By Bob Loney
For Points East
Our Nova Scotia cruise last August aboard our Cheoy Lee Luders 36 ketch, Windeva, was drawing to a close. We'd had a pleasant sojourn in Halifax followed by overnight stops in some beautiful secluded coves in St. Margaret's Bay and a delightful interlude in the town of Mahone Bay. Realizing the calendar was overtaking us, we reluctantly pointed the bow southwest and began our upwind return to our home port of Round Pond, Maine.

	Photo courtesy Bob Loney
	Bob and Phyllis Loney in more pleasant circumstances in the cockpit of Windeva, their Cheoy Lee Luders 36 ketch.

After several leisurely overnight stops in the LaHave River and off the beautiful beach near Port Mouton, we stopped in Lockeport to top off the diesel and water and freshen up the grocery supply. My wife, Phyllis, expressed a desire to see Shelburne, so we decided to go the few extra miles and motor-sailed in light air and fog up to Shelburne Harbor, where we emerged from the murk into a beautiful clear day.

We enjoyed Shelburne so much, we thought of spending an extra day or so, but the Marine Weather early Sunday morning, Aug, 29, predicted Tropical Storm Gaston to affect Lurcher Shoals and Browns Bank by Wednesday, we decided that our best bet was to leave and head for home before Gaston arrived. We motor-sailed into a light southerly, and by the time we passed Cape Roseway, we were back in thick fog. Rounding Cape Sable, the wind freshened to a comfortable 10 to 15 knots from the southwest, so we shut down the engine and were once again a sailboat.

Our usual routine when making an overnight passage is to reduce sail to mizzen and jib and stand four-hour watches. Even with the reduced sail plan, we were making better than five knots, and the easy motion made for a pleasant sleep for the off-watch. The fog being our constant companion, however, made it necessary to keep a radar watch. No targets appeared and the night passed without event, except that the penetrating dampness and cold made for less than a comfortable watch on deck.

Monday morning found the sun trying to penetrate the fog without much success. It was still pretty cold and damp, which was a big disappointment, but at least we were making good time. NOAA Weather was now talking about some serious wind and sea conditions to arrive in the area by Tuesday. Not wanting to put our septuagenarian selves through another night of cold damp fog or any other unpleasantness, we decided to alter course for Southwest Harbor, which at our speed at the time, we could easily make before dark. As the morning progressed, the wind decreased, but the seas continued their robust characteristics, which is not a great combination. To help us along our way in the dwindling wind, I started the engine and we motor-sailed for about an hour when suddenly the engine speeded up and was accompanied by an alarming grinding sound from the area of the propeller shaft coupling.

Quickly shutting down, I pulled the hatch to the engine compartment and saw that the shaft had separated from the coupling flange. Fortunately, we have a dripless shaft seal with a stainless-steel ring attached to the shaft forward of the seal itself that prevents the propeller and shaft from exiting the boat or fouling the rudder. Try as I might, given the awkward position of reaching down into the engine compartment. I couldn't get the leverage needed to reinsert the shaft into the coupling flange.

On further examination it appeared that in the few seconds it took me to shut down the engine, the end of the shaft had peened itself until it was larger than the diameter of the opening in the flange. With no power and virtually no wind, my ETA for Southwest Harbor was rapidly being extended. By now our speed had dwindled to a bit over one knot Ð just steerage- way. It was going to be a long afternoon.

That long afternoon turned into what was to become a longer night. The wind picked up slightly, and we thought that this was it Ð the wind was returningÐ but every time we trimmed the sails, the wind would either change direction or die completely. The seas just wouldn't go down, so whenever the wind quit, which happened every few minutes, the main and mizzen booms would slam from side to side. I tried using the preventer to control the slamming and allow the main boom to be sheeted out a bit, but it seemed every time I did this, the wind, what there was of it, would swing around to the other side.

Of course, the cold fog hardly added to the enjoyment of the situation. Under these conditions, the autopilot was no help whatsoever. It tried but just couldn't keep up with the changing zephyrs and sloppy seas. The oft-heard phrase, "Wind light and variable," came to mind. NOAA Weather was now calling for southwest 25 to 30 from 25 nautical miles out to the Hague Line for late Monday into Tuesday. OK, now it was around midnight Monday, we were between the 25-mile line and the Hague Line, but where was the wind? There we sat watching our wind speed indicator read two or three knots and the wind direction needle spin wildly as the masthead swung back and forth.

The only redeeming feature of that very long night was the quality of the light. The brightness of the nearly full moon was filtering through the fog and illuminating the little gray cocoon we'd been in since Cape Roseway. The need to constantly trim the sails to get the most out of the fickle breeze and hand steer to keep us somewhere close to course required both of us to stay on watch and seriously detracted from a complete aesthetic appreciation of the fog-diffused moonlight.

There would be no cozy bunk for either of us that night. We did remind ourselves, however, that we were safe in a boat securely afloat and, below, there was a galley from which munchies and cups of hot tea could find their way to the cockpit. With the cold damp fog enveloping us and our speed of two knots at best with constant rolling, we agreed that in over three decades of cruising this was not going to be our most pleasant passage of all time. Of course, being without sleep didn't add much to the enjoyment factor either.

Tuesday's dawn brought us a bit closer to our destination, and the GPS told us we'd clear Little Duck Island by at least a mile. I was starting to get concerned, though, because what little wind there was appeared to be leaving us. Finally our forward motion became nearly indiscernible and steering became impossible. Not a good situation when approaching landfall, especially in the fog when visibility was 50 yards at best. Desiring intimate contact with neither South Bunker Ledge nor Long Ledge Ð and certainly not the south shore of Great Cranberry Island Ð it was time to initiate Plan B.

I dug the air pump out of the cockpit locker and unlashed the deflated rubber dinghy from the cabin top. The wind had disappeared completely but not the nasty chop persisted, so the rolling continued, making inflating the dinghy with the foot pump a bit of a challenge. I finally managed to get it inflated and over the side and secured on the port quarter to tow Windeva on the hip. Getting the outboard onto the dinghy was another matter.

During years of cruising, Phyllis and I had developed the drill of getting the outboard on and off the dinghy. It's always been easily accomplished while at anchor or on a mooring. We had never tried it under way and certainly not with the dinghy bouncing up and down. We were under way, but not making way Ð no forward motion but plenty of vertical. Secure in my safety harness, I timed my boarding of the dinghy with its vertical movements and made a rather undignified landing on my backside on its floor. After some dicey moments, we successfully transferred the motor to the dinghy and secured it to the transom. It started on the first pull, and soon I was safely back aboard Windeva with the dinghy on the hip towing us at the respectable speed of one and a half knots. Not too bad for a three and a half-horsepower outboard, especially as the prop would leave the water with each roll of Windeva.

We were still using radar as the visibility had deteriorated even more and we didn't want any encounters with the lobster boats we could hear not far away. Still no wind, but we proceeded through the fog past South Bunker Ledge and headed up Western Way, courtesy of our trusty little outboard. As we emerged from Western Way into Southwest Harbor, the fog thinned and a slight breeze appeared. Less than a mile from our destination, we became a sailboat once again.

We picked up the first vacant mooring we came upon, dropped the sails, and secured the vessel, and by 0710, we both collapsed into our bunks. The first priority upon waking a few hours later was to clear in with U.S. Customs, which was accomplished by cell phone. The second priority was to deal with the prop shaft, and a call to the Hinckley Yard brought almost instant response. When the mechanic told us the shaft had sheared inside the coupling flange, it appeared that we wouldn't be leaving Southwest Harbor in a hurry.

This story does have a happy ending. After a haulout, which led to the installation of a shiny new prop shaft, we departed Southwest Harbor on Friday, motoring into a stiff southwesterly. We decided to take a break and sought shelter for the night in Mackerel Cove on Swan's Island. It blew all Friday night, sometimes gusting to 30-plus, but by Saturday morning the wind had shifted to the northeast at a respectable 15 knots or so. We hoisted the sails and headed for home.

The run we had that day made up for everything that didn't go according to plan since our departure from Shelburne. Besides having clear sky with unlimited visibility, the wind was in our favor all the way home. We were on our mooring in Round Pond less than 10 hours after leaving Mackerel Cove, covering nearly 60 miles with the most glorious sail of the season.