Chapter 10: Dinghy Disaster

“Oh God, thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small”
-Prayer of the Breton fisherman

It was the fourth day of our family sailing adventure, and we were safely docked at the municipal pier in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Of course before we shoved off in the morning, I used the opportunity to raid the local convenience store and restock basic supplies like milk, jugs of Poland Springs and a bottle of Merlot.

I was back on the boat, giddily blowing hot air from the hairdryer on our beach towels to take out the damp, when Captain Dave interrupted my reverie.

“Time to get underway,” he yelled at he rapped on the bathroom door. He heard the hum of the hairdryer.

“What are you doing in there?” Dave asked suspiciously. “Didn’t you already dry your hair last night?”

“It needs some lifting,” I lied. ‘Almost done!”

I opened the door, did a quick hair flip, and sauntered past him without looking back. As much as I loved the fleeting amenities of life on land, I was actually looking forward to this day. Our destination was York, Maine. Maine! Just saying the word evoked a heady thrill. You would think we were heading to Morocco or Antigua, the way we swooned over the idea of it.

First, electricity. Now Maine. It just doesn’t get any better than this in sailing.

“C’mon kids! Time to shove off, as they say!” I chirped to our four children. Everyone but Jake grudgingly helped to clean up the cabin and get ready to set sail. Up to this point in our trip, Jake routinely slept through everything but dinner.

We motored out of the harbor on a heading for Isles of Shoals, a cluster of nine tiny islands just ten miles northeast of Portsmouth. The islands split between the New Hampshire and Maine border, and are awash with legends of ghosts, murder, pirates, and the supposed site of Blackbeard’s sunken treasures.

We had planned to picnic off of Smuttynose, the third largest island. It was Smuttynose that sunk the Spanish ship Sagunto in 1813, along with many other less famous vessels. Many ships have met their fate there, and there are graves on the island for these dead “shoalers.” It is also the site where two Norwegian women were murdered in 1873; one strangled and the other hacked with a hatchet.

I left that last legend out when I told the kids about Smuttynose. No need to scare them with visions of axe murderers on remote islands. Best yet, Smuttynose was in Maine.

Not your typical Maine destination, I suppose. “Yes, we sailed to Smuttynose, Maine. You know, the notorious Smuttynose Island where Blackbeard’s treasure is said to be buried?” I couldn’t wait to drop this line at my next neighborhood party.

As we approached the Isles we first sighted Appledore, the destination island by ferry for daytrippers. The weather was perfect: sunny with light breezes, wispy clouds and calm seas. We found an open mooring off of Smuttynose. I picked up the line with the boat hook and we were on. If only it could always be that easy.

“We’re here! Time for lunch!” I announced to our kiddie crew. Jake squinted out of his port window and grunted. Caleb and Joel were beyond excited. They were both convinced that we were going to strike it rich on Smuttynose and uncover Spanish gold.

Caleb looked confused. “Aren’t we going to the island to look for gold?” he motioned with his hands. Our mooring was a good 900 feet from the nearest shore of Smuttynose.

That’s the problem with sailboats. With a hulking hull under the boat, you just can’t pull up to your destination and park it. You have to hang in the deep waters or risk running aground amid the hidden shoals, like the ill-fated Sagunto and many other vessels.

“We’re going to take the dinghy,” explained Captain Dave to Caleb.

“The dinghy? What dinghy?” asked Joel. Good question, I thought.

I knew we had a dinghy, and I had spied the small Yamaha outboard motor conveniently located in the head during my hair-drying sessions, but I had never actually seen a dinghy. Up until now we hadn’t needed one.

“It’s stored under the cockpit seat. We have to inflate it,” Dave assured Joel. “Want to help?”

Dave lifted the top of the seat and sure enough, there magically appeared a wrinkled mass of grey inflatable polyester. A wimpy West Marine no-frills model dinghy. I started to protest at the whole dinghy business. It seemed like a lot of work, when, really, what not just enjoy the view of the island from our lovely boat?

“Inflate it?” I asked incredulously. “You mean like blow it up? Isn’t it a little big for that?”

Dave gave me one of his exasperated looks and pulled out a small hand pump.

“No, Trish, you use this.” It looked to me like a bicycle pump. I was dubious.

Dave and Joel flattened out the boat on the deck, taking up what little bit of space there was, located the valve and started pumping. I decided to get out of their way and start preparing a picnic lunch in the galley below. Twenty minutes later, I checked in to assess the progress. The grey flattened pancake was starting to take the shape of a wilted tub.

Flashbacks of inflatable Walmart kiddie pools filled my mind. You know, the ones that pop a leak in the seam within hours of purchase. I seriously wondered how seaworthy this skimpy skiff was going to be.

Dave was undeterred. “Pump!” he shouted exultantly to Joel, and Joel pumped. When it looked fully inflated, they threw the thing over the side of the boat, tied on the line, and then proceeded to attempt to attach the motor.

A small engine expert my husband is not. He did manage to attach the outboard engine to the dinghy and even figured out how to start the engine. This itself is a six-step process, one that I would master all too well later the next day out of dire necessity.

By now, Chloe appeared from behind her latest novel, and Jake managed to get himself in an upright and conscious breathing position. Of course, being the oldest two, they wanted to take the first ride to Smuttynose with Joel and Dave. No matter that they did nothing to help with the dinghy. The foursome stepped into the small dinghy for their maiden voyage. Dave pulled out the choke, aligned the throttle and let the starter line rip.

Nothing. He repeated it, and it caught. Looking very satisfied with his accomplishment, he pointed the skiff toward the island and took off with his unsuspecting passengers.

I was watching through the binoculars, thinking, Wow! Look at that! Pretty Cool! when I heard the engine sputter and wane. While Dave was playing with the engine, Jake’s butt started slowly sinking closer and closer to the water. As the boat sagged, the kids moved closer to the center, causing the dinghy to begin to fold onto itself like a big clam. I looked through the binoculars, horrified.

“Dave! Get Back!” I yelled. “You’re sinking!”

“What?”

“Sinking! Jake watch out!” Jake obviously felt something wet, because he stood up.

Never stand up in a dinghy. Especially a small one that’s slowly losing air. Trust me.

At that moment, the engine lurched into life, and Jake lurched with it, knocking into Dave and Chloe, and falling flat on the dinghy floor. Chloe screamed, and Joel hid his eyes. Dave made a quick turn and headed back to our boat, the dinghy slowly sagging in the water.

“Well, I guess we had way too much weight in there,” said Captain Dave, unperturbed. “Need to put more air in. And probably take less passengers.”

“’Put more air in?’ Are you nuts?” I asked. “The thing is leaking!”

“No it’s not. It’s just underinflated. Should have factored in our collective weight. Joel can you hand me the pump?”

I was feeling a more and more doubtful about this dinghy business. I scanned the waters. Smuttynose was pretty—well—deserted and rocky. What if we made it over there, and then something happened to the dinghy and we couldn’t get back? Ghosts and axe murderers began to fill my impressionable imagination.

No matter. Dave started pumping and I started praying. Not literally praying, mind you, just shooting up some “Please God don’t let us do something stupid here” urgent upward offerings.

The dinghy was taut as a tire, and Dave suggested a solo ride this time. He cruised around, and miraculously stayed afloat.

It had been over an hour since we first moored, and everyone was getting a bit grouchy. So we piled into the dinghy, two by two, and Dave steered us safely to our destination. I was looking forward to being on solid ground again, even if it was desolate and devoid of any amenities except gravestones and the Haley House, one of the oldest houses in the state of Maine, not open to the public.
We pulled up the dinghy and secured the line to a rock – not a hard thing to find here. Smuttynose is basically all rock. Kind of the way I imagine the surface of the moon.

Caleb couldn’t wait to hunt for treasure. He was certain that we were going to uncover a massive wooden treasure chest that everyone else for centuries had just missed. That it would likely sink our dinghy didn’t cross his little mind.
I was optimistic as well. I mean, you just never know. The kids have always said I was a good finder. It doesn’t hurt to look, right?

We walked along the rocks. The only sign of life we found was a forlorn-looking lobster buoy that had washed up on shore. That was good enough booty for Caleb, so we hauled it into the dinghy to take our treasure back to Small Hotel.
I was feeling really good about this additional small craft, thinking, well it sure can’t hurt to have a back up boat, just in case, right?

Wrong. That dinghy would prove to be our demise that day.