Adventures in Boating Mishaps II

The crew of Lollipop is all smiles prior to a voyage that would eventually go sideways. Photo courtesy Nick Amdur

September 2023

By Nick Amdur

No longer published, “New England Offshore Magazine” used to feature a monthly column by Tink Martin called “Adventures in Boating Mishaps.” These stories were humorous, sometimes touching, always fun, and a reminder of what can and does happen on the water. Thinking back on the column, I’m reminded of the mishaps that occurred during my sailing career, some of which I’ll share here and call, as a tribute to the late Ms. Martin, “Adventures in Boating Mishaps II.”

Running aground on Brewster Spit

The kids were young, perhaps 8 and 10, and we were on our way back from a day trip to Greater Brewster Island, home to Boston Light. The channel took us toward Lovell Island and, although it looked reasonable to cut across to Hull Gut, the chart was clear: A long sand spit extends much of the way from Greater Brewster to Lovell.

All was going well when I felt nature’s call. I turned the helm over to son David and went below. Sitting on the throne I felt the boat bump, bump, and then slow down and stop. Uh-oh. I let out such a screech of surprise that my wife Marty worried that I had been sucked out of the boat by the marine toilet. Back on deck I surveyed the situation and shocked faces. How to get free? This meant retrieving the heavy anchor, tossing it off the stern, and then winching ourselves out the way we came in. It took a while and multiple cycles, but eventually we were in clear water and able to start the engine. And the look from Marty: “You only have yourself to blame.”

Did anyone see me do that?

I was enjoying the late afternoon sun on the return sail past the Hingham Yacht Club, peaceful and quiet. BOOM! What happened? I must have closed my eyes for a moment and then brushed too close to the red channel marker off Ragged and Sarah Islands. Whoops! Did anyone see me? Thank goodness, no. A quick check of the bilge; no water coming in. Finally, a glance over the side and see evidence of the encounter with some red streaks on the side of the boat. Hmm, better clean those up at the mooring or they’ll be no peace from my sailing buddies!

Snagging the lobster pot

It was just the first or second year with our Caliber 28 Lollipop II. I was out for a solo sail and met up with friend and neighbor Tom, who sailed a 27’ Pearson. Nice gentle breezes, and we were tacking easily between Bumpkin Island and Hull Gut. Then I slowed down and stopped . . . but the sails were still full. I had snagged the line on a lobster pot. No problem, I’d take down the sails to relieve the pressure, then use the mooring hook to lift off the line. Tom circled but then headed in, confident I’d figure it out. I climbed down the boarding ladder, mooring hook in hand, but could not get to the line. If I went into the water to free it, the boat might drift away before I could get back on. Ah, this is why I have TowBoatU.S.! I called and they showed up within a half hour, securing their boat to mine. The operator, properly outfitted, went over the side and freed the line from the prop. It was a short outing, but I was exhausted when I returned to the mooring.

A year or so later I recounted the story to Roger Duncan, famed sailor, author and raconteur in Maine, and he assured me that, “Every sailor gets caught on three lobster warps in their life.” Years later, on Linekin Bay, sailing with him once again, I confessed that I’d already used my three. “Well, I think we might modify that to five,” he said.

The halyards are stuck

One spring, after the boat had been launched, we discovered that the halyards weren’t moving. They were certainly okay at the end of the last season. What happened? We gathered on deck to see what was going on. Tug and pull, not helping. We removed a small access plate at the base of the mast where we discovered what looked suspiciously like a nest, much of it fashioned out of chewed pieces of cordage. Did a critter get into the mast during the winter?

With gloves, we grabbed hold of the jumble and pulled, and out came a very dazed and groggy squirrel, still alive! It’s a tossup who is more shocked! Without much thinking or any discussion, I grabbed the tail and tossed the squirrel overboard. Immediately, a sea-gull circling the area zoomed down and plucked the hapless critter from the water, same as a fish. “Burial at sea” comes to mind, but without the proper formalities. Aboard the boat we looked at each other, amazed, and for once rendered speechless.

Squall

A few years into a consulting career, along with several others, I decided to take a group of 14-or-so team members out for a cruise. Three sailboats, all about the same size, 28-30 feet. Just the right breeze and we quickly headed over to Gallops Island, secured some moorings and enjoyed the Boston skyline. A glance at the sky said, “weather approaching,” so we started back through Hull Gut for Hingham Harbor. Not quite in time. The wind picked up and the rain came down so hard we couldn’t see 20 feet. On board Lollipop, I assigned the helm to Jessica, who was physically the smallest person, but the only one on my boat with any experience. I managed to secure the headsail and lash it to the furler. Fortunately, the mainsail was already down. One passenger was so concerned he said, “Maybe I’ll jump off and swim.” Jessica yelled at him to sit down. We finally saw Hingham Yacht Club through the rain and made it in. Anna Marie didn’t fare so well; her mainsail was ripped and damaged. Third boat Skogie limped in. By agreement, “no more group sails,” and some of the team never set foot on a boat again.

The anchor isn’t holding

We’ve sailed out to Greater Brewster, set the anchor and piled into the dinghy to go ashore. Just as we’re about to land I look back at Lollipop and she seems to have shifted slightly. Oops, the anchor isn’t holding. Like Captain Hook rowing furiously I make it back to the boat, climb on board, start the engine and pull up the anchor. By the time all this is done, I’m so exhausted we give up going ashore.

Not all mishaps were mine

A friend and retired police officer, John, had already experienced mishaps. Once he got stuck in the aft hatch, scrunched into an awkward position to work on the steering cables. Fortunately, others came along the dock at the right time, heard his cries for help and managed to pull him out.

Several years later, launching his 23’ sloop at the Hingham ramp should have been straightforward. But even after backing down as far as possible into the water, the boat refused to slide off the trailer. Usually a good push would do it. Or, if not, backing down the ramp and hitting the brakes hard. Not this time: The bottom paint, so carefully applied, had firmly stuck the boat onto the carpet-covered trailer supports.

Two weeks and much scraping later, the boat finally went in.

Nick Amdur learned to sail on the Charles River and progressed from a Sunfish to a Caliber 28 over the next 70 years, which he kept in Hingham, Mass. Boston’s Harbor Islands and coastline were favorite areas of exploration. Today most of Nick’s boating mishaps take place aboard a 17’ Seafox powerboat.