Artie and me

Fall 2024

By Bob Muggleston

Over the years I’ve noticed that when I sail with one particular person in my life – my brother-in-law, Art – things reliably go sideways. On paper the math has never made sense, like adding two positive numbers and coming up with a negative. And we are positives; he’s as crazy about sailing as I am, and we both did a ton of big-boat racing when we were young. Anyone who’s ever raced seriously understands that it is this pursuit that ultimately supplies you with the bulk of the crazy sailing stories you’ll tell over the course of your life. Collisions, broaches, freak weather anomalies – Art and I have got these stories in spades, and ultimately what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

But put the two of us together? Cue the Benny Hill soundtrack.

Consider these three anecdotes, just a few among the countless, the first taking place aboard my wooden Star, Shenandoah. It’s one of those Autumn sails on the Connecticut River when the leaves have just turned, and sunlight dances on the water. We are marveling at our good fortune when suddenly, with both sails drawing nicely, I have no steering – a set pin holding the rudder stock to the shaft lets go. No sooner have we identified and fixed the issue than we find a submerged Native American fishing pier. These piers are essentially big piles of rocks, and under full sail we climb to the top of one. In an effort to kedge off, Art gives the anchor a mighty heave, and we watch dumbfounded as anchor line and anchor separate midway through the parabola of the throw. Egads.

The second incident takes place in May, during a long-distance dinghy race. We are aboard his JY-15 when an unforecasted weather cell rakes the starting line with sustained winds of 40-45 knots. We capsize, recover, and capsize again. After 20 minutes of struggling to strike sail and get the boat back on her bottom we accomplish both and under bare poles sail back to the dock. Exhausted and freezing but finally safe, I notice for the first time that Art has had a wardrobe malfunction – he’s been “pantsed” by the current. Fortunately he’s a boxers guy.

Last Sunday, more shenanigans. After an afternoon sail aboard my Siren 17, Scout, the wind suddenly goes light and we’re swept past our dock. We add sail and employ every light-air sailing tactic we know, but there aren’t enough hours in the day. It’s time for the iron jenny. This is the precise moment, of course, that the shift linkage fails, and we’re stuck in reverse. It’s either motor or get swept out to Long Island Sound, so we drop sail, remove the rudder, and – reminiscent of Farley Mowat in “The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float” – buck the current in reverse for the next 20 minutes. Fortunately there’s only one guy at the club, and he’s too busy washing his boat to notice.

Why all the chaos? After our latest outing I thought hard on it and realized that it’s not a fluke of chemistry. It’s the circumstances. The sail aboard Shenandoah was a shakedown cruise after a summer-long restoration. That 20-mile dinghy race? Crazy premise and crazy weather. Last Sunday? It was the first time I sailed Scout this season (a story for another time), and if I’m being honest, I was a bit nervous about my old, 6-hp Johnson after it had sat for a few years.

Art is the guy I call when I know there’s a chance things might go sideways. In sailing, if there’s a nagging suspicion that things could go sideways, they generally do. It’s why sailors, when they plan on doing something serious like going offshore, make systems as perfect as possible and then add layers of redundancy.

So I guess what I’m saying here, Art, is it’s not you. It’s me. And if and when I ever have access to a “normal” adventure in which the potential for humiliation is low? You’re definitely on my short list. In the meantime, in this weird, time-compressed space we both inhabit in which ideas seem to be half-baked, but the potential for laughter is high? Thanks for always picking up the phone.

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