Cold morning. Brrr. Warming up to 20 or so with no wind. We finally got our shore power going and that is a game changer. Hot water, unlimited power, Induction hob, and unlimited charging of all the electronics. Yay. Batteries at 130 v again. It is a big relief. The 110 v inverter made a loud startling noise when the house battery dropped below 9 volts and startled me. It was just a low voltage alarm.
So we were sitting there in the salon chatting and all of a sudden a gushing sound erupted. Water was flowing and we had a WTF moment. I traced the water from the bilge to the apparent leak and was able to shut off the water pump on the breaker and pump out the bilge. All seemed lost from there. Jeff took the flashlight and dug a little deeper and found that a hose under the sink had worked its way off and was gushing water. He was able to work it back on and reinstall the pipe clamp.
The only damage was, well there was no damage except our potable water seems to be empty. While the previous owner was showing me around the boat he turned on a tap and it gurgle out. He said that it was because of an empty tank, which he filled before we accepted the boat (see previous about how valuable a fabulous seller can be). And Jeff and I proved a method to follow from the symptom (running water) to the problem (faulty hose) to a fix. We haven’t gotten spare hose clamps, o-rings, screws, fuses, and the like yet. Jeff had a far better diagnostic skill than I did.
We didn’t sail today but there was no wind so no fault of ours.
The diesel tank is half full and the water empty and no idea about the black water so we will have to go do the filling and emptying tomorrow if the wind isn’t too high.
It rained all day yesterday, so we went shopping for electronics stuff and stayed in the boat. Jeff achieved 4 big goals; moving the outboard motor stand from the starboard side to the port side aft, permanently mounting the wifi extender, fixing the Weems and Plath clock and tide clock, and stopped the halyards from clacking in the wind. But we have consistent wifi despite the marina’s poor wifi.
All the fire extinguishers are charged. At the time of the survey one of them was discharged and the previous owner, Al must have charged it between the survey and the turnover of the boat to me. There are many signs that he worked hard and smart to pass over a great boat to me and every time we see another it reminds me that this is a great boat coming from a great previous owner.
Just an anecdote: I read the Cambio logs online which were written by Al’s wife Linda, before buying the boat and one sentence stood out. “ I make dinner and Al tries to relax on the park bench but everyone wants to talk to him about our boat. I think he is enjoying it and of course is very proud of it and us.” In all the “how to buy a sailboat” articles I read, nowhere does it say to check out the character of the seller. But there it is in one sentence written by the side of an Oswego lock without intent to sell that lets you know that this seller cared about his boat.
Out in Lake Ontario off Port Dalhousie with Rob Deak and Jeff Cheevers. Wind gusting to 16kn and top speed 7.1 kn
Broke Topping lift shackle lost a pin. Used spin halyard to replace it temporarily after docking. Mainsail cover front zipper broke. Needs to be sewn and repaired.
Out in Lake Ontario off Port Dalhousie with Rob Deak and Jeff Cheevers. Wind gusting to 16kn and top speed 7.1 kn
Broke Topping lift shackle lost a pin. Used spin halyard to replace it temporarily after docking. Mainsail cover front zipper broke. Needs to be sewn and repaired.
I found the unkindest words from a wine writer in one of those long forgotten big coffee table books. In the Italian wines section there was a simple entry about Cinque Terre wines. I also recall that Icewine and wines from Canada weren’t even mentioned in the book so this was a very long time ago.
“They make white wine mostly. Some years it is passable. Other years you wonder why they bother.”
I’ve always remembered that phrase as the compelling reminder of cruel dismissal in a very minor section by a long forgotten author in a book so far in my past that I don’t recall the colour of the cover.
Of course I had to go to Cinque Terre and explore the wine.
Cinque Terre is a chain of five small towns on the Western side of Italy’s boot, about halfway between Genoa and Pisa. They are connected by an impossibly convoluted mountainous road and the walking trails that make these five jewels, each with a different character, such a destination for hikers. They also are connected by trains which rival any city’s subway for easy use.
I drove down from Munich, which gave me a chance to enjoy the mountains of northern Italy, where the locals still cling to the belief that they are Germans, down to Lake Como. Along that road, at no particular spot the locals begin to relent and embrace Italy. Then the mountains spit you out into Amarone country, through the vast vineyards of the Po valley and on through Lombardy until mountains reappear and one arrives in Liguria.
Long ago, while Britain’s King John was signing the Magna Carta, and the Vikings were settling Canada, the Mongols ruled China and were sacking Moscow the people in the Cinque Terre region began terracing their vineyards on the slopes of the Mediterranean Sea.
I did the math. They moved more rocks to build the Cinque Terre terraces than the Egyptians moved to build the great pyramids.
Today, the greater efficiencies of the flatland vineyards have turned many of the terraces into wonderful local gardens growing white asparagus, lemons, olives, and grapes. While the local wine industry is under threat from more efficient areas of Italy, Cinque Terre remains an amazing place to hike, eat and vacation.
And now my beef with that wine writer. Local wines, wherever you find them, can be simply amazing if you wrap them in a traveler’s experience.
Wake up early in one of Cinque Terre’s striking villages, perhaps in Manarolo or Vernazza. Open the shutters of the trattoria and let the light stream in, and hit the market early. Pack fresh focaccia, sun dried tomatoes, hard and tangy Genovese cheese and pick a local bottle of white wine.
Hitch a train or hike over to Manarola , and begin climbing south until you reach the ancient church, Santuario della Madonna di Montenero, at the top. Then sit down and enjoy a late breakfast with wine made of your morning’s market shopping on the side of a hill, 400 meters above the Mediterranean Sea. Talk, doze, watch, wonder at how this part of the world is so elegantly put together and yet everything is on a slant. It doesn’t matter, and nothing else in the world matters.
Then head down the hill into the towns and explore, looking for the perfect place to share a bottle of wine and watch the sunset. That can take an entire afternoon. Pick up a different local white wine. Catch an early dinner of fresh local fish and Fettuccine di Pesto alla genovese. Then head down to the rocks under the fort at in Vernazza’s harbour or settle in to natural armchairs carved out of rock high up in Manarola, or a private beach off the Via dell’ Amor walkway and make the wine last through the sunset.
Do this with a lover each day for an entire week and prove that anyone suggesting that local wines anywhere are just passable should get off their couch!
Again, no Icewine connection, other than this is in the heart of Canadian Icewine country!
This is a tip of the hat to the over 65 boats and crews that will be attending the 50th Shark Class Sailboat World Championships here in Niagara on the Lake this coming week. Crews will be from at least five countries, three in Europe and it is going to be special.
I’m not competing. From my previous posting you might think that I kind of lost my boat, “Humbly, the Magnificent Champion of the Universe, but no, that happened quite a while ago and my boat is fine. I’m just helping with the organizing until they notice that it’s really helping with the disorganizing!
If you are local, the event is open to the public, although the races will take place out all week out on Lake Ontario.
Many years ago, before I got involved with Icewine or even fine wines, I did other foolish things.
Today, my friend Sue asked me if I could swim because her young son was playing at the waters edge near us. I said yes, but then this whole story came flooding back into my memory.
I sailed out past the breakwater to begin a long downwind ride across Lake Ontario. All morning, the weather stations had been reporting West winds at 30 to 40 knots and up to 3 meter waves. This was playtime for Humbly, my 24′ Shark sailboat. We had been out many times in these conditions and Humbly always surfed along downwind under main and storm jib at exhilarating speeds ahead of the crests.
For about an hour Humbly went faster that she had ever gone before. She surfed down 3 meter waves, and in the gusts the pressures turned into humming in the hull and vibration on the tiller. There was tremendous pressure on the mast and rigging. The rudder was kicking up a rooster tail.
At about 4:00 we were between 6 and 8 miles from the South shore.
The mother of all waves picked Humbly up, turned her sideways and heeled her almost 90 degrees. It bumped the bottom of the boat and boosted me off balance off of the seat. I felt like a volleyball set up for a spike. The wave broke over the cockpit and slammed me over the leeward coaming. Somewhere in the tremendous rush of water I took my left hand off the tiller and the next thing I remember is hanging in the water on the port side reaching up and over the transom grasping the tiller with my right hand.
Then the boat tilted to windward and I lot my grip and went underwater.
When I came back to the surface the boat had righted herself and rounded up into the wind with her stern about six feet away. I swam for it and lunged for the motor but missed it by just six inches and went under water again. I had missed my only chance.
Rage waved over me and I screamed, “You dumb country fuck!” The rage passed almost immediately. Humbly sailed away towards the South shore.
I started to think. I was alone. I was wearing a farmer John wetsuit bottoms and a Mustang floater coat. Inside the left sleeve pocket were three small aerial flares. There was a whistle, two small flashlights, and $2.75 in change in the side pockets. I was barefoot.
The floater coat and wetsuit kept me buoyant so I thought that my biggest danger was hypothermia and I hooked up the beavertail attached to the floater coat to try to reduce heat loss from my crotch
I could see the far shore when the larger waves lifted me and even though the boat was still only a few hundred feet away I started cheering her on. Humbly was headed south on her drunken course. I imagined that when she hit the rocks along the shoreline there would be a movie style explosion with flame and smoke that would attract attention and help.
Until then, my choices were to either curl up and float to conserve heat, or to swim towards shore.
I decided to swim. I still had two flares. My fragile game plan was to swim towards the shore. When Humbly’s sails disappeared I would know that Humbly had hit the shore. The search would start and then I could fire off the last two flares and then rescuers would come out and get me. Simple!
First I had to learn now to swim. Other than swimming back to my windsurfer after a fall, I had not been swimming for over twenty years. The floater coat kept my head above water but would not allow a normal swim stroke, and the neoprene wetsuit bottoms kept trying to flip my legs up and put my face in the water. I found that the best compromise was in a combination of breast stroke and pedal kick which kept me moving forward very slowly and somewhat upright.
I stroked slowly and watched my boat get smaller. I tried to remember more on survival. I don’t think I’ve ever thought so much about anything.
The next couple of hours became a series of stroke, stroke, watch Humbly stagger towards shore, stroke, try and remember anything to do with survival, stroke, sputter, and stroke. The boat moved further away but the shoreline did not seem any closer. I was drifting East in mountainous waves and swimming South.
After about an hour I noticed a seagull floating effortlessly above me. It struck me that this was not fair and I yelled to the gull, “Hey, gull! Go and tell them where I am and I’ll give you a fish.” He floated there for a minute and then wafted away. I told myself that he could see that I had no fish.
The sun sank lower to the West and I realized for the first time that I would be out there after dark. I could still see Humbly in the distance and it was alarming how far the boat was going and how small the sails were getting while the shore didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
The sun went down and I started getting cold.
Every little while I had the urge to speed up and a couple of times I tried to swim faster but this never lasted when I realized that slower was better. This was difficult. I have always had trouble pacing myself in anything I have ever done but this time there was no choice. Now that it was completely dark waves were sneaking up from behind and clobbering me, leaving me sputtering and indignant.
A blue flashing light caught my eye off to the left. I waited for the next wave to pick me up for another look and saw the light on top of a large yellow vessel with a black hull floating about a hundred yards away to the southeast. I saw it again and reached for the flares in the sleeve pocket of my floater coat. It seemed to take forever to very carefully get the flares out of the pocket and out of the plastic bag, put one back in the bag, replace the bag in the sleeve pocket, unscrew the end of the flare, point the business end up, and pull the chain. I had never fired flares before and was scared witless that I might drop either one. The flare arced up, over and doused downwind. I was both disappointed at how quickly the light show was over. I waited a few long seconds.
Suddenly the boat accelerated to the West. They had not seen me! As fast as I could I pulled out the other flare and fired it in an arc in front of the boat. It did not reach the boat, but it did arc nicely and doused off its starboard quarter. I kept watching the boat’s direction. No change…no change…no change. The boat kept on going and disappeared to the West. I yelled; I screamed; I called it names and cursed its wake.
When I calmed down I realized that I was upset that I now had a long way to swim. I decided that I was still going to make it swimming, but I didn’t want to. I wanted a ride. “OK self, you have no more flares and there is a blind madman in a forty foot rescue boat driving up and down the shoreline at high speed. Just my luck he’ll come back and nail me in the head.”
I settled down into a slow routine of stroking and started to daydream.
Strokes. More strokes. More strokes. More strokes.
I tried body surfing and caught a few waves that turned into exciting and long rides, but I realized that they were not free rides because they took so much energy.
Things were going well enough. “What can possibly go wrong?” I could hit a cold patch in the lake. I could run into a current where a stream empties into the lake just in front of me. I could get hit by a bugs-in-teeth rescue boat driver. I worried about getting ashore. I didn’t want to be bashed against the rocks along the shore by these huge waves.
More slow strokes. I was getting close!
I was about twenty yards from the breakwater when the panic set in. I was now close enough to the rocks to use them as reference points and I didn’t seem to be getting any closer. How could I come this far to get pushed away from the rocks by a current! I ran out of breath and rested, collected my wits, and went back to the slow stroke, stroke, game plan that had been successful for so long. A few minutes later a wave picked me up and deposited me gently on a large flat rock.
Washed Off My Sailboat! Survival becomes pretty damned important. I wrote this up mostly to share the story and help other sailors survive.
Before I got Cambio, I sailed Sharks for about 30 years. This is an account of my first adventure on my Shark, Humbly the Magnificent Champion of the Universe.
Today, my friend Sue asked me if I could swim because her young son was playing at the waters edge near us. I said yes, but then this whole story came flooding back into my memory.
I sailed out past the breakwater to begin a long downwind ride across Lake Ontario. All morning, the weather stations had been reporting West winds at 30 to 40 knots and up to 3 meter waves. This was playtime for Humbly, my 24′ Shark sailboat. We had been out many times in these conditions and Humbly always surfed along downwind under main and storm jib at exhilarating speeds ahead of the crests.
For about an hour Humbly went faster that she had ever gone before. She surfed down 3 meter waves, and in the gusts the pressures turned into humming in the hull and vibration on the tiller. There was tremendous pressure on the mast and rigging. The rudder was kicking up a rooster tail.
At about 4:00 we were between 6 and 8 miles from the South shore.
Humbly beat me into shore by a few hours
The mother of all waves picked Humbly up, turned her sideways and heeled her almost 90 degrees. It bumped the bottom of the boat and boosted me off balance off of the seat. I felt like a volleyball set up for a spike. The wave broke over the cockpit and slammed me over the leeward coaming. Somewhere in the tremendous rush of water I took my left hand off the tiller and the next thing I remember is hanging in the water on the port side reaching up and over the transom grasping the tiller with my right hand.
Then the boat tilted to windward and I lot my grip and went underwater.
When I came back to the surface the boat had righted herself and rounded up into the wind with her stern about six feet away. I swam for it and lunged for the motor but missed it by just six inches and went under water again. I had missed my only chance.
Rage waved over me and I screamed, “You dumb country fuck!” The rage passed almost immediately. Humbly sailed away towards the South shore.
I started to think. I was alone. I was wearing a farmer John wetsuit bottoms and a Mustang floater coat. Inside the left sleeve pocket were three small aerial flares. There was a whistle, two small flashlights, and $2.75 in change in the side pockets. I was barefoot.
The floater coat and wetsuit kept me buoyant so I thought that my biggest danger was hypothermia and I hooked up the beavertail attached to the floater coat to try to reduce heat loss from my crotch
I could see the far shore when the larger waves lifted me and even though the boat was still only a few hundred feet away I started cheering her on. Humbly was headed south on her drunken course. I imagined that when she hit the rocks along the shoreline there would be a movie style explosion with flame and smoke that would attract attention and help.
Until then, my choices were to either curl up and float to conserve heat, or to swim towards shore.
I decided to swim. I still had two flares. My fragile game plan was to swim towards the shore. When Humbly’s sails disappeared I would know that Humbly had hit the shore. The search would start and then I could fire off the last two flares and then rescuers would come out and get me. Simple!
First I had to learn now to swim. Other than swimming back to my windsurfer after a fall, I had not been swimming for over twenty years. The floater coat kept my head above water but would not allow a normal swim stroke, and the neoprene wetsuit bottoms kept trying to flip my legs up and put my face in the water. I found that the best compromise was in a combination of breast stroke and pedal kick which kept me moving forward very slowly and somewhat upright.
I stroked slowly and watched my boat get smaller. I tried to remember more on survival. I don’t think I’ve ever thought so much about anything.
The next couple of hours became a series of stroke, stroke, watch Humbly stagger towards shore, stroke, try and remember anything to do with survival, stroke, sputter, and stroke. The boat moved further away but the shoreline did not seem any closer. I was drifting East in mountainous waves and swimming South.
After about an hour I noticed a seagull floating effortlessly above me. It struck me that this was not fair and I yelled to the gull, “Hey, gull! Go and tell them where I am and I’ll give you a fish.” He floated there for a minute and then wafted away. I told myself that he could see that I had no fish.
The only damage to Humbly were some scratches on the topsides and keel.
The sun sank lower to the West and I realized for the first time that I would be out there after dark. I could still see Humbly in the distance and it was alarming how far the boat was going and how small the sails were getting while the shore didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
The sun went down and I started getting cold.
Every little while I had the urge to speed up and a couple of times I tried to swim faster but this never lasted when I realized that slower was better. This was difficult. I have always had trouble pacing myself in anything I have ever done but this time there was no choice. Now that it was completely dark waves were sneaking up from behind and clobbering me, leaving me sputtering and indignant.
A blue flashing light caught my eye off to the left. I waited for the next wave to pick me up for another look and saw the light on top of a large yellow vessel with a black hull floating about a hundred yards away to the southeast. I saw it again and reached for the flares in the sleeve pocket of my floater coat. It seemed to take forever to very carefully get the flares out of the pocket and out of the plastic bag, put one back in the bag, replace the bag in the sleeve pocket, unscrew the end of the flare, point the business end up, and pull the chain. I had never fired flares before and was scared witless that I might drop either one. The flare arced up, over and doused downwind. I was both disappointed at how quickly the light show was over. I waited a few long seconds.
Suddenly the boat accelerated to the West. They had not seen me! As fast as I could I pulled out the other flare and fired it in an arc in front of the boat. It did not reach the boat, but it did arc nicely and doused off its starboard quarter. I kept watching the boat’s direction. No change…no change…no change. The boat kept on going and disappeared to the West. I yelled; I screamed; I called it names and cursed its wake.
When I calmed down I realized that I was upset that I now had a long way to swim. I decided that I was still going to make it swimming, but I didn’t want to. I wanted a ride. “OK self, you have no more flares and there is a blind madman in a forty foot rescue boat driving up and down the shoreline at high speed. Just my luck he’ll come back and nail me in the head.”
I settled down into a slow routine of stroking and started to daydream.
Strokes. More strokes. More strokes. More strokes.
I tried body surfing and caught a few waves that turned into exciting and long rides, but I realized that they were not free rides because they took so much energy.
Where do you put a boat after you use a crane to pull it out of the water? The ditch of course!
Things were going well enough. “What can possibly go wrong?” I could hit a cold patch in the lake. I could run into a current where a stream empties into the lake just in front of me. I could get hit by a bugs-in-teeth rescue boat driver. I worried about getting ashore. I didn’t want to be bashed against the rocks along the shore by these huge waves.
More slow strokes. I was getting close!
I was about twenty yards from the breakwater when the panic set in. I was now close enough to the rocks to use them as reference points and I didn’t seem to be getting any closer. How could I come this far to get pushed away from the rocks by a current! I ran out of breath and rested, collected my wits, and went back to the slow stroke, stroke, game plan that had been successful for so long. A few minutes later a wave picked me up and deposited me gently on a large flat rock.
