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New Boat 4 Sled
- Thread starter sleddog
- Start date
islandplanet
New member
Yes, I looked up the results before I even looked at the boat. It's definitely a find.As you likely know, MELODY has pedigree and is a SHTP vet. She knows the way, and 14 days, 18 hours is not snoozing.
I sailed against "MELODY" in Sausalito beer can races a long time ago. I seem to remember a nice guy named Peter sailed the boat and he was a musician - hence the name. And I crewed a few times with him on other races. It wasn't "duded" up for single handing then, but I think the compass cover dates back to the day. I saw the boat on Craigs List. I think you got a great buy on a great boat. -- Pat
Hans Peter Myrner owned MELODY and sailed her in 1994 SHTP. http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/sfgate/obituary.aspx?pid=159571521
Looks like Imp
I could be wrong, but the photo below looks like the old Imp. Found it here https://www.facebook.com/events/1633284983633581/
I could be wrong, but the photo below looks like the old Imp. Found it here https://www.facebook.com/events/1633284983633581/
Attachments
Thanks, Don.
Yup, that's iMP sailing under Irish owner George Radley, of Cork, about 10 years ago...It's a slightly different paint scheme from when we sailed her back in the day, but still the shades of green stripes. Radley won the Around Ireland Race, and also took iMP to the Caribbean Circuit. Not sure of her current whereabouts.
Yup, that's iMP sailing under Irish owner George Radley, of Cork, about 10 years ago...It's a slightly different paint scheme from when we sailed her back in the day, but still the shades of green stripes. Radley won the Around Ireland Race, and also took iMP to the Caribbean Circuit. Not sure of her current whereabouts.
I had not heard this story. Mad props for that!
If you didn't know they were there, you likely wouldn't know they were there. I'm talking about a small group of islands (3) called the Rendezvous, in the Salish Sea's Discovery Islands, north of Desolation Sound, East of Campbell River, and south of Johnstone Straits, near Vancouver Island, in British Columbia.
The Rendezvous are easily missed, as they blend with the land behind Calm Channel. But if you are entering/leaving narrow and shallow White Rock Passage, you'll likely pass in close proximity to the Rendezvous Group.
18 miles as the crow flies, but 2.5 hours by skiff, car, ferry, and foot to the nearest shopping civilization, Campbell River, on North Rendezvous lives a dear friend and remarkable lady, Judith.
Few of Judith's neighbors live full time on the Island. All off-island access is by boat, and winter storms and snow can make this a difficult proposition. Judith's boat is a 12 foot wooden Sea Sled with a 15 horse outboard, a forerunner of the Boston Whaler inverted V tunnel hull.
Sea Sleds are amazing boats, fast, stable and seaworthy. One 55' version even became a successful aircraft carrier. The Sea Sled story is here: http://www.gerrmarine.com/Articles/SeaSleds.pdf
A fascinating book could be written about Judith's life. She is a wonderful communicator, community organizer, and writer, for years having edited a monthly newsletter for the Discovery Islands.
Here is a little piece Judith recently wrote to her neighbors of the small but tight Surge Narrows community.
For someone prone to seasickness, I was surprisingly susceptible to romantic images of ‘messing about in boats’ and I blame my reading of ‘Swallows and Amazons’ for underestimating of the sheer terror of boating. My most youthful experiences of floating reflectively in a tiny dinghy on a pond, or canoeing on gentle lakes and beaver swamps, provided a frisson of adventure with no real danger. Then I moved to an island and my eyes were pried wide open.
I remember an early trip to Heriot Bay through a brisk southeaster in our twenty foot sailboat. My three year old was below in the cabin, hanging on tightly while he vomited on-to the bunk. The baby was latched to my breast in one arm and the other hand was on the tiller, leaving only my teeth to manage the jib sheet. It was my novice’s ignorance of sea conditions and steering strategy that had put me into that fix but there was nothing else to do but keep on going, climbing a wave then plunging into a trough, over and over, until I could finally stop in the lea of Rebecca Spit and clean up the mess. In those days, every trip to town was a stressful epic of uncertain winds, mechanical failures, cold, fatigue and the demands of my long suffering tiny passengers. There must surely be a protector of the ignorant or we would never have survived.
Luckily, experience trumps, (oops, can’t use that word anymore), overcomes ignorance and eventually I learned that: a small southeast chop up by Surge is a reliable indicator of large waves by the Bretons; turning right and running the curving troughs into the Bay is more comfortable than quartering the waves; and keeping the fuel tank free of water accumulation is a good thing to do. Also, there’s no shame in judiciously turning around and going back home when the signs are against me. Or maybe never leaving the dock in the first place.
When a speed boat replaced our quarter speed sail boat, our trips could fit into smaller weather windows and the cold had less time to penetrate our bones. I found that gripping the gunnel with white knuckles and taking shallow breaths didn’t make the trip any easier so I traded that strategy for singing at the top of my lungs, which really did help, as I surfed through the frightening stretches. Each safe return boosted my confidence a little more and there was some new lesson learned with every boat trip.
There was no alternative to boating if I wanted to live in this beautiful place so there was never a question about whether I would prevail, even in darkest times. Once, in a moment of deep discomfort as I beat home, wet and weary after a night shift on the oyster beach, in the dark and into a nasty, frigid, outflow chop, I asked myself if I would like to be magically transported into my armchair by the fire sipping hot cocoa, and I answered, “No!”. This was my chosen life in this instant. I would get through this nightmare of a trip and the home comforts would be even sweeter by contrast.
Then, as time passed, boating became more and more of a pleasure and an adventure, just as my childhood reading had promised. I would set out, well dressed and prepared, in a boat I knew well and run through familiar waterways with confidence. My senses were open to the beauties of the scene, my eyes trained to changes in the sky and the water’s surface, and the world was mine. My children learned along with me and they were competent boaters at an early age, taking themselves to school or to visit friends down the channel by the time they were ten or eleven.
Now, I love to pull the boat into a pocket beach and comb for treasure, remembering to watch the tide so I don’t get stuck for hours until the water returns. Or putter close in along the shore admiring the lichens and wildflowers that grow on the jigsaw canvas of rocky outcrops, while steering clear of slightly submerged rocks and reefs. Or pausing to commune with a pod of whales as they dance through the unseen dimension below my hull, and feeling no fear. Or head out to Book Club at a harbour I’ve never visited before. Or make an excursion on a new route through our myriad islands just for the sheer pleasure of being out in the wind and salt spray. I can go anywhere on this coast, unrestricted by narrow ribbons of landlubber roads.
I love travelling at night when all the senses must be completely engaged to compensate for diminished sight. Suddenly, the only visual cues are the black ridge line against the sky, or the surface pattern-shifts of grey on silver that predict a junk filled eddy line or an oncoming boat. Occasionally there is the reassurance of a distant navigation light. Beyond those and the feel of current swirls under the boat, some kind of extra sense kicks in that provides all the needed information while everything “me” is lost to the place in this present moment .
Modern technology has made many things easier, from motors that start easily every time to navigation charts on our phones, and instructions on how to do anything on YouTube. With radar, sonar and GPS, we hardly have to think, although that does leave us vulnerable to technical glitches. I still carry a hand compass. An enclosed boat is comfortable but I don’t like being separated from the world by a full windscreen and roof so I will always choose the excellent visibility and atmospheric connection of an open boat.
The new reliability of craft is wonderful, though. In the old days it was unusual to make a trip without passing (and stopping to help) at least one boat that was dead in the water while the skipper tinkered with the outboard. Or being that drifting boat and waiting patiently for some neighbour to come by and offer a rescuing tow. Today, my foam filled boat is unsinkable but I sank my other boats five times, always at the dock or on the beach, and I be-came very adept at rescuing a submerged motor. There all kinds of possible mistakes to be made and I think I’ve hit them all, but I do it less frequently these days.
Women and boats are a natural fit and it only takes time and persistence to become comfortable alone on the water. If you do your own maintenance and repairs yet another field of skills opens to you, which also transfers usefully to the homestead. I am always amazed that some women don’t drive the family boat although they drive a car on horrendously risky, maniac-filled roads without blinking.
At one time we had a Surge skiff club for women with peter-pumpkin-eater husbands. A more experienced woman would meet the novices en route to the central meeting place, each woman joining the convoy in her own boat. Then we’d practice the lesson of the day: docking, or anchoring, or cleaning a spark plug, whatever was re-quested, and take a short run together to some point of interest or challenge. After a little socializing, each woman would then skipper her boat home, with a support boat still in sight, and tie up at her own dock feeling more skilled and empowered than the day before. It only took a few meetings before they were all boating around, enjoying their freedom to move and knowing they could always help out in a marine emergency.
Life is an adventure but in a boat it is the best adventure.
The Rendezvous are easily missed, as they blend with the land behind Calm Channel. But if you are entering/leaving narrow and shallow White Rock Passage, you'll likely pass in close proximity to the Rendezvous Group.
18 miles as the crow flies, but 2.5 hours by skiff, car, ferry, and foot to the nearest shopping civilization, Campbell River, on North Rendezvous lives a dear friend and remarkable lady, Judith.
Few of Judith's neighbors live full time on the Island. All off-island access is by boat, and winter storms and snow can make this a difficult proposition. Judith's boat is a 12 foot wooden Sea Sled with a 15 horse outboard, a forerunner of the Boston Whaler inverted V tunnel hull.
Sea Sleds are amazing boats, fast, stable and seaworthy. One 55' version even became a successful aircraft carrier. The Sea Sled story is here: http://www.gerrmarine.com/Articles/SeaSleds.pdf
A fascinating book could be written about Judith's life. She is a wonderful communicator, community organizer, and writer, for years having edited a monthly newsletter for the Discovery Islands.
Here is a little piece Judith recently wrote to her neighbors of the small but tight Surge Narrows community.
For someone prone to seasickness, I was surprisingly susceptible to romantic images of ‘messing about in boats’ and I blame my reading of ‘Swallows and Amazons’ for underestimating of the sheer terror of boating. My most youthful experiences of floating reflectively in a tiny dinghy on a pond, or canoeing on gentle lakes and beaver swamps, provided a frisson of adventure with no real danger. Then I moved to an island and my eyes were pried wide open.
I remember an early trip to Heriot Bay through a brisk southeaster in our twenty foot sailboat. My three year old was below in the cabin, hanging on tightly while he vomited on-to the bunk. The baby was latched to my breast in one arm and the other hand was on the tiller, leaving only my teeth to manage the jib sheet. It was my novice’s ignorance of sea conditions and steering strategy that had put me into that fix but there was nothing else to do but keep on going, climbing a wave then plunging into a trough, over and over, until I could finally stop in the lea of Rebecca Spit and clean up the mess. In those days, every trip to town was a stressful epic of uncertain winds, mechanical failures, cold, fatigue and the demands of my long suffering tiny passengers. There must surely be a protector of the ignorant or we would never have survived.
Luckily, experience trumps, (oops, can’t use that word anymore), overcomes ignorance and eventually I learned that: a small southeast chop up by Surge is a reliable indicator of large waves by the Bretons; turning right and running the curving troughs into the Bay is more comfortable than quartering the waves; and keeping the fuel tank free of water accumulation is a good thing to do. Also, there’s no shame in judiciously turning around and going back home when the signs are against me. Or maybe never leaving the dock in the first place.
When a speed boat replaced our quarter speed sail boat, our trips could fit into smaller weather windows and the cold had less time to penetrate our bones. I found that gripping the gunnel with white knuckles and taking shallow breaths didn’t make the trip any easier so I traded that strategy for singing at the top of my lungs, which really did help, as I surfed through the frightening stretches. Each safe return boosted my confidence a little more and there was some new lesson learned with every boat trip.
There was no alternative to boating if I wanted to live in this beautiful place so there was never a question about whether I would prevail, even in darkest times. Once, in a moment of deep discomfort as I beat home, wet and weary after a night shift on the oyster beach, in the dark and into a nasty, frigid, outflow chop, I asked myself if I would like to be magically transported into my armchair by the fire sipping hot cocoa, and I answered, “No!”. This was my chosen life in this instant. I would get through this nightmare of a trip and the home comforts would be even sweeter by contrast.
Then, as time passed, boating became more and more of a pleasure and an adventure, just as my childhood reading had promised. I would set out, well dressed and prepared, in a boat I knew well and run through familiar waterways with confidence. My senses were open to the beauties of the scene, my eyes trained to changes in the sky and the water’s surface, and the world was mine. My children learned along with me and they were competent boaters at an early age, taking themselves to school or to visit friends down the channel by the time they were ten or eleven.
Now, I love to pull the boat into a pocket beach and comb for treasure, remembering to watch the tide so I don’t get stuck for hours until the water returns. Or putter close in along the shore admiring the lichens and wildflowers that grow on the jigsaw canvas of rocky outcrops, while steering clear of slightly submerged rocks and reefs. Or pausing to commune with a pod of whales as they dance through the unseen dimension below my hull, and feeling no fear. Or head out to Book Club at a harbour I’ve never visited before. Or make an excursion on a new route through our myriad islands just for the sheer pleasure of being out in the wind and salt spray. I can go anywhere on this coast, unrestricted by narrow ribbons of landlubber roads.
I love travelling at night when all the senses must be completely engaged to compensate for diminished sight. Suddenly, the only visual cues are the black ridge line against the sky, or the surface pattern-shifts of grey on silver that predict a junk filled eddy line or an oncoming boat. Occasionally there is the reassurance of a distant navigation light. Beyond those and the feel of current swirls under the boat, some kind of extra sense kicks in that provides all the needed information while everything “me” is lost to the place in this present moment .
Modern technology has made many things easier, from motors that start easily every time to navigation charts on our phones, and instructions on how to do anything on YouTube. With radar, sonar and GPS, we hardly have to think, although that does leave us vulnerable to technical glitches. I still carry a hand compass. An enclosed boat is comfortable but I don’t like being separated from the world by a full windscreen and roof so I will always choose the excellent visibility and atmospheric connection of an open boat.
The new reliability of craft is wonderful, though. In the old days it was unusual to make a trip without passing (and stopping to help) at least one boat that was dead in the water while the skipper tinkered with the outboard. Or being that drifting boat and waiting patiently for some neighbour to come by and offer a rescuing tow. Today, my foam filled boat is unsinkable but I sank my other boats five times, always at the dock or on the beach, and I be-came very adept at rescuing a submerged motor. There all kinds of possible mistakes to be made and I think I’ve hit them all, but I do it less frequently these days.
Women and boats are a natural fit and it only takes time and persistence to become comfortable alone on the water. If you do your own maintenance and repairs yet another field of skills opens to you, which also transfers usefully to the homestead. I am always amazed that some women don’t drive the family boat although they drive a car on horrendously risky, maniac-filled roads without blinking.
At one time we had a Surge skiff club for women with peter-pumpkin-eater husbands. A more experienced woman would meet the novices en route to the central meeting place, each woman joining the convoy in her own boat. Then we’d practice the lesson of the day: docking, or anchoring, or cleaning a spark plug, whatever was re-quested, and take a short run together to some point of interest or challenge. After a little socializing, each woman would then skipper her boat home, with a support boat still in sight, and tie up at her own dock feeling more skilled and empowered than the day before. It only took a few meetings before they were all boating around, enjoying their freedom to move and knowing they could always help out in a marine emergency.
Life is an adventure but in a boat it is the best adventure.
Last edited:
Like all good sea stories, they can be retold. This one from the Forum 2.5 years ago, but updated with fresh information.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fred Hughes, Commodore of the New Jersey Yacht Club was a serious yacht racer and betting man. In the 1880's in New York, those two recreations, sailing and gambling, were not mutually exclusive .
Fred Hughes had “drunk the catamaran Kool-Aid” when he bought Nathanael Herreshoff's legendary pioneering catamaran design AMARYLLIS. Soon enough, he wanted something faster than AMARYLLIS. Hughes had Herreshoff build the 41' catamaran JESSIE with the intention of racing JESSIE against a horse from New York to Stony Creek, Connecticut, 90 miles, for a $1,000 bet, winner take all.
Hughes' catamaran JESSIE, favored with strong tail winds, won that race. The horse, “Boston,” came second. The owner of the horse, wealthy New York sportsman, Dr. Ezra P Daggett, was dissatisfied and wanted a rematch. Daggett was the inventor of preserving food in tin cans. Commodore Hughes readily agreed to Daggett's terms for a rematch. For the rematch, Hughes again had a new catamaran built, the 40' CYCLONE. Daggett again challenged with his horse “Boston.” And a third entry, a dark horse, was an unnamed man on a bicycle, who bet $500 he could beat both the horse and the catamaran, and take the $1,500 prize.
Here's CYCLONE, with JESSIE in the background:
The start of the catamaran/ horse/ bicycle race was scheduled to leave New York 4:30 a.m. on morning of August 15, 1885. There was a problem. 4 detectives from the Humane Society were hunting for the “Boston” the horse, ready to arrest Daggett the owner on animal cruelty charges arising from the previous race.
At the 24th St starting line, Daggett cunningly disguised another horse as “Boston,” and the SPCA detectives tried to arrest the wrong horse. Meanwhile Daggett and “Boston” rode away at a 12 mph gate up Central Ave.
By the Boston Road, “Boston's” pace had increased to 20 mph with Daggett wearing oilskin foul weather gear and a Southwester hat pulled over his eyes to protect them from the driving rain.
Down on the water, Hughes CYCLONE was encountering difficulty starting the race. Leaving New York's East River through Hells Gate, the wind was strong and from the East, making it a dead muzzler, not a good point of sail for a catamaran. We can only guess the conversation onboard CYCLONE was not optimistic.
Meanwhile, the third starter, the bicyclist, failed to appear. Whether because of the foul weather, or because he hadn't secured the necessary $500 entry bet, the reason for the bicyclist's “no show” is unknown.
By 6 a.m., “Boston” and Daggett had reached New Rochelle, and the rain was beginning to let up. Stamford, Connecticut was reached at 8:15 a.m. In Stamford, “Boston” was given a swallow of brandy, a rubdown, and 45 minute rest.
At 11:30 a.m., “Boston” trotted briskly into Bridgeport, where the big boned gelding was given a well deserved hour's rest. At 12: 30 p.m. Dr. Daggett picked up “Boston's” reins, gave a chirp, and “Boston” responded by breaking into “a spanking gate” which they held all the way to New Haven.
At 2:45 pm “Boston” and Daggett entered New Haven, where “Boston” was again rested, rubbed down, and given oatmeal porridge flavored with a dose of brandy. It was here in New Haven that Daggett fully expected to be arrested by the Humane Officers. But none appeared.
At 4:34 p.m, after covering the final 11 miles from New Haven, “Boston” and Daggett crossed the finish line at Frank's Hotel to the applause of 50 welcomers. But the race wasn't over. Where was Hughes on CYCLONE? Nothing had been seen of the catamaran since the start. In addition, Daggett realized that in his ruse to escape the Humane detectives in New York, he had started the race five miles closer to the finish than CYCLONE.
To make up the five mile advantage, a very tired “Boston” was driven 5 miles up and down the road in front of the hotel until the requisite make up distance had been covered. Still no CYCLONE in sight as “Boston” was stabled, rubbed down, given another round of oatmeal, and snugged down for the night.
Whatever became of the catamaran CYCLONE? Apparently, Hughes and crew gave up the race at Bridgeport, 20 miles short of the finish.
It was reported in the NY Times the next day that “Dr. Daggett boasted he was ready to put up $2,000 that his horse could beat the catamaran two out of three.” That race never happened. Dr. Daggett was charged with animal cruelty by the Humane Society. Here is what the NY Times had to say about that.
"NEW-HAVEN, July 4.--Judge Denning, in the Criminal Court, to-day discharged Ezra Daggett, of New-York, who was tried on Tuesday on a charge made by the State Agent of the Humane Society that Daggett had driven his horse 90 miles in 15 hours. The discharge was on the ground that, while the horse had been driven that distance, it had been kindly treated and properly cared for. Daggett went to New-York to-day with the horse.
“Dr. Daggett versus the Catamaran” certainly sounds like an interesting sporting contest. If you are going to race a horse against a catamaran, give the horse some brandy for best results.
Meanwhile, I have recently learned the only surviving Herreshoff catamaran, AMARYLLIS II, was lowered from the rafters at the Herreshoff Marine Museum in Bristol, R.I. This interests me, as I have been lobbying to get AMARYLLIS lowered down where she can be viewed by the public.
HMM staff even rigged AMARYLLIS, stepped the mast, and hoisted sail. I can't imagine what the 80 year old cotton canvas was like. It was reported "rigging the boat proved to be a day-long experimental archaeology project and a chance to puzzle out the mechanics of what it might have been like to sail her in the 1930’s,”
Here's AMARYLLIS after 83 years:
Did the staff at Herreshoff Marine Museum dare to launch and sail the fragile AMARYLLIS? You'll have to wait to find out. Not sure myself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fred Hughes, Commodore of the New Jersey Yacht Club was a serious yacht racer and betting man. In the 1880's in New York, those two recreations, sailing and gambling, were not mutually exclusive .
Fred Hughes had “drunk the catamaran Kool-Aid” when he bought Nathanael Herreshoff's legendary pioneering catamaran design AMARYLLIS. Soon enough, he wanted something faster than AMARYLLIS. Hughes had Herreshoff build the 41' catamaran JESSIE with the intention of racing JESSIE against a horse from New York to Stony Creek, Connecticut, 90 miles, for a $1,000 bet, winner take all.
Hughes' catamaran JESSIE, favored with strong tail winds, won that race. The horse, “Boston,” came second. The owner of the horse, wealthy New York sportsman, Dr. Ezra P Daggett, was dissatisfied and wanted a rematch. Daggett was the inventor of preserving food in tin cans. Commodore Hughes readily agreed to Daggett's terms for a rematch. For the rematch, Hughes again had a new catamaran built, the 40' CYCLONE. Daggett again challenged with his horse “Boston.” And a third entry, a dark horse, was an unnamed man on a bicycle, who bet $500 he could beat both the horse and the catamaran, and take the $1,500 prize.
Here's CYCLONE, with JESSIE in the background:
The start of the catamaran/ horse/ bicycle race was scheduled to leave New York 4:30 a.m. on morning of August 15, 1885. There was a problem. 4 detectives from the Humane Society were hunting for the “Boston” the horse, ready to arrest Daggett the owner on animal cruelty charges arising from the previous race.
At the 24th St starting line, Daggett cunningly disguised another horse as “Boston,” and the SPCA detectives tried to arrest the wrong horse. Meanwhile Daggett and “Boston” rode away at a 12 mph gate up Central Ave.
By the Boston Road, “Boston's” pace had increased to 20 mph with Daggett wearing oilskin foul weather gear and a Southwester hat pulled over his eyes to protect them from the driving rain.
Down on the water, Hughes CYCLONE was encountering difficulty starting the race. Leaving New York's East River through Hells Gate, the wind was strong and from the East, making it a dead muzzler, not a good point of sail for a catamaran. We can only guess the conversation onboard CYCLONE was not optimistic.
Meanwhile, the third starter, the bicyclist, failed to appear. Whether because of the foul weather, or because he hadn't secured the necessary $500 entry bet, the reason for the bicyclist's “no show” is unknown.
By 6 a.m., “Boston” and Daggett had reached New Rochelle, and the rain was beginning to let up. Stamford, Connecticut was reached at 8:15 a.m. In Stamford, “Boston” was given a swallow of brandy, a rubdown, and 45 minute rest.
At 11:30 a.m., “Boston” trotted briskly into Bridgeport, where the big boned gelding was given a well deserved hour's rest. At 12: 30 p.m. Dr. Daggett picked up “Boston's” reins, gave a chirp, and “Boston” responded by breaking into “a spanking gate” which they held all the way to New Haven.
At 2:45 pm “Boston” and Daggett entered New Haven, where “Boston” was again rested, rubbed down, and given oatmeal porridge flavored with a dose of brandy. It was here in New Haven that Daggett fully expected to be arrested by the Humane Officers. But none appeared.
At 4:34 p.m, after covering the final 11 miles from New Haven, “Boston” and Daggett crossed the finish line at Frank's Hotel to the applause of 50 welcomers. But the race wasn't over. Where was Hughes on CYCLONE? Nothing had been seen of the catamaran since the start. In addition, Daggett realized that in his ruse to escape the Humane detectives in New York, he had started the race five miles closer to the finish than CYCLONE.
To make up the five mile advantage, a very tired “Boston” was driven 5 miles up and down the road in front of the hotel until the requisite make up distance had been covered. Still no CYCLONE in sight as “Boston” was stabled, rubbed down, given another round of oatmeal, and snugged down for the night.
Whatever became of the catamaran CYCLONE? Apparently, Hughes and crew gave up the race at Bridgeport, 20 miles short of the finish.
It was reported in the NY Times the next day that “Dr. Daggett boasted he was ready to put up $2,000 that his horse could beat the catamaran two out of three.” That race never happened. Dr. Daggett was charged with animal cruelty by the Humane Society. Here is what the NY Times had to say about that.
"NEW-HAVEN, July 4.--Judge Denning, in the Criminal Court, to-day discharged Ezra Daggett, of New-York, who was tried on Tuesday on a charge made by the State Agent of the Humane Society that Daggett had driven his horse 90 miles in 15 hours. The discharge was on the ground that, while the horse had been driven that distance, it had been kindly treated and properly cared for. Daggett went to New-York to-day with the horse.
“Dr. Daggett versus the Catamaran” certainly sounds like an interesting sporting contest. If you are going to race a horse against a catamaran, give the horse some brandy for best results.
Meanwhile, I have recently learned the only surviving Herreshoff catamaran, AMARYLLIS II, was lowered from the rafters at the Herreshoff Marine Museum in Bristol, R.I. This interests me, as I have been lobbying to get AMARYLLIS lowered down where she can be viewed by the public.
HMM staff even rigged AMARYLLIS, stepped the mast, and hoisted sail. I can't imagine what the 80 year old cotton canvas was like. It was reported "rigging the boat proved to be a day-long experimental archaeology project and a chance to puzzle out the mechanics of what it might have been like to sail her in the 1930’s,”
Here's AMARYLLIS after 83 years:
Did the staff at Herreshoff Marine Museum dare to launch and sail the fragile AMARYLLIS? You'll have to wait to find out. Not sure myself.
Last edited:
"You can't get there from here." Yesterday, when Howard and I were driving over Hecker Pass (Hwy 152), from Watsonville to Gilroy, near the summit, one lane of the two lane road was missing. Where the pavement was is now cliff.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6V2Ew1M0sE
Santa Cruz County estimates $70 million to fix its roads damaged by this winter's storms. Coming right up!
Better news from the Harbor, where the dredge has punched through a channel. Howard and Yvonne went sailing yesterday in sparkly warm weather, 70 degrees and 7 knots of wind. What could be better?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6V2Ew1M0sE
Santa Cruz County estimates $70 million to fix its roads damaged by this winter's storms. Coming right up!
Better news from the Harbor, where the dredge has punched through a channel. Howard and Yvonne went sailing yesterday in sparkly warm weather, 70 degrees and 7 knots of wind. What could be better?
Bill Ficker December 12, 1927 - March 13, 2017
Fair Winds & Godspeed
Bill Ficker was a friend, competitor, mentor, my boss. Bill's 1958 World Champion Starboat NHYCUSA (Newport Harbor Yacht Club USA) was always immaculately prepared. I should know. My Star was parked in an adjacent stall, and I worked a summer job for Bill in his architect's office.
Friday afternoons Bill would send me off early from work to wet sand the bottom of NHYCUSA, first with #800 fine grit, then #1200 extra fine. Years later I wondered if Bill didn't enjoy having the kid smoothing his boat's bottom, knowing I wouldn't have time to fine-tune my own boat for that weekend's race. It was part of the psych, and Bill was very good at that.
Bill was a quiet but fierce competitor, finely attuned to both the rules and winning tactics. You knew if Bill got ahead, you'd never pass. Bill was always conservative, never taking flyers if behind. And when he got ahead, he would always tack to cross, to consolidate his lead.
Bill, encouraged by his sister Sue and father Pete, was already a good sailor as a kid. At Cal Berkeley, Bill, with Lowell North and Larry Shep, made a formidable intercollegiate team. They would likely have won the 1950 championships, but Lowell broke his leg and couldn't sail. Dick Carter and Bobby Monetti came out from Yale and won by a point in a photo finish in the last race. That's Monetti holding the Morss trophy, Dick Carter immediately to his left in the dark shirt and shorts, and Bill Ficker standing tall behind Monetti, second from right, with the towel and head of hair.
I could not help but learn when sailing against Bill Ficker. I knew I was sailing against the very best. Even watching from astern was a pleasure: you just knew Bill was on the right tack, his Baxter and Cicero sails perfectly shaped and trimmed for the breeze and sea conditions.
Once, in a Star fleet race, Bill's NHYCUSA and I were starting at the weather end. We had a perfectly timed start, and NHYCUSA, to weather, was a few seconds early and barging. I was about to tell the master, “No room, Bill, you're barging!” when Bill, without looking, said in a firm, level-toned voice, “Skip, I'm gonna need room, I have an absolute.”
I couldn't remember what an “absolute” was or if I'd read about it. I wavered at the tiller, and Bill slipped NHYCUSA through the hole we opened and sailed off to another win.
That afternoon as we washed our boats off, I mustered the nerve to ask Bill, “what's an 'absolute'?” With a wry grin Bill said to the 14 year old kid “why Skip, an “absolute” means I have absolutely no rights.”
Bill Ficker. Great guy, wonderful sailor, true gentleman.
Fair Winds & Godspeed
Bill Ficker was a friend, competitor, mentor, my boss. Bill's 1958 World Champion Starboat NHYCUSA (Newport Harbor Yacht Club USA) was always immaculately prepared. I should know. My Star was parked in an adjacent stall, and I worked a summer job for Bill in his architect's office.
Friday afternoons Bill would send me off early from work to wet sand the bottom of NHYCUSA, first with #800 fine grit, then #1200 extra fine. Years later I wondered if Bill didn't enjoy having the kid smoothing his boat's bottom, knowing I wouldn't have time to fine-tune my own boat for that weekend's race. It was part of the psych, and Bill was very good at that.
Bill was a quiet but fierce competitor, finely attuned to both the rules and winning tactics. You knew if Bill got ahead, you'd never pass. Bill was always conservative, never taking flyers if behind. And when he got ahead, he would always tack to cross, to consolidate his lead.
Bill, encouraged by his sister Sue and father Pete, was already a good sailor as a kid. At Cal Berkeley, Bill, with Lowell North and Larry Shep, made a formidable intercollegiate team. They would likely have won the 1950 championships, but Lowell broke his leg and couldn't sail. Dick Carter and Bobby Monetti came out from Yale and won by a point in a photo finish in the last race. That's Monetti holding the Morss trophy, Dick Carter immediately to his left in the dark shirt and shorts, and Bill Ficker standing tall behind Monetti, second from right, with the towel and head of hair.
I could not help but learn when sailing against Bill Ficker. I knew I was sailing against the very best. Even watching from astern was a pleasure: you just knew Bill was on the right tack, his Baxter and Cicero sails perfectly shaped and trimmed for the breeze and sea conditions.
Once, in a Star fleet race, Bill's NHYCUSA and I were starting at the weather end. We had a perfectly timed start, and NHYCUSA, to weather, was a few seconds early and barging. I was about to tell the master, “No room, Bill, you're barging!” when Bill, without looking, said in a firm, level-toned voice, “Skip, I'm gonna need room, I have an absolute.”
I couldn't remember what an “absolute” was or if I'd read about it. I wavered at the tiller, and Bill slipped NHYCUSA through the hole we opened and sailed off to another win.
That afternoon as we washed our boats off, I mustered the nerve to ask Bill, “what's an 'absolute'?” With a wry grin Bill said to the 14 year old kid “why Skip, an “absolute” means I have absolutely no rights.”
Bill Ficker. Great guy, wonderful sailor, true gentleman.
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Another great has passed into legend: Royal Robbins died Tuesday, age 82. Robbins was an inspiration, pioneer, roll model, and icon of American rock climbing during the Golden Age of Yosemite Rock Climbing, a god in a time when it was possible to have them.
Royal Robbins was larger than life and his climbs were done in the epitome of style. If you've ever followed one of his First Ascent routes, you knew you were following in the steps of a master.
Robbin's climbing career was full of firsts, including the first ascent of the NW Face of Half Dome in 1957, and the first solo ascent of El Capitan. In addition to a nearly endless list of famous climbs in Yosemite, the Tetons, and in Europe, Robbins authored books on how to climb and developed many modern free and aid climbing techniques, gear, and standards. He was also a vocal proponent of clean climbing, and the first to use nuts on Yosemite's big walls where the sound of hammers and pitons had come before.
Robbins was also a boater and waterman Maybe not a sailor as we like to call ourselves. But later in life, after age 40, Royal Robbins took up kayaking in the Sierra and made some amazing portages and first descents of back country waters.
Royal was greatly in love with his wife Liz for over 50 years.
He also liked to play chess, especially with kids.
Royal Robbins wrote what I copy below and I take a page out of his book to pass on. It is a timeless sermon, a gift of his legacy, and if you substitute "sailing" for "rock climbing " it all makes perfect sense.
Professor of the Steep, we stand on your shoulders.
Off Belay
Royal Robbins was larger than life and his climbs were done in the epitome of style. If you've ever followed one of his First Ascent routes, you knew you were following in the steps of a master.
Robbin's climbing career was full of firsts, including the first ascent of the NW Face of Half Dome in 1957, and the first solo ascent of El Capitan. In addition to a nearly endless list of famous climbs in Yosemite, the Tetons, and in Europe, Robbins authored books on how to climb and developed many modern free and aid climbing techniques, gear, and standards. He was also a vocal proponent of clean climbing, and the first to use nuts on Yosemite's big walls where the sound of hammers and pitons had come before.
Robbins was also a boater and waterman Maybe not a sailor as we like to call ourselves. But later in life, after age 40, Royal Robbins took up kayaking in the Sierra and made some amazing portages and first descents of back country waters.
Royal was greatly in love with his wife Liz for over 50 years.
He also liked to play chess, especially with kids.
Royal Robbins wrote what I copy below and I take a page out of his book to pass on. It is a timeless sermon, a gift of his legacy, and if you substitute "sailing" for "rock climbing " it all makes perfect sense.
Professor of the Steep, we stand on your shoulders.
Off Belay
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The above photo of a jib sheet turning block on a 20 year old, aluminum, 73' maxi-yacht raises a lot of questions. The photo emphasizes the increased strain produced when a sheet, halyard, anchor rode, or other highly loaded line is turned through a block or lead. (As well as other factors such as the possibility of corrosion, the addition of spacers, and the apparent lack of thru-bolting.)
Turning a line through a block 90 degrees ("L" lead) increases the strain at the turn by a factor of 1.5. Turning a line 180 degrees ("V" lead) increases the load at the block by a factor of 2 (doubled). These turns are called "slingshot" leads for good reason. If the block or line breaks at the turn, the resulting slingshot can be disabling if contacting a leg, torso, or head.
Experience shows the wisdom of not stepping or standing in the middle of a slingshot lead. Nor placing yourself in the line of fire of other slingshot leads such as a loaded halyard deck block, clew reef block at forward end of the boom, or spinnaker sheet at the transom corner. Even on small boats, slingshot leads need to be recognized and respected.
The modern addition of low stretch, hi-tech lines has only increased the likelihood of failure at a slingshot lead.
Even anchor chain over a bow roller can create a slingshot lead. I once saw a highly loaded anchor chain, during a sequence of swells, bend an ultra strong stainless steel tube bow roller downward to 45 degrees.
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The Smokester
New member
"...The modern addition of low stretch, hi-tech lines has only increased the likelihood of failure..."
Also true in the slightly different context of jacklines. Something's gotta give.
Also true in the slightly different context of jacklines. Something's gotta give.