Alex Zimmerman gives us a new perspective on small boat seafaring. His vessels are Hornpipe, a sail and oar boat to a design by local British Columbia designer Don Kurylko, and Fire-Drake, a two-masted, unballasted open boat of great beauty which he designed and built himself, propelled by oars or balanced lug sails.

His sailing ground is the glorious coast of British Columbia and his book, Becoming Coastal, describes a quarter-century of cruising these remarkable waters in which he learns as much about himself as the nature that surrounds him and the ways of his lovely boats in salt water.

In his introduction, he remarks that ‘self-propelled exploration provides that sense of immediacy that affirms to you that you are living your own life.’ He contrasts this with the increasing tendency to exist in a virtual world, or one isolated from reality by, for example, a car windscreen.

There is much in what he says, and he rounds up this philosophy by observing that it comes down to wanting to be alive when he dies, not just putting in time until the machine winds down. This is heady stuff, and his descriptions of the sailing are equally pithy.

In the extract below, Zimmerman and Hornpipe are engaged in a ‘raid’, that is, a rally of small open craft travelling more or less in company. The weather serves him up a lively day and his handling of the potentially awkward lug sails in an eminently capsizable boat makes me wonder how I might have fared myself. Read on, and see how you might’ve managed…</en?

Extract from Becoming Coastal

That night at anchor in Pilot Bay, I rig the tarp over the boat again and turn in to sleep. The night is unsettled, with the wind sending small wavelets into the bay, making for a jerky rocking motion.

It doesn’t keep me awake for long though. All goes well until about 0230 in the morning when a few gusts come up. They start pushing the boat around on its anchor line and flapping the tarp enough that I can’t sleep in the snapping and banging noise it makes. I get up and take it down, spending the rest of night with it draped over me as a cover to keep the dew off.

While I am unrigging the tarp, there is an amazing show of bioluminescence in the water, as the waves disturb the luminous small sea creatures. If I wasn’t so tired, it would have been worth
a swim just to see the light show.

Sunday morning dawns clear, and the wind has shifted overnight to a light south-east breeze with a forecast of more wind to come later in the day. This is welcome news, as we face the longest leg of the raid. It’s 22 miles north-north-west across the Strait of Georgia to our destination on Jedediah Island.

This suits me fine, as it means we will be on a broad reach most of the day, which seems so far to be Hornpipe’s best point of sail. After breakfast and the skippers’ meeting, we organise ourselves for the start, with the boats gliding back and forth across the bay under easy sail in the bright morning sun.

Wind on the turn

The start horn goes off and we sheet in our sails for the short beat out of the bay. Once outside, we settle in to getting the best performance out of our boats in the light air downwind. Those boats with spinnakers fly them and the rest of us pay close attention to our steering and sail trim.

I actually pass one of the Wayfarer dinghies, feeling good about it, only to find out later that they have neglected to raise their centreboard, which causes extra drag and slows them down.

The breeze begins to turn into a real wind sometime around about 1130. It occurs to me that if this is the start of the predicted stronger wind later in the afternoon, now will be a good time to eat my lunch before I get too busy. It’s a good strategy, as soon after that the wind gets stronger and I keep busy reefing the sails to reduce the area.

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Reefing the standing lug sails that comprise Hornpipe’s rig involves dropping the whole sail into the boat, shifting the tack pennant, tying in the reef points as you come aft, then shifting the sheet to the reef clew. After that, you hoist everything back up again, haul down on the tack pennant to tighten the luff and then sheet in. It doesn’t take long, as I have the main halyard and tack pennant lead aft – perhaps two minutes.

When the mizzen is up, the boat behaves very well with the main down, sitting there quietly hove-to while the mizzen and tiller look after themselves.

Rising sea state

As the wind increases, I first reef the mizzen and immediately the boat’s motion is more comfortable. Within 20 minutes the wind increases again to the point where I have to take the first reef in the mainsail. The boat is again more manageable but within another 20 minutes the wind rises again to the point where I need the second reef in the main.

The wind keeps rising until finally I drop the mizzen sail altogether. By the time I am down to just the double-reefed main in early afternoon, we have made a lot of progress across the Strait, and don’t have far to go. The wind, however, is really strong and, more to the point, the sea state is beginning to catch up to it.

I estimate the wind to be 20 knots with gusts higher than that. We find out later that this is wrong, that the wind is in fact a steady 30 knots, gusting to at least 34, on the edge of being a gale. That is a huge amount of wind for a small open boat.

Waves by now are routinely 4-6ft high, with occasional waves to 8ft. At the bottom of the wave troughs I can’t see over the tops. The day remains clear and sunny though, and with the sea sparkling blue in the sunshine, the foam showing bright white from the breaking waves and the snow-capped peaks on the mainland shore shining in the distance, it is irrepressibly beautiful. It is hard to feel properly apprehensive about the high wind.

Hornpipe is essentially a rowboat and, with its tucked up transom, it is a displacement hull. I find out then that the boat will in fact surf. At the top of those bigger waves, the wind strains the doubled-reefed mainsail, the rudder starts to vibrate and hum and the boat takes off, surfing on the centre part of the hull. The experience is like the scene of the parting of the Red Sea in the Cecil B DeMille movie The Ten Commandments, with a foaming wave thrown out either side, high above the gunwales.

After a few seconds of this, the peak of the wave gradually slides past under the boat and the boat subsides down off the surf into the following trough. On the milder surfs, when I have time to look, the GPS routinely records peak speeds of eight knots, and once more than nine.

I realise that I really have too much sail up and will be much better served by having only the mizzen sail up or even the mizzen with the reef in it. But I have left it too late and am afraid to let the boat lie-to while I shift masts to put up the mizzen in the centre mast position.

I’m afraid of rolling too far and maybe capsizing. Even without dropping the sails, I am worried about either broaching or having one of those breaking seas break on top of me from behind. This is not just a theoretical problem, as on the top of one wave in a bigger than usual gust the boat starts to turn and the wave top begins to drive it further. I haul with all my strength on the rudder and hoist myself to the high side while I watch the gunwale get closer and closer to the water and a rush of fear spikes my adrenalin.

Somewhat shakily, I manage to get the boat back under control.

Time loses its meaning as I focus on my steering to avoid a repeat. My world has narrowed to only water, wind, breaking waves and sunshine. Slowly, slowly the islands ahead grow larger, until finally I can distinguish the opening to Sabine Channel, between Jedediah and Texada Islands.

Skilled operator

About then I catch sight of a small blue lug sail showing above the waves just ahead. It is Colin in Bus Bailey, a 14ft handliner. Earlier, as the wind and sea state increased, I was convinced that, in those seas, Colin would be a goner. Not so. There he is, rowing like a mad thing to maintain direction (the boat has no rudder), with the sail behind him straining at its reef points. It nearly brings tears to my eyes to see that he is still afloat.

I am amazed that he has come so far so quickly. I pass him, but not nearly as fast as I thought I would, given my bigger boat. It is a revelation to me to see what such a small boat can accomplish in the hands of a strong and skilled operator.

Codfish Bay on Jedediah Island, the days’ intended destination, is completely exposed to the south. In this south wind it is a mass of white breaking wave crests and surf as I approach.

Landing or anchoring there is clearly out of the question and I don’t see anyone else attempting to enter. I carry on north up Sabine Channel following the Jedediah shore and finally the waves begin to lessen a little as the curve of the island begins to dissipate them.

At the northern point of the island I put the tiller over and round up in the lee of the point. I drop the sail and just sit there in the williwaws that swirl around the point, drinking water and eating a power bar, recovering from all the tension, fear and excitement. A few minutes later, Colin shoots around the point and stops alongside me.

“Well, that was exciting!” Colin says, as he takes a swig of water.

“Exciting?” I say, “I thought we’d never see you again.”

Colin laughs, “I had some tense moments, but this old boat can handle a lot.”

“That’s clear,” I say. “Where do we go now? The original landing place is obviously out.”

“Deep Bay,” Colin says, “It’s just down the west side of the island a-ways. It faces west and there is plenty of anchoring room. Follow me.”

I get out my oars and follow Colin into the narrow bay and up to its head, grounding on the rocky beach. Colin climbs out, reaches under the thwart into the bag he has there, pulls out a couple of beers and hands one to me.

Right then it is the best beer I have ever tasted!

We sit on a mossy rock above the bay and raise some of the others on the VHF. Some of the boats have gone to another bay while some have yet to come in. After talking to various boats and the mothership we determine that where we are is the best place to stay for the night.

Supper that evening is a good thick stew served up by the Raid chef Trevor and his assistants. It is exactly the right thing after such a day. The talk flows freely as we hear the tale of the day. Tuvflaq’s tiller broke and she had to be towed in. One of the Mower dories, Swordfish, broke its mast at the base. They lashed it up to reduce its movement, reduced sail to just the jib and limped in. Everyone had an exciting time, a little too exciting for some of us.

The more we talk, the stronger the wind was, and the bigger the seas. Generally, the bigger, heavier boats thrived and arrived in fine shape. After supper Swordfish’s crew borrow some five minute epoxy, scrounge some large pipe clamps, manufacture some splints from a beach log, repair their mast and re-install it just as darkness and high tide catches them.

The wind is still blowing in the treetops above the cove as we turn in, but down at water level all is calm at anchor. I fancy the wind begins to ease as we go to sleep wondering what the next day will bring.

You can buy a copy of Becoming Postal: 25 Years of Exploration and Discovery of the British Columbia Coast by Paddle, Oar and Sail from Amazon

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