Sometimes small is better

September 2024

By Bob Muggleston

Of all the memorable sails I’ve had over the years, and there have been a few, one in particular stands out. Yes, there was an exhilarating aspect of the experience, as is often the case with memorable sails, but there was one particular feature of the day that never fails to make me smile when I think about it. It’s just too crazy.

The occasion was an informal small-boat race that was a 20-mile circumnavigation of Conanicut Island, in Rhode Island’s Narragansett Bay. At the time, having recently lost my Laser in an October storm that had surged above the tide line, I’d borrowed a friend’s Sunfish named Buttercup. Fittingly, I remember Buttercup having a white and yellow sail. The morning of the race, I pulled on a wetsuit and put a few items in a small dry bag, including, for a reason that eludes me today, cash.

The race itself was a motley assortment of small craft – think Blue Jays, Lasers, and Sunfish – that were mostly captained by local sailing journalists. Ten minutes after the start, which was in light air, disaster aboard Buttercup: A piece of rudder hardware broke. I don’t remember the specificities of the break, but I do remember controlling the mainsheet with my foot and using both hands to hold the rudder blade more or less in place, and in this fashion being able to limp onto a Jamestown beach. As an array of curious folks looked on, I ran up the beach in my wetsuit and asked the first person I saw where the nearest hardware store was. I then ran several blocks, sweating profusely, and burst through the door, cash in hand. Then it was back to the beach and – voila – I was back in business.

What had happened in the meantime? The wind had gone light, and the entire fleet had headed in the direction of Newport, looking for more air. I was now on the opposite side of the bay, and completely alone. Which is, of course, where the wind filled in.

I ended up being the first boat to the windward mark, and when I turned the corner the breeze really began to blow in earnest. Thus began one of the most exciting sailboat rides of my life. I power-reached the length of the island surfing down huge swells, my heart-rate spiking through the jibes, made my turn at the leeward mark, and beat back to the finish. The next closest boat was still 20 minutes away.

Was it fun winning that race? Yes. Would I have been on the “wrong” side of the bay with everyone else had I not broken the rudder? Almost certainly, yes. But that’s not the point. In general, you can’t sail a big boat onto a beach and then fix it with parts you’ve just bought at a hardware store. And that downwind leg, surfing the big waves? That was pure magic. An amusement park ride that seemed to go on forever. Simplicity often pays dividends in unexpected ways, and sometimes a smaller waterline makes otherwise routine sails into something special.

These days all my boats are 17 feet or less, like the 1974 Siren in the photo above. It’s not that I don’t love big boats – because I do, and look at them in classifieds all the time – I just don’t have one right now. I can’t wait to have a “big” boat again and to tackle my bucket list, which includes traveling the length of the ICW. I’m even looking forward to the complexities big-boat ownership presents. And, of course, the myriad comforts a big boat provides. With the expenses of raising a young family, it’s just not going to happen anytime soon. But that’s okay. I can wait.

This issue of Points East contains multiple stories about small boats, one from Angus Kerr concerning his West Wight Potter 14 (pg. 15), another from Pam Humbert regarding her recent purchase of a Portland Pudgy (pg. 18), and one from Paul Keyser, entitled “Dream Weaver,” about the Luger 16 he had as a kid (pg. 32). And check out the story that prompted this essay, which is about a 26-mile Sunfish race that took place earlier this summer around Shelter Island, in New York (pg. 45).

Big boats, small boats: You just never know where – or on what – a special memory is going to be made. Hope this summer you’ve made a few of your own.

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