The Trip Home
From Lake Erie to Montreal

By Duncan Cameron 

(This story is "under construction")

It would be Mac's last sail as master of Catspaw, and a great introduction to her for me. I lined up friends for some parts of the trip past Lake Erie, and planned on getting used to singlehanding for the rest (not everybody has July and August off).

We strategized a bit about the Lake Erie weather - the storms are known to be strong and difficult to predict. We originally thought we might wait for a good weather "window", then just go right up the middle of the Lake. It would be  sailing around the clock, standing watches, and would take about 48 hours. This would end up at the entrance to the Welland Canal, ready to transit into Lake Ontario.

As it turned out, despite both being adventurous types, we had a fit of common sense. Attempting a 48 hour blast in a 35 year old sailboat (that hadn't been sailed in twelve years) didn't make any sense as a shakedown cruise. We set out to do a 35 mile daysail across Lake Erie, to Leamington Ontario, instead.

The wind did come back enough to get up the big reacher for the last part, and we got into Leamington just before dusk. Customs was a five minute phone call, and we were all set.

35 miles run

Tuesday, July 20:
Leamington to Erieau

The next morning, I got my first lesson in manouevering the Westwind under power. It's tricky at close quarters: with the rudder in front of the prop, you can't spin on a dime. In reverse, though, it's just the opposite, and she'll go right where you point the rudder. (This is great for showing off by backing into slips).

The following day's run was a bit longer, about 45 miles out around Point Pelee, and up the coast to Erieau. It was pretty uneventful, except for a bit of confusion about some strange yellow buoys. We sailed right through them, but later we found out they marked a firing range, so 'live and learn'!

Mac had a phone call that evening though, and had to leave to attend a funeral.  It was great to have him along for the fitting out and the first few days. Now I was about to begin my first single-handed experience, for the rest of the way up the coast.

45 miles run, 80 nautical miles so far

Wednesday, July 21: Single-handing for the first time
Erieau to Port Stanley

The next leg was another 45 miles to Port Stanley, with a following wind all the way. This proved to be a mixed blessing, since I kept getting slewed around by the short, steep Lake Erie waves. I tried three or four times, but couldn't manage to get the whisker pole out before she'd gybe. The Autohelm couldn't maintain a course downwind, or even reaching off. I was pretty tired of hand-steering, navigating and keeping the sails full, wing-on-wing, by the time I pulled in ten hours later.

Still, I'd done fine on my own for my first time, and made an accurate landfall, so it was pretty satisfying. I even hove-to for lunch partway, so I did feel kinda salty.

I threaded past the lift-bridge, into "Sailor's Alley" in Port Stanley. It's a narrow stretch of the river, chock-full of sailboats, and I had a time trying to find a spot to moor or tie up. The terrific folks at the Port Stanley Sailing Squadron moved several boats to raft me up at their docks, though, and made me feel right at home.

45 miles run, 125 nautical miles so far

Thursday, July 22: Lay-up in Port Stanley

I spent the next day on maintenance and getting things re-stowed. The big excitement was an electrical fire - smoke pouring out of the quarterberth. I almost let go with the extinguisher, but it died out quickly. It turned out that a couple of loose power connectors had shorted - the smoke was all the insulation buring off an old wire running along the quarterberth, back to the battery in the lazarette. I disconnected the culprits, and vowed to rewire the boat.

Coming up was a big decision - Long Point juts out 20 miles east into Lake Erie, and offers very few anchorages. It's a spit of very low-lying land, a lot like a big sand dune. It doesn't break the wind much at all, and the best it offers is shelter from swells coming from the opposite side.

The people next to me in a CS27 helped out with some local knowledge. On the far side (North) of Long Point, there's a small bay, mostly open, but protected by reefs and sandbars. It's well-buoyed, and if you are careful winding your way in, it offers reasonable protection. We worked out detailed bearings together after I hoisted him up the mast to replace his jib halyard, and I had the basics of a plan.

Friday July 23: The Storm
Port Stanley to Long Point

Winds were forecast to continue from the SSW, then back 180 degrees to the NNE. This meant - what?

I could broad reach the length of Long Point, and if the wind shifted north before sunset, I could anchor on the south side. If it hadn't shifted yet, I'd have to get up around the point, but be sure to get into the anchorage in case it swung during the night. It seemed tricky, and it was 65 miles to the anchorage, but I did plan on an early start. I wasn't happy with the plan, because I couldn't figure out any good fallbacks. Nothing better occurred to me, though, so I went.

That was the first mistake. (The next one was not to bother filling the spare gas tank, since I wanted that early start.) Things started well, with a nice following breeze from the SSW. I passed close by a gas platform off Port Burwell, and noticed a bad smell. This confirmed the broadcast warning of a gas leak that I heard later on.

By noon, I was heading along the south side of Long Point, but the wind had become light and variable. I hoped this heralded the shift north. If this was the case, I'd carry on until for a while, then just anchor further along in the lee. It just kept coming in fits and starts out of the SSW, though, with no indication of any definite change.

Along about this time, I began regretting my failure to fill the spare gas tank, since I was only making a knot or two, and occasionally becalmed. One thing I could have done would be to power up around the point to the anchorage (which would be good in most weather). I didn't have this option, though, because I had only about four hours of fuel. That wasn't enough, and I wanted a reserve of a couple of hours anyway.

I kept ghosting along, waiting for the wind to become more definite. It was hot, I was getting tired, and time was running out. When the wind freshened and backed to the NW around 4 o'clock, I was initially quite pleased.

That's really about when things started to go wrong, though. Pretty soon, the gusts were getting strong enough that it was time for the genoa to come down. I went forward and got her in, but it was challenging. The swells were coming up short and steep, the foredeck was pitching heavily, and the boat was rolling well over in the gusts. I went back to put a reef in the main before tackling the working jib.

Once that was in, I took a break and just steered for a while to see how she'd sail that way. I started thinking about anchoring up by the point, but there didn't seem to be much shelter from the low dunes, and the seas were strong even close to shore. The wind kept strengthening, the rigging was starting to sing, and the seas were building. Before I knew it, going forward to get the working jib up just seemed too chancy.

There still didn't seem to be much shelter in the lee, so I carried on. I was still aiming to round the point, and get into the anchorage. That was not the best choice, though, as the wind kept backing into the north, then the northeast, building as it went. I tried three times to round the point, but she just couldn't make it with only a reefed main.

Each time, I got blown further back, and I was getting set into the shipping lanes. Finally I knew all I could do was head back up and gut it out in a rolly anchorage.

Somehow, in all this it had got to be close to ten o'clock. It was a fairly dark night, and the wind was blowing a steady 20-25 knots, a bit worse in the gusts. I was headed beam on to the swells and rolling the rail well under, when the mainsail ripped.

It's an ugly,frightening sound, and I could feel a sick taste of adrenalin as I realized this could end up being a really bad night. It took about three tries to get most of it down, but of course the slides jammed. It was flogging and ripping worse, and I was hanging on for dear life (I found out after I had a six-inch bruise on my ribs). I finally got all that I could tied down, and went back to start the engine.

I considered running before the wind to the American shore, but I had no idea how I'd study the chart enough to make a safe landfall. That would mean staying in the shipping channel, too, which seemed like a poor idea at night in a storm. Instead, I headed north to Long Point once again, this time about three miles away.

There was still a bit of moonlight, and there was the lighthouse to aim for, so it didn't seem quite so bad. I could see the deeper darkness of the shore, and remembered the reefs close to the light, so I aimed about a mile in from the lighthouse. I ran in as close to shore as I dared, and as soon as I could see some beach in the spotlight, I got the anchor out. It set right away in the sand, so I took the other end of the rode and fixed a pair of small spare anchors. I got them out in a bit of a 'Y', went below and crashed. It was 11:30.

55 miles run, 180 nautical miles so far

After the trip was over, I found this quotation about Long Point at a diving site:

"Well over 100 vessels met their end around this beautiful but treacherous peninsula...miles of beaches...over a dozen known wreck sites..."

Not me!

Saturday, July 24: Limping in to Port

The next morning wasn't a whole lot of fun, but I did get some sleep in fits and starts, and a bit more before dawn. I was up and getting things straightened away by mid-morning, and set out again after lunch. The wind was steady on the nose, and I had no mainsail anymore, so I used some more of the remaining fuel to power up around the point.

Once (finally!) past the Long Point light, I got a bit of sea room, and hanked on the working jib. The combination of this and a dying breeze in the afternoon made for a fitful beat up to Port Dover, about fifteen miles due north. It felt like there was as much leeway as forward speed, but I finally made it into the Port Dover Marina before sunset.

A "concerned fellow yachtsman" came by, anxious to tell me something was wrong with the boat. Having been through the storm, I didn't know if I'd missed something. I listened carefully while he explained that the bottom inch of my swim ladder was dragging in the water, and that he could hardly stand it!

I bit my tongue and politely thanked him for his concern, promising to "see to it without delay". I knew things were in good shape if that's all he could find wrong. I'd made it!

18 miles run, 198 nautical miles so far

Sunday, July 25: Things are Looking Up Again

Friday night I'd called a fellow Westwind owner, Bob, to tell him I was delayed. We'd "met" on the internet when I was looking for Westwind information before buying the boat. He lived not far away, and had offered to help on the transit to Lake Ontario through the big Seaway Locks. With no mainsail, I told him I didn't know how long things might take to get on track. Bob said he understood, and I promised to call again once things were more settled.

The next morning, I was enjoying coffee and fruit in the cockpit, and having a look around. I noticed a big fella coming down the dock with a bag over his shoulder, and wondered why he seemed to keep looking over my way. Sure enough, he strode right up alongside, threw a sailbag in the cockpit, and said "Hi, I'm Bob, here's my mainsail, send it back to me when you get home!"