Confessions of an AWOL flotillian

August, 2001

By Tom Snyder
I recently returned from the Fundy Flotilla, a group of 29 adventurous cruisers who had signed up to go to the St. John River and beyond. I was a very important member of that group because, I think it’s safe to say, no one knows more about cruising than me. In addition to which I write this regular column for Points East magazine, which sponsored the flotilla, and a lot of readers have come to depend on my heady mix of wisdom and boat lore. Thus, it was a significant moment when I departed from the fleet on the first day. I feel that I owe you all an explanation.

The Skippers’ Meeting

We convened for the first time in a church on Mt. Desert Island. Every captain came clutching his or her notebook, ready to receive our marching orders. It was a festive atmosphere, but there was a grim intentionality about each of us. Bernie, the flotilla captain, told us of our first destination, a small fishing village about 55 nautical miles to the east. He gave us weather reports and wave reports. He gave us hope.

As a final gesture, before we disassembled, Bernie gave each boat two small complimentary plastic drinking cups donated by sponsor A.G.A Correa & Son, the well-known jeweler. It was a lovely and gallant gesture, and don’t think it didn’t mean the world to each and every skipper as he/she began to retreat mentally into the realm of command.

We lined up to get our plastic cups. There was no pushing or cutting. It was as if each member of this flotilla were acknowledging our new dependence on one another. Strength in numbers. A community of cruisers. When I got to the front of the line, I took my cups and nodded a silent thanks and farewell to Bernie. Man to man. No bullshit.

Departure

We left the next morning at 4:30 in a fog indescribably thick. Let me describe it. In all my years of cruising I have never seen fog so thick. It was so thick that it was kind of hard to see other boats or land. (You can simulate this experience by walking around your home with your eyes partially closed.) By pre-arrangement, we would communicate with one another on a specific radio channel. Obviously, I cannot reveal which channel we chose, but it was a pretty high number and it was even. As we left Mt. Desert Island behind, one could hear the tense but organized chatter on the designated channel as we reported our positions. Strength in numbers, but we could hardly guess what we would soon be encountering.

The Ordeal

I don’t remember when the violent rain started. In fact, I’m not sure that it rained. Nor do I remember when the steep Atlantic swells first appeared. Or if they appeared. But the fog never lifted. Never. Our covey of boats motored on, making a buoy, making a point of land. The radio chatter had trimmed itself into a well-regulated system whereby every boat could quickly weigh in. Targets on radar became lifelong friends, boat names became comfortable and reassuring. It was amidst this brotherly passage that I took a moment to run below and fix myself some lunch.

The Discovery

I assembled a sandwich made from thin slices of roast beef, fresh garden lettuce and an elite mustard. I added pickles to cheer myself up. I put all of this on a marine-quality plastic plate with a terrific anti-skid base. I went to pour myself a glass of reconstituted orange juice when it occurred to me to celebrate further with one of my two complimentary plastic Flotilla cups. It was then that I discovered that there was but one cup. Not two. This was not a crisis, but you can bet I was a bit shaken. I took my lunch topside, scanned the non-existent horizon and ate lunch.

The Call

The radio traffic on channel 68 now had a different character – more insistent, maybe even frantic. It soon became clear why. No one had heard from Really Swell for more than an hour. This 28-foot sloop had been bravely holding up the rear of our formation. Now she appeared neither on radar nor on radio. Several suggestions were made concerning our next move. As concerned as I was for our missing member, I had other more nagging concerns. I keyed my radio and broadcast the following message:

Me: “Fundy Flotilla, Fundy Flotilla this is Blue Moon.”

Them: “Go ahead, Blue Moon.”

Me: “Yes… this is Blue Moon and perhaps this is not the time to bring it up, but apparently I received only one plastic cup. Over.”

Them: “Don’t think we heard you correctly, Blue Moon.”

Me: “Yes… ah, yesterday I believe I only received one of my two plastic cups. I was thinking that probably one of you has three cups.”

No reply.

Me: “Fundy Flotilla, ah, a quick check could clear the whole matter up. This is Blue Moon standing by on channel 68.”

I waited for what seemed like one full minute, although it is a well-documented fact that time passes more slowly in thick fog. When another minute went by, it occurred to me that, metaphorically speaking, I was being held at arm’s length. Just as I was about to broadcast a plea for open and honest cooperation, my radio crackled alive with an intermittent signal. All one could make out were broken phrases… “this is Really Swell… raw water impeller… drifting… rocks…”

Because this rough transmission was unclear and therefore of little use, I transmitted what I thought was a reasonable next step. I suggested that once we were all safely anchored at our destination, whoever had the extra plastic cup could anonymously leave it in my dinghy. No questions asked. No hard feelings.

Then came a series of strident messages telling me to stay off the channel. I realized that probably more than one boat was involved in the cup “problem.” This was more than I had bargained for. So I transmitted over channel 68 one last time. I spoke warmly but firmly about the need for trust at sea. I tried to say something nice about each and every boat in the fleet lest they think that I was leaving in a huff. This was not about huffs.

I closed with a poem by Rudyard Kipling. By this time my thumb was getting fatigued from holding down the transmit button. And so I left. No more strength in numbers. I steered away from the Flotilla.

Let the man who would have done anything different cast the first stone. And now that all the boats are home from the flotilla proper, a final plea. If you have my cup, send me an anonymous email to tffsnyder@earthlink.net. All is forgiven.

Tom Snyder keeps his cups in Cambridge, Mass., with his wife Anne and children. He sails his Island Packet 350, Blue Moon, out of Hingham, Mass., and Peaks Island, Maine.