A short and scary trip on the boat

I do not remember ever having been so frightened. This trip was so short that it didn't involve the engine, nor raising a sail or even an oar. As a matter of fact, we didn't as much as untie our lines. Yet short of meeting a hurricane on a lee shore I cannot imagine being as scared on a boat.

Of course the “trip” I refer to was up my mast. The problem was my tri-light had stopped working and we planned to leave for a three week cruise to Scotland at the weekend. I suspected a blown bulb, but only knew one way to make sure. The bigger problems were that this was my first time up the stick, and it was all of fifteen metres.

On the plus side, we were on the marina and Paul was with me, who in addition to experience has a good strong back for winching.

We used the main halyard on the never-before-used bosun's chair with its cargo of me, and used the spinaker halyard for a safety line on the D-ring of my lifejacket. Paul took the slack out of the two lines and I sat in to test my weight. So far so good, then he started winding.

With my dicky right arm I was limited in the assistance I could give as I millimetred towards the boom. Then I managed to swing my legs onto the lazybag, and as I scrambled to my feet the slack disappeared gratefully from the halyards. Now I can clamp the mast between my thighs and start using the other lines and any mast furniture I can grip to take some of the load. I fix my gaze upward, all my fears are below me now.

As I approach the spreaders I have to swing out to get around the inner shrouds, scary as this was, I was going to have to repeat it higher up at the main shrouds. Then I get my feet on the spreaders, I stand up and once again the lines tighten with enthusiasm. Half way, we take a breather. Must keep looking up, focus on the task.

“Once more, into the breach”, Paul winches, I scramble. We're not long restarted when we're hit by the wake of some motorboat blissfully ignoring Dun Laoghaire harbour's never enforced speed limit. My trapeze swings out, I look down at the deck of my neighbours boat, 30 feet directly below, a moment later as I swing back I catch the mast almost hysterically, I lock on in a desparate embrace. As the wake subsides I hear Paul tell me to stop making love to the mast, it might have been funny if he didn't sound so far away!

“Nearly there?” “About three feet”, I reply. And then I am there, or at least as close to “there” as I'm going to get, the halyard has reached the sheave at the masthead. The masthead light is still over my head, but I can reach it with my good left hand. I take a moment to figure out how to get to the bulb, and then I ask Paul to turn on the light. The words are barely out when I catch a glimpse of a small RIB with a big wake heading our way along the marina fairway. “Scream something at the moron in the RIB” I added, but he didn't need to, the RIB slowed as the still evening carried my words and panic all over the harbour.

The masthead light cover is bigger than I expected. I stuff it awkwardly inside my shirt, no don't let me drop it I prayed quietly. I take out the offending bulb, it's well blackened. I fish out one of the three spares I've brought. Bingo, there is light. Coming down is less arduous, but faster and equally terrifying. I land on the deck, almost puzzled that I am still intact after such an insane adventure. Seeing him stripped to the waist I realise Paul has been working hard winching my 14 stone up 15 metres. Still I insist that I had expended the greater energy, clinging for my life!

Wearily we make the much more placid trip home to a well earned dinner.

Copyright © Pat Egan 2007