The Arrow was one of the number of smaller one man sailboats that came out of the 1970’s to replace the aging Sunfish and challenge the Laser’s growing dominance in the class. A cat boat; with just a little bit more sail area and a whole lot more beam than the Laser; this extra beam, provided a bit more stability for the less accomplished sailor; BUT added a lot more weight and one huge problem in-so-much as, if you went over, you were DEFINITELY going to turtle.
Turtling your dinghy is one big pain in the butt. For those who don’t know what the frick I’m talking about… A well designed boat, when capsized will rest sideways on the water, the balance of buoyancy in the hull to the configuration of the rigging allows the mast and sail, now resting in the water, to prevent the boat from turning past 90 degrees. Righting a typically capsized boat is a snap; simply crawl out onto the centerboard, or dagger and and let your body weight bring the boat upright… most people can with very little skill or effort capsize ANHD right a Laser without getting wet.
Turtling is when the capsized boat tips beyond 90 degrees… Think, mast pointing straight down, centerboard pointing straight up… To right a turtled boat, you basically have to stand on the gunells, jump up and down and reef on the centerboard with all your strength… I’ll give you a small tip her, for all of you trying to right your turtled dinghies, try positioning the boat in such a way that the waves will assist in the righting… I’ll let you figure that out.
The Arrow we had in our backyard, was one of two my father was, trying out as potential boats to add to the aging fleet our sailing club used for its junior sailing program. I can’t remember why we kept these boats in the backyard; but regardless, there they were at my disposal, and I used them best I could. Now, seeing that at the time I was nine, and not yet enrolled in sailing school. I usually used one of them, without sails as a swimming platform. My father would take me out under sail from time to time; I will note that my father is an exceptional; sailor.
Given the extra beam and the extra weight and extra stability of the Arrow; it really wasn’t that fun a boat to sail for an exceptional sailor, definitely not so in lighter winds. In heavy air, it could be a good ride, probably even better for the little kid joyriding while his dad set out on a honking, planing reach; maybe catching the odd good wave and doing a bit of surfing [a point of sail tenfold more exciting on a Laser]… I don’t recall too many time my father taking me out in a good fresh breeze but I do remember one time more than the others.
Maybe it was that it was a gloriously sunny day in late spring. Maybe my dad had had a few extra beers; I never concerned myself with my dad’s beers, to me they represented that most consistent and enjoyable of assignments growing up… Forget mowing the lawn or shoveling the snow; “…get me a beer” was the call I could hear from anywhere in the yard, the call to grab a cold one from the fridge, run it over to him, or maybe struggle with three or four for him and his pals; get a great big thank you from the guys; get a big ol thank-you from that one guy who was ultimately the absolute dead center of my entire my existence, my universe…
The wind was blowin’, the sun was shining; I helped best I could as my dad rigged up the Arrow. I most likely would have already squeezed into the old Kapok keyhole life jacket myself… LIFE jacket is kind of a misnomer for what they called life jackets back in the 70s. Look at it this way; for buoyancy, they used this weird shredded vegetable matter called kapok, which they theoretically sealed into plastic bags to keep this weird fiber dry and theoretically buoyant. These bags, which were usually waterlogged after the first year or so of use, were sewn into puke orange fabric; sewn into a shape that strongly resembled stocks used to chain prisoners up in the town square in medieval times. Putting on a life jacket in the 1970s was essentially similar to the sentence for stealing a loaf of bread from the baker in 1678.
I have absolutely positive memories of this sail with my father. Despite being hobbled in this puke orange bloated water logged torture device; I was having a blast. We were probably just sailing back and forth across the two mile stretch, shore to shore on this lake we called the Bay of Quinte. I’m sure my dad was just sailing reach to reach in order to maximize the fun; giving his boy a bit of the thrill of sailing…
Any good sailor can capsize a boat. Its not the end of the world; the boat tips, you get wet, right the boat and sail on. Heck, we’d do it ten times for fun later when we’d go for a sail after sailing school class or before the start or after the finish of a race.
My father claims that the hiking straps popped, and that he unexpectedly flipped off over the side of the Arrow; over we went. Now, this claim of a some part breaking; its happened to me, AND considering the chain of events that happened next, is an absolutely believable claim; one I support my father in to this day. He’s made wilder claims about wilder accidents in his life; some, well one surrounding the events in which his neighbor lit his garage on fire just as my father noticed the ninny was using an electric pump to drain the gas out of the tank in his car in order to effect some repair or what not… That claim, which we all also support, resulted in my father’s leg looking like a side of beef after 3rd degree burns and months of skin grafting surgery so professionally meted out by the medics at the Canadian Armed Forces in Kingston… My dad’s not one to make false claims.
Over we went.
No big deal; ‘cept for the Arrow being quite a bit worse a piece of naval architecture than expected… This probably would a fun little dunking in an otherwise blast of a sail. I’m sure my dad could have righted the Arrow quickly if he didn’t first have to collect his boy, now floating around in the Bay of Quinte, bobbing around like the town drunk in the stocks after a good night of grog. Perhaps if I could have actually moved my arms, I may have been able to either keep hold of, or swim back to the boat on my own. As I was being collected by my dad, the Arrow turtled.
Again, NOT that big of deal. My dad being quite a burly man and “way stronger than your dad”, could have easily stood on the gunells and yanked the Arrow back upright with little effort. Here’s were things started going somewhat more wrong than would be expected.
First off, the mast step on the Arrow proved to be, well lets just say, quite flawed. The mast step on a Laser is a 20 inch deep hole in which you put the ’stayless’ mast and tie it down with the cunningham which, working double duty as a devise to allow you to control the luff tension on the sail. The mast step on the Arrow, was a ‘deck step’; a small pin held the mast to the deck, tensioned into place, theoretically by the shrouds and forestay… theoretically our mast popped out of its step, and although not separating itself from the boat, basically sank to act as an anchor helping to keep us, upside down.
Add to this the centerboard falling out; AND not being made of something that might float, sinking… I must have assumed we were in quite a pickle; AS a matter of fact I know I thought we were indeed in a pickle as, from what I’ve been told I did what any 9 year old kid would have done; even if that 9 year old kid weren’t being held in bondage, strapped into the terror device now soaked through, weighing twice it’s weight and probably no more able to keep me afloat than say, one of the empty beer bottles I had neatly stacked back into its case on the way to getting my old man and his buddies another couple of beers before we went out for this damned sail… what any 9 year old kid would have done; I started crying; AND, from what they tell me, I started crying out for help.
I’ve always counted myself lucky. I grew up with great friends in a great small town; surrounded by about 10 gazillion things to do and parents who basically not only let you do them, but suggested that you give them all a try. I’m sure I’m not the only boy who can remember his dad being the absolute center of their universe, but I think I am a bit lucky to remember the exact moment that center of this universe of mine was shakin’, turned upside down, the exact moment I began questioning just how stable this bloody universe of mine was.
Here I was, wet, weighed down, crying and crying out for help while our disabled craft bobbed up and down in the waves. To me, the outlook appeared pretty dim. Our chances of survival, quite bleak; here I was, most likely assessing the situation and realizing the chances of ever enjoying Friday night’s Mac & Cheese dinner to be pretty much… done. AND then, here’s dear old dad… bobbing around with the boat, telling me to STOP crying, AND “stop calling out for help, ya ninny”! WHAT??? I’m basically a goner, and this crazy old fools using his last gulp of breath… his dying words, to call me a ninny! Some universe this turned out to be…
…in the end; indeed, me and my dad survived the ordeal. As my father well knew, we simply floated up on shore within’ a half hour or so. He collected and stowed the various bits and pieces that remained of the Arrow, disengourged me from my ‘life’ jacket and walked up to the house of the folks on whose shore we’d washed up on to call my mom and have her bring the car around with the trailer to cart the whole mess home.
It was probably on my dad’s recommendation that the club not buy Arrows for the Junior sailing program, but instead bought a fleet of six Lasers’ six boats I’d grow up on, having a blast on, while screaming down the waves on a scorching plane on… Six boats, I’d capsize a hundred thousand times, 50,000 of which times, not even getting wet. Six boats, I’d later use along with the rest of the fleet when I ran the sailing school as head instructor for years.
The day after my dad and I capsized the Arrow; he went out and bought me a ‘Stearn Life-Vest’. As it sounds, this was a snazzy little life jacket, zipper front, four small foam panels sewn into light weight nylon fabric, held together with light weight mesh. The back panels where black; the front red; there was a “Stern” crest on the front; all the hot sailors at our club wore stern vests…
The day after we capsized the Arrow, was perhaps the day my dad stopped being the absolute, rock solid center of my universe and became, simply the smartest man I’d known; and ever would.
On knowing? - I know I have enormous shoes to fill!
