Part 1 – The East Wind
Ah, an East wind. Blowing straight out of the Columbia River Gorge at a solid 15 gusting to 20, 25, hell make it 30. It sounds better that way. All that the three Stooges (Moe, Curley, and Skippy, aka, Hazzard, Damore, Cole, respectively) knew was that it was the last regatta of the year, and we had something to prove. What did we have to prove? Easy, we had to prove that we weren’t ending the year like the totally lame Stooges that we had been for the last half of the season seemingly always on the wrong side of the shift and making stoopid stooge-like errors over and over.
The air was brisk but not too cold. The river was low, as it always is this time of year. And with the breeze, the Columbia River had a nice chop on top of what you could call a swell. Every pounding of the bow through a wave or wake threw spray across the three of us in the cockpit. We each put on lightweight foulies just to stay dry. We put on life jackets. We set our watches. The chute was packed perfectly. We were ready. We knew the stout little Cal 20 could hold her own against the breeze, but with a small jib, a big main with no reefs, and a fractional kite, it was gonna be an interesting day.
We headed for the start without incident noting on the way out of the marina that, with the low water, the sand bar on the river side of the narrow exit channel was clearly evident just below the water’s surface.
Skippy, “Don’t hit that sandbar. Give it room before we tack to the start.”
Moe, “I’ve been sailing this river for 30 years. I know where that sandbar is.”
He was absolutely right. He tacked to the start, missed the bar, and then the fun began. Three groups of boats started before our fleet, and we watched as the combination of the current and wind did their duty of forcing you to choose one side of the course or the other with neither seeming to offer advantage. All of it was going to be wet, bumpy, and mega- breezy.
We did pretty well after the first start working our way to the weather mark even though we broke with the fleet to take one of our infamous Stooges-flyers, but we came back together with the fleet without having sacrificed too much. We were in the hunt. And then, at the mark, we became the prey. With the current and the wind, we not only hit the mark, we snagged it with our keel and started to drag it down river.
Nice.
At this point any nearby observer would have heard a series of stooge-epithets that would make a Black Beard blush combined with kicking, stomping, and other very adult actions by the sailing Stooges to make the boat pay for our own stupidity.
Good show, mates.
Who knows how we got off the big red ball. It had to be all the commotion on the deck. Anyway, after doing a 360, we got the chute up and finished the first race without any more major issues essentially ending up DFL.
The second race weather leg was uneventful until we got stuck below River Rose on starboard at the weather mark with no chance of making it. When we tacked on to port to get above the mark so we could round, we had to duck about 10 boats.
Nice.
Goodbye River Rose.
Goodbye 3rd place.
Just for a little added adventure, a little farther down the course on the downwind leg, the handy-dandy, go-fast, new bridle system for the spinnaker pole that Curley made just for this race decided to give up the ghost. It wrapped about 15 feet of line around the pole and everything it touched in a nice Gordian Knot so that taking the chute down was, at best, an exciting fire drill. We did, however, finish. Once again, we were – essentially DFL. Never say die!
The third race was gonna be ours. Hope springs eternal. We had the start. We now knew about the lift on the Washington shore. We worked our way up the course mixing it up with the fleet. No flyers. No bad tacks. We were pointing high. With both the herf of Curley and the middleweight boxer of Skippy on the rail, we were keeping the boat flat even in the puffs. We were again in the hunt.
We tacked on River Rose and pushed her back out into the river while we played the lift.
Yes!
We were coming in on port to the weather mark right on the layline.
Yes!
We were only a couple of boat lengths from My Girls and Dead Body.
Yes!
Vindication!
Yes! Yes! Yes!!
Curley, “Moe, don’t hit the mark. Whatever you do, don’t hit the mark!”
Moe, “I’ve been sailing this river for 30 years, I know what I’m doing!”
Skippy, “We get it. Just don’t hit the mark!”
Moe, “I got it covered!”
Tack to starboard.
Hit the mark.
Nice.
No, really…N-i-i-i-c-e!
This began a second series of stooge-epithets and kicking, stomping, and child-like actions.
Do a 360.
Nice.
As we are doing the 360 the chute decides it’s time to come out of the bag on the bow and starts to drag alongside the boat sinking slowly to the bottom of the Columbia.
Nice.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit. Pull up the halyard!”
After shrimping with the chute for awhile while we got a hand on the halyard, we were quite sure the spinnaker would be coming up in shreds with no real shrimp or even salmon in the “net.” Somehow the three blind mice got the chute up in the air intact.
Now the debate.
Skippy, “Don’t we have to go back and round the mark?”
Curley, “I don’t know, I thought we had to.”
Moe, “No, all we have to do is do our 360.”
Curley, “Are you sure?”
At that point in the discussion, from about 20 boat lengths aft and to leeward, and with a red flag in her hand comes the distinct voice of the talented and knowledgeable female skipper of River Rose, “FRED!! FRED HAZZARD!! FRED!! YOU HAVE TO RE-ROUND!!”
Skippy, to the River Rose skipper, “Mind you own business (or something to that effect)!”
Moe, “I think the 360 without re-rounding was under the old rules. I think we have to re-round.”
Curley, “Good idea.”
By this point we are now several hundred yards downriver.
Goodbye River Rose.
Goodbye third place.
Down comes the spinnaker. Up goes the jib. Back to the mark.
Goodbye to the crazed woman on River Rose waving a red flag. Couldn’t she see we were having a discussion? We’ve been doing this for 30 years – sheesh you would think she would know this by now. Quiet is a beautiful thing.
Nice.
As Stooges approaches the mark on port, Skippy and Curley, “Whatever you do, don’t hit the mark.”
Moe, “I’ve been sailing this river for 30 years…(trailing off into the breeze)”
We finish. DFL again.
So what? It’s Miller time. Head for the barn. All will be forgotten or lied about or denied. Tomorrow is another day. Right! Right?
Not so fast.
Part 2 – The Shoals
Moe, “It’s gonna be a bit tough getting into that narrow channel that goes into the marina with the east wind.”
Skippy, “Shall I get the motor out?”
Moe, “Naw, we don’t need no stinking motor!”
Curley, “Stay to the right, remember the sandbar.”
Skippy, “The channel is farther to the right!”
Moe, “The tide is up, it’s not a problem.”
Bam! We run aground in the same spot we have run aground at least 6 times in two years.
Skippy, “Fred, I told you. I’m getting the motor out.”
Moe, “No, we’ll get off… heel the boat.”
After ten minutes of climbing out on the boom, wiggling the tiller, and generally looking like a bunch of first year plebes rather than three guys who have a combined 75+ years of sailing between them, a kind hearted Martin 242 comes by and asks if we want a tow. Swallowing our pride and actually getting some sense in our heads, we agree immediately and Skippy tosses a line.
They tie on and begin to pull. It is like dragging a plow anchor through 4 feet of mud. I guess we hit kinda hard. The little two horse motor on the back of the Martin is at full throttle and…nothing. After a few more minutes, we finally start to move. I suspect that if the EPA ever does core samples on that stretch of sand, they will get curious readings of high levels of bottom paint and cast iron from our keel the likes of which you wouldn’t even find on the shipways across the rivere where the Vancouver Liberty Ships were launched during WWII.
After we break loose, the Martin crew says, “Want a tow in?”
Demonstrating our true lack of intelligence and one of our core sailing values, stubbornness, as well as somehow regurgitating our pride, the Stooges, in unison say, “Naw, we’ll sail in. Thanks.”
Now we try to sail in. Good luck. East Wind. Remember? You Bastard! Tack, tack, tack, in irons, oh shit, go around again. Head downwind out of the channel to get set for another run at it.
Nice. Real nice.
A Ranger 20 watching this circus says (without sarcasm but wishing they had popcorn for the show), “Want a tow in?”
The Stooges, giving up said core value rather easily, re-swallowing pride (it tastes even better the second time down), and finally getting smart, in unison say, “Yes!”
Part 3 – The Swimming Hole
The Ranger approaches and Skippy bounces back to the cockpit to retrieve the Martin tow line that he had already coiled and put away. He jumps to the bow. Johnny on the spot, so to speak. Holding coils in his hand he readies for the pass to the Ranger. As they get close, he winds up, he throws a mighty throw, and we hit a wake at the same time and he follows the line over the side and into the Columbia not actually swan-like but graceful in a unique arms outstretched, legs apart, a face filled with resignation kind of way. It was actually quite beautiful - at least a 9 on the Stooges scale. But, now he’s swimming and not liking it very much.
We turn the boat under mainsail alone and coming from the other direction is another Martin with a sugar scoop stern almost at the water level. Skippy is between the other boat and ours with Moe steering to pick him up but inadvertently aiming to squash Skippy like a grape between the two hulls. We get the direction sorted out so we don’t hit him, and the Martin crew helps him get aboard through the open transom looking pretty much like a drowned water rat.
The Ranger still wants to help so as the Martin heads back in under power with Skippy on board (what an invention a motor is…WHEN YOU USE IT!), the Ranger saddles by, we toss a line, and they pull us up through the narrow entrance into the marina. As we pass our finger of docks, the Ranger casts us off, and we sail under main toward our slip. Ah, home again.
Half way there, we begin dropping the main (don’t want to come in too hot, you know!), and promptly run aground, again! I guess the water was still a bit low. Skippy is waiting for us on the dock, soaking wet, shivering like a dog shitting peach pits and simply just starts shaking his head in disbelief. After we throw him yet another line, with help from River Rose and her crew, they pull us, the remaining two Stooges, off the second bar and into our slip.
Nice.
All in all, I guess you could say it was a pretty unique day. Did some things we’ve never done before. Did some things we’ve done too many times before. In the end, no one can say we didn’t do an excellent job of proving at least one point! When the Stooges are around, there’s always a show!
Here’s to better luck next year.
Curley
Epilog
On the dock and thereafter in the bar at PYC, it became obvious that Moe, aka Mr. Hazzard (also, Phast Phreddy) will be, forever after, at least in the eyes of the Portland Cal 20 sailing community, associated with that little patch of sand off the end of McCuddy’s Marina. And creativity being what it is, namely that it is often fueled by IPA, Mike’s Lemonade, or even Bombay Sapphire martinis, we began a quest to find a way to honor this achievement. After having a few creative moments in the lounge (if you catch my drift, wink, wink, say no more), we settled on “Hazzard Shoals” as having the right amount of double entendre and notoriety for our beloved skipper.
Ah, but naming was not enough…at least not enough for the Skipster. Early Sunday morning he showed up a Gallery R. Damore where the artist was actually teaching a portrait painting class including Skippy Jr. with a contraption that looked like a cross between a lumber pallet and a Death Valley wooden grave marker from the old west. He was insistent that we paint “Hazzard Shoals” on the marker (all the while mumbling something about National Registry of Historical Nautical Places or something to that effect) and that he was on a short fuse to get this in place before Moe arrived for the day’s racing. We did what we were told. Off he went.
Arriving at McCuddy’s Curley saw a flurry of activity way down on the dock. River Rose crew, Paul, and Skippy were waving arms, moving big wooden crate-like things around. Nailing. Knot tying, over and over (Skippy the Boy Scout troop master has an issue with knots). Adjusting…and then finally from the parking lot we could see the marker went over the side. The result: a floating masterpiece of acknowledgement and affirmation that Phast Phreddy will always have that particular spot as his own. It was also a warning buoy of sorts for those who would venture where none should go, but where Moe somehow finds unique comfort.
On the way out the course, Moe finally saw his commemorative art project/buoy/range marker. He laughed. He smiled. Maybe a little moisture at the corner of his eye – a tear perhaps (not really I made this part up for dramatic effect, cue music).
And all he could say was, “Ah, you guys…”
But Wait There’s More! (An epilog to the epilog, or e2 so to speak)
Skippy – “Hey Moe, Everybody else has put their engine on because it’s so windy.”
Moe – “Shut up – we don’t need no stinking engine! I have been doing this for 30 years”
Skippy and Curley – “Yes Moe.”
As astute readers will recall, the day before the ever-able Skippy went for a swim. On this bright sunny morning as the Stooges were pushing the bow out to clear the other dock finger, Mr. Skippy, as he likes to be called, unintentionally decided to go for yet another swim by missing the deck as it swung away. Let’s see…Blackberry in the jacket pocket, check…camera too, check…car keys with alarm remote, check…bang head on side of boat, check…almost pull Curley in getting out of the water, check!
Nice.
After the Stooges put on another fine show for the non-paying public, we got the boat back to the dock. Skippy, shivering again, stripped down to his altogether in the cockpit and put on dry clothing, and out we went even though there was a distinct pounding in Skippy’s head. The T-bone collision of two other Cal 20s at the start (someone else’s turn to put on a show), the gale force winds (a slight exaggeration for more dramatic effect), and our real concern about the welfare of Stooge Trois and his head1 gave us cover to call it a day.
Moe put it best, “I’m not having any fun today. Let’s go home.”
And we did.
Well, that’s it. No more encores. Nothing more to see here folks...show’s over…move along, move along. See you next Spring. Get your tickets at Ticketmaster or online at www.threestoogessailing.com.
Stooge Deux
Footnotes:
1. After he got home, Skippy told the ever-loving and infinitely patient wife, Sandy, about the swimming redux adventure including the bonk on the noggin. She wisely sent him off to the doctor who said a brain scan showed nothing…which we already knew. Skippy says that from now on he plans to only sail in Speedo swimming trunks and nothing else. He figures that way he won’t have to get a new phone after each race or wait in a laundromat for his clothes to dry so Sandy won’t find out he and the Columbia River have an unnatural attraction to one another.
Good thinking.
