“Looks like you got your main sail stuck.” Clif Payne greeted Joe at the dock on Wednesday morning. We had motored into the Great Salt Pond the night before with our main sail tied up in a strange square shape around the mast because it wouldn’t come down properly. After a short, but solid, night’s sleep, Joe had stepped off the boat in search of coffee for me and assistance for Cygnet’s various ailments. “You noticed that, hunh?” Joe replied cheekily to Clif’s statement. “I might need to find someone to send me up in a bosun’s chair to fix it, so my wife doesn’t have to hoist me up.”…