Going Aloft: Rick Klepfer

Going Aloft

by Rick Klepfer

Has there ever been a prospective sailboat purchaser who has looked at the towering mast on the vessel they have just been smitten with, thought about the need to climb it at some point and decided to forget sailboats and reconsider powerboats? I doubt it. Sailboats are seductive, and buyers are unduly charmed by their sweet lines, the details of their fittings and the cleverly fitted accommodation spaces below decks. There may be expanses of flawlessly varnished teak, rich fabrics in a complementary shade or arrays of mesmerizing electronics that entice them to overlook the harsher realities of sailboat ownership. A sailboat is perhaps the most graceful of forms to ever follow a function.

I fall into that lot of sailors who push any thoughts of future maintenance to the back of their mind when boat shopping. I want all those attributes that make sailing an endeavor that satisfies my every sense and on every level. The snug berths that cradle you as your mother once did. The smell of teak and fresh varnish. The kerosene cooker frying your morning eggs and bacon on a crisp fall morning. The challenges of piloting your sweet craft along the margins of the Bay, where the intertwining of saltwater, shore and intertidal wildlife intersect to fashion a scene of intricate complexity and beauty. All these things, and more, combine to conjure up thoughts of both comfort and modest adventure.

But the day will come when you must ascend to the very top of that formidable stick. Perhaps the masthead light has winked out, a halyard could have twisted itself around a masthead fitting, or maybe an osprey has started construction on a

new residence, who knows? Whatever the reason, the sailor must now make a choice ~ hire a pricey daredevil mechanic to do the deed or go aloft oneself. My personal choice has always been to steel myself, verify that my last will and testament are in order and go up.

Of course, my piddling climbs up my forty-foot mast pale in comparison to the near-daily trips made by sailors in the days of commercial sail. Consider the experience as related by Eric Newby in his book The Last Grain Race, in which he is sent aloft by the mate within the first few minutes of his signing on ~ climbing, in his street shoes, the 185-foot masts of the square-rigger Moshulu. Still, even from my boat’s modest proportions, it always amazes me how the distance from the top of the masthead is so much greater than the same distance when viewed from the deck. I can’t imagine the experience of shortening sail on a tall ship at night and in a rising gale.

When we were fitting-out our last sailboat, I thought it prudent to include a bosun’s chair in her kit ~ but with the fervent hope

The Moshulu at night in Philadelphia.

that the need to use it would never arise. It made sense that if a trip to the masthead was absolutely necessary, then the best and safest gear to use on the journey up would be the thing to have. I found a heavy canvas model with stout stitching, a padded wood plank to sit on, first-rate stainless fittings and thick nylon webbing. It looked capable of lifting the whole boat up. I stowed it in a locker on the boat and forgot about it ~ but not for long.

My first trip up our mast was exciting ~ and borderline terrifying. I secured the bosun’s chair to the main halyard with the shackle and then backed that up with a

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Going Aloft her job of hauling me looked much more appealing. few round-turns and a couple of I took it upon myself to make half-hitches. I climbed up onto her work easier. I stood fully up the housetop, squirmed into the on the house and then stood up on chair and looked, apprehensively, my toes to give her every initial upward to that distant destina- advantage. As my feet left the ship tion. My wife was charged with the and my full weight became apparwinch-cranking duties, and solemn ent to the winch-winder, I thought duties they were. Her ability to hang I heard another disparaging oath on to the tail of the halyard while slip from her lips. I gently reminded cranking the winch handle needed her that my life was literally in her to be flawless. It didn’t help matters hands and tried to remember if I that she was going to have to hoist had offended her in some major way my two hundred pounds by herself. recently. I sought to aid her in any Her first effort was punctuated by way I could. I grabbed hold of the mouthing some sort of oath and jib halyard and hauled myself up in giving me a withering look. I sug- what must have been a meager asgested that we could reverse roles sist. Things went slightly more easiand I could hoist her up. Suddenly, ly for her. The halyard, connected to the chair, was literally in front of my nose, and I was momentarily taken aback by the strain showing on it. How much more was my weight than that of the mainsail that it was designed to carry? How many years had that string hung out in the nylon-degrading sunlight? Soon I arrived at the lower spreaders, and I could reach up and pull some of my weight as she cranked. Eventually, I got to where

Historic WADES POINT INN I could stand on the lower spreaders and take a break ~ for both of us. While I still had the upper spread-

ON THE BAY ers to pass ~ and then that longish 410-745-2500 pitch from there to the masthead, where no handholds would aid me, wadesinn@wadespoint.com I did find that it was much higher www.wadespoint.com than I had envisioned. I called

down to the deck to see how it was going. A muffled response drifted up to me, and the tone informed me that a longer break was being requested by the deck crew.

The next bit of yardage up the stick was again assisted by my hauling with the jib halyard. While I was wound slowly upward, I had the unsettling thought of what might happen if a bee were to bother my wife. She is not fond of insects, and bees in particular. I could envision her dropping the tail of the winch to swat a bee, only to find that the bee was crushed by the weight of my falling body. I tried to think of other things.

The upper spreaders were reached and then surpassed, and at last, the masthead was in line with my head. I had made it to the top alive! I called down to my wife to cleat off the line that was supporting my life ~ making sure that she took a dozen extra wraps on it ~ and to hold on to the last bit of it, just as the final safety measure. I fumbled around in the pockets of the chair to find the necessary tools for job at hand. I had taken the precaution of tying each tool to the chair so that a dropped one would not hit anyone below. I had previously considered what would happen if my wife were to be hit by a falling tool. She might let go of the line, or she might be knocked out while I was secured at the top, and I would have no way to easily get back down. I redirected my attentions to the fix and tried to think happy thoughts.

The view from the masthead was impressive. I could see a great distance, and the people below me looked quite small and insignificant. I completed my work and called down to my wife to start to lower me. I held tightly to the mast as she began this part of the operation. I didn’t want to find out that she couldn’t ease me down, lose control of the winch and put me into free-fall. When I had allowed my full weight to bear on the halyard and everything held, I asked

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to be slowly let down. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of relief when my toes finally made contact with the housetop. My wife seemed relieved, too.

I have since made many trips up a few masts, and the process has become easier. Still, I don’t want to become complacent about it ~ too much comfort in the task might result in an unhappy journey north, or even a more fateful trip south. It’s true that we have moved on to powerboats in the last few years, but it had nothing to do with having to scale a mast ~ honest.

Rick Klepfer is an avid sailor, oarsman and traveler and has written about his sailing adventures, including such places as the Norwegian Arctic, the Southern Caribbean, the South China Sea and the Coast of Maine. He now resides in Cambridge.