Dismasted

“There’s a crack up there.”

I finally plucked up the courage of my conviction from my prone position in the cockpit.

Novice skipper glanced up from his position at the helm. “No, must be the shadow of the rigging in the sunlight.” He gave it no more attention.

I lay there for a while longer and continued to watch the crack as we carried on out of the lee into the open water between the two Islands.

“But there isn’t any rigging in the way and the line doesn’t move in relation to the mast.”

“Let’s tighten in the jib a bit, see if we can gain a bit of ground,” he said, ignoring my voice of concern.

There was a crack. It didn’t shift from its position running vertically up from the upper crosstrees to just below the top of the mast, and as we punched to windward through the choppy seas, the gap in the crack flexed and I worried about it.

Sheherazad was a pretty little wooden 32’ sloop but she wasn’t going to win any races, and we were racing, albeit from the back of the fleet.

I’d been asked along as competent crew. Sailing was in my blood whereas he had just bought his first boat, this was his first day out on her and his uninterested wife lay below for the whole crossing.

A few hours later I was below getting lunch when I heard a crash and the sound of splintering wood.

Fortunately we were just in the lee of Martinique.

Flapping sails everywhere, rigging swinging around and the top third of the mast banging and crashing against everything else.

Novice skipper panicked and put out a mayday. We weren’t sinking and noone was hurt. Mayday? Dad would never have done that.

He calmed down as he received radioed advice from other skippers.

'I was 13 and what did I know', were the non verbals I received. I didn’t have the confidence to say anything after a while and he didn’t seem to like my suggestions or opinions.

Sherherazad bounced around in the exposed short seas as we limped slowly into water shallow enough to anchor in. I fought my way to the bouncing foredeck, through snaking shaking rigging and sails, and dropped the hook.

There was no engine so a jury rig was needed to get us going to the finishing anchorage to windward in the distance.

20-25 knots blew so the noise of unfettered sails made chaotic noises. We took stock of the mess. The inner stays held the mast firm but the mainsail flapped around uselessly. The jib and loose lines needed to be hauled out of the water and the broken section of the mast had to be secured.

Somehow we managed to get enough sail filled to carry us over the anchor line. Up with the hook and we inched along the coastline to the finish line and anchorage.

We got hooted over the line.

And got towed back to St.Lucia.

Novice skipper never did acknowledge my earlier observation.

I didn’t go sailing with him again.