Unstayed and aloft

Photo courtesy Molly MulhernThe author, perched aloft on a bosun’s chair.

Winter 2024

By Molly Mulhern

“I can do that,” I replied to my boat partner, Geo. It was the end of the sailing season, and someone needed to go up the mast on a friend’s boat. Weeks before we had been aboard the boat, looking over the work Geo had promised to do. It was an unusual boat with an unstayed rig made by the now defunct Freedom Yachts. Boats the size of this one usually had a combination of at least six stays and shrouds. This boat’s only stay was a headstay used to attach the jib.

I’d never been on such a boat, although I’d always wondered how their masts stayed up. I strolled forward to investigate. At deck level the mast seemed tree-like. Looking up its 45 or 50 feet I saw how it tapered as it climbed, thinning to the diameter of a normal mast at the top.

“Huh. That’s a fat mast!” I had remarked. “I could go up that mast.” For some reason the wide bottom made it look more appealing than my own boat’s mast, which at the same height overall was about half this one’s diameter at the deck.

Geo had remembered my comment. Now we were aboard again on a warm October day. The boat was on the hard in a local boatyard. I had come along to help. A halyard was stuck at the top of the mast. “Want to go up?” Geo asked.

Looking back, despite having said I could, I find it odd that I actually agreed to do it. I hate heights. I never climbed trees or spent time on a jungle gym. When I ski, I tolerate the chairlift as a necessary evil. When I owned my own 22-foot sailboat and something needed to be done aloft, I always talked someone else into doing it.

Geo handed me a bosun’s chair and I took it, momentarily baffled as to how to get in it. I’d been in one before – albeit briefly, and not very high. While Geo re-acquainted me with how to step into the chair, I focused on the moves needed to get aloft and perform the needed task. Doing this kept the low-level river of fear I felt from sloshing into a full storm surge. I was committed to pushing myself out of my comfort zone; I wanted to go up that mast. And yet I didn’t want to go up that mast. The tugs of, “This is crazy, why should I do this!?” competed with “Geo will be belaying me, and I trust him. Going aloft is something I need to practice. I may need to do it sometime in more difficult situations.” My brain and body were in turmoil as I pushed the wood of the bosun’s seat under my butt.

“What halyard do you want to use?” Geo asked.

“Main?”

“Spinnaker will give you a better angle.”

I looked at it, realizing I knew nothing about the owner of the boat or the condition of his halyards. Lines on a sailboat chafe in funny places, and once that happens it doesn’t take much for them to fail.

“Okay, then,” I said as I attached the spinnaker halyard to the top of the chair.

I had filled a fanny pack with the tools I needed: needle-nose pliers, square-nose pliers, and my knife. The pack was around my waist.

“I’d be more comfortable with another line to hold onto,” I remarked as I looked around, hunting for one that would work. Eventually I found one and made it fast.

“All set,” I told Geo, who stood 15 feet aft in the cockpit, next to the winch he’d use to haul me up.

The first few feet were nothing. I wrapped my legs around the mast. A manual winch doesn’t move fast, so I had plenty of time to look around, although I couldn’t. Looking down certainly wasn’t an option. I looked straight ahead, at the fat, round mast. Occasionally I looked up to see how much farther I had to go.

“That’s good,” I hollered once I was at the headstay attachment. I wasn’t at the top of the mast – that was a good 10 feet or so more – but I was where I needed to be. I felt the mast sway a little.

Not looking down, I unzipped my tool pack with my left hand, feeling for the pliers. My right hand still had a death grip on the line I’d attached. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. Here was the crux move: I had to let go with my right hand so I could grab the pliers, and then I needed both hands to unbend a mangled cotter pin, which was slightly above me. The angle made it awkward, to say the least. And then I did it: My hands were no longer holding on. They were working. I hadn’t considered the necessity of having to do this before going up. I tightened my knees around the mast.

“Look down, I want to take your picture,” Geo said. He’d found my phone on deck. He sounded really far away. I wasn’t about to look down. I had a task to do, and was determined to get it done – the quicker the better. I struggled for what seemed like 10 minutes, although it may only have been five.

At one point I could feel the chair slipping beneath me from horizontal to vertical, which would have eventually dumped me. I realized I needed to relax and slow down. I forced myself to take a few more deep breaths, readjusted the chair under my butt, and stopped struggling long enough to realize I was OK. Then I slowly resumed my task.

“All set, lower away!” I yelled. I’d fixed the stuck halyard. Now it was time to descend with it. I put the tools back in the pack and exhaled as Geo lowered me. Only then did I have a good look around. You know, I have to admit: The view from up there was kinda cool.

If you must go, safety first

Going aloft isn’t a trivial matter. Over 10 years ago a crew member of the schooner Appledore died from injuries sustained after a fall of 80 feet following a mishap with the hoisting halyard. Reports aren’t clear if it was an untrained crew member on the winch, or if the winch failed, or if the halyard parted.

In the middle of this past sailing season an osprey landed on our masthead, breaking off the Windex. We were about to leave for a cruise to Grand Manan, and needed it. Geo offered me the chance to go aloft. I declined, so I had to hoist him, using the main halyard and a self-tailing winch. I asked Geo if he wanted a second line. He declined. Once he was at the mast-top I tailed the hoisting halyard to a second winch, creating a redundant hold in case the clutch, or the self tailer, or I, failed.

A big part of going aloft is trust: Trust in each critical piece of gear, and most importantly, trust in the crew. I was honored that Geo trusted me and I took his trust seriously. You literally have someone’s life in your hands.

There are better ways to go aloft. Two hoisting halyards would be better, but that requires more crew. Many sailors use a climbing harness instead of a bosun’s chair.

And, of course, there is always the option of installing mast steps!

Molly Mulhern lives in Camden, Maine, and sails out of Rockland. She spent her career publishing nautical books at International Marine/McGraw-Hill, and is currently organizing for climate change work, writing, sailing, and in general enjoying life.