This Side Up

Be careful for the strike

John Howell
Posted 9/15/15

“It was swollen, you wouldn’t believe it,” Jack Hunter was saying.

The words were drifting away…literally. I strained to hear what happened next. I could tell from the inflection in …

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This Side Up

Be careful for the strike

Posted

“It was swollen, you wouldn’t believe it,” Jack Hunter was saying.

The words were drifting away…literally. I strained to hear what happened next. I could tell from the inflection in Jack’s voice that this was a critical part of the story, although I couldn’t make out exactly what.

I had a good idea of what he was saying, and you might, too.

Hunter, as you may recall, is the first person in recent history to have been bitten by a venomous snake in the wild in Rhode Island. The incident occurred in the “wilds” of Riverside, which is really pretty tame.

Hunter knows how to deal with snakes, so when his wife said there was one in the backyard he figured he’d go out and catch it. What he didn’t know at the time is that it was a copperhead.

There were plenty of questions I was prepared to ask.

Did you ever learn how a copperhead ended up in Riverside? What became of the snake? And, most important to Jack, what effect has it had on you?

But Jack was being left in our wake. He was too far away to hear my questions or for me to get the answers.

As eccentric as his story were the circumstances under which he was recounting the tale Sunday morning.

Jack was one of three in a Rhodes 19 sailboat in one of the more unusual races on Narragansett Bay. Conditions were close to breathless.

All five Rhodes 19s were a “knot” of boats as we set off from the entrance of Bullock’s Cove. We ghosted across smooth waters with one boat pulling ahead only to come to a near standstill while the rest of us caught up, only to befall the same vagaries of offshore zephyrs and be passed again.

The race, named for the late Bob Taber, who came up with the idea, is limited in rules. The start is the same as the finish at the mouth of the cove, and the objective is to sail around Pomham Lighthouse in the Providence River, which is south of the Squantum Club. No marks need to be observed, and the light can be circumvented clockwise or counter-clockwise. This makes for some adventure and some risk-taking. There are shoals that could bring you to a gentle stop and there are rocks to make for an abrupt halt, if not some major damage. But then venturing near such obstacles could also be the difference between being first and last.

Sunday’s conditions offered more of a test of patience and focused attention than of the kind of risk-taking that could leave the boat hard aground or, far worse, with a damaged keel. My crew, John Cavanagh and I had lucked out. We found one little puff after the next, skating between glassy waters, until we were north of the light and figured it was safe to tack. An outgoing tide was sweeping us toward the rocks, and in what little wind we found we tacked away.

Suddenly, Jack was back. He was at the helm, although Eric McKnight usually skippers the boat. Jack and his crew were now silent. We were inches apart and the gap was closing. Then, suddenly, the boats bumped side to side. There was no damage.

As we were the leeward boat, we had rights. Eric acknowledged the foul and turned his boat in a circle as a penalty. It looked like that would be the deciding incident of the race.

The turn cost Jack and his crew precious time, and while there was still another two miles to sail we had a commanding lead.

We headed for the finish line, seeking to sail as straight a course as possible. Jack, Eric and Eric’s father, Kevin, gambled. They sailed for the channel where the tide flows strongest. At one point they looked to be even further behind than when we left them at the light. John and I talked about family. We wondered about the rest of Jack’s story. We ate apples and figured we had a win.

We should have known that things aren’t always the way they seem. Jack learned that this summer. We were about to learn it Sunday.

The tide had worked its favors and then what little wind there was veered from east to northeast. Now Jack was flying compared to our clunky progress. He was prepared to strike, and the only thing that could save us was to bob across the finish line before he caught us.

That almost happened. We needed another 20 seconds.

Jack passed us to leeward. There was no stopping him. As they crossed between the markers to Bullock’s Cove they shared high-fives and broke into laughter. John and I looked on in disbelief.

I wonder if Jack had intended for his story to take our minds off sailing, or was it one of those things as serendipitous as the wind. Either way it worked. We had been bitten.

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  • mthompsondc

    De-bite-ful!

    Saturday, September 19, 2015 Report this