Lobster Pots
Lobster Pots are somebody's livelihood.  I try not to forget that but damn, they seem to have a life of their own sometimes.  They can attack one at a time or in "schools" with, or without warning.   Depending on current and tidal conditions, sometimes they will hide just below the surface, out of sight, waiting for their next prey.

Lobster Pot versus Submarine
In my submarining days I can recall pulling into port in the UK after weeks at sea, with good ol' New London CT  lobster pot buoys bobbing up from the stern.  One one occasion we had to surface off of the Azores to cut some lose because of the noise created by them banging against the hull.  Myself and another volunteer armed with pocket knives ventured out onto the disappearing, pitching deck to cut away the spider web of lines.  Wearing bulky kapoks and chained to the safety track on the deck it was quite interesting to be standing high and dry one minute, then literally neck deep in a swell.  I felt like bait as I dragged through the water tethered to the boat.  Anyway, we cut away all the lines we could see and  retrieved one buoy as a souvenir.  In the swells I lost my knife (TL29) and tremendously "salty" shot line submariner's key chain (complete with EAB fitting caps).  I was so enraged by this that once below, I marked the spot on the quartermaster's chart where, in about 1000 fathoms of water, this incident took place just in case I was ever back that way again and had more time to perhaps get my knife and key chain back.  Where's the Glomar Explorer when you really need it?

An interesting point.  These buoys are usually numbered and color coded to identify the lobsterman that owns them.  I kept the buoy as a prize.  Several years later we purchased our first house and the number emblazoned on the buoy matched that of our street number.  The buoy is suspended proudly out front as a house marker, and the lobsterman that owns/owned it actually lives about 2 miles from us.  He obviously has not traveled on our street.

Lobster Pot versus Sailboat
What a difference a few thousand tons make?  It was early in the season and Old Friend and I decided to venture out and explore the eastern end of Fishers Island Sound and various passes and navigation aids that lead to Block Island Sound.  With  a stiffening breeze out of the north west and the tide with us, we made our way rapidly down by Watch Hill.  We dodged the traffic for a while, checked our charts and then decided to head back.  With the winds picking up to over 15 knots, way too much sail up, and several knots of current against us and were tacking continuously and making our way back to the north west and back to the mouth of the river.  Our speed over the ground was lousy but we were fighting the current, but why was our speed through the water falling off?  This generally indicated that we had done something dumb with our sail trim but close hauled was our most familiar point of sail and there were definitely some knots missing.  Hell, we sailed close-hauled on just about every point of sail.  Hmmmmm.... where's the Sail Right book?  We didn't have much room to screw around as I had rocks and coast to the left and "eel grass beds" to the right.  The chart said there was plenty of water there but nobody else was sailing in with the Eel Grass.

If there's thirty boats around you and nobody sailing in a certain area it's either because:

A.  it's Idiot's Day in Fisher's Island Sound
B.  we've stumbled into the  US Olympic Open Class Synchronous Sailing Team's practice
C.  there's no wind there
D.  evil lurks below

We ruled out "A" because there were not enough "cigarette" boats waking us.  "B" was eliminated because everyone was dressed differently. We knew "C" to be false because we were right on the edge of this area so it had to be "D".  Evil Eel Grass?  Dunno.  We were tacking sharp, lookin' good, blue jib sheets and all.  The tack back to the southwest was the kicker.  As we completed the course change I snapped the rudder back to steady up but it had no effect!!  We continued to the left, now we are pointing BAD WATER, rock, land and other things.  The rudder still has no effect.  We are still turning left and finally the wound up pointing down wind, the way we came, sails still close-hauled.  None of this makes much sense.  We trimmed the sails for running down wind, they fill quickly and away we went!  We had a ways to go on this course so I had ample time to figure out what we had done wrong.  Sails are full, we're lookin' nautical!  "Speed?" "ZERO on the hull, ZERO over the ground".  I could spin the wheel like a little kid on a carnival boat ride.  Nothing.  We're lookin' fast though!  Maybe instead of  "Eel Grass" they meant "Steel Grass" and we were caught?  Old Friend thought we had lost the rudder linkage, but a glance over the transom told the story.  A dark shadowy line emanated from beneath the stern and disappeared into the murky depths.  About 50 feet beyond that several lobster pot buoys were clustered together as if they were waiting....  watching.....

We dropped the sails and started mulling over our situation.

SMART THING:  We brought a bight of the lobster pot line on deck and took it to a cleat and then put our own anchor out before we cut the line to the pot.  I remembered a story from a friend who jumped over the side, almost naked, to cut a lobster pot free and upon freeing the boat it took off.  Luckily he had a hand on the ladder.

DUMB THING:  Started Mr. Diesel.  Dumb DUMB DUMB DUMB DUMB  After a couple of revolutions of the screw the shaft was bound tight.  Screw is a noun, and a verb.  The price of poker just went up.

I looked to Old Friend but like the faithful old de-clawed cat, he does not climb aloft, and does not willingly enter the water.  I did feel rather strange being able to go below and pick up the cell phone and call my wife and tell her we were having a crisis at sea and may be home late.  We were bouncing around pretty good as I climbed down the convenient stern ladder wearing a PFD and tending line.  I am really glad I did not carry my giant knife in my teeth because I would've lost it as the first swell hit me and my mouth flew open in a silent scream.  Someone had secretly filled Fisher's Island Sound with liquid nitrogen and it was COOOOOOOLLLLLLLDDDD!!!!

People were sailing and motoring by us with great curiosity.  Nobody did the yachting wave.  Out of the next hour I spent half of it under the boat being pounded, hanging from the toe rail working the buoy with my toes (why didn't they call it a "finger rail"?), or just flailing around swearing.  At this point, if someone had approached me with $25 and a ride to Fisher's Island, they would've owned a fine boat.  When they talk about hypothermia, believe it!  It was my last attempt.  This was it.  Crying "Uncle" is an old kids term for total surrender.  Here, the cry would be "SEA TOW.. SEA TOW... SEA TOW....".  My closed-foam nemesis released it's iron grip on the screw and bobbed free.  This one was going up on my porch with my other one but Old Friend reminded me that I should put it back so I tied it back to it's original tether.  We brought in the anchor, started the engine and spun the shaft.  We had propulsion.  I released the lobster pot line and watched it bobbing away with it's friends waiting for another victim.  My "fun meter" was pegged and it was time to go home.  Steering course 330 and making turns for 7 knots.  Old Friend returned us to the mouth of the river for the return run home.  It was all I could do to get warm and just watch.

We were never in any real danger and we had been only marginally stupid but that's the way it goes.  I now have a mask and snorkel onboard.  I am trying to find a wet suit in Old friend's size though.

Main