The unknown sailors.  Too ashamed to bear their true identify, as they wear the "Plugs of Shame" around their necks.

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USAGE OF DRAIN PLUGS IN CATAMARANS NOT OVERRATED, EXPERTS SAY (by Suzanne Willess)

After a recent experience in Mexico, I think the Willess team can claim we are somewhat expert in this area. Dubious honor though it is, it was knowledge paid for with experience and I think that makes it worthwhile.  We wouldn’t have chosen this way to learn the lesson; it would be easier if it had been someone else. Now anyone reading this story can be where we wish we were, sitting back with a beer enjoying someone else’s escapade.

 It was an auspicious occasion. The first day of sailing season, literally, for me. Brian had gone to the weekend tune-up at Lake Pleasant a few weeks ago, but I was sick and had to stay behind. We hadn’t sailed together for six months and were anxious to get out on the water. We had arrived in Rocky Point around noon and gotten the boat put together and down on the beach in record time, with help from our friends. The weather was warm, there was a nice breeze and the tide was coming in. Does it get any better than that for a sailor?

 Brian and I hoisted our sails and zipped up our life jackets, then pushed his eighteen-foot Prindle out on the water.  I jumped on and secured the rudders, Brian followed, sheeting in the mainsail. We were on our way! It was a great feeling. Boundless blue-green ocean ahead of us, bright blue skies above. The sails filled with air, carrying us off to the southwest with ease.

 Except. Brian mentioned the rudders seemed a little sluggish to respond. I noticed the stern seemed to sit lower than I remembered. Maybe the port rudder wasn’t down all the way? Brian raised and lowered it. Nope. Still the boat responded to his command in a slow, regal manor, as if it was busy doing something more important. Hmmm.

 We tacked and sailed toward shore, tacked again and sailed out to sea. We tacked a third time and I noticed water flowing over the stern—a lot of water. The hulls settled lower in the sea. Brian stared and his face registered knowledge. Of what, he wasn’t sure yet, but I could see he was grasping at something. Then he turned to me and gestured with his hands, arms out wide. “The drain plugs. We forgot the drain plugs!”

 Well, the boat must have heard him, because it settled farther in the water, as if his words held meaning for it. He was sitting starboard toward the bow. I moved to the stern, intent on the nylon bag clipped to the back of the tramp. I unzipped it. Water flowed over the tramp and the bag and something floated away. I ripped off a glove and felt around for the drain plugs. One…two. Ah. I rolled off the boat and around to the back of the starboard hull and screwed in the first drain plug. But where had the other one gone? I glanced down at my empty right hand. Huh? I looked up at the trampoline. The plug was sitting there, out of my reach.

 Brian saw it and dove for it. The extra weight on the back of the boat tipped it under water. He jumped overboard and swam around, securing the other drain plug. Whew! The plugs were in. But it was too late. The overloaded hulls continued to sink at a 45 degree angle, under water. Brian climbed back on and headed up to the bow. I followed, but I could feel it sinking lower and tilting to port. I jumped off again, but Brian stayed on. I turned and looked back. He stood on the inner port hull, which stuck halfway out into the air. The boat was almost perpendicular to the water, but slightly to port.

 He suggested I join him on the hull. We could then inch our way upward on the front of it, hoping our weight would force the starboard hull out of the water enough to loosen the drain plug again and spill out the excess fluid. I tried to climb aboard. It wasn’t easy because we had just waxed the hulls (we had been so proud of our good job) and I kept slipping off. Finally I was up beside Brian. He pushed me up to the tip of the port hull where I sort of half hung, half leaned while he inched up behind me. But the starboard hull never came farther out of the water.

 We looked around. There were only two other sailboats out. Both were far away yet. We tried to make ourselves comfortable while we waited. The boat sank a little more, but we managed to stay half out of the water. Luckily it wasn’t cold—double lucky for me because I had on a wet suit.

 Finally Heinz sailed by and promised to send some help. He was carrying two inexperienced sailors so he couldn’t do much right then.

 He must have been our good luck talisman, because suddenly things started going our way. Three men in a Mexican Ponga boat showed up next. Brian talked to them. They didn’t seem to understand English, but knew exactly what to do. They maneuvered their fishing boat up to the Prindle’s mast, got under it, and motored down the length of it, pushing it up and over. Yippee! The catamaran was righted and sitting on the water again. We thanked the fishermen profusely. They smiled and we all waved to each other as they disappeared.

 Next came Clyde and Paul on Clyde’s 18-foot Prindle. It was decided that I would go with Paul and Clyde on their boat (they had to beach me like a whale because my arms were so tired from hanging from the hull, I couldn’t pull myself up) and Brian would stay with his boat. We all sailed to the closest shore. Once there we pulled out the drain plugs and let the water flow out. When it slowed we hoisted the front hulls over our heads and let them drain some more.

 Didn’t know those hulls would fill three-quarters to the top and still float. Lucky for us.

 When the hulls were nearly empty of liquid we immediately reinserted the drain plugs and, like good sailors, got back on the boat and headed out to sea again—after thanking our rescuers, a lot.

 The moral of the story? Oh, yeah, of course the drain plugs—that’s a given. Nope, the real moral of the story is, No Man Is An Island, or, You Gotta Have Friends. Isn’t that a song?