5:30AM August 8th, Orient Harbor, NY
August 8, 1996 woke us, dockside, with stifling heat and humidity. Both table fans working at high speed barely made a difference, so we climbed out of our berth, resigned to spending the day trying to find a cooler place to shelter. Topside, it was as bad as it was below, so we made ready to cast off the lines and head out, though the sun was barely above the horizon. At least under way, at six knots, there was enough apparent wind created by our forward movement, to cool the skin slightly. We passed our harbor lighthouse in the picture above, at 5:30AM. The sky was red, and the sailor in me reacted with a slight hesitation which I shrugged off, since the weather was clear.
It’s one of those things like beginning a voyage on a Friday. Things that you don’t do, or things that should alert you to what might occur; whose origins are lost in time, but kept by sailors. We tend to hang onto these axioms and superstitions as a way of drawing comfort from the entire long history of experience on the water. Someone, we figure, once had to deal with this situation and lived to tell about it. For example, take the axiom, one hand for yourself — one for the ship. I haven’t gone forward along the deck of any boat for many years now, without laying one hand lightly atop the bulwark rail or lifeline, or gasping a shroud or the backstay automatically. I don’t really think about it, but there it is, just below the surface.
That morning we ate breakfast underway, and headed for a close-by, favorite anchorage where we could catch a breeze. Our home marina was set into a cove, behind a barrier beach and turned at an angle to the prevailing winds, which meant it was usually still inside. Not the place to spend a hot, humid day. The anchorage wasn’t crowded, and we dropped the hook in a spot where we figured we’d catch even a tiny breeze. No such luck. By mid-day, we were sweltering, and as the boat wallowed in the wakes of passing vessels, probably also trying to make their own breeze, the water had an oily, thick look to it.
It was time to try another spot. We weighed anchor and left for another anchorage on the south side of the island. It was fairly close, and checking the radio for the National Weather Forecast, our decision was borne out. NOAA’s robotic voice announced a Southerly breeze for the afternoon and we were cheered as we made the turn to starboard after passing the last entrance buoy. By that time, the sun was overhead, and the sky was a hard, pitiless blue that bore down along with the blazing heat. My wide-brimmed hat was a necessity, and it cut down on vision a bit, but we were in our home waters.
Ahead, our course led us through the narrow channel between the long point off the southern end of the island, and a peninsula extending off the mainland. To the port side (there’s always a little PORT LEFT in the bottle…) lay deeper water, and to starboard, an obstruction buoy, set close to the channel, marked an underwater wreck, so to tighten up our approach, instead of swinging widely to port, we decided to cut to Starboard, and give that white buoy a wide berth. The depth sounder showed us in twenty feet of water, and we were clipping along at a bit over five knots, to keep a little apparent breeze on our faces. I felt the breeze stir on my cheek and increase as we passed between the far-off white buoy and the shoreline, now two hundred yards off to starboard. It was at that moment, when I took the sighting, that we struck the unmarked reef. The loud, booming crash of our lead keel hitting a solid rock would be something that would haunt my sleep for years afterwards. The stern lurched up as our motion stopped dead. Our bow dipped down and we were both thrown forward against the cabin trunk. I grabbed for the gear shifter and slammed the engine into neutral. The depth sounder now showed 5 feet of water under the keel. The boat draws five feet. Shit.
Slowly, I backed us off while my fearful wife called up through the open companionway from the cabin, “We’re taking on water!” Once we slid back into twenty feet of water, I parked the engine into neutral and took a look below. Water was washing over the floorboards. A rushing sound could be faintly heard over the thrum of the idling diesel. I rushed up, making sure the bilge pump was operating, then I grabbed the radio and called out to our home marina. Once I raised them, I shouted, “we’ve just had a hard grounding and we’re taking on water.” Next I asked, “can you prepare to haul us?”
They could. We limped back slowly to port. I took a moment to head down to the cabin while my wife took the helm, to check the water level. In my first real moment of clarity, I bent down to taste the water running over the floorboards. Fresh, not salty! Lifting the bilge cover, I could see that the impact had shifted the keel forward and pushed the end of it up through the hull, but the water was coming in from the port-side water tank, not from outside the hull.
My sailor’s pride had been dealt a blow so severe I wondered if I could ever feel confident taking the boat off the dock again. We’d learned to sail together some twenty eight years before, and I was afraid to make eye contact with my wife, standing stoically in the cockpit behind the helm. I was angry at myself. For a moment, angrier still at the Coast Guard who should have placed a green buoy, not a white one… but I really couldn’t blame anyone but me. It hurt to think that in a moment of foolish desire to shorten a trip, I’d risked the boat and ourselves.
The insurance covered the repairs, which came in around US$16,000 after my thousand dollar deductible. We were unhurt, but the entire wooden main cabin had shifted forward, damaging the bulkheads and trim, and the keel had tilted up into the hull, so there was a lot of repair work below decks and to the hull as well. When we got home, I found my camera, and eventually had the shot I took at five thirty that morning, framed. To remind me of a day when I should have kept my wits about me, but was too busy to bother. A red sky at morning. Even in good weather, I can’t dodge it now: sailors take warning.
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