By Bill Cole
It was summer in the late 1970s and a group of six was aboard a 40-foot sailboat for a six-day cruise of the Chesapeake organized by my friend and sailor Van Slaymaker on his boat.
It was a roomy boat that Van kept docked at Deale, Maryland. We spent the first hot night in the bay behind Tilgman’s Island, then visited St. Michael’s and sailed as far south as, I think, Tangier Island.
We sailed up the Potomac to Colonial Beach to visit Van’s son’s girlfriend. As we came to the end of the cruise, and we were docked at Soloman’s Island with a view of pushing up the bay to the dock at Deale. It was mid-August and hot – 80 degrees at 7 a.m. – with virtually no wind.
At about 8:30, just as we were about to turn north, we lost power. The engine was running well and there was plenty of gas; maybe the propeller was fouled? Van jumped overboard to check it out. He came up, looking stressed, and announced that we had lost the propeller. It was going to be a long day – and night. At last, the dock was ahead and the berth empty. We tied up and had no trouble falling asleep. Early the next morning, Van was in the water, determined to find a clue to how we lost the propeller. He surfaced and with a wry smile and held up the propeller.
How the propeller managed to stay with the boat is a mystery. I had a couple of theories that I ran past folks who know about boats, and both were shot down.
Oh well. We had a few beers and then headed home.
Reprinted with permission of Our Neighborhoods.