TOWING SKILLS
Let’s keep it simple
The 14ft dinghy was in a nasty trap. With the other sailing school boats, its crew had sailed across Plymouth Sound, around Devil’s Point and up-river past the naval dockyard, but on the return passage they misjudged the ebb tide and were drawn against the bows of two moored lighters. Luckily, they managed to grab the heavy Admiralty mooring buoy to prevent themselves being sucked between the hulls, where the mooring chains and churning current could have capsized the dinghy and pulled them under.
I was on the sailing school launch with Jack, the senior instructor, for a kind of floating interview as I had applied for a summer job. When he asked: ‘Can you throw a rope?’ this looked like being the key assessment test.
Jack throttled back to just stem the tide, beginning a cautious ferry glide to a point upstream of the dinghy. We warned the trainees that one of them must keep hold of the buoy, leaving the other to deal with our rope, even if it was fumbled or missed.
I took my time in coiling the warp; my throw apparently earned me employment for the next two summers, and one trainee secured the line before returning aft to his tiller. Then Jack carefully towed them clear of the steel jaws and into open water.
Sailing education traditionally includes set-piece exercises, such as reefing, anchoring, picking up a buoy, entering a pontoon berth and manoverboard drill, but towing a boat out of trouble is probably neglected by many training courses.
Establishing a tow may be compared with a man-overboard drill but there’s an important difference: when a person is in cold water, haste is vital, but towing is more complicated and may risk damage to the rescuer, so it is important to plan the process carefully, and ensure that everyone involved understands their role and the risks involved.
LESSONS FOR INSTRUCTORS
If a mnemonic is useful, I suggest: ‘Consider, Communicate and Connect’, and my next towing experience demonstrated the importance of all three ‘Cs’, as I messed up the ‘Connect’.
The sailing school fleet had made a coastal trip from Plymouth Sound to the River Yealm’s Cellar Beach and was returning around the Mewstone when the Hornet dinghy lost a rudder pintle.
I was instructing in one of the school’s Airborne Lifeboats, vessels that had been conceived by Uffa Fox in the Second World War for dropping by parachute to ditched aircrew. After the war, many were converted for leisure sailing and made powerful dayboats, having Uffa’s typical planing hulls drawn out to 23ft with canoe sterns. With an instructor and three pupils they performed on a par with Flying Fifteens. Many of our customers were intending to buy small cruisers so each Airborne carried an anchor, warps, fenders, a pump and other cruising gear.
I hailed the Hornet to offer a tow but with swell reflecting from the cliffs the closing manoeuvre was tricky. The pupils managed the sheets while I retained the helm but I was unsure if any of them could throw a rope properly, so I decided to do that myself.
Big mistake. ‘Communicate’ went OK as I primed the Hornet crew to pass the warp around the mast and then sit aft to keep the bow up, but with my attention on the Hornet I forgot that the Airborne was rigged with a standing backstay. The coil of rope flew from my hand for about a metre, hit the wire and fell, tangled, into the water. We were head-reaching past the Hornet, the launch was coming to take charge and I could only apologise to my crew for a dismal exhibition.
Later in the week they helped me to make amends. In bright sun and a fitful off-shore wind the school’s boats were exercising between Plymouth
Hoe and Drake’s Island. Bob, the youngest instructor and a racing ace, was having a good day, reclining elegantly in his shades, lying full length on the leeward deck as his crew of two young women sailed his Airborne, reaching across the Sound.
A solid gust curved down over Plymouth Hoe, spread out on the water like a large black fist and flattened the Airborne into the surface, with Bob somewhere underneath. ‘All he said was “glug”’, claimed one of his pupils, later.
Help was at hand and some Royal Marines, who had been practising in an assault craft, zoomed over to right the Airborne and then, being sailors at heart, carried off the young women for hot showers. When we arrived, Bob was standing in a waterlogged hull with tangled gear and surrounded by a small flotilla of craft, including a Grand Banks motor yacht and all equally unsuitable for salvaging a swamped boat.
To add urgency, we were in the main channel and an RN frigate was emerging from behind Devil’s Point, coming downstream. I outlined a plan and then my trainees showed their mettle.
Communication was impressive. Harry, a PE instructor from an inner-city school, stood on the bow and issued crisp instructions to the would-be rescuers who were in our way, who all backed off smartly. Making a connection went just as well; Geoff had been offered a crew place on a JOG racer, so he concentrated on sail handling. As we luffed up to come alongside Bob, our mainsail slid down and was furled in seconds. The third pupil was Beryl, a bouncy character who would probably have rescued any Royal Marines in distress. She rigged the fenders and then, with a gleam in her eye, laid hands on our big bucket. Beryl’s bucket, aided by two portable pumps, lifted Bob’s boat to a more buoyant level and then we had to move quickly, as the frigate was bearing down on us. We filled the jib and slipped ahead, with the other Airborne on the end of a warp. As the apparent wind came forward, Geoff re-hoisted the main and we headed for home, although there was an unexpected complication.
Airbornes, with their flat, scow-like hulls, had some eccentric handling characteristics and when one was towing another from its elongated stern the tail definitely wagged the dog. At low speeds, in the lulls between gusts, the rudder had only a feeble effect and to make major course corrections we had to raise or lower the leading boat’s centreplate, in order to adjust its leeway in relation to the tow.
CHOPPY SEAS RISK DAMAGE
A few years later, another two incidents involved towing under sail after Mary and I had acquired our first boat, Demerara, an Alacrity 18. That design looks tiny alongside most modern yachts but in 1971 it was a serious cruiser with delightful behaviour under sail.
As we rarely needed the outboard motor, it was in a locker when we spotted a plywood dory adrift in Spithead, so we simply sailed alongside and reached for the painter, then secured it astern and towed the dory into Cowes, where it was later reclaimed by a happy owner.
The second incident was more complicated. A 16ft catamaran had been dismasted when its forestay uncoupled, and its single-handed owner requested a tow into the Newtown River so that he could beach and re-rig.
Wind-against-tide created a steep chop and the narrow hulls were lying beam-on to the waves, so going alongside would risk damage. We sailed past as slowly as possible, threw a warp, and the cat sailor scrambled over the trampoline to fasten the line around the forward crossbeam. As he was finishing the knot, the warp came taut and the cat jerked forward, sliding away at an angle from our heading and threatening to overtake on our lee side. He returned to the tiller bar just in time to correct the steering but it was clear that I should have given more consideration to the time required, perhaps by preparing a second warp to extend the first one.
A tow isn’t finished until the casualty is safe
ROUGH WATER
A few years later, we were returning across the Channel in a Hurley 22 with our two small children when we came