Two twenty-one twelve: great date for yet another terrific day of sailing. A new crack has opened up in the north end of the lake, but with careful scouting crossing it was not difficult. Dave Lamton had the Express rigged again and Doug Raymond was back with his rubber mast.
John had still more takers for rides in the Gambit, and one guy had a look halfway between titillation and terror as John had it wound up circling the pits.
The Lake was a new place today. A change in wind direction completely changes how you sail a lake. After all, what is sailing essentially but the desire and effort to make that next point? Today it was SW. Not really filling in until about eleven, when it did it was kind. Steady as a rock, you can cleat the sheet and almost go to sleep. In a few minutes you wake up and here we are at the narrows!
I beat down through and then deep reached back out, took a nap on the three mile reach back to the pits and roused the troops for a cruise. Scott the Guy, Bunting and myself sailed back South in tight formation and found the finest ice yet. We were still faced with the pressure ridge that Jory and I had crossed yesterday, but the sailing was so fine in those first two bays that we just gamboled about for a while.The wind was such that we could sail along next to the ridge and just gawk at it’s wonder.
Some of the shallow, rocky points are opening up in Herring Gut, and we are reminded of a story Lloyd Roberts told of watching out for a bad spot he knew was coming up and running smack into a hole he didn’t see. One should keep the corner of the eye on those known hazards while maintaining focus on what’s ahead.
Keep an eye on the weather for the weekend. We may yet pull a few more good days out of the hat!
Not a posed photo, I swear!
Good news is that wrist was not broken; bad news is that I work this weekend and next. With luck Tippy will be out again.
I don’t know if Bill Bucholz’s failure to mention my end-of-the-day dunking debacle was due to pity for me or because he blames himself for having overestimated my intelligence, but if the latter is the case I will state that the skipper of an iceboat, no matter hoe numb, must take as full responsibility for his actions as must the captain of a mega-cruise ship, even one with an adoring Maldovian seductress draped on his shoulder urging him to ” be a real man” and “go just a little closer to the shore.”
Early in my career as a heavy bulldozing contractor, specializing in digging ponds, I learned that the most fateful push of the day was the one-last-push before shutting down. That one-last- push, after nine or ten long, jolting hours of enduring deafening noise and acrid exhaust fumes, was invariably the one after which the bulldozer would not back up, but instead, decided to let its 25-tons slowly ooze into the enveloping glacial blue clay, threatening to leave but the exhaust stack flapper above the surface by morning unless heroic measure were not quickly begun. But of course it was not the bulldozer that decided to make that one-last-push.
A 25-ton bulldozer would not seem to share many similarities with a 250-pound iceboat , unless the two were being driven by the same fool, one as likely to make one last tour of the lake as one last push. And so it was, just as everyone was about to call it a day, that the suggestion was made to take ONE LAST SAIL down to the Narrows. And I fell for it. I had been avoiding the Narrows ever since I famously sailed into a hole there a couple of years ago. But “down to the Narrows” was not the same as “Let’s go THROUGH the Narrows,” and so I tagged along behind those two flyers, Northern Lights and Outlaw.
When the aforementioned flyers got to the Narrows, instead of turning around as I had expected,, they bombed right on through. And — just like the timid third little kid who ends up vandalizing the gauges of a parked bulldozer for fear of being called chicken — I followed them, but not without trepidation. Of course I was alert to give an extra wide berth to the narrow tongue of open water protruding from the point on the west side, the opening which had deflected me into a mid-channel thin spot in my last fateful attempted transit, and passed safely into the bay, where we three cavorted about for a bit.
Then our bold leader headed back, with Outlaw on his tail, and with me in their wake, Watching for the open water to port, and just to be a little bit more on the safe side — or so I thought — I steered a boat’s beam farther to the east of Scott’s track. And in an instant Red Herring plowed into another narrow open tongue extending out from the EAST side, driving the springboard under the ice and bringing down the mast in the plunge, and throwing me into the water. I was totally surprised. Cursing the day I was born, I nevertheless decided that a life of shame was still preferable to the ultimate ignominy, and, deja vue, scrambled onto the ice. Not having yet been spotted by Scott, and not certain how long the Nite would float with its cockpit mostly filled, and wanting to do at least something positive, I grabbed for the sheets and promptly found myself back in the water. It was reassuring this time to touch bottom and discover that the water was only about five feet deep – I am six feet — so I decided that resorting to the picks was not yet necessary, and again successfully flopped back onto the ice. This time I waited for help, which was not long in coming in the form of Scott, and then Bill.
We discovered that a Nite full of water will float, for a while anyway. It slid out without much difficulty, and after the water was drained out of the aft sheet hole by raising up the bow, it towed home like a good dog behind the skillfully sailed Northern Lights, with yours truly sitting dejectedly on the fantail.
The damage to the Nite was relatively minor, considering the possibilities. A survey revealed a sprung springboard, the amputated foot of the nice old Sitka spruce mast, and detached steering wheel attachment. Presumably I detached the steering wheel attachment with my hands at the moment of impact. — I was thankful for the horizontal, under-combing wheel rather that a piercing tiller or a protruding steering wheel with a protruding shaft. Once again the Nite has demonstrated its superior crash-worthiness. Bucholz says all can be repaired, thanks to epoxy (and his skill). I cannot detect any injury to myself beyond the damage to what little of my pride remained. .
There are numerous lessons that should be self-evident. One is that we don’t necessarily get smarter as we get older. Another is that in an iceboat you are likely not to see what gets you until it gets you. And another is that even when playing follow-the-leader you and you alone are responsible for where you end up. And of course, never sail,alone.
My sincere thanks to Bill and Scott for their invaluable and kindly assistance. Scott has now helped to rescue me twice.
Bill Bunting
A couple of follow-up thoughts. By this morning I realized that what had torn off the steering wheel assembly was the force of my feet on the pedals. Also, I don’t think I was thrown out. I think I self-ejected as the boat dove. All I know for certain is that I found myself in the water almost immediately. And although I didn’t need them, it was very nice to be able to look down and see the ice picks there, just in case.
Bill Bunting