What Do We Do Now?

That is an interesting question, WDWDN?

It all began one summer, many years ago. I learned to sail. My first boat was a mono-hulled Sunfish, made of Styrofoam. It was about 8 feet long and had maybe 25 square feet of sail. Sailing was slow, painfully so, but I learned the basics. I quickly graduated to a better boat, a Hobie 14 Turbo -- a Turbo, because it had both main and jib sails. It was a catamaran and was fast. I learned much about sailing and tried many of the area lakes around Columbus, Georgia.

With experience, my confidence grew to the point that I could manage the Hobie with passengers in the Gulf of Mexico. On one trip to Panama City, Florida, I took both boats. The steady 20 to 25 mile-per-hour breezes overwhelmed the little Sunfish. The wind blew out the sail and broke the mast. Friends helped me with a decent burial right in the dunes, so the little boat could enjoy the white as sugar beach, the warm gulf waters, and the glorious sunsets.

Photo - Frank Womble

Summer and fall that year ended too quickly. I winterized the Hobie with a cover, took the sails inside our home, and parked the boat on its trailer in the backyard. The winters in Georgia can be cold and wet, mostly wet. I longed for warm days and more sailing. On a Saturday in February, the forecast was wonderful -- high near 80 with light winds. I called a friend and asked him to go sailing. He jumped at the chance and in 30 minutes or so, I had the boat hitched to my pick-up and was ready to go. I picked up Frank, and we headed to West Point Lake near Columbus. We should have heeded the local radio DJ, as he read the updated weather report. Wind warnings for area lakes, WDWDN? We go sailing.

There are essential elements to sailing -- water, wind, a boat, and, in the early morning, coffee. On the way to West Point, we pulled into a local McDonald's, entered the drive-though lane, and proceeded to the remote menu and microphone. The driveway was a curved affair, and I had to pull pretty close to the microphone, so the clerk on the inside could hear my order for two coffees to go. As I pulled away from the clown-headed ordering station, the inside pontoon of my trailered boat smacked Ronald in the side of the head, knocking him sideways into the dirt. A worried voice, over a crackling speaker, asked, if everything was OK. I shouted back, WDWDN -- drink coffee!" With coffee paid for and a little first aid for the speaker-in-a-clown-head-on-a-pedestal, we were on our way.

We arrived at the boat ramp. I backed the trailer almost to the water, and we jumped out to erect the mast and hoist the sails. In the stiff breeze, the main sail was a bit stubborn and took a while to get corralled in the slot on the mast. The auto-furling jib was much easier. We finished the rigging. I grabbed a six-pack cooler, which was loaded with brewskies and a pan of home made brownies, and I lashed the cooler to the base of the mast. We donned our life jackets and launched the boat. As the boat touched the water, it lurched, itching to get underway. I pulled the truck up to the parking lot and returned to find Frank dodging white-capped waves that were splashing up the boat ramp. By this time, the air temperature was over 70 but the water temperature was in the low 50's. I took a few steps into the water to gain control of the bucking boat. Instantly, I felt the chill and quickly jumped on the trampoline style deck. With a push and sucking sound from the mud, Frank joined me on the boat. With a little maneuvering we cleared the boat ramp and headed for bigger water. In a matter of a few minutes, I had both sails fully deployed and trimmed for speed. To borrow a phrase from Hawaiian sailors, "we were sailing like stink!"

Well, all that hard work on shore and excitement of the first sail in several months created a powerful thirst. Frank reached for the cooler at the base of the mast. The center of gravity of the finely trimmed boat suddenly shifted forward. The leeward hull nosed into the water and, before I could react, dived like a submarine at sea. I felt myself being launched into the air; I saw the mast pitch-pole toward the diving hull; I think I heard klaxons sound. The next thing I saw was the surface of the lake -- above me. I was swimming upward but was making no progress. The main sheet had tied itself in a clove hitch around my ankle and was holding me under. A thought passed through my mind -- don't panic, DO SOMETHING. I calmly leaned toward my fastened leg, found the knot, and loosened it enough to make my escape. The buoyancy of my life jacket popped me to the surface to meet a concerned buddy. Frank choked out the infamous WDWDN?

Getting wet is part of Hobie sailing, and wet we were. We had to get the boat righted, and we had to get out of the cold water. We tried every which way to get the boat back on its feet, but each time the strong wind would flatten the trampoline back to the water. As fate would have it, a fisherman in a flat-bottomed johnboat motored toward us. I waved him down and asked a for little help. Swearing and cursing, he grudgingly tossed me a line that I threw over the far hull, pulled under the tramp, and tied to the near pontoon. The effect was that a pull away from my boat should cause it to flip right side up. Sure enough, the line tightened, the boat went upright, and instantly the Hobie sprang to life. For some reason the lines had remained fixed in their sailing trim. The sails filled with air, and the Hobie did what it did best. It sailed away, pulling the fisherman and his boat behind it -- more cussing and swearing. I heard the angry fisherman say things I had never heard before. In between novel words, I heard him yell, "cut the line, cut the line!" If I had only been on my boat, I would have been happy to oblige. Frank and I took off swimming. I reached for the line and pulled myself hand-over-hand to my boat. I somehow reached the main sheet, and snapped it out of its lock block. The sail went slack and the Hobie came to a stop. I pulled the fisherman's line loose and let it go. The now screaming engine of the johnboat took over and off the fisherman went, still cussing, swearing, and gesturing.

Shivering with cold, Frank and I climbed back onto the Hobie tramp and sailed our way to a nearby shoreline. A dense pine forest lined the shore, and we huddled next to the trunk of a large tree and took stock of the situation. We were alive. The boat was unharmed. The brownies drowned. The beer was still in the cooler at the base of the mast. WDWDN? We drank a beer to calm our nerves. We high-fived our survival. We gradually warmed ourselves and planned our next leg of the excursion. We were on the opposite side of the lake from where we had put in, and the only way back was to sail back.

The wind was getting stronger. Strange horizontal, rolling clouds were forming off in the distance. A true squall line was closing in on us. I lowered the main sail and reefed it to the boom. Frank nodded his concurrence. We quickly turned the boat back toward lake center and took off sailing. The wind was so strong that with just a jib, we flew a hull. We made it back to the far shore in record time, where we were offered hot chocolate and towels. A fellow Hobie-catter had witnessed the entire episode from the comfort of his lake house. His hospitality saved the day. We were able to get back to the boat ramp without further incident.

WDWDN? According to Frank, we continue to tell this tale from the seats of our wheelchairs on the front porch of our assisted living homes to everyone we see -- no matter how many times they have heard it. Hopefully, that is a long way off and many more adventures from now.