Tugging

We had our shakedown cruise all planned out. Our new boat Carrie Rose, a Nordic Tug 32 named for Charlotte’s two grand mothers, was lying in Sturgeon Bay, WI. While on beautiful Green Bay we were going to venture out and get familiar with power boating.

I started sailing forty years ago at age eleven and have only driven a small cruiser for less than 1 hour before it deconstructed itself, stranding us in the middle of a shallow Florida river. With my life to this point being dedicated to piloting sailboats, being around our new powered house was making my already troublesome reflux act up.

As often happens with plans, this one went astray. We tried to visit her often, making the eight hour roundtrip from Chicago eight times but only managing to get out thrice on Lake Michigan and for not very long at that. Sturgeon Bay is tucked into the middle of a peninsula that separates Green Bay from Lake Michigan and it takes a good hour to slowly motor out to the lake. Once out it is usually time to turn around and come back.

The first time I suggested we take the tug out I got an incredulous look from Charlotte. Now Charlotte is not one of those women that have abhorrence to recreational vehicles. You know the whole panoply of two and four wheeled, keeled or un-keeled vehicles that most men spend their lives lusting after and squandering their fortunes on.

She has motorcycled across the country, ridden bicycles in all types of terrain, taken many a cold shower on camping trips and spent the last ten years sailing Lenore, our sadly departed 31’ sloop. But some how the prospect of actually moving Carrie Rose gave her pause. I also spent the last seven months since the bank bought her for us anticipating and dreading this day. Just starting the engine filled me with trepidation. After all the big cream-colored Cummins diesel sitting under the pilothouse cost more than any car I have ever owned.

To put it off a little longer I decided to check the vital fluids. Yes, there was water in the raw water strainer and oil in the oil pan. The fuel filter was full of glistening amber dew and the sickly green anti-freeze was topped off. It was time to sit down and discuss the de-docking maneuvers. To make matters worse we were actually at a finger dock.

While it was nice to have the utilities and the camaraderie of fellow boaters that comes along with docks, we are used to a mooring. On a mooring you have anonymity. People stick to their own business and you can usually slip off your lines and depart unheeded. This is not the case when resting in a modern dockuminium. There are eyes everywhere.

The docks are haunted by the poor souls of newly retired 50 y/o men with way too much energy and no interest in daytime soaps. Even the joy of Oprah or Dr. Phil eludes them. They sit, wait and dream of mechanical dysfunctions (on boats other than their own mind you) to give them a reason to get their Craftsman tools out of the rear locker and lend a hand. It makes me think of derelict salvage tugs waiting off dangerous shoals for their next victim. Luckily salvage rights have no bearing at the dockside.

But I digress; it was time to head out to sea. Carrie Rose was all warmed up. Water and more exhaust than I could ever imagine was emitting out the back. The bright yellow power cable was tossed off; the dock lines let go. Charlotte was ready to spring aboard with the last tether as I eased the tug into reverse and then abruptly veered starboard.

Was this the tremendous prop-walk from the 4-bladed prop connected to 210-turbocharged-horse power? Well no, it was the forward dock line we had forgotten to disengage. Putting the tug in forward, Charlotte managed to get the offending dock line off and get on the boat but by that time we were jammed sideways between two docks.

My mind turned to all the dockmanship books I have read for some pithy maneuver to get me out of this mess. Nothing came to mind, but the time wasted in inaction allowed the wind to blow us out into the channel. I managed to get the boat pointed in the right direction and only just missed those nice people’s boat farther down on the pier.

Once freed, I turned to see who had witnessed our inaugural cruise and was amazed to see not a soul. It seems the inhabitance of these, and for all I know, all docks nap in the early afternoon. Taking on the envied European characteristic of a long lunch.

We had done it. We were free and I promised myself to enjoy the moment and not fret about the return trip till off the lake. On the premise that nobody really cares much when things go right, I will just say that we brought Carrie Rose in expertly and were tied-up before any of our now awake neighbors reached us. We were acclaimed for gently docking, especially without any help and expletives.

As it turned out our shakedown cruise came early one calm morning while we crossed a 900-foot deep section of the lake to Frankfort, MI. We stopped only once on the way to let a gigantic lake freighter pass in front of us, even though I did have the right of way.

Three weeks later with 500 miles under our keel and more diesel out the tailpipe than during my entire sailing career, we tied up to our mooring at the mouth of Montrose Harbor in Chicago. Looking around we both exclaimed that it was the nicest harbor we had visited all summer.