Becalmed, Bumped, Beached and Befogged

By Michael Eagan

1989

At last the time was here. Months of preparation and planning gave way to the excitement of leaving for my first Around Long Island Regatta. On Wednesday, 7 a.m., we boarded the Phoenix, we being the crews of Wuestwind, Glory, Kriskaboom, and Kathleen.

Glory led the way toward the East River. We motored along, eventually getting to Staten Island at I p.m., twenty-four hours before the start. After a fitful night trying to sleep, we figured we might as well get up. By 6:30a.m. we were showered, breakfasted, and ready to go.

The crew- Tom, Joe, Harry, Bill, Mike and I went over the boat from stem to stern repacking our chutes, and checking our safety equipment. We plot and post four different courses, check on the weather, find we're in for it-hot and humid with a chance for thunderstorms. Terrific. Kathleen needs winds of at least ten knots to sail efficiently. This may be a long race; how long we didn't realize just then.

Twelve noon and we head for the starting line. Where's the wind ? There is none. The start is postponed pending the wind's arrival The wind never shows, but a strong current does. We're too close to the line. Oh, no. The dreaded gun fires. We hear the worst:" The following numbers must return to restart- 636.

We restart with the next division and here comes the wind. Kathleen jumps. Finally, we are sailing- close hauled past Coney Island. What's this? A helicopter taking our picture. All hands on deck. Maybe we'll make Newsday.

Past Rockaway Beach, the wind shifts slightly. We set the pole and out pops our chute (spinnaker). God, it's beautiful. The boat is cooking- 7.4 knots. I can't believe it. We catch up with the front boats in our division.

The Jones Beach water tower is in the distance. The sky darkens. We see flashes on land and we hear rumbling. Out come the fouls.

No rain but no wind, either. Not a wisp. Nada. We bob. Not wisp. Boy, are these fouls hot. The larger boats have caught us. Let's see what they're doing. Wait a few minutes. Wind. We can see it. We catch some. We don't care where we're headed. At least we're moving.

Hours of anticipation are starting to take their to toll. I need some sleep. The sea is black, no moon yet. I nod off, Mike takes the wheel. Bill is tired. I'm at the helm, the chute is still full. That's Fire Island, I think.

Suddenly, the wheel starts to shake- slowly at first and then more violently. What's going on? Clunk. We've hit something or something hit us. the wheel stops shaking. Another clunk against the hull and then the boat starts to RISE OUT OF THE WATER. As suddenly, it drops. Another clunk. Water is swirling and bubbling around us. We see a large tail off the stern. Was that a whale?

Silence. No land or lights in sight. Coffee, anyone? 2 am. My watch ends; Bill takes the helm and our watch catches some snooze.

Wake up, Mike! Can't, 6 a.m., I just went to sleep. Where are we? Don't you know? Can't see land, can't see anything. This is a fog worthy of London. You can cut it. We sail by compass, heading 60 degrees. We sail toward the shore; the fog gets thicker, if that's possible.

Friday, 11:30 a.m. A chute appears through the fog. Blue, orange, and white. Joe Hestin's. After almost twenty-fourhours, somewhere off southern Long Island, in a dense fog, we pass within one hundred feet of each other. We wave. Kriskaboom disappears.  

We hear a fog horn. Must be Montauk. What a mistake not to have a loran. A fishing boat passes, hailing from Center Moriches. It can't be. We head toward shore; we can barely make out houses on shore. Towers! Look at the charts. Here we are, twenty miles to Montauk. We're doing a rousing three knots.

A boat passes us under motor. Division eight. These guys have had enough. They're out of beer. They invite us to party in Montauk…..7:30, this looks like Gurney's. No wind again. The fog gets worse. We listen for roundings. All we hear are boats reporting that they're dropping out. 11:30, no wind. We can't see anything. We put up the radar reflector.  

The crew says it's up to me. We've heard at least fifteen boats resign. I decide that may be our only resort. I resign turn an the engine, and head east.

It figures. The fog lifts as we round Montauk. We can see. Oh, well, we'll head to can 1 off the north tip of Gardner's Island. We set the course and two hours later we are right on the money. We pull up to the can to set our course for the gut.

We hear a lot of gulls. I look at the depth- sixteen feet and then eight feet and then the sound of a keel settling into the sand. We've run aground on Plum Island. The government tests animals here. l wonder if we will glow in the dark after this.

Mike is elected. He weighs the most. (Sorry, Mike). Mike sits in the bosun chair attached to a spare halyard. We push him away from the boat. The boat heels, but not enough to get us off. Mike comes back to the mast. We'll have to push him harder. Mike sails about thirty-five feet from the boat. The boat heels thirty degrees and we're off. Mike disappears below the surface, all the while pushing against the water to prevent him from going in. Mike is up again. He comments about the lack of warmth in the water. What a guy! I swear that I will stay on my diet to avoid this cruel fate happening to me.

The trip back to Douglaston is long. We put into Port Jeff to buy beer and drop off Harry who has to be in Wisconsin on Sunday for army reserve duty. We leave the boat at Sagamore Yacht Club in Oyster Bay (Bill's club). We've had enough. My wife, Kathleen, and son, Michael, come to get us. Great stories abound. Kathleen asks if we had fun. Hell, yes.

Two weeks ago, I opened an invitation to ALIR '89, July 27. Kathleen says, "You're not going, are you?" I was much farther ahead in my preparations last year. Only eighteen weeks

to go. Got to get moving. "Let's see. How much is a good Loran?"