Back in February, my good friend Andrew and I had a rare half day off together, and we had talked all week about taking the boat out. The boat is a 13' 9" Sunfish. Believe me, this beauty is OLD and beat but wow does it have some of the sexiest lines I've ever seen. And it flies. Supersonically.
Usually, our course of action is to trailer the boat out to Sullivan's Island early in the morning and just pull the whole rusted two wheeled contraption by hand down the 200 yard boardwalk over the dunes, down the empty beach and into water. Then we have to drag the trailer all the way back to the road before returning to the beach to set the rigging and finally taking off into the surf.
That particular morning we met at our usual rendezvous point and immediately the concern was raised that perhaps the weather wasn't ideal for a day on the water. It was February mind you, about 50 degrees with a 25 knot offshore wind gusting pretty good. The Coast Guard apparently didn't think anyone should be out there and had issued a small craft advisory. Literally throwing caution to the wind, we decided, what the hell, we're here, lets just reef the sail a little, and stay in close for a few tacks. The main goal for the day really, was simply to not get wet.
About fifty yards and one minute into a port side tack, we caught a gust and immediately flipped. Having gotten the worst of it out the way we drug the boat back up to the beach through the surf, dumped it and headed back out. A couple minutes later we were back in the water. "What do you think?" Andrew asked me. "It can't get any worse" was my response. "Let's try a downwinder." So we set out to launch again, soaking wet under our rain jackets. This time, we got the hang of it and we able to jib our way down the beach toward the Charleston Harbor. Our original plan had been to sail the length of Sullivan's, cross the channel that enters the harbor, circumnavigate Ft. Sumter and return back to Station 21 in time for a quick beer at Poe's tavern before heading into work that afternoon. Well, we got to the end of Sullivan's Island. About the time we rounded the point where the beach gives way to Spartina, looking across the white-capped channel toward the Ft. Sumter island, we began getting blasted by that offshore gust that had been tamed somewhat by the shoreline. We were on an offshore tack about 300 yards out when the boat started to take on more water than we could bail out. Thankfully, I had thought to tie a 8oz sour cream container to a cleat on the deck. The waves seemed to get bigger and deeper as water poured over the deck. We tried desperately to jib but the boat had become so heavy that it wouldn't respond to the tiller. The wind had pushed us into irons, and the sails refused to catch. We were sinking and drifting out further. I looked back at Andrew and said, "If we can't get it around in another minute, get ready to swim." I don't think he really wanted to hear that considering that he had just bought the boat a month earlier. He was, all the while, frantically bailing out the seawater from the cockpit with that tiny sour cream container while simultaneously thrusting the tiller arm as hard as he could trying to get the bow to turn. I was pushing the boom back and forth trying to gain some sort of control. Then suddenly, as we sat literally at the waterline 400 yards off the beach, the wind shifted just slightly and the main filled up jerking the boom around and smacking me in the forehead. The boat was so heavy however that instead of capsizing, she just slowly crept around until we were able to sheet in and gain some momentum parallel to shore. At this point we both started bailing as fast as we could. Still we seemed to be taking on water even though the waves were pushing us from just off the stern on our starboard side. "I think we are going to make it!" Andrew yelled. " Hold that tower just off the bow!" I yelled back, still scooping. A couple minutes later, we got back behind the cover of the shoreline and went under wings as the wind bent around the point. We got to within about 50 yards of the beach and the small crowd of dog walkers and joggers who had gathered to observe, when the boat began to sink. Luckily, it was low tide and when we finally had to jump ship, we were pleasantly surprised to find that the water was only about chest deep. We were able to drag the boat back up to the shore where upon close inspection, we found that we had actually ripped the transom from the deck above the tiller mount. No wonder we were taking on so much water. After a twenty minute walk back to retrieve the trailer soaking wet and exhausted, we reluctantly headed back to drain the boat, secure it, and drag the whole broken rusted mess back to the road. Slumped over a Pabst at Poe's, Andrew said coolly, "Well, it can't get any worse than that."
Here's a closer look. And yeah those are popped rivets.
"It can't get worse." Fate loves a challenge, John.
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