liveaboard sailor girl – Dinghy Dreams

We’re Out Here

by EmilyBoat Hobo November 14, 20192 Comments

April 26, 2019

The swells are mesmerizing. The sea is quenching my thirst despite not being able to drink one literal drop. I keep thinking about that quote. How we are 98 percent water and salt, or some number like that. So when you return to the ocean you are, essentially, returning home.

I feel an immense privilege just to be out here, because who the fuck am I? I’m just a girl from a small town on Long Island. I went to a state college in upstate New York. I’m an unemployed journalist.

Leaving the inlet today every captain of every boat that passed me was a man. Their crews were all men. Their boats cost tens of thousands of dollars.

I’m not supposed to be out here.

A girl, alone, on an inexpensive little boat.

And that in and of itself is a protest.

Shakedown sail

by EmilyUncategorized June 6, 2017June 6, 20175 Comments

June 1— Launch was bad. Real bad. At anchor now and it’s blowing hard. Dealing with a lot, but it’s good. Managed not to panic, managed not to hit any boats. Engine died midway in the dock channel, on a collision course with a beneteau and my main halyard snags my topping lift. I lost my favorite hat to the wind. The miserable troll who owns the boatyard said something about my boat sinking as he lowered me into the water, then the yard manager said “good luck, sweetie,” and pushed me off the dock. The transducer for the depth sounder is leaking. It’s okay, but it’s below the water line, so I’m monitoring it closely. Wind is howling. I don’t know if I’ll raise sail today. In full on captain mode.

June 2— The forecast is wrong so far. I’m anchored off a beach. The weather guesser says southwest, five knots, but it’s higher. I’m exposed. I’m nervous about lifting the hook and being blown in to shore. It’s supposed to clock around to the north, so I’m waiting, which could be a mistake. The boat’s a wreck. I have to eat and square away a lot on deck before I can even think about leaving. I’m basically engineless. I have to force myself not to just crawl back into the v-berth. It’s cold. Forty degrees last night. Yesterday’s sail was intense. I’m less worried about the leak, it’s slowed as the wood block has started to swell. I left yesterday at 6:30 p.m. Right off the reef in treadwell bay my jib halyard came undone. Wind still ripping when I went forward to fix it. I managed to tie it back on but forgot to go through the traveler, so sheeting became inefficient and tangled. At some point I was able to sail on a reach right into my anchorage. I anchored but not before jamming my finger in the hook I use to hold it on the bow. I know longer have a knuckle. I’m lucky I didn’t break it, but there’s blood everywhere. I’m grateful I learned to sail engineless last year. Still can’t believe I do this shit “for fun.”

Later— Weather guesser wrong again. Five knots. Ha! Maybe for five minutes. I had the rails in the water with a reef and my tiniest headsail. Five knots…

Leaving the beach was smooth enough. Sailed off the anchor broad reaching to clear the reefs. Winds were still kind of confused. SW, NW, W? Maybe I’m the confused one. Cumberland straights were easy. Nothing like that time we raced the trimaran in the McDonough, where it seemed like McDonough’s army itself was marching towards us in the form of ten foot rollers. Once south of there the wind started to rip. Gusting to 25, sustained at maybe 18. It was cold, raining, and I was getting broadsided. Do I want to keep sailing in this? No, so I made for Valcour Island, due west.

Vanupied went to weather with a serious bone in her teeth. She loved it. She’s a sadist, I swear. If only I could trim her sails properly. Always luffing no matter what I do. Maybe it’s her old, shitty sails, or maybe I’m a shitty sailor. Her backstay is sketchy. The whole time I just kept saying, “please don’t break.” If the fisherman weren’t impressed by my screeching into the anchorage and dropping the hook under sail, well I’ll be damned.

Everything is blue. Blue sleeping bag, blue lake, blue sky, blue dinghy. I’m in no particular hurry, I have to remember that. As soon as I get home though, bills are due. Car insurance, mooring fees, electric bilge pump, registration…but I don’t want to think about that right now in the blue.

June 3— Well, I’m happy to say Vanupied and I are in our home port. I’m showered, fed, and have everything I need right here. Even my bicycle is locked up on shore. I’m anchored far off the mooring field. Not yet wanting to deal with being in the throws with other boats. I just want to stay on the outskirts a little longer. When I arrived I was hungry and out of tobacco. It was a long, arduous day. Everything felt insurmountable. But not now. It all feels possible.

This time last year I wasn’t even in the water yet. And it wasn’t until another month that I found myself this far south. So, there’s time. Not much of it, but it exists.

Old salts

by EmilyLiving Aboard, Sailing on a budget, Solo sailor girl May 30, 2017May 30, 20178 Comments

Everywhere I go there’s some old salt with thousands of sea miles under their belt who seems to believe in me and my little boat more than I do. Perhaps for every one of them, there is someone who thinks I’m fool hearted. My own thoughts of this whole endeavor fall somewhere in the middle.

The past ten days being in the boatyard have been like an extended self survey. I’ve learned every weakness of my boat, and her strengths. The crazy thing is, I think I can fix damn near everything. I don’t know how it happened, but I’m finally starting to understand all this. I can speak the language, decipher diagrams, ask the right questions, and use the tools. I know what needs to be done, and I more or less know how to do it.

The winds are up which means no boats are being launched today or tomorrow. I’m scheduled to launch first thing Thursday morning and then I’ll navigate to my home port, where the real work begins.

“Don’t get stuck in Florida,” one of the old salts said to me.

“What do you mean, like don’t run aground?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Don’t be one of those people that never leaves…and don’t dawdle in the Bahamas!”

Landlocked

by EmilyBristol 24, Landlocked, Solo sailor girl November 29, 2016November 29, 2016One Comment

Early September

I went back to the boat today for the first time since she’s been hauled. Other than a short drive by, we haven’t seen much of each other. She has a fine spirit, one I feel mostly while I’m inside her cabin. But in so many ways she’s so wrong. So basic. So rudimentary. Bare bones.

I’m not an artist or a craftswoman when it comes to boats. I cannot turn her into the restored vessel she could be. Rather, I’m not sure I want to.

I’m afraid I’ve fallen out of love with her lines. Maybe she was only right for me for the lake…

It’s hard to believe it’s been over three months since I was charging through Cumberland Straits with Jeff and Danimal on the Space Station for the annual 75 mile McDonough race. How I convinced them one night after far too many beers that we should do it. How I nearly bragged to my harbor mates about the 25 knot sustained wind prediction. How our spinnaker fouled on the start. How the halyard snapped not long after. How the we ran aground off Nichol’s Point and cracked the daggerboard right off. How my mate’s words were echoing in my head as it happened. “Nichol’s Point. Badlands.” How it was now blowing a consistent 30 kts and we had to beat our way home into 6-8 foot waves on a trimaran with no ballast, and no daggerboard. “The beatings will continue,” was no longer a joke we said when someone didn’t tie a proper cleat.

How we reached the straits and only had two choices: go back and seek shelter, or continue on and seek shelter. There was nothing in between. I’m sitting in the doghouse watching Danimal’s face as he tries to keep us pointed as high as possible. We have a double reefed main and a tiny bit of jib. Another wave crashes over the yama. “SHELTER,” he says. “We need shelter.” Which we found, finally, in a swamp just off the Plattsburgh Boat Basin, where we run aground again before tying up to the town dock next to two revolutionary war re-enactment row boats.

When we get back to our home port, everyone is going back to their houses–and I’m going back to the little cabin of my boat. They wait for me to row my dinghy to shore. Looking at my boat, elegantly poaching a mooring ball, I say, “It’s funny–after all that you guys are going back to land and I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not,” Danimal says. “You’re a mermaid.”

The progression

by EmilyLiving Aboard, Solo sailor girl October 13, 2016October 13, 20162 Comments

In the boatyard the kindness of others was bestowed upon me. I came to rely on it.

By launch I was afraid–but going to do it anyway. So I thought myself brave.

In the north lake I was still unsure.

By Valcour Island I was ferrel.

By Burlington I’ become resourceful.

In the deepest part of the lake I became gutsy. Nearly reckless. Fueled by adrenaline, raucous wind and storms.

Further south I felt aimless–so I rejoined society for a little while, but only halfway.

Pirate Yacht Club

by EmilyLiving Aboard, Solo sailor girl September 7, 2016One Comment

What happens late at night inside the cabins of our boats is crew business. It never leaves the saloon. Just hangs there like a sort of poltergeist, the kind that inhabit boats. The good kind. The kind that keep you safe at sea, and pinch your bum when you’re being reckless. The kind that are your toughest critics, but biggest allies.

I can’t tell if I’m talking about the friends that have frequented my modest little yacht, or the soul that is modest little yacht. Maybe that’s all it is–the good sailors that come by. They fill my bilges with an invisible light that keep me afloat.

All I know is that when I find myself leaning into the mast at night watching the sunset, I feel something hugging me back. That I have one foot on land, one foot on the boat–and when I start to doubt myself, thinking I’ll never get my boat off this goddamn beautiful lake, a voice says to me, “Chin up, fuck that.”

Battens battens whose got the battens?

by EmilyBristol 24, Sailing on a budget, Solo sailor girl May 25, 2016Comments are Disabled

Ah, battens. What the hell are battens anyway? That’s the question I asked when a boatyard neighbor helped me to rig up my mainsail over a week ago. I’ve since learned what they are. Some type of rigid material, usually fiberglass but traditionally wood, that goes into little pockets on your sail that keep the leech of your sail (i.e. the outside part of the triangle) supported. It makes the sail stiff (er) rather than all floppy. They make for better performance. They’re imperative, apparently.

I didn’t have any and I wasn’t so convinced I needed them, even though my neighbor insisted. I wasn’t sure if had them somewhere on the boat, or if maybe I’d thrown them away in my heap of cleaning when I first arrived, not knowing what they were. I found one stowed away in a locker after that, and it turns out the previous owner only ever had the one batten, despite the sail being designed for four.

My list of stuff to do to the boat was growing, I didn’t want to have to find these elusive battens in addition to everything else. I needed a second opinion.

So I have this friend, we’ve never met, but he’s kind of my sailing pen pal. He’s a sailing instructor, competitive racer, and has over 3,000 blue water miles. You know what they say, ask two different sailors the same question and get two different answers–but not this time.

He also said I needed them, and even told me how to make them if I couldn’t buy them somewhere. When I argued against it all he said, “Sail without battens and you’ll look like a hack.”

I don’t need any help looking like an idiot considering my remedial status as a sailor. I was going to find some battens.

Finding them was easy. I had my headsail repaired by the local sailmaker and he threw in some batten material for free. I just had to measure the batten pockets, cut the battens to size, sand the edges so they wouldn’t rip the sail, insert them and go sailing. Easy.

Except somehow I measured the batten pockets wrong and my battens wound up being a few inches too short. Rendering them, “useless,” according to my friend.

I don’t have enough material to cut new battens, the sailmaker is too far to reach and I’m running out of time. My launch is scheduled for Tuesday morning with a list of things to do between now and then, as well as a 3-day forecast of rain.

Even though my sailor friend was literally appalled that I managed to cut them wrong (frankly I’m appalled, too), we’ve come up with a solution. Apparently the battens will still work, they just need to be secured with a little sewing. He even drew me a diagram. What could possibly go wrong, right? I have written instructions from a sailing instructor…

There’s a whole lotta lake out there

by EmilyBristol 24, Living Aboard May 24, 2016May 24, 2016One Comment

Now that my boat is just about ready to go in the water–I’m scared.

Sure, I’m excited, proud and looking forward to sailing this little boat I’ve literally bled on…but I’m fucking scared.

Maybe that’s just my way with sailing, though. Maybe I’m always going to be fucking scared. And maybe doing it anyway is what will make me brave.

Get a GRiP

by EmilyBristol 24, Buying your first sailboat, Solo sailor girl March 23, 2016March 23, 2016One Comment

I’m not going to let some fiberglass, wood, and metal push me around any longer. The past few days have been intense. Filled with what if’s and what the eff’s, but I’ve finally reached the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m no longer consumed by fear of the unknown, I’m embracing it.

Ah, glass reinforced plastic. It’s messy, requires care and attention to detail, but with the right amount of both it will last forever. I’ve read enough books and forums, and talked to enough sailors to know that whatever needs to be done, I can do it. I may make lots of mistakes, and botch a few jobs, but all that will eventually lead to getting the work done the right way. It’s not rocket science. It just takes some basic, do-it-yourself know how–and the ability to realize when you need to ask for help, whether from a more experienced boat owner or a professional in the yard. I can’t believe I was letting 24-feet of frozen snot work me up into a frenzy.

This blog has been a bit of a sounding board for me to voice my anxieties about my new found boat ownership, but I am in no way a damsel in distress. I’m a dame, yes, and I’m stressed, but I don’t need to be rescued or convinced not to quit.

Every single thing I’ve done in the past four years, from the yacht delivery from Tonga to New Zealand, to working at a posh marina tying up boats for minimum wage, to living aboard a small cutter with my then boyfriend, have lead me here. I’m exactly where I want to be. Sure I’m scared, but I don’t know anyone who isn’t. A little fear keeps you alive, it’s too much of it that can paralyze you.

From now on I’m keeping my fear in check, but certainly never going to ignore it. It’s like what my uncle said when we were talking about navigational hazards on my boat’s journey back to salt water;

“In my experience, the biggest enemy? Complacency. Never get too comfortable. You should always have a few beads of sweat, somewhere, when in unfamiliar territory.”

I know that there are going to be frustrating days, financial hardship, and a fair bit of misery ahead, but it will all be worth it–when my new anchor roller is installed with a Rocna ready to be deployed, the bottom is painted, the varnish is sparkling, her hull is waxed, standing rigging strong, her interior cozy–and I hoist the sails for the first time.

“You see all those people out there on the street, walking around with a bunch of tattoos? They’re not any tougher than you.” -My Tattoo Artist

First world problems

by EmilyOutfitting, Sailing on a budget March 14, 2016March 14, 20166 Comments

My biggest problem the past few months has been when my mom bought a new brand of pretzels, but that’s all about to change. It’s raining here today and even though the temperature sits at a nice 50 degrees I refuse to go outside. This weather is a cold reminder that my boat doesn’t have heat.

I plan to live at anchor because I can’t afford to pay the exorbitant cost of a summer slip and there’s quite a long waiting list to even get one. While I’d love to be out cruising and exploring all season the truth is I’ll have to be holed up in a secure place, row to shore everyday, get on my bike and ride to work.The journey to bring my boat back to salt, which is set to take place in late summer/early fall, has anchorages along the way, but a lot of the time I’ll be forced to pay for a night’s moorage. Add in the fees for going through locks, fuel, stepping and unstepping the mast for bridge and lock clearance, and it’s going to be an expensive adventure. On top of that I need to have enough money tucked away in case I need to hang the boat up next winter, and pay first month’s rent in whatever place I decide to hang my hat and refill the sailing kitty until the following Spring. In order for all of this to come to fruition, I’m going to need a job during the summer, as all of the money I have now will go into outfitting Anam Cara.

The town where I was hoping to live anchored off of might turn out to be a big no go. My research has taught me that somehow the designated anchorage area is governed by the town, as it exists within a breakwater, and you must acquire a permit to anchor there and not exceed your stay longer than three days. A fellow sailor who cruised these waters ten years ago seemed to disagree, because how can the town govern the water, right? But what I read was an official government document.As a sailor, flexibility is key, so I moved on to my plan B which is to anchor in a large bay which has varying degrees of protection, 10 miles south. On shore is a large, working shipyard and marina which I hope takes kindly to a liveaboard sailor girl that wants to grab a shower, tie up her dinghy, and lock up her bicycle. I thought about calling them and asking, but thought better of it as not to draw attention to myself. Unfortunately, liveaboards often get a bad reputation as the marine industry has a growing agenda that caters to rich yachters. I’ve yet to come up with a plan C.

Aside from the usual maintenance like washing and waxing the hull and top sides, woodwork, an array of latches and hose clamps that need replacing, I might need to drop the mast right away and assess an issue with the step. Her interior needs a fresh coat of paint, the cabin floor needs a revamp, I need to come up with a plan for cooking in the galley (as there’s no stove), and should probably consider some kind of portable heat system like an alcohol heater for those grey, rainy days. I’m only touching the surface here of what all needs to be done in order to get her ship shape. I certainly have my work cut out for me. I’ve got navigation squared away, and while I suss out equipment for my anchoring system I’m looking for a dinghy. I want to buy a second hand inflatable like the old Avon I used to row, but craigslist this time of year is a barren, desolate wasteland. My efforts to find a soft bottom inflatable on ebay have also proved fruitless, as it costs as much as the dinghy to have it shipped. I have a backup plan to buy a reasonably affordable Sea Eagle inflatable (not the prettiest or most rugged, but it’ll do for now), until the dinghy of my wallet’s dreams comes rowing my way.

The Bristol 27

by EmilyBoat shopping, Buying your first sailboat, Living Aboard January 29, 201616 Comments

Sitting in the cabin of the boat ten feet off the ground I felt like I was in the belly of a whale, swallowed whole by her size. Her current owner left me instructions to tie up the tarp properly for the impending snow storm and left me to fiddle around unbothered.
The first time I ever sailed was on a 43-foot catamaran during a 1200 nautical mile trans-Tasman journey. From there I sailed on everything from tall ships to day sailors, with the majority of my time sailing spent aboard a 22-foot pocket cruiser. Ever since that fateful day that I learned about small boats, size has mattered.

I’m not a purist, or a good enough sailor to be considered an authority on anything, but I scoff at fancy boats. Give me something with a simple rig, good bones, an adequate anchoring system and a simple way to charge a handheld VHF.All signs from my self-survey pointed to this boat being a winner. Yes, there were some signs of delamination on deck but nothing indicated an entirely rotten core. Yes, she had beads of silicone around some fittings that indicated leakage. Yes, some of the bolts on the lifeline stanchions were rusted. Yes, her main sail would need to be retired almost immediately. But none of this seemed beyond my skills or budget for replacement or repair. She even had a working outboard motor and the head had been ripped out years prior (I come from the school of using a bucket as a head, just ask Teresa Carey, so that was a plus for me). The biggest issues I found were rusty chainplates and lack of a working 12 volt electricity system. Both were a turn off, but not enough to pull the plug.

The price was right. The owner was honest. It wasn’t the work that needed to be put in that would swallow me, it was her magnitude. She was closer to it but wasn’t “the one.” Now, I look forward to meeting her little sister. . .

“At sea, I learned how little a person needs, not how much.” – Robin Lee Graham

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