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Squalls are well known to sailors who cruise the middle Latitudes. Eventually, you become complacent to their bluster. But squalls vary in magnitude, and while crossing from Tahiti to Oahu, our 47ft Custom Stevens sloop paid the price for carrying too much canvass as we were batted over by a sudden punch of wind and a hammering of rain that damaged our headsail.
It was a star-filled night, and I had failed to notice the clouds creeping up from behind us. Salubrious trade winds became instant mayhem. My wife, Ivy, and I rushed to disengage the windvane steering and douse our headsail. Struggling with the furling line, we tried rolling up our headsail, which was now shaking our boat like a chew toy. Our Yankee usually furls with little effort, but nothing could persuade the wind-filled sail to obey this time around. With a final tug, we felt a sudden surrender and our Yankee rolled in, presumably. The squall quickly passed, leaving us dripping wet and licking our wounds.
Eventually, we tried to redeploy our Yankee and continue on our way. But when we hauled in on the sheets they fell limp in our hands. Further investigation revealed the stainless-steel ring that is normally stitched to the clew of the sail had torn away, and though it was still loosely furled, our Yankee now threatened to flag open and flog itself to pieces while the sheets lay like coiled vipers on the foredeck. We sailed like that the rest of that night with the unfettered corner of our Yankee continuing to wag at us in the darkness. Finally, at daybreak I went forward to retrieve our wayward gear. It was now all too clear, though, that we were officially clewless in the middle of the Pacific…
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