Fiberglass Pirate Ships 
               By Dave Whitaker  (~1970)
   I remember the wind was blowing about 15 knots out of the southeast -- normally not a peaceful direction. I was spread out on the bottom of my homemade, (used plywood), 15 foot double ended sailboat, trying to let the sun hit my less tanned spots. It was a beautiful warm day, and I was thoroughly enjoying the somewhat exciting sail – and the peace and quiet – while deciding where to head next. I decided to sail out of McGregor Bay, into the open water of Frazer Bay, and around the red marker bouy.
   As I got past McGregor Point, Quartz Rock mountain ridge no longer blocked the wind and waves. The wind picked up enough that I had to get off my backside and start hiking out. It was exhilarating to be really sailing again. I was headed close into the wind, the boat was heeling way over, and some wave tops were splashing over the port bow. Even though the wrapped sheet was pressing hard into my left hand, I was feeling great as I “headed out to sea.,”  really alive once again.  However, it was starting to get rough out there and thoughts of “Batten down the hatches!”, and “Man the bilge pumps, mateys.” were coming to my playfully excited mind.    
  “Capt’n thar ships dead ahead.”  “Sure ‘nuff mate.” – as large spots appear on the horizon. My hand is now hurting, and I’m thinking I should come about to give it a rest and let the groves from the rope fill back in. However, I’m not to the red bouy yet, and it’s rough enough that I want to come about only once in this strong wind and large waves, instead of tacking back and forth up to the red marker – so I continue on in spite of the pain in my hand.                    
   “Thar lookin’ for a fight Capt’n.”  “Aye, the bloody landlubbers are! Arrrgh, ‘n by jeezas, they’ll get a bloody good ‘un too!” Nearly a dozen boats are now lined up across the clear southern horizon coming straight at me! “All hands on deck! Man yar canon! Load ‘em wit’ scrap ‘n grape ta rip thar sorryfull sails to shreds ‘o useless cotton! Clear the decks you slimy limies! You blasted lazy tar heads get the grog out -- lower the top’sl, and man yar bottom main!” I mentally yell all the pi-rate terms I can muster. It matters not if they make any sense, or if they are thought out loud with a slightly southern sound. 
   The boat is heeling way over, so I’m hiking out as far as possible, when a big wave hits, and the cold spray smacks the top half of my body. Even though it’s a warm sunny day, the strong wind on my wet body causes an uncontrollable shiver. My hand is now killing me  -- but I haven’t had such a good time sailing in years. “Capt’n, thar still headed straight at us.” “Stay calm mates”, as I see the white spots of their bow waves constantly getting bigger and broader. And the red bouy is still a ways off. 
   The wind seems stronger and the waves seem bigger and steeper as a gust heels me way over. I can not stand the pain in my hand any longer. So I wait for a calmer spot in the waves and take a chance by leaning in to hold the tiller rope in my teeth while I readjust the sheet with my other hand. Ahh, what a relief as I unwrap the rope from the groves in my hand, and shift it to my knuckles. “Capt’n thar formin’ inta a straight line for broadside shots.” “Great!” “Mateys, now we c’n take those sorryfull sons ‘o dirty dogs one at a time!” My mood heightens as their mighty show of force in the high seas does not scare ol’ Capt’n Blythe off. So… they must motor close past me single file to try to blast my little Mediterranean styled Caique to Davie Jones locker, ah?
   As the waves from the first big sleek fiberglass yacht roll toward me, I mentally yell “Capt’n thar firin’ at us.” Those first steep waves hit as I let the sail out and bear off a bit so the crazy chop, the wind, and big yacht waves do not tip me over if a strong gust hits. “Capt’n, they’re firin’ a second round!” “Get off the top spars mateys, scramble down them rat’lns and burn yar boots down the backstays.” “Sabers in yer teeth – one  ‘and for the ship -- blunderbuss in dar other!” “Prepare to board ‘em, and take no prisoners!” However, by the time the third set of waves hit, I’m well past the red bouy. I start sobering as I realize I’m now in a bad situation. The fantasies are forced aside as I realize that by the time the dangerous waves from all eleven yachts go by – when I can safely come about and head home -- I will be far out into Fraser Bay, with the wind strengthening and the waves getting bigger, miles from help, and out of sight from anybody on land if I should capsize.     
   My hand is hurting like mad again and another twenty minutes of beating against this strong wind and those crazy big waves would be far more than I care to endure. And, conditions will only get worse. So I’ve go to chance it. With the wind this strong, and these big waves in this frenzied state, I know I will not be able to come about into the wind -- even if I break out the paddle. I’m going to have to do a dangerous down wind jib. But that seems too dangerous; as the boat is bouncing all over and the wind is strong enough to knock me over if it catches the sail too violently when the boom flies across. Maybe I can come about into the wind. I bear off to get up as much speed as possible, let go of the tiller line and slide to the middle of the boat to steer with my head, quickly pull the sheet in hand over hand and hold it with my teeth, grab the paddle and paddle with all I’ve got; and hope the weather helm, the speed, and the paddle power will carry the boat across the eye of the wind. I wish myself good luck. The bouncing boat turns into the wind…but then slows to a halt in spite of my frantic paddling effort. So off I go in the same direction (but now 10 yards back). I did not even come close to making it around. My hand did get a rest, but I feel embarrassed as I get under way again. How many yachtsmen are watching? Do they think I’m in trouble? -- or just an inept sailor in his oversized plywood toy boat with an undersized old dinghy sail? “What’s that idiot doing out here anyway?” Will they help me if I capsize? I don’t know…but I think not. So there is no other choice. I’ve got to come about going down wind -- a potentially very disastrous move under these conditions.
   I steer down wind, and prepare to come across the wind, with my stern up wind. If I miss-calculate the timing of my move to the other side of the boat, it could be all over. If the right combination of wind and waves hits me at the wrong time, it could be all over. If I’m on the steep front side of a wave as the wind catches the sail, it could be all over. I sure hope the wind and waves are kind to me when that sail flies across!  Without lots of good luck and good timing… it’s all over. It’s time.
    I’m surging down wind with the motion of a proverbial drunken sailor in those insidiously confused large steep yacht and wind waves by the time I finally get the tiller pulled over and am ready to move across to the other side of the boat. I push the tiller hard over. It’s now.  As fast as I can -- hand over hand -- I pull the sheet in while trying to control the tiller with the back of my head, and clinch the sheet in my teeth while moving to the center of the boat. The boat is surfing down, and then surging into the wave ahead. I’m ready to finish my move across, but the boat slides a bit sideways, throwing me off balance onto my butt while I’m making my move across the bottom of boat. Then the unthinkable does happen!!! A big wave hits me from behind, steeply lifting the back end of the boat way up. Oh, nooooo! As the back end of the boat comes across the wind, a strong gust catches the back of the sail so quickly that the sheet gets yanked from my teeth before I intend to let it go. With the boat pitched down at a steep angle, and the makeshift vang no longer holding the boom down, it gets flung up against the mast, folding the sail so it can no longer catch the wind. And, I’m safe. Fantastic! What a relief! What luck! I made it!!!  I let the boom stay right there while I take a quick moment to recover. Then I pull on the tiller to point the boat a bit up wind, and finally I grab the sheet. O.K., now I can pull the sail back down -- and away we go. (I’ll remember that lifesaving tactic.)
   “Man the gun boats, grab ‘e sabers, and powder yar pans! We still got nine big sleek fiberglass pi-rate ships ta fight!” 
   I won, of course. (Otherwise, how’d I be scribin’ this pi-rate story to ya?) And, I had a terrific downhill slide home.