Panic Article

Panic In Close Quarters

BY Len Feldman

It started innocently enough.

Buckaroo, my 36-foot Victory cat, was tied securely to the long bulkhead wall that serves as a marina on the C & D Canal. Two hours before sundown begins the arrival of a steady stream of boats ready to tie up after the long slough up the Delaware. I had single-handed from New York and had enjoyed one of my fastest passages, leaving Sandy Hook, New Jersey around 7 a.m. and arriving in Atlantic City at 6:45 that evening. I felt fresh enough to go on, but anxious to visit Donald's hotel for food and a bit of excitement.

Now, at the C & D Marina, I walked the docks, half studying the boats and half lost in the leftover reverie that sailing your own boat brings. A small sailboat was making its way right at me, the foredeck person gathering lines, making ready to dock; the helmsperson coming in perpendicular to the current, now about 3 1/2 knots, aiming right at the docks. Space was going to be tight for this 30-foot monohull. As she got closer, I motioned to the person on the foredeck to heave me a line. It was clear, seconds after the line was secured, the attempt wasn't going to work. The stern of the boat in the strong current swung over sharply, ready to hit the large powerboat already tied up securely.

"I'll let go of the line, try the approach again." The foredeck person nodded. I threw the line. The captain in the cockpit was hunkered over ready, it appeared, to start the engine. What I didn't know was that the engine had stalled. As the boat drifted out into the center of the C & D Canal, heading south, it turned sideways to the current, drifting rather rapidly.

A knot in my stomach formed instantly when I saw the car carrier accompanied by a tug, a half mile downstream. It looked 1,000 feet wide and 1,000 feet high, its appearance made larger by the narrow canal. It's probably only 90 feet high and 50-60 feet wide and 300 feet long.

The scene unfolded in slow motion. The small sloop was 'second by second' drifting down on the behemoth steaming at it on a collision course. The sailboat captain, glancing over his shoulder as the distance narrowed between the vessels, frantically worked to start the engine.

The cold sweat that comes with panic gripped me. I internalized the worst possible scenario. "Roll out the jib." The words rattled around inside my brain but did not come out of my mouth. Louder, "roll out the jib," the words pounded in my skull. Finally, the words burst out of my mouth, I screamed: "ROLL OUT THE JIB!"

The tug that was accompanying the car carrier kept blasting on its horn. The scene froze in my mind. Less than 200 yards separated the vessels. The jib appeared. The sloop hesitated and moved forward, out of harm's way.

I felt overwhelming relief. I had been partly responsible for this near miss. My body sagged as I rushed to the end of the dock. The boat was slowly making its way on her jib alone. When the tie-up was completed, I congratulated the captain on a fine piece of sailing.

"Just another day on the water," was his reply.

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