to me, but any port in a storm. They're talking 50 knots northwest. I'll just keep a low profile, but that's hard when you have to jump the guard fence for phone calls and pizza.
Dec.17. Crack of dawn, slipping quietly out of sleepy New Bedford bound for Point Judith. I changed my mind last night after spending the day beating out to Cuttyhunk in strong northwest winds, decks awash with freezing spray. I ended up motor sailing into a west wind. The seas settled down and the wind went to the south.
Now, at least, I can keep the sails full. So off to an old haunt — Newport, R.I. I have been sailing there since I owned Grebe, 1973. A few Americas Cups and stopovers to Bermuda and points south. The last time I was there I was with my friend Suzy Verrier. That was in 1991, again in late December (Why am I always so late?) Suzy and I were bound for Key West, but four gales later ended up in Bermuda. This time I won't drift around Montauk Point waiting for the wind to decide my fate. Long Island Sound is looking good with stops by Port Jefferson, City Island and passing under the Brooklyn Bridge. I have even written a song about the Brooklyn Bridge — my father's favorite bridge and I guess because of my Brooklyn heritage mine too.
Dec. 19, Newport. I picked the right mooring. The harbormaster came out today and asked me, "How come you picked that mooring?" I said I didn't know, but it was close to the town dock. He said it belonged to a friend of his and that it was a heavy mooring and what were my intentions? I told him I wasn't sure, maybe a couple of days. " I suppose that'll be OK," he said, and with a friendly smile bid me a good day.
I have been here a couple of days already, but I haven't been able to go ashore. The wind from the southwest has been gusting to 40, but it is down to 30 or so and I still don't feel like going on deck. The woodstove is glowing, and why row ashore when spray is breaking over the docks if you don't have to? In fact, my first day here I didn't even go on deck — just an occasional peek out the hatch. I remember hearing on the single sideband a sailor who was in rough conditions who said he would rather not look outside.
My feelings exactly.
Epilogue: By Feb. 5. Grebe had reached Sandy Hook, N.J., where she was firmly icebound and remained that way for weeks. Aumuller was back in Portland, weighing his alternatives. Continue south? Sail back to Portland. Or, perhaps best, a road trip to Florida.
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