Chickenhawk: Back in the World

Ireland and I rowed ashore with a big spool of line. We tied one end of the line to a big tree trunk and then rowed the other end back to the Namaste. John tied it to the mainsail halyard so that when we cranked the winch on the mast, instead of raising the sail, we’d pull on the two hundred feet of line attached to the tree. The idea was simple: the line from the anchor we dropped as we came in went through a drain port in the gunwale amidships and back to a winch in the cockpit. When we winched in the two lines, the Namaste should lean over. And she did, for a while. The problem was that the pulley at the masthead was embedded in the mast, the perfect position for raising and lowering the sail. Now, though, the halyard, pulled way off to the side, was binding against the slot in the masthead. The farther over the Namaste leaned, the tighter the line jammed, and the harder it was to crank the winch. When it took two of us, hanging on the handle, to move it an inch, John said there was something wrong. The Namaste listed over about forty-five degrees, but we needed another twenty.

I suggested we had two problems: the pulley at the masthead was oriented wrong, and the anchor line was set up wrong.

“What the hell do you know about this?” John said. He was covered in sweat from the effort of winching. He was frustrated. He knew it wasn’t working like it was supposed to. He was thinking about it; and now the know-it-all dinger was offering unsolicited criticism again.

“Nothing about this, specifically,” I said. “But I can see what you’re trying to do, and all we have to do—”

“Look, Bob. We almost got it. Need another push at it, is all. Catch my breath.”

“Nope. Won’t work,” I said, my voice tinged with authority. “When you lower the top of the mast, John, you’re raising the keel. What is it? Eight tons of lead? You need to move the point where the anchor line is tied lower, below the center of gravity.”

“Lower?” John looked at Ireland, who shrugged. “Where? You can’t get any lower than the gunwale.”

“It’s simple, John,” I said too smugly. “You’ve got it rigged wrong. All we have to do is take the anchor line and run it in the opposite direction. Pull it over the other side and down under the keel. Then when we pull against it, we’re pulling from under the keel and the keel’s weight helps pull the Namaste over. But you still need to—”

“I don’t see how that would make a bit of difference.” John was plainly irritated. “Let’s get back to work.”

Ireland and I winched in the mainsail halyard, John winched in the anchor line. The Namaste twisted between the two opposing forces until she achieved equilibrium—about forty-five degrees. You could not make her lean another degree. We crawled up the deck and hung over the gunwale. The spot we wanted to install the depth finder was still two feet underwater.

John said we should all get on the mainsail winch. More force was the answer. The three of us hung on the handle, jerking down with all our might. We even made the thick bronze handle bend, but the Namaste did not budge.

I got a piece of paper, drew my plan, and showed it to John. I spoke quietly, trying not to sound superior about it. “See, John. Most of the weight of the boat is in the keel, and the way you’ve got it now, we’re trying to raise the keel out of the water. If the keel was touching the bottom, it would work. I know, you don’t want to be on the bottom because we might not get her off. Fine. So we have to make her think she’s on the bottom. That’s what will happen if we run the line under the keel.”

John nodded reluctantly. “That’ll do it, you think?”

“Yes, if we re-rig the masthead pulley, too. It’s got way too much friction with the line going the wrong way.”

“We’ll try moving the anchor line,” John said. “We’ll see what happens.”

“But—”

“We’ll re-rig the anchor line. Bob,” John announced.

Bob and I let out the mainsail line and the Namaste was once again standing bolt upright. It was getting close to ten o’clock. I undid the anchor line and Bob swam it under the keel and up on the other side. I pulled it through a guide and into a deck winch and took up the slack.

We winched the top over again. The Namaste leaned farther over than before, but as the line left the mast at ever increasing angles, the friction at the masthead increased.

“I didn’t think it would work,” John said, going below for a beer.

I followed him down. “John,” I said as he reached into the cooler. “I know this’ll work.” I tapped my drawing. “We know your way won’t. We can winch on that fucking thing until the line breaks—it’s cinched up tight as a knot. It’s not going to work and you know it.”

“You know my way won’t work?” John glared at me. “I’m the fucking sailor here, Bob. I’ve done this before.”

“It doesn’t matter, John. It’s simple physics.”

John shook his head angrily. “Physics? Shit. I fucking hate it when goddamn academics try to take on the real world.”

“I’m not an academic, John. I’m good at this stuff.”