As per usual Nomad spent Friday and Saturday night in Coles Creek. Friday saw the spectacular sunset. Saturday we were rafted up, this time with s/v Paradise, s/v Time Out and just plain old s/v. (It turns out not everyone names their boat.) Sunday morning the assembled kind of drifted into the day, breakfast, a little coffee, some general chatting and lounging about. A few comments were made on how quiet the lake was. Other than a fishing boat or two not a bow, stern or sail could be seen. After a while Deb, as is her habit, got around to looking at the radar picture. The weather had been benign all weekend, hot, a little wind, with any chance of rain not showing up in the forecasts until Monday. So she was a bit surprised to see a massive bow echo of storms bulling its way across the MO / IL border, horns aimed straight at our little lake. Estimated time in route? Just over an hour. In the immortal words of the Jettson's dog, "Rut Row George!"
The pace picked up on our 4 boat raft as quick preparations were made to get underway and beat the weather to the pier. (And thus was explained the lack of activity on the lake.) Nomad was the first to take flight. We debated making a motor run but, if there is any real wind at all, our little boat scoots along much better under sail than she does being dragged along by nine anemic horses and a pony. Time Out and s/v No Name followed us out of the cove. With more than 20 horses each to call on they pointed for home and galloped past. Paradise took to the lake many minutes behind us.
As we closed on the front door to the marina the thunder unexpectedly close, a smudge on the horizon, and just the feel of the air, had me starting to think I wasn't going to get away with this one. Bow echo storms have a nasty habit of shoving a killer gust front ahead of them, the kind that topple trees, knock careless pilots out of the sky, and are certainly capable of trashing one little sailboat caught out with her sails up. I was getting that itchy feeling between the shoulder blades that foretells a nasty sneaking up to scare the snot out of the timid and lay a hurt on the bold.
We got close enough to drop the sails and I was concentrating on helming the straightest line possible through the channel when Deb, putting the last of the sail ties on the main, looked behind us and said, "Here comes the wall cloud." I didn't bother to look back, she knows what she's talking about. Nomad's nine tired horses,(and a pony) were being flogged for all they were worth. But I knew they were no match for what chased us and I wasn't sure I had given them enough of a head start.
The 180 turn into the marina proper put us bow into the building wind, and we slowed noticeably. I hadn't touched the throttle. The second 180 put the wind behind us with safety just feet away. Little Nomad has never made such a quick entry and hard stop at the pier before, at least not with me driving. Willing hands caught 2 tossed bow lines and the spring while I jumped ashore (or at least a-pier) with the stern line. Throwing the fastest cleat knot of my short sailing life meant Nomad was safe. Moments later the trees gave way under the force of the wind and some serious ugly passed just overhead. It isn't often one sees clouds that threatening, that close. (The bubble clould in the picture looked for all the world like is was falling right on us. Spooky.)
Later in the afternoon, now sailing under a barely straining drifter and coasting over a quiet lake, I got to thinking. Maybe making the run for home plate wasn't the smartest choice I ever made. If we had been caught out in the channel or worse, among the piers, there is little chance I could have kept Nomad under control. Paradise, with a much bigger engine, decided they couldn't make it in time. They spun the bow up into the wind just outside the channel markers and rode out the blow. Even then it took enough RPM to cause their overheat alarm to sound. Nomad's only hope, in similar conditions, would have been to toss the hook and hope it grabbed. And that would only work if we had time to stow the canvas first.
We left a good hiding place with a great bottom for the anchor, to barely make it onto a concrete pier surrounded by other boats, after passing through a narrow channel. A better choice would have been to back as deep into Cole's Creek as depth would allow, set the hook hard with all the rode we had, and button up the boat. Then just ride it out. Uncomfortable maybe, but with little chance of losing control of the outcome.
Close. I guess it counts with thunderstorms as well.
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