I’d been out in similar conditions countless times, especially, as now, while chasing fish during the November run off Long Island, New York. The close-together, confused sea garnered my full attention and respect, but caused little concern. Until the engine died. Adrift without power is a whole ’nuther kettle of stripers.
I pushed the button and the V-8 chuffed to life. I resumed running for the inlet. Then the engine died again. This scenario repeated itself a couple of times. The engine would remain running at slow speeds—about 1,500 rpm—which in those conditions equated to about 6 mph over the ground.
The culprit was loose wiring for an accessory that’s no longer aboard. I’m not sharing those specifics here. What I want to tell you is how being relegated to slow speed changed my tactics and my schedule.
At the time of this occurrence, the mighty Shinnecock Inlet was breaking as the tide ebbed in opposition to a light southerly. For me, with decades of experience and local knowledge, and running my well-found deep-V, this would not normally be a concern. Except, I was now limited to displacement speeds.
I really wanted to go home. I had spent hours finding the fish, finally did, caught my limit, and was headed to the barn when the engine problem cropped up. Now, I needed to weigh my desire to head in against the increased risk of a broach.
I most likely would have made it through with some stress, but otherwise, no worse for wear. Deep-V hulls actually make fairly good displacement speed craft, and with some quick steering and some surfing, I probably would have been able to keep the boat straight. Probably.
Unless the engine died again.
It would be two more hours before the current stopped screaming, and the bands of white across the mouth of the cut would dissipate.
So, I waited. Fished a little, talked to other boats on the radio, called a buddy on the cell. Time passed, the inlet calmed and home I went.
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The seamanship at work in such a scenario comes in the form of good decision-making rather than arcane technique or nautical acts of derring-do. I’ve been doing this for a while, and on top of that, I have been getting paid to think about such things for a while, too, which is to say I was prepared to make a good decision on several bases.
One, I had local knowledge: I knew what half-way into the inlet was like even though I couldn’t see it from out beyond the breakers. I also could visualize how drastically calmer the conditions would be as soon as the current slacked.
Second, I knew the different handling characteristics of my boat at both low speed and high speed. Specifically, I knew exactly what to expect in rough water from a vessel lacking the ability to accelerate or from one that loses power, even if temporarily. This is not specialized knowledge. It simply comes from time in the helm seat.
Taking the time to take your time can often be your best strategy.
