Insidious Bufflehead
By Jonathan Huddleston #1068 "INSIDIOUS BUFFLEHE" (5ar)In the last chronicled adventure of our heroine the Insidious Bufflehead, we learned that while it’s certainly not her natural environment, when properly modified she can indeed be cajoled into rising above the status quo to enter that higher state of boating consciousness known as planing. This, even under petroleum (gasp!) based power. The Veda xi which we determined was more marketing than math, had earned it’s hard won place in the dumpster, and our protagonist the Insidious Bufflehead had returned home victorious, once again in her intended, rockered state.
She was intrigued at first, each time she heard the whine of a power saw, or the smell of sawdust wafted her direction borne on the breeze. But over time she came to understand that the mailbox had received a replacement post, or the lower rotted portions of the garage door jamb had been rebuilt, and occasionally that another boat of a friend or aquaintance was being improved, if not saved entirely. She was close enough to witness for herself the cutting and welding of the new handrails for the back porch which increased its functionality for a few of the family’s extended members. A few balls of slag had even rolled and popped in her direction, but none were close enough for her concern to outweigh her curiosity. Gradually though, she forgot all about the VEDAxi, and the noisy, greasy outboard, and she dreamt only of peaceful sailing, propelled solely by the silent power which was on indefinite loan to her from the sun.
Occasionally however, she would awake with a start, having nearly impaled a cow which rose up to tower in front of her from within a formerly serene field of lily pads in which she had been silently gliding. It was always a comfort to realize that the offending bovine, while very real, was miles away in her pasture at this hour, that she was still soundly tucked into her wall, and that the memory had only now just been replicated in her dreams.
Going back to sleep, however, was an altogether different matter. Once she awakened, her mind became active and busy. Thinking. What-iffing. Remembering. It was in the lonesome, brutally honest hours of the night, shrouded by darkness, and with her thoughts accompanied only by the occasional serenade of a frog or the temperatic rhythm of the crickets, that she occasionially recalled her experience with the outboard. Her candor at this hour didn’t permit her the convenience of forgetting her ungainly stance in the water, the squeze of the clamps on her transom, and the peeling of the tape at the conclusion. She’d been glad to see the VEDAxi thrown, no, flung into the dumpster, and she’d whistled a harmony as the trash truck’s turbo spooled up out onto the highway and drove it away with finality. But just as surely as the dark silence required she recall the discomfort of the thing, it also demanded that she acknowledge the glory of it all. Yes, there was certainly the smell, the vibration, the buzzing commotion of the old two stroke, but there in the darkness if she was really to be honest with herself, there was also the speed. Speed that allowed her to rise up, up above the waves that ordinarilly did their best to hold her back from her true potential. Waves that under the best of circumstances lapped gently at her sides trying to lull her into a false spirit of complacency, and at their worst attempted to splinter her forward transom as she made arduous progress forward. No matter the chosen method of the day, the end result was always the same, the waves were ever toiling to keep her slow, keep her low, and most poignantly of all, keep her ever within their grasp.
One day however, as she watched a hawk attempting to feign busyness while an unsuspecting rabbit grazed at the edge of the woods, her owner appeared carrying a piece of cardboard and a pencil. The cardboard was held alongside her aft 2 ½ feet and her outline traced onto it with the lightly held pencil. This was different! Now when she heard the garage door open, and comprehended the weilding of power tools, she took more interest than she had in several months. A few evenings later, her owner removed the strap that secured her to the wall and swung her down onto the back porch. The porch furniture however was not slid aside, as it would have been if she were to be wheeled to the truck and taken sailing. No, her owner left her momentarily and returned with a very long piece of plywood which had the shape of her side cut into it? A few measurements later, and she was hoisted onto a pair of saw horses in similar fashion to when she’d received a new bottom of epoxy and xynole earlier in the year. Next there was a test fitting. From her upside down vantage point on the sawhorses it was hard to tell exactly, but whatever it was fit neatly against her transom and matched the curve of her rocker perfectly. Interestingly though, it extended back from her transom at least half her rocker length again, maybe even more. Just when she thought she had figured out what was going on, her girl appeared at the back door, waving some papers and mumbling something about an upcoming test. Algebra?! She was quickly tilted back against the wall, her safety strap secured and the mystery plywood whisked away to the garage. The excitement of whatever-it-was moments earlier, had just completely given way to a back porch crash course over tomorrow’s test material. She’d have to wait until another day for answers, unless of course she cared what the square root of X worked out to be on practice problem 17. Oh well, at least there was the familiar smell of coffee.
A few more weeks went by. There were more sawing sounds, some of which gave way to additional back porch coffee sessions to discuss General Washington, simultaneous equations, and the names of all 206 human bones. During one session she even overheard the latin name for the mosquitos that plagued her backyard several months of the year. But to her chagrin, the mystery plywood part was never part of the conversation. Until one day, a giant box with not one but two mystery parts was revealed! This time, she was moved from the back porch into the garage to be sawhorsed. Now one fit down each side, exactly spaced to her width, and there were transoms and a bottom. Back to her wall she went, there were rumors of a brake job on a motorcycle, and a lawnmower carburetor that needed cleaning. The Algebra session coffee smell was much desired when compared against the fumigation she endured during the carb cleaning, but as compensation for this, the mower was at least more interesting.
The next weekend, a massive clearing of the garage took place, and partway through this process, she was moved to the now empty bay. Rounding the corner, she realized sawhorses had already been set up. After being raised and steadied upside down, her owner removed 14 screws and O-rings from her bottom. She’d been curious about this while her bottom was being restored last spring. Why would her owner intentionally drill blind holes into her wood, bury machine nuts in epoxy, cover them with a layer of 6 oz glass cloth, and then drill the glass cloth so there was a hole again? At least he’d got it figured out before he put her back in the water. For this terrible lapse in judgement he had eventually put a 3/16 long 8-32 stainless screw with an O-ring under the head in each of the holes to keep the lake out, but... Her thoughts were broken again as the large box was once again cajoled into place, but this time the man was taking a very long time getting everything perfectly into place. She still had no idea what it was, but it did fit quite nicely. The only part she wasn’t particularly fond of, was a cold thin aluminum angle that just covered the now open row of holes. Soon her owner was crawling underneath and putting some “c” clamps on her transom, as they were tightened, a flood of memories came rushing back all at once. She’d felt this before with the VEDAxi. Could this thing be another one of those? Just as she was trying to decide whether to be excited or terrified, the air compressor kicked in and she heard the drill. Oh no! Not more holes she thought, but before she could conjure a protest, the drilling had commenced.
Strangely she didn’t feel pain as the drill began to whir, which was odd. She couldn’t be paralyzed because she could feel the aluminum warming and the hot shaved curls being tossed about. There was just no sensation of cutting. Soon the drill stopped and without removal of the box, her first screw was spun back into it’s hole and gently snugged. To her amazement, this process repeated itself 13 more times until the aluminum strap was firmly held against her bottom and all her screws were replaced. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, and the process hadn’t even left a scratch? Maybe, just maybe the holes had been some part of a larger plan all along.
Back at her wall, there was nothing to do but wait. Some squirrels raided the bird feeder, being ridiculed the whole duration by some Jays up in the pin oak. Occasionally the smell of spar varnish drifted from the garage in her direction, reminding her of her humble beginnings. Although it stank during the application, she had become thankful for the protective coating it gave once she’d been launched. Finally one day a familiar friend pulled into the drive, this particular white and gold truck had accompanied her on several sailing adventures before. The tone of voice as friends met was a bit different today though, a bit more excitement, even anticipation? As she was wheeled around from her post on the wall to the driveway, the most unique panorama unfolded to her view. There on the drive, was a hideous thin rail with wheels at one end, scrap boards that looked like they’d been hastily nailed crossways every few feet, all capped off by a far superior stainless steel bathroom grab handle. Sort of a cubism styled wood porcupine sculpture that had accidentally been run over by the recycling truck that was supposed to haul it away. While she was busy surveying the wheeled mess, she’d completely failed to see the box, Her box in fact, which now snatched her attention. It was almost square, but exactly her height, the aluminum strap that had fit so nicely had been glassed to the front edge of the curved parts of wood that she’d been flipped and marked for a few months before. Before she knew it, she was being turned on her side and the box was being carefully slid along some towels towards her. In a matter of minutes, it was gently adjusted, then screwed to the holes in her bottom, and finally clamped snugly to her transom. In the short time she’d had to process exactly what she’d seen, she’d almost failed to consider the finish, but memory told her it had matched her own scheme, but were those woodgrain flames ghosted behind the varnish?
Before she could ponder this any further, she was flipped back upright and now hoisted onto the wheeled contraption. Although not ideal initially, out came the screwgun, and a few minor adjustments were made. While crude by any standard, she had to admit, the porcupine supported her weight quite well, and the wheels certainly seemed to make it easy for the two men to move her around the driveway. Soon she was loaded in the white truck, snugly strapped down, and all her normal sailing parts carefully stacked around. Sailing? She hadn’t been sailing for a while now, and as comfortable as it was, how on earth would she turn with this new box attached where her rudder normally pinned? Soon she was bouncing down the familiar roads to the lake, and though they didn’t slow at the creek where she’d almost hit the cow, she smiled to herself as they passed. Once at the boat ramp she was quickly launched, tied up at the dock and rigged like normal, just with her rudder now on the back of the box instead of at her normal transom. As she bobbed gently at the dock with her sail luffing in the breeze she noticed that she didn’t sit quite as low in the water, her fore and aft stability was substantially improved, and although not drastically different, her side to side stability was a bit stiffer too. Soon, the men were climbing in, shoving off the dock and she was sailing once again! Even with the weight, she didn’t sit as low in the water. In fact, if the men stayed in the right spot, at her total weight of 640lbs, both her transoms still had clearance to the water. Maybe she would turn acceptably after all?
There had been no change to her Bolger 59’ sailplan now that she was 1.5 times her normal length, but due to her new waterline, she seemed to be traveling at least as fast, if not slightly faster than she normally would have, even given the relatively light 8-12mph wind that NOAA was calling for that day. With both her sail and her leeboard in the same place, her balance was affected nearly imperceptably, but she did notice that she took a bit more rudder to adjust course than normal. This seemed reasonable, since the distance from her rudder to her leeboard was double it’s normal value. Before she knew it, she was tacking through the wind. Her turning radius was larger than before, but better than she expected, and most importantly, she glided through the tack with less deceleration than before which surprised her. All in all, time to tack was just a little longer, but she ended tacks with about the same remaining speed as before. With this new box, she could still sail, and it was hard to tell, but a couple times it seemed as though the waves that always fought her went silent for a few seconds duing the larger puffs. Could she really be flirting with planing? She’d planed before, but only once the winds were above 15mph, and never with more than one person aboard. Oh well, definitive answers couldn’t be afforded by today’s wind levels, and she was headed nicely back at the the setting sun, towards the dock, the truck, and her sleepy wall.
A few weeks later, she was taken down from the wall, carefully lined up with the box, then screwed and clamped together. This time though, she was hoisted onto a much more intentional looking wooden frame, which was then carefully ramped and sawhorsed into the bed of her owners truck. Her boy came along this time too, and when they arrived at the familiar boat ramp, the man with the white and gold truck was there, but there were also two folks she’d never met before. Most interestingly her new wooden frame was quickly removed from the truck bed, hitched to the truck and carefully backed down into the water where she floated free and was soon tied to the dock. Today’s wind was a bit more consistent at around 12mph and she’d be lighter with only her owner and boy. Maybe she could test that planing theory again today! Alas, her foolish owner had forgotten her sail rig and lowers. But wait, he was starting down the ramp to the dock carrying a fuel tank. That noisy smelly thing again! This clear oversight was soon revealed to be intentional as she felt her owner clamp the 15 horse outboard to her box. It was only then that she noticed the other boat. It was a 1960’s Lonestar 13, it’s faded seafoam green gelcoat only giving a hint of it’s former glory.
Soon she understood the plan for the day. She and the 15 horse were expected to run chase for the second(?) first sail of a free boat someone was giving their brother for Christmas. Her goal today was to make sure the LS got back to shore if something went wrong, and if the dewalt drive, HER dewalt drive (which was now aboard the LS13) weren’t strong enough to push it back to shore. As she idled away from the dock however, she noticed that the weird pitching moment of the outboard at her normal 8 foot length was completely gone. Due to the direction of the steady breeze the waves were substantially more violent than before, even though the wind was roughtly the same. She slowly circled, keeping watch over the LS 13 as it was tested. A few times, her motor was gunned, and excitement would begin to take hold. While some things felt a little different than before, the choppy water kept her from doing anything really out of the ordinary with the extra power, and each time it was soon cut when the pounding became too exagerated. Soon the LS13 was loaded back on the trailer, her dewalt drive returned to her owner, and she was loaded back in the truck and headed home to an empty spot in the garage.
She had begun to wonder if she’d be 12 feet long with her new attachment forever, and although the garage was a bit more protected, it wasn’t her normal spot, and it still didn’t feel right. This time though, only a few days passed before she was once again loaded and whisked off to the water. This time to her favorite creek. She was soon floating with the 15 horse and after securing the truck, her owner and her girl stepped over the bow. This time, protected from the wind on the calm flat water of the creek, she was soon gently planing at around 6-8 miles per hour. Not any faster than she’d gone before, but oh so much smoother. In a few minutes, the creek joined the shallow end of the reservoir and she was dodging stumps and vegetation making her way through the channel until arriving at the mouth of the Sabine river. Here the river was about 50 feet wide, perfectly flat and moving slowly but steadily from the recent storms. She felt her owner punch the throttle even before she heard the engine begin to rev. and before she could protest, she was simply skimming along the water, mostly out of it. Over the whine of the engine, she could hear laughter from her people, and even thought she heard 15mph mentioned as her owner glanced down at the GPS. 15mph? Against the current? Before to long, she was turned around and pointed down river. Now the GPS read 19mph, and although the water felt the same to her, the extra breeze was cool and comfortable. She tried to remember what she’d overhead about averages back on the porch and quickly came to the conclusion that with her new attachment she could hit 17mph.
Over the course of the next few weeks, she was tested several more times, once with five people on board at a total weight of over 830lbs. She was obviously a bit slower with the extra weight, but 13mph was still pretty respectable for a truckbed boat with 5 souls on board. She was sailed a bit more too, her pointing ability to windward was very much reduced, particularly when the wind was light. Although she might have been a bit faster with it, she was a better sailboat when she left the VEDA XLVIII at home. The more she learned about herself and her new convertable potential, the more she realized that she loved motoring almost as much as she loved sailing. They were simply different. On one occasion her owner and boy even took the tube along. She recalled how slow she’d been the first time this was attempted and how her girl had simply resorted to collecting lily pads from her perch on the tube. No longer! Now she could pull both herself and her boy on the tube up onto a definite plane and travel nearly as fast as if both occupants were in the boat!
Back at her wall with time to think she decided that this must have been part of some larger plan all along. She had always loved sailing, always working to perfect the delicate balance between the wind prodding her onward and the waves holding her back. But now, now she had options. She could sail, she could motor, she could pull a tube, she could be 8 or 12 feet long. She could blast along a creek with trees blurring by 20 feet to either side, or she could simply enjoy the last peaceful remnants of the breeze before the sun dropped below the horizon and painted the sky with it’s final colors of the day. Was she best? Probably not. But it was impossible to deny that she was a very, very good part of both.
She was intrigued at first, each time she heard the whine of a power saw, or the smell of sawdust wafted her direction borne on the breeze. But over time she came to understand that the mailbox had received a replacement post, or the lower rotted portions of the garage door jamb had been rebuilt, and occasionally that another boat of a friend or aquaintance was being improved, if not saved entirely. She was close enough to witness for herself the cutting and welding of the new handrails for the back porch which increased its functionality for a few of the family’s extended members. A few balls of slag had even rolled and popped in her direction, but none were close enough for her concern to outweigh her curiosity. Gradually though, she forgot all about the VEDAxi, and the noisy, greasy outboard, and she dreamt only of peaceful sailing, propelled solely by the silent power which was on indefinite loan to her from the sun.
Occasionally however, she would awake with a start, having nearly impaled a cow which rose up to tower in front of her from within a formerly serene field of lily pads in which she had been silently gliding. It was always a comfort to realize that the offending bovine, while very real, was miles away in her pasture at this hour, that she was still soundly tucked into her wall, and that the memory had only now just been replicated in her dreams.
Going back to sleep, however, was an altogether different matter. Once she awakened, her mind became active and busy. Thinking. What-iffing. Remembering. It was in the lonesome, brutally honest hours of the night, shrouded by darkness, and with her thoughts accompanied only by the occasional serenade of a frog or the temperatic rhythm of the crickets, that she occasionially recalled her experience with the outboard. Her candor at this hour didn’t permit her the convenience of forgetting her ungainly stance in the water, the squeze of the clamps on her transom, and the peeling of the tape at the conclusion. She’d been glad to see the VEDAxi thrown, no, flung into the dumpster, and she’d whistled a harmony as the trash truck’s turbo spooled up out onto the highway and drove it away with finality. But just as surely as the dark silence required she recall the discomfort of the thing, it also demanded that she acknowledge the glory of it all. Yes, there was certainly the smell, the vibration, the buzzing commotion of the old two stroke, but there in the darkness if she was really to be honest with herself, there was also the speed. Speed that allowed her to rise up, up above the waves that ordinarilly did their best to hold her back from her true potential. Waves that under the best of circumstances lapped gently at her sides trying to lull her into a false spirit of complacency, and at their worst attempted to splinter her forward transom as she made arduous progress forward. No matter the chosen method of the day, the end result was always the same, the waves were ever toiling to keep her slow, keep her low, and most poignantly of all, keep her ever within their grasp.
One day however, as she watched a hawk attempting to feign busyness while an unsuspecting rabbit grazed at the edge of the woods, her owner appeared carrying a piece of cardboard and a pencil. The cardboard was held alongside her aft 2 ½ feet and her outline traced onto it with the lightly held pencil. This was different! Now when she heard the garage door open, and comprehended the weilding of power tools, she took more interest than she had in several months. A few evenings later, her owner removed the strap that secured her to the wall and swung her down onto the back porch. The porch furniture however was not slid aside, as it would have been if she were to be wheeled to the truck and taken sailing. No, her owner left her momentarily and returned with a very long piece of plywood which had the shape of her side cut into it? A few measurements later, and she was hoisted onto a pair of saw horses in similar fashion to when she’d received a new bottom of epoxy and xynole earlier in the year. Next there was a test fitting. From her upside down vantage point on the sawhorses it was hard to tell exactly, but whatever it was fit neatly against her transom and matched the curve of her rocker perfectly. Interestingly though, it extended back from her transom at least half her rocker length again, maybe even more. Just when she thought she had figured out what was going on, her girl appeared at the back door, waving some papers and mumbling something about an upcoming test. Algebra?! She was quickly tilted back against the wall, her safety strap secured and the mystery plywood whisked away to the garage. The excitement of whatever-it-was moments earlier, had just completely given way to a back porch crash course over tomorrow’s test material. She’d have to wait until another day for answers, unless of course she cared what the square root of X worked out to be on practice problem 17. Oh well, at least there was the familiar smell of coffee.
A few more weeks went by. There were more sawing sounds, some of which gave way to additional back porch coffee sessions to discuss General Washington, simultaneous equations, and the names of all 206 human bones. During one session she even overheard the latin name for the mosquitos that plagued her backyard several months of the year. But to her chagrin, the mystery plywood part was never part of the conversation. Until one day, a giant box with not one but two mystery parts was revealed! This time, she was moved from the back porch into the garage to be sawhorsed. Now one fit down each side, exactly spaced to her width, and there were transoms and a bottom. Back to her wall she went, there were rumors of a brake job on a motorcycle, and a lawnmower carburetor that needed cleaning. The Algebra session coffee smell was much desired when compared against the fumigation she endured during the carb cleaning, but as compensation for this, the mower was at least more interesting.
The next weekend, a massive clearing of the garage took place, and partway through this process, she was moved to the now empty bay. Rounding the corner, she realized sawhorses had already been set up. After being raised and steadied upside down, her owner removed 14 screws and O-rings from her bottom. She’d been curious about this while her bottom was being restored last spring. Why would her owner intentionally drill blind holes into her wood, bury machine nuts in epoxy, cover them with a layer of 6 oz glass cloth, and then drill the glass cloth so there was a hole again? At least he’d got it figured out before he put her back in the water. For this terrible lapse in judgement he had eventually put a 3/16 long 8-32 stainless screw with an O-ring under the head in each of the holes to keep the lake out, but... Her thoughts were broken again as the large box was once again cajoled into place, but this time the man was taking a very long time getting everything perfectly into place. She still had no idea what it was, but it did fit quite nicely. The only part she wasn’t particularly fond of, was a cold thin aluminum angle that just covered the now open row of holes. Soon her owner was crawling underneath and putting some “c” clamps on her transom, as they were tightened, a flood of memories came rushing back all at once. She’d felt this before with the VEDAxi. Could this thing be another one of those? Just as she was trying to decide whether to be excited or terrified, the air compressor kicked in and she heard the drill. Oh no! Not more holes she thought, but before she could conjure a protest, the drilling had commenced.
Strangely she didn’t feel pain as the drill began to whir, which was odd. She couldn’t be paralyzed because she could feel the aluminum warming and the hot shaved curls being tossed about. There was just no sensation of cutting. Soon the drill stopped and without removal of the box, her first screw was spun back into it’s hole and gently snugged. To her amazement, this process repeated itself 13 more times until the aluminum strap was firmly held against her bottom and all her screws were replaced. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all, and the process hadn’t even left a scratch? Maybe, just maybe the holes had been some part of a larger plan all along.
Back at her wall, there was nothing to do but wait. Some squirrels raided the bird feeder, being ridiculed the whole duration by some Jays up in the pin oak. Occasionally the smell of spar varnish drifted from the garage in her direction, reminding her of her humble beginnings. Although it stank during the application, she had become thankful for the protective coating it gave once she’d been launched. Finally one day a familiar friend pulled into the drive, this particular white and gold truck had accompanied her on several sailing adventures before. The tone of voice as friends met was a bit different today though, a bit more excitement, even anticipation? As she was wheeled around from her post on the wall to the driveway, the most unique panorama unfolded to her view. There on the drive, was a hideous thin rail with wheels at one end, scrap boards that looked like they’d been hastily nailed crossways every few feet, all capped off by a far superior stainless steel bathroom grab handle. Sort of a cubism styled wood porcupine sculpture that had accidentally been run over by the recycling truck that was supposed to haul it away. While she was busy surveying the wheeled mess, she’d completely failed to see the box, Her box in fact, which now snatched her attention. It was almost square, but exactly her height, the aluminum strap that had fit so nicely had been glassed to the front edge of the curved parts of wood that she’d been flipped and marked for a few months before. Before she knew it, she was being turned on her side and the box was being carefully slid along some towels towards her. In a matter of minutes, it was gently adjusted, then screwed to the holes in her bottom, and finally clamped snugly to her transom. In the short time she’d had to process exactly what she’d seen, she’d almost failed to consider the finish, but memory told her it had matched her own scheme, but were those woodgrain flames ghosted behind the varnish?
Before she could ponder this any further, she was flipped back upright and now hoisted onto the wheeled contraption. Although not ideal initially, out came the screwgun, and a few minor adjustments were made. While crude by any standard, she had to admit, the porcupine supported her weight quite well, and the wheels certainly seemed to make it easy for the two men to move her around the driveway. Soon she was loaded in the white truck, snugly strapped down, and all her normal sailing parts carefully stacked around. Sailing? She hadn’t been sailing for a while now, and as comfortable as it was, how on earth would she turn with this new box attached where her rudder normally pinned? Soon she was bouncing down the familiar roads to the lake, and though they didn’t slow at the creek where she’d almost hit the cow, she smiled to herself as they passed. Once at the boat ramp she was quickly launched, tied up at the dock and rigged like normal, just with her rudder now on the back of the box instead of at her normal transom. As she bobbed gently at the dock with her sail luffing in the breeze she noticed that she didn’t sit quite as low in the water, her fore and aft stability was substantially improved, and although not drastically different, her side to side stability was a bit stiffer too. Soon, the men were climbing in, shoving off the dock and she was sailing once again! Even with the weight, she didn’t sit as low in the water. In fact, if the men stayed in the right spot, at her total weight of 640lbs, both her transoms still had clearance to the water. Maybe she would turn acceptably after all?
There had been no change to her Bolger 59’ sailplan now that she was 1.5 times her normal length, but due to her new waterline, she seemed to be traveling at least as fast, if not slightly faster than she normally would have, even given the relatively light 8-12mph wind that NOAA was calling for that day. With both her sail and her leeboard in the same place, her balance was affected nearly imperceptably, but she did notice that she took a bit more rudder to adjust course than normal. This seemed reasonable, since the distance from her rudder to her leeboard was double it’s normal value. Before she knew it, she was tacking through the wind. Her turning radius was larger than before, but better than she expected, and most importantly, she glided through the tack with less deceleration than before which surprised her. All in all, time to tack was just a little longer, but she ended tacks with about the same remaining speed as before. With this new box, she could still sail, and it was hard to tell, but a couple times it seemed as though the waves that always fought her went silent for a few seconds duing the larger puffs. Could she really be flirting with planing? She’d planed before, but only once the winds were above 15mph, and never with more than one person aboard. Oh well, definitive answers couldn’t be afforded by today’s wind levels, and she was headed nicely back at the the setting sun, towards the dock, the truck, and her sleepy wall.
A few weeks later, she was taken down from the wall, carefully lined up with the box, then screwed and clamped together. This time though, she was hoisted onto a much more intentional looking wooden frame, which was then carefully ramped and sawhorsed into the bed of her owners truck. Her boy came along this time too, and when they arrived at the familiar boat ramp, the man with the white and gold truck was there, but there were also two folks she’d never met before. Most interestingly her new wooden frame was quickly removed from the truck bed, hitched to the truck and carefully backed down into the water where she floated free and was soon tied to the dock. Today’s wind was a bit more consistent at around 12mph and she’d be lighter with only her owner and boy. Maybe she could test that planing theory again today! Alas, her foolish owner had forgotten her sail rig and lowers. But wait, he was starting down the ramp to the dock carrying a fuel tank. That noisy smelly thing again! This clear oversight was soon revealed to be intentional as she felt her owner clamp the 15 horse outboard to her box. It was only then that she noticed the other boat. It was a 1960’s Lonestar 13, it’s faded seafoam green gelcoat only giving a hint of it’s former glory.
Soon she understood the plan for the day. She and the 15 horse were expected to run chase for the second(?) first sail of a free boat someone was giving their brother for Christmas. Her goal today was to make sure the LS got back to shore if something went wrong, and if the dewalt drive, HER dewalt drive (which was now aboard the LS13) weren’t strong enough to push it back to shore. As she idled away from the dock however, she noticed that the weird pitching moment of the outboard at her normal 8 foot length was completely gone. Due to the direction of the steady breeze the waves were substantially more violent than before, even though the wind was roughtly the same. She slowly circled, keeping watch over the LS 13 as it was tested. A few times, her motor was gunned, and excitement would begin to take hold. While some things felt a little different than before, the choppy water kept her from doing anything really out of the ordinary with the extra power, and each time it was soon cut when the pounding became too exagerated. Soon the LS13 was loaded back on the trailer, her dewalt drive returned to her owner, and she was loaded back in the truck and headed home to an empty spot in the garage.
She had begun to wonder if she’d be 12 feet long with her new attachment forever, and although the garage was a bit more protected, it wasn’t her normal spot, and it still didn’t feel right. This time though, only a few days passed before she was once again loaded and whisked off to the water. This time to her favorite creek. She was soon floating with the 15 horse and after securing the truck, her owner and her girl stepped over the bow. This time, protected from the wind on the calm flat water of the creek, she was soon gently planing at around 6-8 miles per hour. Not any faster than she’d gone before, but oh so much smoother. In a few minutes, the creek joined the shallow end of the reservoir and she was dodging stumps and vegetation making her way through the channel until arriving at the mouth of the Sabine river. Here the river was about 50 feet wide, perfectly flat and moving slowly but steadily from the recent storms. She felt her owner punch the throttle even before she heard the engine begin to rev. and before she could protest, she was simply skimming along the water, mostly out of it. Over the whine of the engine, she could hear laughter from her people, and even thought she heard 15mph mentioned as her owner glanced down at the GPS. 15mph? Against the current? Before to long, she was turned around and pointed down river. Now the GPS read 19mph, and although the water felt the same to her, the extra breeze was cool and comfortable. She tried to remember what she’d overhead about averages back on the porch and quickly came to the conclusion that with her new attachment she could hit 17mph.
Over the course of the next few weeks, she was tested several more times, once with five people on board at a total weight of over 830lbs. She was obviously a bit slower with the extra weight, but 13mph was still pretty respectable for a truckbed boat with 5 souls on board. She was sailed a bit more too, her pointing ability to windward was very much reduced, particularly when the wind was light. Although she might have been a bit faster with it, she was a better sailboat when she left the VEDA XLVIII at home. The more she learned about herself and her new convertable potential, the more she realized that she loved motoring almost as much as she loved sailing. They were simply different. On one occasion her owner and boy even took the tube along. She recalled how slow she’d been the first time this was attempted and how her girl had simply resorted to collecting lily pads from her perch on the tube. No longer! Now she could pull both herself and her boy on the tube up onto a definite plane and travel nearly as fast as if both occupants were in the boat!
Back at her wall with time to think she decided that this must have been part of some larger plan all along. She had always loved sailing, always working to perfect the delicate balance between the wind prodding her onward and the waves holding her back. But now, now she had options. She could sail, she could motor, she could pull a tube, she could be 8 or 12 feet long. She could blast along a creek with trees blurring by 20 feet to either side, or she could simply enjoy the last peaceful remnants of the breeze before the sun dropped below the horizon and painted the sky with it’s final colors of the day. Was she best? Probably not. But it was impossible to deny that she was a very, very good part of both.
