“I’m debating.” I said.
“Debating what?” Joe asked.
“Debating whether or not to do what you say, or insist we go into Point Judith.”
Joe was still thinking that we would sail all night and ease into Mystic River with the sunrise; I was still unconvinced. It was dark and the stars were scattered above us in their beautiful cosmic pictographs. We were slicing through the water at a comfortable 4.5 knots, a few miles off the coast of Rhode Island, about halfway between Newport and Point Judith. Straight ahead were the buoys that could guide us into that Harbor of Refuge. I was a bit anxious and tired; but more than that, I was worried that our family back at home would be freaked out if I couldn’t let them know we were in a safe harbor for the night. The engine was leaking oil, the steering was still stiff, and the iPad was dead, forcing me to use the smaller screen of Joe’s phone to navigate. It was a lot for this newbie to handle.
The course we were on would take us straight into Point Judith, but in order to get to Mystic we would have to tack south toward Block Island and then back up north to Mystic. Joe didn’t want to go into Point Judith Harbor of Refuge because there aren’t really any services there, only an anchorage. We couldn’t fix things or get oil all we could do is anchor and sleep. I could see his points, but still wanted some kind of compromise.
“Well,” I said. “If we have to tack back toward Block Island anyway… why don’t we just go all the way to Block and stay there for the night? We could get there by midnight and then ride the wind up to Mystic tomorrow like we originally planned.”
He liked that idea. So our sail plan changed again. This had become “The passage to Block Island…No, Newport… No, Mystic… No, Port Judith… No, Block Island.”
Now that I knew we would not be sailing ALL night. I could relax and enjoy the stars a bit. There was no moon, but the constellations above us were big and bright and you could see the dusty streaks of the Milky Way.
As we approached Judith, we were on the lookout for a bell buoy. I saw it on the chart and we could hear it. When we reached it, we tacked south and picked up our course for the Great Salt Pond.
I was thinking about the early travelers and what it must’ve been like to navigate by the stars. As we were sailing west, the Big Dipper was to our right, suspended over the coast of Rhode Island, meaning it was to the north. When we changed course to head south, it shifted to be off our stern, just as I expected. I found a thrill in this.
My first night sail was a bit daunting for sure, but there were some highlights that I will never forget, just like that night snorkel I did so many years ago: coming up on deck to see us sailing past a huge freighter, anchored in the Sound, and glowing orange with work lights; eating smoked salmon with Joe in the cockpit under the stars (even though I was slightly concerned that the smell would attract sharks); seeing stars and constellations I had never seen before; and the incredible quiet of traveling at night with the engine off and only the sound of the waves lapping at the sides of the hull.
Once we turned onto our 190 course toward Block Island, I was relieved. I knew it was only about 7 nautical miles to the Great Salt Pond and we were traveling at about 5.5 – 6.5 knots. I could see the lighthouse at the northern tip of the island. I also kept seeing this other array of bright red lights off the eastern coast of Block. “What are those lights?” I kept asking Joe. “It’s like a landing strip in the middle of the water.” Surprisingly, there was nothing noted in the Navionics software. It wasn’t until we got home and looked at the paper charts more closely that we learned it was wind farm in the water! And they weren’t off the East Coast of the island, but rather 3 miles southeast. Five giant windmills! I’m glad we didn’t end up sailing anywhere near those before knowing what they were. And we are definitely contacting Navionics about this missing information!
We started getting closer to Block and finally had some navigational aids to look for. This is my favorite part of sailing and I was excited to guide us into the channel to get into the Great Salt Pond and alert everyone back home to our safety before midnight!
About 1.5 miles out from the channel Joe started to lower the sails. The mizzen came down first, no problem.
I took the helm and he went up to take the main sail down.
This is when Cygnet lived up to her name! You see, a Cygnet is a young swan. And when Joe told this young swan that it was time to stop sailing and get ready for bed, she acted just as petulant toddler would. “No!” she said. “I will not drop this sail! I will not go to bed. I have waited years and years to be out on the water, my big beautiful sails filled with wind, and I want to keep going!”
Joe fought and fought with her, but she would not let that main sail come down. At the same time he was struggling with that, I was struggling with the steering, keeping close eye on that lighthouse and the buoys that marked the rocks on the northern tip of the island. I checked the depth meter, checked the lights, checked the compass, checked Joe. Luckily, we weren’t moving much at all. No closer to the channel but also no closer to danger, so that was fine by me. I was also wary of steering her in such a way that the wind would catch the other side of the sail and force the boom to swing, knocking Joe over. It was a nerve wracking experience that felt like an hour, but was probably only about 15 minutes.
Joe gave up on pulling the sail down and trimmed it along the boom side instead. He could only make it up about 2/3rd of the way, but it would have to do. Next he got the headsail made up and fired up the engine. He was not happy, but he was calm and focused and went about getting us to where we needed to be.
I took over navigating again, and we made our way into the Great Salt Pond. I guided us to Payne’s dock where, luckily, there was plenty of room for us to tie up. It was a tricky maneuver with half the Main sail flying but, fortunately, Joe is like a magician the way he handles that vessel. I was frustrated with myself that I couldn’t be more help; but I did manage to successfully throw him the dock lines and after a few stressful minutes we were safe and secure. This might not have been Point Judith, but it was most certainly a harbor of refuge. It was 1:30am. We had been on the water for 16.5 hours. I texted family to let them know we were safe and breathed a sigh of relief.
That night we slept in our clothes. In the morning we would rise to tackle the problems we were facing (stuck main sail, stiff steering, oil leak, dead iPad). But for the next few hours we were safe in the pond, we were warm in our sleeping bags, and Cygnet—that recalcitrant child—had acquiesced to her bedtime.
