The boat darted back and forth as the bay was whipped into a maelstrom of wind and flying water. I had started the engine while dressed only in my bathing suit and t-shirt. As the boat sailed back and forth on the anchor rode, I had to move from one side of the cockpit to the other to keep out of the worst of the windblown water and rain. Other boats were also struggling and it looked like the large 42 foot trawler in front of us was just off our bow, way too close for comfort. He started his engines and averted a potential disaster.
A power boat along side us dragged toward the rocks but he was able to move farther back in the anchorage and re-anchor. All of this chaos lasted only about 15 minutes but it seemed like an hour. The temperature dropped quickly and I was getting pretty cold in my skimpy soaked clothing. The rain continued for another half hour with wind gusts to 40 knots (measured). After things settled down, several boats were out re-anchoring. The scouting sailboat, near the cove entrance, recovered after severing the stern line tied to the shore so it could swing nose to the wind. Another sailboat appeared to have snapped the stern line it had tied to shore and was re-anchoring. The small power boat that had dragged left for someplace else. The trawler anchored in front of me had buried its anchor so far that it pulled its anchor float under the water. Checking my anchor rode for any chafing, I found seaweed that had been blown onto my deck. It looked like all the boats in the cove had survived with little damage.
We were all hoping the worst was over and that we would have an uneventful night. However, there was still a prediction of possible thunderstorms till morning.
It rained a good part of the night and I saw a couple flashes of lightning but no more storms materialized. We left Long Point Cove the following morning around 11 AM and motored the 5 miles to Beardrop Harbour. The harbor was not hard to navigate to. The electronic charts are great and matched our visual sightings. The harbor is quite large with plenty of space for the 10 boats that were already there. We anchored and the anchor set well into the mud and held fast under full power.
We heard on the VHF radio that a man was killed in Killarney Provincial Park during the storm. He and another person were camping. Lightning struck the tent and the man perished. We also heard that a couple small boats had been damaged but no one aboard was hurt. Indeed, storms on the Great Lakes can be quick and dangerous. No safe, protected harbor is truly completely safe.
Gayle and I are very thankful that our single anchor and rode held during the storm. Had I realized the storm’s full potential and had had sufficient time, a second anchor would have provided much more security and peace of mind.
Eric and Gayle Locke - “Knight’n Gayle”
have the most beneficial effect on the speed and balance of the boat; bravely resisting the temptation to swat at the gnats clustering around their heads for fear of creating currents that will disturb the tenuous, laminar flow of air over the sails. All-the-while, the fearless skipper holds the helm as still as possible, ignoring the spiders building webs between his ear and the nearest stanchion as he cranes his neck skyward to watch the spinning Windex, at the top of the mast, for any sign of a zephyr that might propel him in the general direction of the next mark. What can compare to the heart throbbing suspense of watching the moon gradually rise above the mainsail of a competitor’s boat, which has been drifting next to you for the past hour, as you try to not go as slowly as he toward the finish line.
What other sport excites participants to the point that they will even curse the non- competitors? Normally, only tennis or hockey referees have been subjected to the kind vilification an irate skipper will shout at a powerboat passing across his bow on a light air night. And only baseball umpires have had to endure the kind of tirades (and sometimes beer cans) hurled by racing crews at the unwary cruising sailor who inadvertently follows along on the windward side of the fleet. Of course, the abuse of these non-competitors is nothing compared to the insults, denigration and threats that are reserved for the (innocent?) fisherman who crowd around the racing buoys. Some of us have even been known to intentionally come close enough to snag their tackle, especially if we didn’t have a prayer of finishing in the top three anyway.
But in the end, all the tension, frustration and aggravation are worth it as you approach the finish line and a breeze begins to come up. The boat comes alive, there is a slight pressure on the helm, the skipper can exhale now and the crew can finally move around without fear of reprisal. As you peer into the darkness, trying to ascertain your position relative to the competition, you here the cannon fire off in the distance and you think, “Well, were not going to be first but were still in the race” Just then the VHF radio crackles “Race fleet, Race fleet, Race fleet, this is the committee boat. Due to the lateness of the hour we are leaving station. Please take your own time and call it in to the Race Chairman tomorrow” Under your breath you curse the wimps on the committee boat, while the moon slips quickly behind the low black clouds that have suddenly appeared. The rumble of thunder that shakes your boat doesn’t shake the will of the crew, the rain won’t dampen your spirits, you are racing sailors, and there might still be a flag to be won.
Larry Caricchio - “Zingara”