My first time sailing a canoe: the naïve approach

It has been almost 40 years since I first sailed a canoe, and now is the time to share the experience. I’ll ask the reader to do the same when the time is right, especially if it’s a good story.

I was with my Boy Scout troop out of Miami. We went for a canoe trip into the 10,000 Islands area of Florida, a place where the land and sea fight for preeminence over the very southern tip of the state.

We paddled a mélange of canoes out to an island, maybe just a couple three miles or so. We made camp on ground barely above the high water mark, scattered with coral and transient soil. Plants consisted mostly of sea grape and whatever weedy stuff grows in such inhospitable conditions good only for crabs, mosquitoes and the ubiquitous sand fleas.

By that age I had pretty much reached the point where I was too independent to be a Scout anymore and this would prove to be my last trip hanging off the umbilical of a Scout Master, especially one who (in my youthfully arrogant thinking) was better off sitting in front of the tube watching a Dolphins game than trying to lead a hardened outdoorsman like myself. I had already spent many days in the Everglades and practically lived in the drained-swamp pine barrens surrounding our southern Dade County home by then. (Within a couple years of this trip I would find myself held by the foot by trap in alligator-infested, chest-deep water in the Big Cypress Swamp; but that’s another story.)

During one of the many lulls in the camp action, I took off with the canoe assigned to me and my tent mate, a Grumman, if memory serves; aluminum, for sure. Packing a spinning rod and a mullet gig, I went in search of adventure, and maybe some fresh fish for dinner. After sticking myself a black mullet and baiting a hook, I settled down in the bottom of the canoe in my usual repose: horizontal—napping. After a bit, I had a strike. Shark! It pulled hard and began swimming to deeper water with a tin canoe and teenager attached. I hung on and adjusted my rod angle so the boat would stay inline with the fish, knowing a broach would be uncalled for when a shark is on the line.

He pulled.
I pulled.
He pulled harder.
I hung on, (harder).

And then the line parted, but not until after he pulled me and the canoe into open water. (Could I see Cuba from here?)

How cool.

I paddled back to camp with an air of success having caught, and released, a huge shark. Well, so the story went.

The next day we headed home. As we broke camp, I noted the wind was in just the right direction. Having sailed a little on my Uncle Carl’s boat I had a little familiarity with the whys and wherefores of sailing. Not much, mind you, but it was that little bit of knowledge that engendered the idea—sail—don’t paddle. I convinced my tent mate (smaller than me) that this was the way to go. We lashed two sticks—probably two tent poles—together, square-rigged, and tied to them an Army poncho. We lashed the mast to the forward thwart and he would have to act as the step to keep it vertical.

With steering paddle in hand, (now, I’d never seen this before, only surmised it) we left the beach, hell-bent for leather. Well, not right away. For awhile we sailed while others paddled ahead of us. They laughed. I knew better. Tentmate/mast step complained that we’d get in trouble. I assured him we were being good Scouts and told him to stop bawling and just hang on.

Then…we got wind….

It wasn’t much, but we started accelerating, leaving the paddlers behind. He held on for dear life, I held onto the paddle and steered.

Wow.

The flapping poncho filled and tightened as the wind picked up. The sound of water rushing over tin and rivets increased as the mast step got louder in his complaints. We were leaving a wake…the paddlers fell behind. I heard not a word from Scout Master, who was probably aghast at the site of two of his young troops showing him up in such an obvious (and plainly heroic) manner.

I guess we beat the rest of the Troop by close to an hour. Tentmate was scared we’d be in trouble and he complained about being held hostage and I reminded him he wasn’t a hostage, but Pressed, like the British did to American sailors, and should be proud he was part of a grand adventure.

Scout Master was mad we’d left the others behind and castigated me for being irresponsible and what would have happened if we wrecked and all I could think was he was better off living indoors with others of his kind and he was red in the face and I was sure it was because he was shown up by a boy not yet old enough to drive who was twice, no—thrice—the outdoorsman he’d ever be.

And, that, my friends, is how I came to sail a canoe the very first time…and things haven’t been right since….

Great support makes it possible, and fun (sorta)

After retiring from the military and attending journalism school, I glommed onto the idea of publishing a magazine once I moved home to Florida. At first, it was to be a print fly fishing publication, but further study made me all too aware of the extraordinary cost of such a venture; it was put on hold. A few months later I researched the possibility of doing an online version, but found little support (okay—no support) for my concept. It seems a fly fishing magazine was not in the cards, though something else was, even though I didn’t know it then.

Back in October of 2007 I was trying to decide whether to restore my reproduction E.M. White sailing canoe, or build a new one. I posted the thread “Time for a new sailing canoe…” in the Woodenboat Forum to pick the collective brains of my fellow WB “Forumites.” Well! After an untold number of responses, various and sundry insights and a lot of brotherly (and sisterly) suggestions, it occurred to me that there was a great potential for a magazine, a canoe sailing magazine. An online canoe sailing magazine.

With the invaluable help of my friend (and ‘IT Department’) Bernadette McCarthy, not a little amount of lost sleep and a whole lot of training and patience on Bern’s part, we went online with Canoe Sailing Magazine January 20, 2008.

During this year, Canoe Sailing Magazine has published about a hundred articles and has been read by more than 27,000 individuals on every continent, save Antarctica, for a total of more than 297,000 pages read and more than 41Gb of data transferred. As far as I can tell, it’s not too shabby for a pastime that’s so unknown to many people. So far.

Read more here

A world-wide community coming together

I’m sitting here at my desk on Saturday, March 29 trying to figure out what I should say to my readers other than “Thanks.” This, our third issue, has been made possible by the moral support of a lot of readers from all sorts of canoe and kayaking types, and the contributions of quite a few of you, too. So: “Thank you!”

To date, we have readers in more than 52 countries. If you look at the map I have on the bottom, right of the page, and click on it, you’ll see we are joined by fellow canoe and kayak sailors on every continent, save Antarctica. Readers–fellow sailors–range from New Zealand, to China, South Africa, and Micronesia, to Portugal, Germany, Great Britain and Sweden, to Columbia, Paraguay, Canada and the United States. We are–this community–a pretty big and diverse crew.

You have by now noticed the addition of some advertising. As much as I’d rather win the lottery and be able to just publish this magazine, I have to generate some funds to cover costs. You all seem to understand and appreciate that, so I won’t belabor the point other than to ask you to consider making your online purchases through those businesses we advertise. We get a small portion of purchases you make when you access them through Canoe Sailing Magazine, so please allow me to encourage you to spend, spend, spend! For my part, I’ll be selective about what advertisers we do have and will keep the bilgewater out of the pages.

To better serve you, we’ll soon have a “Resources” page for all your canoe- and kayak-sailing needs. This will be the one place you need to stop by to find whatever you want, thus making Canoe Sailing Magazine your best resource, and first (and hopefully—only) place to look.

I’m also working on getting some videos posted as well.

In this issue we have some pretty interesting articles. We don’t have a ‘theme’ for issues yet; we just take them as they come, and will always offer a wide range of topics in each issue.

A common item of discussion is how to steer one’s canoe or kayak. In Issue 2, I had a piece about my kickup, clamp-on rudder. Since then, I’ve had several readers inquire about how it mounts on the boat. I’ve addressed that in this issue, along with a discussion about using a button-and-beckett connector in place of various bronze fittings or knots used to attach sails to halyards, sheets and etc.

One of the aspects of canoe sailing is how, with a little bit of thought and time, a paddling boat can be turned into a sailer, not something so easily done with other boats. To show us how a bit of ingenuity can add to our own sailing enjoyment, Dan Reiber’s “Kayak Sailing Project” discusses his turning a 14′ rec kayak into a sailboat, and Tord S. Eriksson continues with his Klepper project.

There has been an on-going discussion (both in these pages and those of other publications) about how one can cover an open boat’s deck without having to drill (yet) more holes. Tom Lewis shows us a great solution with his PVC clips in “A Simple Gunwhale Clip.”

Not one (apparantly) to take retirement lightly, Keith Wellman shares his seventy mile, seven day sail along the southwest Florida coast. Keith also sent along some beautiful photos we’re sure those of you who are still snowbound will enjoy! (Needle-Needle)

And, of course, there’s much more for you to enjoy as well. Before you go, allow me to mention that Tord, Keith and Dan are all readers who took the opportunity to share their experiences with the rest of us. I, and I’m sure, they, would like to encourage you to share your own insights, experiences and maybe just plain lies, with the rest of us. You don’t have to be a gifted writer to be in these pages, just a part of the family. Contact me if you’d like to see yourself in Canoe Sailing Magazine.

Thanks—Happy Sailing!

A simple guide to selecting a reel that won’t make you broke 

If you’re like me, you get your Orvis or LL Bean catalog or some other “wish book” in the mail and drool over the vast array of fly reels they have to offer. Modern reels are made from various grades of aluminum to high-grade plastic, and alloys unheard of before this century. Regardless of cost or material, there is one attribute they all have in common that you need to keep in mind:

Basically, a fly reel is nothing more than a place to keep your line. Period.

Oh, sure, reels have drag systems and high capacity spools and ball bearings, but, in the end, they are used because it’s hard to store 20 yards or so of fly line and another couple hundred yards of backing in your pocket without it getting tangled. But, really, the basic function of a fly reel is to hold your line in an organized manner.

Now, that being said, reels designed for large fish do require an effective drag system. Reels for most freshwater applications and many saltwater uses don’t need anything more than a rudimentary drag.

“What?” You say, “how can I fight a fish without a drag?” Well, friend, how do you think it was done in the old days before effective drags were developed? It’s simple—you fought the fish by controlling your line by retrieving it or playing it out with your off hand. When a fish took line, you doled it out to it as needed, creating the requisite drag by how tight you held the line. You also retrieved the line by stripping it in by hand. Tension in either direction was metered by your hands as line slipped through them. Obviously this is an iffy proposition when fighting large fish like tarpon and billfish. But that’s the way it was done, once upon a time.

For many of you experienced anglers, especially the older ones, you’ve played your fish by hand more than once and still do whenever reasonable. For you new ones it’s considered old school, which makes it “classical,” which makes it proper, again—when possible.

Okay, all that being kept in mind, how do you select a good reel that won’t cost you a fortune?

1. Buy a name brand. Name brand reels (and rods) can be trusted more so than off-brands for one simple reason: the maker has a name to protect and will not turn out a piece of junk just to make a buck. A good, entry-level reel will benefit the maker because a satisfied customer is more likely to by the same brand when it’s time to upgrade. Call Orvis if you don’t believe me.
2. Buy an exposed rim reel. Even though you may not be able to rely on the drag, you can apply palm pressure to the spool to supplement it. Drag can be increased or decreased as necessary with little effort. Note high-end reels: for the most part, they have exposed rims for that very purpose in spite of having the best drag systems known to man.
3. If buying aluminum, buy machined, not stamped. Stamped aluminum reels can warp and will bend if dropped. Stamped spools are prone to bending because they don’t really have the material strength to support themselves. Stamped reels can also get out-of-round if over-stressed. Only the smallest reels can get away with stamped spools, but always go for a cast or machined body.
4. Buy a reel that will readily hold the line and backing you need. An undersized reel will only cut down on the backing you need to effectively fight a fish by hand.
5. Buy quality, not glitz. The fish don’t care what color your reel is, neither should you if you are trying to buy wisely. If you are drawn to a more expensive reel because of its fancy coloration, spend that extra money on a better reel! “A fool and his money are soon parted” is a truism.
6. Take pride in your new-found ability to fight a fish by hand. When fighting a fish, let it take line as it needs it; don’t keep a death grip on the line, but meter the drag gently. Let your rod absorb shock. Let the line run when the fish goes on a hard run then gradually increase pressure. When the fish jumps, give it slack, “Bow to the King,” as we say in tarpon fishing. As your line goes slack, retrieve it quickly enough to prevent the hook from coming loose. Maintain constant tension without risking your tippet and your fish will succumb just as though you fought him off the reel. Or not.

Buying right the first time will save money and frustration

Buying a fly rod can be easy. Doing it right takes some doing. Here are seven rules of buying right the first time.
1)    There is no “all condition rod,” just as there is no “one size fits all.” When selecting a rod, buy one that will serve the purpose you will mostly likely and most often use it for. If you will fish small streams most of the time, and only fish lakes occasionally, opt for a small stream rod. You will get the most satisfaction out of it the majority of the time.
2)    Choose one that fits your needs, not someone else’s. Regardless of who says what about a rod, select one for you, not one some celebrity, friend or salesman thinks you should have. If it doesn’t suit you, it will be nothing but trouble and you will be unhappy with it.
3)    Buy only rods that have long or lifetime warrantees. Unwarranted rods will cost more in the long run because you will have to buy new when you eventually break it. Additionally—why trust a rod maker that won’t stand behind its product?
4)    Buy the best you can afford. The price difference between a good rod and a not-so-good rod is usually small. If you can’t afford a good rod—wait until you can.
5)    Trust name brands. Well-known manufacturers put their name on their equipment and will generally avoid causing themselves harm by producing cheap products.
6)    Buy the blank, not the fittings. The blank is what makes the rod what it is, the fittings just add to it. While nice fittings are, well—nice, they don’t truly contribute anything to the action and life of a rod. Don’t be confused by shiny objects.
7)    Cost does not equal value. There are plenty of affordable rods on the market that will suit the average angler’s needs.

In a nutshell: Opt for a name brand, warranted rod that suits most your needs and you can’t go wrong.

Buying right the first time pays in the long run.

“A quality fly rod can set you back a pretty penny.” A true statement that many fly fishers already know. Another statement many would also agree with is “A rod with a lifetime warrantee costs a lot.” And, that, my friends, would be wrong. As a matter of fact, except in only a few circumstances, unwarranted rods actually cost more than warranted ones.

A point in demonstration: During last year’s trip to fish Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley, I broke my “affordable” four-piece 5wt rod. I contacted the company and found it had no warrantee. Ah…what to do…well, since the break occurred at the male part of ferrule, as so often happens, I repaired it, only to have it break again on the first fish of this year’s Platte River trip. I went straight to the local fly shop (It’s on the river, I just clumped right in, dripping waders and all, with reel in hand chirping about needing a new stick.) and found a truly affordable rod that, while it cost more than the broken one, has a lifetime warrantee. Lucky for me I was close to a shop.

So, the new, more expensive rod, will end up being cheaper over its lifetime because if it breaks, it gets replaced at little or no cost to me. Obvious now, but not when I bought the now re-broken “affordable” one. A quick survey shows that the price difference between warranted and unwarranted rods is often no more than $100. That’s it—a hundred bucks. Some are even in the same price range, and one manufacturer (that of the unwarranted rod I had to replace) even offers less of a warrantee on a rod that’s more expensive than a model with a lifetime warrantee. I know, confusing, isn’t it? Let me state it again: One of their cheaper models has a better warrantee than one of their more expensive ones. Go figure.

What do I make of a manufacturer that won’t warrant a rod when others will? Well, my first impression is that the maker doesn’t have confidence in its product. If it did, it would warrant the rod, right? My second, inescapable impression is that the maker cares less about customer service than it should. In any event, neither case is acceptable, and a buyer should seek out a maker who covers both bases.

Now, if you are in the market for a rod, say you’re a beginner or have limited funds, you cannot afford to buy an unwarranted rod. Break it once (there are two types of people—those who have broken rods, and those will) and you will end up spending more. If you don’t have the money for a warranted rod—wait until you do. Again, the price difference is relatively small. If you can’t afford the additional hundred bucks, you may want to reconsider fly fishing for the time being, because it can be an expensive sport. “Can be,” doesn’t mean it “has to be,” and buying a warranted rod is the first step to controlling costs and keeping fly fishing affordable. Sort of.

Fly fishermen have a standard of conduct of their very own. When approaching one another on a stream, two anglers will try to avoid crowding each other. If the area appeals to both, one will usually wait his turn and the other will avoid dallying in the spot. He will fish it, but not turn it into a drawn-out affair, thus giving the waiting angler a chance to fish it in short order.

But there are times the standards of conduct are violated. This is not taken lightly: the normally courteous angler will only transgress in the most unusual of circumstances. A case in point:

I was fishing my usual stretch not long ago when I realized I was compelled to break the rules of conduct. I usually fished my favorite pool in an area known for its pools and lies where trout where known to inhabit. In these pools and lies, trout find security from predators and are free to move about and feed. I fished one particular pool quite often and normally preferred it to others. But, like several others, I was tired of fishing my pool and was considering moving on to another.

Now, some guys move along very quickly, never giving a pool a decent chance. They always gripe about how the trout in the pool are non-responsive. I don’t think it’s the trout’s fault they are not responding—the anglers are not making the right presentations. They are impatient and often don’t use the right fly. One must use both the right fly and presentation, and be patient enough for them to work before they can judge a pool to be a waste of time.

There was a pool not far from mine that appealed to me. Like mine, it held but a single trout. Another angler had already staked it out as his own before I ever fished this stretch. Sometimes I would sit and watch him fish. Every so often I had a chance to watch him catch the pool’s solitary trout. She was a female rainbow, all silver and pink and shiny like a new penny.

One day while he was gone, I was sitting on the bank just watching the fish as it swam gently in the current; she turned and faced me. She seemed curious about me and why I was just sitting there peacefully admiring her.

To me, this seemed like an invitation. Not wanting to transgress the standard of conduct, I decided to only make a few false casts over the trout, just so see if I could get her interest. Using a very peaceful approach I made false casts that made the fly almost touch the surface of the stream. It became a challenge to see how close I could get the fly without it actually touching the water. If it did touch, I would be guilty of fishing this other fella’s pool and would have crossed the line.

Now, I never made these false casts while he was there, only when he was off at work or hunting, or whatever it was he did while away from his pool. During one of my false-casting sessions, the trout actually chased the fly, even though it didn’t touch the water. I was surprised; it had been a long time since I had gotten a trout to chase a fly I was false casting. I had to be careful. I did not want him to catch on that I was false-casting over his pool. If he found out, he probably would be quite upset about me crossing the line of propriety.

Could I bring myself to actually allow a fly to touch the water—to fish this guy’s pool?

I would let the fish decide. One day I approached from the downstream side of the pool so as not to spook her. I dropped a fly ever so gently upstream from her and let it drift drag-free with the current. She rose gently and took it. She dragged my line across the current and then headed for the bottom and back up again. Almost in ecstasy she fought and leapt—and then finally succumbed to the pressure. I gently netted her as she swam close to me, and then I released her back into the river.

I still have my own pool to fish and do so when he’s around. That should keep him from ever suspecting I’ve been in his pool, catching “his” trout. Maybe he’ll move on to another pool one of these days and I can fish this new pool of mine without concern. Then again, maybe he won’t move.

But I’ll always be back.