North Country Writers Festival 2008
Ashley Oxenford, “Cruising America: Chaumont
Bay, NY”
Honorable Mention – Essay/Nonfiction
The anchor thunks heavily with a splash and sinks to the murky bottom of the bay. I let out the anchor line until our old rowboat is even with the cockpit of our red and white sailboat moored offshore. Both crafts bobble cheerfully up and down in the sun-splashed water as if they are old friends who have met unexpectedly on the street. I hop onto the edge of the sailboat, kicking my flip flops down into the rowboat, and Dad hands me up the cooler, backpack, and radio, which I stow below in the cabin.
The boat isn’t big--a twenty-three-foot Pearson Ensign day sailor with room below for two berths and a port-a-potty. I haul out the jib from the cabin and set the radio between the open doors – set there strategically so it won’t slide – and flick it onto a Canadian rock and roll station. I scamper up to the bow and clip the jib into place, while dad bails out the bilge, which is full from last night’s rain. The slats in the wooden floor provide access for such rain water – which sometimes fills the bilge to the top. The original pump was a hand pump, but the hose was full of holes, so now we just use a bucket.
We hoist the sails, and I cast off the mooring line and return to the cockpit where dad mans the tiller. This is our usual pre-sail ritual, performed in a quick, steady silence. I set my feet on the bench across from me and relax to the feel of the waves. Everything in the cockpit is varnished wood – Dad redid the entire boat when we bought it as a smaller replacement to the twenty-seven-foot Tanzer we used to have. Sometimes I miss the big boat, but I still love this little Pearson Ensign.
We glide out into the bay, running with what little wind there is. It almost isn’t windy enough for us to sail, but we come out anyway. It is still early yet; the wind might pick up. Even if it stays this speed, it is ok – the sun is shining, and it is summer.
Just so long as the wind doesn’t die, we are OK. There is no longer any motor on this boat; the bay took it one rough day. We now have a “Memorial Tack” over where the motor might lie, a sacrificial victim to the gods of all-natural sailing.
The bay we sail is Chaumont Bay, also known as the Golden Crescent, which is the largest freshwater bay in the world, and presides over the eastern end of Lake Ontario. The bay is formed by Pillar Point on the south end and, to the north, by the hook of land called Point Peninsula on which we live. On the other side of the point lies the mouth of the St. Lawrence River. The bay, home to a large ship building industry in its early years, is more popular now for sport fishing. Sailing still remains a large part of the area, however, and Chaumont hosts two yacht clubs – one of which provides a swim and sail day camp in the summer for children. I went there for four years in a row before I decided to be “home schooled” in sailing by my father.
I look out at the sparkling water and realize that whitecaps now dot the unsettled blue water. Perfect; the wind is picking up! We come about, and I take control of the tiller, steering gently as the wind takes hold again. I have really fallen in love with sailing as I have grown older. I love the feeling of flying, the harmony between the wind and the water as we catch a ride on the coattails of their never ending, ever changing dance.
I always try to keep a healthy respect for both natural forces. It’s easy for them to turn dangerous. Stories such as the one about the Cammanche keep one respectful. The Cammanche was a local ship headed towards Ogdensburg with a load of corn in the fall of 1886. After it was disabled in a storm near Oswego, it was towed into Lake Ontario by tug boat. Caught in a snow squall off Point Peninsula, the Cammanche crashed blindly into a rock shelf where it stuck near a place called Toad Hole on the lake side of the point. I don’t know if anyone died, but they easily could have perished in those icy waters.
We switch to a reach, heading up the bay towards Long Carry, which is a little inlet about four miles before the isthmus of Point Peninsula where the Native Americans began their canoe-laden trek to the lakeside. There is even an Indian burial ground nearby, and our farmer friend who lives on the coast of Long Carry has found arrowheads and pottery pieces on his land.
We come about and begin to beat into the wind, now much stronger. A sudden gust hits our sails, and the boat heels to a 40 ° angle. I let out a yell of excitement and brace myself as we pick up speed. We plunge into the chop, beginning our trip back home. Our relaxing sail has just turned into a thrill ride, and I grin as spray splashes over the bow. The little craft maintains its extreme angle, forcing Dad and me to perch up on the coaming boards to try to balance out the boat a little. My heart is pounding with exhilaration tinged with fear, making me smile at the sky as if to welcome the dance the wind has decided to perform with us.
Sailing, and the dance it involves, is something that I cannot think of without thinking of my father. It is something that we share and can enjoy together. As we bond with the forces of nature, we bond together, too, sharing an identical enthusiasm for the dance that has been anticipated throughout the long winter.
Dad and I take turns steering. After a while, I begin to wish I had more than my windbreaker for protection. My bare legs have goose bumps, and I have to struggle to keep my teeth from chattering too hard. Dad hands me the tiller again, and I grip it tightly in my icy hands. My toes are numb already and my fingers are not far behind. Dad folds himself into the three-foot high cabin to use the head. This is not an easy feat on a normal day because the mast goes through the ceiling into the floor of the cabin right where your feet should be. It is even less fun to perform the necessary maneuvers at a 40 ° angle.
When Dad returns, I do not relinquish the tiller right away. I am having too much fun riding the waves. Besides, it seems as if it is his turn to block the oncoming spray.
The wind by no means has lessened when it is time to come in for a landing. We have to circle the mooring ball three times before I am able to grab it with my painfully cold hands. I hastily fasten the mooring line around the front cleat before lowering and unfastening the jib. The movement thaws my fingers a little, and I am able to get the snapping and flapping sail under control.
We pack up and secure the little boat, making sure everything is ship shape. Then we disembark, haul anchor, and row back to shore. I watch the red and white boat bob up and down in the chop as if it were waving good bye. I smile. We’ve braved and survived the wind’s jig once again. I feel the tendrils of the wind pick up and toss the already wind-blown strands of my hair as if inviting me for one more dance. Later, I think; we’ve danced enough for one day. I sigh happily and relax into the gentle rock of the rowboat; another successful sail.