hard and I fell in. Without my weight on the rail, Rosie dug in further and when another big wave hit her she went over. Tis is the point where people tell me everything I should


have done, or could have done. It is also the point where the guy who trolls Potter chat rooms (in order to sell his brand of boat) will point out that a Potter 15 is just a dinghy and can capsize. Save it! Te blame was totally on me. Te boom had separated from the mast the last time I was out and I did a quick and crummy repair job. I should have taken the time to repair it correctly. Additionally, due to an injured elbow on my leſt arm and a torn rotator cuff on my right shoulder I had Mark set up the boat. He had never done it by himself before. Had I been sensible I would have inspected the boom and really tightened the slug that held it on. Additionally, had I dropped the main- sail as soon as I saw the squall approaching there would not have been much of an issue, (there was no time to reef and with winds predicted at 7-10 there was no need to do so leaving the harbor). Te list of things I could have done to avoid this event could fill a phone book, if they still had phone books. Simply put, Rosie could have easily handled this squall like she’d han- dled others. What happened was not because the boat’s design was inappropriate or because Rosie was overwhelmed by conditions. Rosie is a good boat and handles itself well in the Gulf. Testament to that is the fact that I had never buried Rosie’s rail before, not even in 25-knot winds. Tis capsize was solely because I took too much for granted, and was far too complacent. So let’s put the matter to rest. As to whether I should be sailing a Montgom- ery or a Potter...who knows? Tey are both good and safe boats in the hands of good sailors. I am an avid sailor, just not a very good one. Te storm was gone less than 6 minutes aſter I hit the water.


Once the storm passed over us I reached out to the VHF radio on my life vest and watched the allegedly waterproof product short-circuit. Not all my equipment failed me; just before the reliable and waterproof Garmin GPS floated away, I was able to note that we were a bit more than 5 miles offshore. Te only boat in sight was running for shelter and ignored our calls. Te good news was that when you start off the day somewhat insane, it’s hard to get crazy from panic. We could see the top floor of a waterfront mansion in the


distance, so we headed in that direction. Mark, who never wears his life vest, no matter how oſten I ask him, was wearing his vest this time. Score one for that most uncommon of attributes, “common sense.” With both of us appropriately bouyant, we settled in for a long “doggie paddle” to shore. After about a mile, my two injured arms started to slow me down and Mark suggested he lay on his back and do the backstroke while I hook my arms over his legs and do the kicking. Apparently, while I was squandering my youth reading the letters in Penthouse, he was reading his copies of Boy’s Life, cover to cover. It was a brilliant idea. We started making real progress toward shore after we assumed the position. It was not perfect, however. In the future I’ll be putting sunblock on my eyelids...ouch. During the long swim to shore we kept lying to each other


about how close to land we were. We argued about what hot sauce was better—Tabasco or Crystal. (Te answer is Crystal.) Panic just never set in, no hesitation due to fear occurred, and


SMALL CRAFT ADVISOR


we found we were actually having a good time joking about our situation. Te most obvious hurdle facing us was going to be how our wives would make our lives miserable once we reached shore. We even played “Name Tat Tune.” Although Mark had successfully named that great 60’s rock


tune, “Te Letter,” I refused to award him bonus points because I’d been singing the Joe Cocker version, not the Boxtops version. Te ensuing argument got us through the last two miles of the swim….well, actually the last mile and a half since a half-mile out my feet hit bottom and I started walking in. (I chose not to tell Mark since he appeared to have found his rhythm and I didn’t want to interrupt him. Only when I waded past him did he re- alize the swim was over, and we both walked toward the beach, leaving Rosie behind, fully awash. Even in the face of tragedy, I can still be a “wise guy.” It is a giſt. Te people of Ocean Springs and Gautier, Mississippi lived


up to the tenets of Southern hospitality. Once we were on shore many stopped to help, lent us their cell phones, gave us rides to the nearest point on the highway, offered money to buy food and drinks, and one gentleman even offered Mark a pair of shoes. Heck, even the Coast Guard behaved in a jolly manner.


“As I held on to the rigging my hands were getting cut up pretty badly, but things turned even worse when over my shoulder I saw a wave that was about three times as large as those around it. ”


I was in fear that someone could get injured by colliding with


the nearly submerged Rosie, or almost as bad, that a shrimper could ruin his livelihood by dragging the boat into their nets. So the first thing I did when I got access to a phone was to call the Coast Guard, report the event, and point out that Rosie was now a potential hazard to navigation. At the end of the phone conversation the chief petty officer taking the report said “Have a nice day.” I started to respond with an expletive, but thought better of it. Beyond some infections on my cut hands and a bit of de-


hydration, we came out of the ordeal rather well. Well, sort of well...the next evening my ring finger swelled up and turned blue as my wedding band cut off circulation. So aſter wearing that ring for more than 14,000 days, I sadly had to have it cut off my finger. When I returned from the hospital around 4 a.m. I showed the ring to my wife, Rosie. She wasn’t too sympathetic, and blamed me for the unfortunate nautical event. She sug- gested that having the ring cut off was a good thing, and it would save time when she served me with divorce papers. (She also felt a need to once again remind me of her opposition to the trip, pointing out that her patience with my advancing “insanity” had come to an end, and told me where I could store Rosie’s 12-foot water line. I’ve heard all of that before and I suspect that, despite her protestations, she probably finds having a dark-eyed, brood- ing adventurer around is rather stimulating. She might even think of me as her personal “Fletcher Christian”—the Marlon Brando version, not Mel Gibson.) Te day aſter the capsize, Mark and I made the trip back to


31


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