FBYC History....
Jere Dennison
Historian’s Preface: Countless times I have pleaded with members to send written accounts of their memorable sailing exploits. Most have ignored my entreaties. But this time, we have really hit pay dirt with the following story from Byrd Davenport, a long time member, who obviously believes that the truth should now be told in spite of his playful concern that incriminations may occur. Amazingly he doesn’t even change the names to protect the innocent!
Older members may recognize some of those names appearing in the story. Of course, there are Byrd, Sr. and the member/author, Byrd, Jr. and his sister Lucy, all early members from the ‘50s. Then there is Alan McCullough Sr. (Commodore 1951), another early member and the architect who designed our original clubhouse in 1949. Former member Murray Bayliss is the son of Major Bayliss (Commodore 1955) and brother of current member Temple Bayliss. Billy Ellyson is also a former member.
The story is particularly interesting in that it involves an ocean voyage and (dare I say) a tempest in the days before Loran, GPS, radar, weather faxes, electronics, and probably not even a marine radio. Back then, all you had was a compass, maybe a wind direction indicator on the mast, and a sextant assuming you knew how to use it. You would even be lucky to get an unreliable weather forecast from a shoreside AM radio station if you were not out of range. For many, such cruises in the past were ventures into the unknown. This cruise was no exception. Jere Dennison, Historian
A Newport Misadventure: the 1965 Cruise of the Dauntless
by Byrd W. Davenport, Jr.
I really did not want to write about this adventure in view of the potential critique that might arise from the accomplished sailors who frequent the waters of Fishing Bay and its environs. This may put the good sense of the author, his family and a few friends in jeopardy. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to relate the events of 1965 aboard the Dauntless, a 38’ wooden Ketch whose hull was built in 1953 in Nova Scotia. The yacht was bought from the boat yard of the same name in Essex, Ct. by my father, Byrd Sr. and Alan McCullough Sr. Dauntless was a hefty craft and had distinctive lines that drew compliments from sailors everywhere. Imagine: a 4 foot bowsprit, lovely maiden figurehead, gold leaf trim, teak deck, 51 foot mast, etc. Heavy weather was her forte or so we thought.
After plying every ‘creek’ of the bay and a winter in Ft. Lauderdale, a trip to Newport was planned to cover a specific limited block of time that fit the crew’s availability. Big mistake! Actually, another fateful voyage had already occurred wherein Dauntless ran aground on a spit of an island north of Tangier. In that debacle the Coast Guard could not pull the boat off the beach so that the crew spent the night camped out in frigid conditions. (Historian’s Note: see the history article posted on the website entitled FBYC Believe It…or Not! to read a more detailed account of this amusing incident.)
The most interesting part of this Newport misadventure was perhaps the crew itself, a mixture of some real talent and some inexperienced cruisers. The writer modestly claims to be in the latter category. The cast of characters included my father - Skipper and owner of the vessel. Alan McCullough had by then sold his share of the boat and moved on to Altair, a Cal 40, I think. My father had been a WWII supply officer and began his sailing experiences off Biloxi in a 12 ft. cat rig, Sem Jem. His main ability: fix or make most anything and mastermind of the adventure. A paper company executive, he died in 1985.
At age 14, I boasted claim to 3rd place FBYC silver on a Sailfish in a long distance race up the Piankatank in 1955, Byrd Sr. having made the craft from a kit. Later, I proudly captured FBYC pewter for sailboards in 1986. My sister, Lucy Wallace, was outstanding crew and was not the cook, having sailed and raced at Fishing Bay and at camp on Squam Lake. Her husband, South Wallace, was clearly the most enthusiastic person aboard. Murray Bayliss was the most experienced crew member, being the skipper of Tempest, a stout craft known in these parts for all night cruises. Later he became the fearless owner of the yacht, Rights of Man.
Rounding out the dramatis personae were Judd Babcock, a valiant crewman who at the time had not sailed much, but later for awhile actually became owner of Intrepid, a former Americas Cup yacht on Lake Champlain, VT, Grant van Sant- our talented Chief Navigator whose hobby was celestial navigation, and last but not least, Billy Ellyson- loyal crew and first mate of Bayliss, he served in USMCR with the writer and told the best sea stories.
The plan was to hastily cruise up the eastern seaboard arriving at Newport just in time to observe the start of the Bermuda race as onlookers. We lacked the time and some question the ability to actually participate in the race itself. Somehow it was felt that this would be a worthwhile endeavor. Nevertheless, we proudly flew the FBYC burgee from the shrouds. Casting off from Ruark’s, we made our way up the bay, through the canal and across Delaware Bay in a pleasant fashion to yet another canal to our principle departure point, Cape May, NJ. So far so good! A piece of cake we thought.
Upon arrival, we docked at a local marina adjacent to the cut and seawall that led directly out to the Atlantic. Our skipper paid a visit to the nearby Coast Guard station to check on the advisability of venturing onward as the weather had taken a definite turn for the worse. Sure enough, gale force winds were howling offshore, but why worry, this was not a hurricane! Well, the plan was to sail around east of Long Island and up to Rhode Island. When we got to Newport, I have no idea what we thought would happen there except to troll around out by the starting line and likely get in the way of the serious business of the more purposeful craft. I do think that the main objective of most of our crew was to see how many types of rum were served in the waterfront bars. Perhaps we would meet some interesting people or tour the old mansions of the icons of the last century. The return leg of the escapade would have us sail directly down the coast to the mouth of the Chesapeake. All of this was to be crammed into a certain period of time so that the skipper was anxious to get underway from Cape May.
After a night at the marina, the weather prediction had us sitting around the next day in the rain waiting for an opportunity to strike out into the ocean. This delay had the group muttering among themselves. I don’t think any fisticuffs broke out, but close quarters can breed short tempers. A decision was made: The Dauntless was to venture onward, leaving the departure point of Cape May at about 11 PM in order to take advantage of the tide. Although the first few hours might be a little rough with the winds gusting up to about 50 mph, the forecast was for the storm to subside. In retrospect, I wish that the casinos that now dot the nearby landscape had existed in those days as we may have instead opted to try our luck at the tables rather than taking off into the dark, deep and perilous Atlantic. Perhaps the trip was just a test to see if the Dauntless could live up to her name.
At first the conditions seemed to be some typical heavy weather which did not seem too bad as we made our way out. After a few hours some of the crew headed below with the stalwarts remaining on deck. Well, it became time for the predicted lighter weather, but the sea was in fact growing into the worst anyone aboard had ever seen. The waves kept coming at us, bigger and bigger as it became necessary to alter course so we could head into them in order not to take them broadside. I have the distinct memory of looking at oncoming seas that made us wonder “What are those tall hills doing out here in the ocean?” Somehow in the darkness the spreader lights allowed us to catch glimpses of the behemoths bearing down on the craft. The main and staysail had already been furled while we were now relying on jib and jigger with the diesel chugging away. Soon the jib was just forcing the bow upwind and sailing became a fruitless endeavor. I recall the image of Babcock and Bayliss heroically standing on the bowsprit as it plunged periodically under the water. They wrestled ferociously with the jib to bring it down to the deck but the cloth insisted on running back up. Had they fallen off into the water, we never could have found them. Ellyson held onto their legs acting as a veritable human life line. The little Westerbeke diesel nevertheless kept on roaring away giving us just enough steerage to avert disaster. By 3am most of the crew including the skipper were ill and convenient places to expel stomach contents were hard to find. If you had to go below decks, it was a shame but one brave soul lay prostrate on the narrow floor of the cabin with his head dangling into the bilge. Unfortunately, his body likely still has footprints imbedded on his back to this day (slight exaggeration). This crew member got the “best sport” award no doubt. My sister Lucy and I still claim that we were the only two not to get violently ill. And the giant waves kept coming. Dauntless weighed in at over 12 tons and I recall riding up the waves and seemingly “catching air” like some kite board only for wood, leaded keel, laundry, flesh and bones to come crashing down into a valley. When it came down from the top of each wave and collided with yet more water, the entire boat shuddered, creaked and shook. The fear was that she might break up from the forces. It was then that I felt a distinct morose sensation that this could be the end of us all.
As the morning light began to appear, the storm subsided miraculously and our trusty navigator, Grant, climbed out of the doghouse to take some bearings using his sextant. So for about ten hours it was determined that we had only progressed about 15 miles. The good news was that the skipper made an executive decision to head back to Cape May and regroup, drying out at the marina. Having lost two days or so, our time had run down to the point where we instead aborted the leg to Newport altogether and took off on a southerly route down the eastern shore of Maryland. Arriving in the vicinity of Chincoteague around nightfall, an attempt to navigate the channel was disrupted by frequently shifting sandbars that the buoys no longer marked. So after pounding on the hard bottom for awhile, we put out our heaviest anchor in deeper water and spent the night. Alas, we never saw any wild ponies or even the channel that night.
The remainder of the cruise was as peaceful and smooth as the start since I hardly remember rounding Cape Charles and finishing the sail back up to the Piankatank and into Fishing Bay. Today I prefer being a guest crewman on a docile day sail rather than being on a cruise to Newport. But it sure is fun when the wind freshens!