Saugatuck Yaght Club

Copy of text in the Word document: SYCstory-GW_F.doc To the Commodore April 29, 2009 Saugatuck Yacht Club 833 Park St PO Box 608 Douglas, Mi 49406 Enclosed is my original story written soon after the ill fated race between Saugatuck Yacht Club and Macatawa Bay Yacht Club held on Lake Macatawa in the summer of 1956, I believe. Club records will confirm the correct date. It’s also probable the event was reported in the Commercial Record. I enjoy reading of the exploits of the SYC as reported in The Commercial Record, and mindful of the forthcoming July SYC history meeting, I’m sending you this tale for the ‘record’, assuming the Club has some type of archival stash. And you may share the story with sailors interested in the days of the Lightning class and Pete Hansman’s Mower. (I was amazed to read in the July 28, 2005 Commercial Record that Pete was still sailing then and concurrently was relieved that his mishap on the ‘big lake’, while sailing with his daughter, ended well. Their encounter with wind on the water has much in common with the following story from fifty years ago). I’ve made some minor grammatical and punctuation corrections and omitted a few excessively judgmental remarks not germane to the story; the writing is otherwise unaltered to retain the voice of a seventeen year old trying to be twenty one! It was written for my own amusement and not used for a school class assignment; I doubt my ‘C’ average would have been much enhanced had it been so used. Excepting my crew test score, nothing has been added. George Raleigh Worthington 9 Rio Vista Dr St Charles, Mo 63303 377 Lake Shore Dr, Douglas [email protected] April 29, 2009 Saugatuck Douglas Historical Society PO Box 617 Douglas, Mi 49406-0617 Attention: Harold Thieda Mr. Thieda, I’m sending herewith a cover letter and a story I wrote about 1956 which I have submitted to the Saugatuck Yacht Club for the history meeting in July. The SDHS may find it useful in a future project or at least as an addition to the archives. The growing interest in reclaiming Lake Kalamazoo for boating could be assisted by a society project dedicated to the nautical recreational history and activities on the Kalamazoo River at Douglas and Saugatuck. George Raleigh Worthington 9 Rio Vista Dr St Charles, Mo 63303 377 Lake Shore Dr [email protected] cc. John Shack 713 Wilderness Dr Douglas, Mi 49406-0140 THE START (My Adventures as Ballast, or How I Love Those Old Flower Pots!) “Sail a 110? That’ ridiculous, we’ve never been in one” “Sounds like they’re afraid to race us on even terms” “Why don’t we use the Lightnings, we all know them?” Such was the conversation that Wednesday night at the regular Saugatuck Yacht Club meeting. The annual sailboat race between the Macatawa Bay Yacht Club and SYC was scheduled for a week from the coming Saturday, and due to a shortage of the Lightnings we would have to sail a foreign craft, Macatawa’s 110 class, so this year the race was away from home. To call off the race seemed a poor idea, for every year it had been held and it would be a shame to miss an opportunity to work again as a team in keen competition. Besides, good sportsmanship and the racing spirit showed us that to race under such conditions and win would indeed be a great victory. The Saugatuck Yacht Club would uphold its reputation and show its superiority in seamanship. Also we had the curiosity of all good sailors and were anxious to sail this relatively new-to us-development in the boating world. There was another reason too. It was time we cut these high and mighty amateurs down to size! Who are they to call our boats flower pots and washtubs. They sure didn’t know a good boat when the saw one. Go Lightnings! We had decided to race, thus the following week Peg Effinger, Commodore, made arrangements for the regatta, and since the program consisted of three separate races, the skippers, crew and ballast were selected at the next meeting, with the hands being changed for each race. Although I was a new club member without much sailing or racing experience I took the opportunity to act as live ballast in two races, although I was much complimented in having had the offer of crew, which I felt obliged to turn down, being short on confidence. I had shown good knowledge of sailing and boat lore and was soon to pass my written crew exam with 100%, but I know I did the right thing. Ballast is an inferior though sometimes essential thing, but usually the two crew members are sufficient. Ballast duty requires only the ability to move about at the skipper’s command, no matter how ridiculous a position must be assumed. The captain is always right, as you know, but one sometimes wonders as he gazes at the pounding surf from a position of pointless peril, standing on the keel with pale palms hopefully gripping the gunwale, waiting to be doused any second. I was later to assume an equally humorous position, though not at my skipper’s command, but I shall have to withhold this incident ‘til later. By 9 AM Saturday morning we were on our way to Macatawa, and such a glowering day I have never seen, but we snarled back contemptuously and took off. Neither Macatawa nor the elements would stop the invincible ‘Saugatuckians’. We arrived shortly and after spending a half hour rounding up the opposition, for apparently they had forgotten about us, proceeded to kill another hour waiting for the weather to give up. It continued and as the parents grew more pessimistic and the boats filled with water, the competitors grew less enthusiastic, and before the spirit was completely drowned, we manned the dinghies though the weather seemed to grow worse. The sky was a uniform bleak grey which matched the water; an annoying breeze was blowing and the lake was coarse and irritated by the constant harassing of the pelting raindrops. As I reflect on this episode I realize that the weather condition was actually more acute than we realized then. We approached a yellow boat, and at that time the curious new design demanded more attention than did the rocking and overloaded dinghy. This boat had the appearance of a high riding log with a mast stuck in its back. It is a double ender with standing keel and square cross section, twenty one feet long and scant of beam, being in my opinion more uncomfortable than a pram. We boarded her in the proper manner and I moved forward to make the dinghy fast to the mooring. We looked her over, recognized some of the rigging and decided it would be possible to sail her; thus we made ready. At this point I would like to make a comment: the owner of our particular boat might be a good sailor, but in my opinion he takes no pride in his ability. He seems to miss the joy in execution of his nautical duties, lacking the true sailing spirit…….What drives me to say this?-----It took me a full ten minutes to cast our boat off from the mooring! Never have I encountered such a disorganized entanglement of lines in all my life. This fact alone should be the cause for much embarrassment and apology on the part of the ignoramus in charge of this boat. But of course he’ll never realize this, and will probably go through life lacking the enjoyment to be had in tying a good, sound and appropriate knot. Shortly before all the boats were under way the ten minute gun sounded and we were headed for open water in a new craft. Soon after, the boats were milling around making ready for the start. The five minute flag was raised. Then it came! Off to the west from behind the dunes emerged the blackest, most threatening mass of cumulonimbi I ever saw. The hitherto grey ceiling of sky looked white against this monster. Perhaps it turned pale from fright! At any rate it yielded to its superior and was engulfed by the huge mass of storming and clearly perplexed condensation which was about to dispense itself violently upon us. Yes, all demonville was about to descend (first time the devil has been known to reside above) and there we were, in the middle of the lake, struggling to control our newly acquired problem. Yes, cold were we and very wet even before the cloud -burst. A new and powerful wind had sprung up, gaining momentum as it rolled down the steep dunes and slid across the lake followed by raindrops as big as marbles and just as hard. I believe I can safely say a sailboat never went so fast as ours. Heeled over and shipping water, the canvas soaked and making the boat top-heavy, we skidded along under the impulse of this frolicking breeze. The boats were almost uncontrollable, but I think that this particular boat design augmented the condition. Just give me a good old ‘flowerpot’! With such weather the race could not be held, and after the starting gun fired about five minutes later-the exact condition was not immediately perceived by those ashore-another blast announced the discontinuance of the race, and we were hailed in. However we were largely at the mercy of the elements, and as a result several skippers and crew suddenly forgot their nautical knowledge and were rendered quite helpless. Skip Martens, our able captain, managed to approach the mooring area south of the club by beating to ‘galeward’ (windward). It was a crowded section with several other boats there also, making maneuverability more difficult. I got up on the foredeck, and lying on my belly made ready to grab our dinghy on the mooring. I thought we had it made as we approached, but somehow Skip miscalculated our headway and luffed too soon. We lost headway and the boat fell off to port before I could grab the dinghy. The wind was from the south and we came in from the north. In missing the mooring we were put in a difficult position: we were being blown toward the dock. The skipper had no choice but to keep headed into the wind and try to make headway by tacking for open water. So there I was, sprawled out on a narrow, slippery deck with nothing to hold but the forestay and a cleat, or perhaps the flapping jib. In order not to crash we went about on a starboard tack. As the boat heeled I was caught off balance and slid from my perch into the water. Making a wild grab for the nearest support, the forestay near the turnbuckle, I managed to scramble aboard and got safely into the cockpit. I think no one saw me slip, and to look at me, I was no wetter than before so no one but I will ever laugh at this. To our right was a boat that had managed to come to her mooring, and as we made sternway we grabbed her astern, forming a chain with the dock about twenty feet off. It was about this time we noticed the crazily reeling mast which was raked sharply aft. Upon inspection it was found that the forestay turnbuckle had parted; the mast was now held aloft by the jib alone. In coming aboard I must have put undue strain on the stay which caused it to snap. By this time a motor boat had been sent out to help and we were towed to our mooring, where after making fast(I personally did this) we settled down to the question of putting the boat in order as best we could. We removed the boom and unstepped the mast, lowering it into the cockpit. The sails were stowed and as nothing else could be done we went ashore, where we apologized for the damage done to the boat. During the ten minutes before our landing and the fifteen after it, a broken flow of cold, wet and defeated sailors entered the clubhouse, some marveling at how they had battled the elements and won. The more mature and/or experienced however, took it more calmly, amused at this force of nature, while several others were firmly convinced that they had survived the worst disaster in naval history. Shaking like wet bird dogs we all stood about waiting for the warm broth, and while donning coats, sweaters, jackets and anything else resembling these objects, we discussed the perilous event. Yes, this was truly one of the many experiences to be called upon when effort seems futile and life overly complicated; one of the events to be enjoyed as long as the memory serves and the love of sailing survives. It is a memory such as this which clears away that haze of futility, that difficulty of complication and gives our efforts new force, renewed meaning, as it revives our interest in life as an infinitely enthralling state of being. George Raleigh Worthington, Summer 1956 377 Lake Shore Drive, Douglas, Mi (Copied as hand written at the cottage soon after the event, with minor grammatical and punctuation edit and deletion of judgmental comment not germane to the story. Excepting my crew test score, nothing has been added. Typed by GRW 4/29/09)