The Virtual Reinhard
Created | Updated Dec 21, 2006
How did it happen that two landlubber computer programmers, on contract in the far corners of the world, decided to exchange their perfectly good if somewhat hectic lifestyles for the uncertainties and trials of bluewater cruising?
This is the tale of the how. The why you can figure out for yourselves.
We sailed, and sailed. We sailed in heavy winds, and practiced reefing, both together and single-handed. We sailed in light winds and tried our light genoa. We went out into swell and practiced hoisting and lowering sails on a heaving deck. We stayed out overnight and practiced anchoring. We booked marina berths and practiced entering them both forwards and backwards, in wind and in current. We stayed overnight in berths and practiced setting mooring lines and springers. We practiced picking up a mooring under sail, heaving to, and crash-stops. We practiced using the autopilot and steering to the wind and steering to a pre-set course. We even tried steering with the emergency tiller, which really wasn't a lot of fun.
We also took on board a lot of guests. We soon decided that although it is technically possible to sleep six on board (and day-sail with eight), a total of two couples aboard is really the maximum if you want to have a good time. As captain, we are responsible for all crew, however inexperienced, and we felt that responsibility keenly; after a weekend of 'entertaining', however enjoyable, we often felt as if we needed another weekend off in order to recover. And then we had the guests who insisted on 'helping', and others who just broke everything they touched...
Thankfully, these were in the minority and, of course, on most weekends we had a real ball even if we were completely knackered. Parties at anchor were one thing; it wasn't until we started giving interested friends basic helming instruction and found ourselves quietly compensating for their mistakes that we realised just how far we had come since our first forays onto Lake Burley Griffin. It was also always a lovely moment to see somebody suddenly 'get it' and become a completely natural helmsman.
A Touch of Wind
One morning, after a pleasant night at anchor, a big storm started to brew. It took us a few hours to sail out of the secluded creek where we'd been staying and into the main body of the river, by which time it was gusting an exciting thirty knots or so. We put in a couple of reefs and headed down the Hawkesbury river for home.
The wind got steadily stronger, until we reached the point where we thought that it would be prudent to bring the sails down altogether and motor. The main dropped down just fine, but the foresail roller furler jammed with about a metre of sail still sticking out. It didn't look much, but boy did it have an effect as the winds got up to 35 knots. We were heading into wind and the steering was all over the place as intermittent gusts grabbed the sail one way or the other, but there was no way that I was going forward as it was flogging dangerously and we had no tethers. The fight was hard and we soon got tired. We were still a couple of hours from home so we nipped into aptly named Refuge Bay to pick up a mooring and see if we could sort it out.
The first mooring that we picked - which was, necessarily due to our lack of precision steering, in the open far from shore - was a disaster. We got attached alright, but that little square metre of sail just kept on powering us forward, dipping the bow under the water first to the left, and then to the right. I tied myself on to the thrashing deck, and by dint of some interesting ropework, gradually got the free end under control without being hit on the head very much at all, and built a sort of rope cage around it to stop it from moving so much. By this time, the waves around us had breaking white tops and we were being pelted with spray, so we decided to move to a more sheltered mooring before figuring out what was wrong with the furler.
Across the bay, close in to the shore, was a mooring that looked OK. Since we now had proper steering, we tucked in behind its sheltering rocky peninsula and celebrated with a bite of lunch while we watched the white-tops rage past. We now had time to peer up at the foresail and pull and poke at it and we came to the conclusion that, in the excitement of high-wind furling, the first few metres had probably folded over and furled backwards. This would mean that as the rest of the sail furled correctly over the top of it, the twisted portion would be pulled ever tighter until no amount of grinding on the winches would get the last part in.
The only way out was to deploy the headsail and furl it back up again. The problem, of course, was that we had to do this downwind (you can't realistically furl on a mooring, or upwind), and so in the interim we would be sailing shoreward with a fully powered headsail in 35 knots, with only one chance of getting it right and banking on the hope that our analysis was correct and there wasn't something else fatally wrong with the furler...
We waited for a lull, then motored out into the breaking swell. I ran down to the bow, removed my jury-rigged fix, and ran back to the stern. The foresail deployed with an evil 'crack' and then it was winch, winch, winch, all the while keeping an eagle-eye out for backwards folds, until the last blessed metre rolled safely around the stay. Superb. Better turn now, before we hit the rocks.
Out in the channel, the wind increased to 40 knots and, since we were approaching the headland leading to the open sea, the swell was increasing to suit. However, Pindimara felt safe and happy, and the motor had plenty of power in hand, so we ploughed on.
At the mouth of the Hawkesbury is an area of confused waters where the river meets not only the sea, but also the mouth of our home Pittwater arm and the waters around Lion Island, which is a big slab of rock that reflects any swell back at a 45 degree angle. It's a bit of a maelstrom at the best of times and there are some broaching rocks on the lee shore leading to Pittwater. However, we are familiar with the area and it holds no fear for us so, despite staying a safe distance from the shore, we were not too perturbed and could concentrate on rolling over the swell without getting the decks too wet. We were quite surprised to find a small open metal boat motoring along in the trough of the swell, but you get fishermen everywhere and we turned away to give them some space. Suddenly they started waving and shouting; their engine had chosen that moment to give out and they were drifting onto the rocks. There were four people aboard, none with lifejackets and, apparently, they had no oars. The gusts were now hitting 50 knots.
We circled around, wary of the rocky shore, and tried to throw them a line. It was incredibly difficult to stand on the heaving deck and throw a heavy, wet rope with any kind of accuracy and I suddenly gained an immense appreciation for the people who do this for a living. A couple of attempts fell well within reach of their boat, but now it seemed that they didn't have a boat-hook either; I had to actually get the rope inside the tiny little vessel. All the while Bronwyn was fighting to avoid the rocky lee shore and trying not to crush their tiny little boat with our five-tonne hull, which meant keeping at least one trough away from them.
Over the radio, we could hear the coastguard rejecting calls from any boats in inland waters; all their efforts were concentrated on a series of dismasted yachts and men-overboard along the coastline. We weren't going to get any help from them. At one point I did manage to get the end of a double-length rope into their boat, but somehow while they were making fast a knot came adrift and they ended up with both ends of one of our mooring lines, while I was left standing with a loose end of a second one secured to our boat. We were just going round for another try when we spotted another little motor launch heading our way. We intercepted it and asked if they could help. They were much closer in size and weight to the stricken tinny and I thought that they should be able to get in close without danger - and that is what they did. We hung around and escorted the pair as the new boat towed the old one out of danger and then watched in stunned amazement as a fuel can was passed over and their engine sprang into life. The idiots had run out of fuel! Even worse, without any acknowledgement or backward glance, they then motored off towards shore, taking our mooring rope with them, and we never saw them again.
Ah well. At least it gave me something interesting to write in the ship's log.
