CALENDAR
- MAR 6 happy hour @ 6:30pm @ Knucklehead Craft Brew
- MAR 15 DOCK fee balance due
- May 2 Launch Day
Signals from the Commodore | Kathy Fedick
Welcome to March! Let’s hope the warmer weather will be here soon. In 63 days, the boats will be back in the water. Launch is Saturday, May 2nd! Mark your calendars. The 2026 Executive committee is getting the calendar of events/races/workdays together. Please welcome Emily Wilczewski as Vice Commodore and Ben Yager as Rear Commodore and Leslie Phillips as Treasurer and returning BOG Chair Dan Socci, Fleet Captain Kevin Yager and Secretary David Kay. Looking forward to working with everyone.
🛥️🌊 Please welcome Carl Webeck as our new PYC Dockmaster.
Our PYC membership is what makes the club the great place it is. Special thanks go out to the many club members and special committee members who contribute above and beyond the required workdays to help keep the club running smooth. It’s never too late, get involved with helping with a special project, dredging, keeping the club grounds beautiful or helping with a PYC event and workday. Reach out to the Club officers or myself if you have a special interest or skillset you would like to apply to help us maintain the beauty and integrity of the club. 🤝Your involvement is what matters!
Keith Herman, owner of the restored ALMAYZA sailboat, shared the Tim Dawes article below. Thank you Keith!
It’s time for Dave Kay, our PYC secretary, to start working on the PYC 2026 Logbook. Please send Dave any photos you have that could be considered for the logbook cover or if you would like a photo next to your name in the log. If there are no changes needed, we will use the one we have. Send to:
âš“ Look forward to another successful boating season at PYC with plenty of wind and water! âš“
Flares from the Vice Commodore | Emily Wilczewski
🍹⏰ First Friday Happy Hour is March 6th — join us at 6:30pm 🍻🍷
đź“Ť Knucklehead Craft Brewing is located at 426 Ridge Rd, Webster
Find us thawing up at this month’s location: Knucklehead Craft Brewing! Again, if you have suggestions for future happy hour locations, send me an email. See you in March!🌞📅
DOCKSIDE DISPATCHES from the Rear Commodore | BEN YAGER
Photos courtesy of John Garlock
đź”” Launch this year is scheduled for Saturday, May 2nd! âš“
WELCOME ABOARD WAVES FROM THE Membership CHAIR | Cathy MacDonald
📣Please don’t miss an opportunity to bring additional members to PYC! We need your assistance in this!
Click link to download flyer: PYC Membership Application Flyer
Ledger Lines from the Treasurer | Leslie Phillips
Invoices for the dock fee balances have been emailed to applicable members who have paid their dock deposit. A couple of people get theirs via USPS; those have also been sent. There have been questions about where to send the payment.
Payments should always be made payable to: Pultneyville Yacht Club
Send payment to the PYC PO box address at the top of your invoice. For your convenience, the address is:
đź“® Pultneyville Yacht Club P.O. Box 137 Pultneyville, NY 14538
It doesn’t matter if my name and office are included or not. A handful of people still owe membership dues, dock deposits and late fees. I will be following up.
Reminder: Please ensure is on your safe sender list, otherwise you may not receive bills via email. It will likely bounce back or get stuck in your spam/junk folder.
PYC PICTURES | FROM KATHY FEDICK
Bouy Notes from the Editor
March keeps the boats on shore and winter hanging on, but the light is shifting. Soon enough we’ll trade snow for spray–until then, we wait and get ready. —Garland
ALMAYZA……….TIM DAWES ARTICLE | FROM KEITH HERMAN
It was the fall of my junior year in college, when this sailed occurred. I’d been sailing our family’s dingy for some years, but my dormmate had never sailed and wanted to go. We made plans for a mid-week sail after our last morning class. On a Tuesday, in mid-October, the sky was clear and the temperature crisp, but still warm enough to sail. We left campus as planned and within an hour were at my parent’s home in Pultneyville.
At that time, Pultneyville’s small harbor was the home port of Arfin’ Annie, my Dad’s 18-foot Jolly Boat, an Uffa Fox-designed sailing dinghy much like a Flying Dutchman, with her rounded bottom and planing hull and trapeze. We left a note at my folk’s house that we’d gone for a sail and would return about 3:30. I acquainted Louis with the boat and the basics of crewing and with a breeze of about 10 knots we set out. It was gentle enough for a beginner yet sufficient to get the Jolly up on plane so we could have some fun. We donned our Sterns life vests and set out about 1 PM. We sailed about a half mile offshore on a broad reach sailing west, then tacking back. As the wind picked up Louis seemed to get the hang of managing the jib and was trying out the trapeze.
He was a natural so as the breeze freshened, we were unconcerned. But then I noticed a building cloud mass due west. I became more concerned when the wind picked up and we experienced an unfavorable shift that headed us. Now our speed made good towards safe harbor deteriorated. More worrisome was the growing darkening cloud bank behind us. Still, I figured we’d get back before being hammered. A half mile from port a gust came out of nowhere and over we went. I’d capsized the lively Jolly boat a hundred times before, but this time I was in degrading conditions with a beginner crew. The water was cold!
I’d explained to Louis what to do and like a pro he joined me at the centerboard and climbed on it. The boat righted, we clambered into her swamped cockpit and I uncleared the transom scuppers and nudged the Jolly round to a broad reach. Now I was sailing due north right out into the lake. The sodden vessel began to pick up speed and within seconds aided by the buoyancy tanks she should jettison water out the opened transom. Within a minute she would self-bail, I’d close and cleat the transom and we’d head for home.
But something went wrong. The Jolly wasn’t self-bailing. We were mushing along working hard to keep her stable. We continued to sail offshore. We had no choice if we wanted to bail out the water. The wind increased with gusts approaching 35 miles an hour. The boat was increasingly difficult to keep stable, and we were over a mile offshore. Puzzled as to why we weren’t self-bailing. I desperately sought solutions. As the seas built to four feet, Arfin Annie was barely rising to them with two inches of freeboard. Feeling sick to my stomach I realized our buoyancy tanks had flooded. We were two miles offshore now and with an approaching squall and building seas the situation was serious.
I tried to head into the now northwest wind to drift onshore, but as we started to bring the Jolly about, she capsized again. This time she rolled over slowly, like a soggy log. We swam to the centerboard and wrestled the boat upright. Her sails flogged wildly, cracking like whips. It was a wonder they weren’t shredded completely, and I screamed at Louis that we had to remove them.Then a huge wave swept us and capsized the boat a third time. This time the boat turned turtle and lay completely upside down. The centerboard, with no preventer rigged, fell back into the slot and out of sight leaving us only its narrow opening as a handhold. It was now four o’clock and the squall was upon us. Black sky and torrential rains accompanied screaming wind. Louis had lost his glasses, so I kept talking to him to explain what was going on to keep him (and me) from panic. The talk soothed both of us.
The waves were now 8 foot, and tops were sheared off by the wind in horizontal sheets of spray that ripped at our faces. Frequently the swells crashed upon us pushing us and the boat under. It was extremely difficult to stay with the Jolly and our knuckles were bleeding and swollen from hanging onto the slot. The water felt increasingly cold as we tired. Stay with the boat, my father always said. I repeated his words over and over but worried I might never hear his voice again. I longed for his presence and knowledge.
What would he do here? Soon the squall subsided. The sky cleared and the waves stopped breaking though the swells remained huge. We were still almost directly off Pultneyville, the sail beneath the boat acting like a giant sea anchor keeping us offshore. I could see several light aircraft circling over the water.
“Louis, I think they’re looking for us.”
My guess was that they were Civil Air Patrol members from the little airport at Williamson. I felt less scared, less lonely, and my spirit soared with the searching planes, though we were nearly invisible in the water. The planes seemed fixated over the Sodus area and if anything were moving further away. Occasionally one would fly west but turn back before getting close. It would be dusk in an hour. We needed to be found. Soon. It occurred to me they were looking for us where we should be had we not turned turtle and been held back by the sail. I told Louis that I’d try to dive under the boat to lower the sail and increase our rate of drift.
I inhaled deeply and dove below the boat. Alas, the halyard winch handle had parted company with us. I dove again for the spare. Underwater the screaming sound of wind and wave was stilled, and the world was oddly tranquil. But seeing the sail disappearing into the lake’s dark depth was eerie and as the boat pitched over my head I feared injury. I opened the compartment where I found the winch handle. I also found my left leg tangled and as my breath ran out, I struggled to free myself. My lungs ached. I was dizzy and desperate to inhale. Then I found a small air pocket by the centerboard trunk.
I pushed my lips above the surface, and inhaled air!
Then the boat pitched, crashed down on my face, almost breaking my nose and splitting my lip open. I nearly lost my breath of air as I untangled myself. Not surprisingly Louis was very relieved to see me! Once again I dived with the handle and tried to lower the main. It was hopelessly jammed and I opted to abandon the effort. Incredibly fatigued I feared the risk outweighed any benefit of dousing sail. Increasingly frustrated and helpless we watched the planes. No flare gun, mirror, flag; even a can of paint as dye marker would have helped show our position. The sun was low and in a half hour the light would be gone. As we were thrown about, I sighted a motor vessel from Sodus Point. It passed us, then reappeared. It was moving west near shore.
We tried to stand on the hull but often were tossed clear or sometimes thrown down upon the hull. Sore and exhausted we watched the launch steam west. Now it was dusk. Then we saw the Coast Guard vessel turn toward us! We waved in welcome, as the vessel moved towards us. We could now hear its engines straining. One hundred yards away the launch turned 90 degrees and headed east towards Sodus! I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Our desperate yells were drowned by her engines, and we watched in horror as she vanished into the growing darkness. We’d been in the water for almost four hours. The moon was rising and illuminated clouds raced past us.
The clearing sky hastened radiational cooling and the temperature already cold was plummeting. Our life force was draining.
“Never leave the boat,” I kept hearing in my head. I estimated we’d drift onshore in 7 to 8 hours. If the wind held. We’d never last that long. Never before or since then have I faced the imminence of death in such a frank and harsh manner. I have clear memories of being extremely scared but well composed. I recall especially my buddy Loui being the same, something I thought remarkable given his inexperience and loss of eyeglasses.
We talked and laid out our options. We had to leave the boat. With our Sterns vests for aids, we could float shoreward and expend minimal energy hopefully to be pushed by the waves faster than the boat was moving. We used a jib sheet to tie ourselves together. This was not without risk. We were in danger of muscle cramps and if one of us went under, the other might be pulled down too.
We decided to tether ourselves. We were in this together. We’d come or go together. As we slipped away from the Jolly Boat I felt serene. I’d made some mistakes today, but I’d done the best I could. I felt no one could have done any better. The boat fell behind us. I concentrated on staying relaxed and slowly tread water and floated. We were constantly shivering and I remember soft conversation and shared prayer.
After the first hour away from the boat, land was appreciably closer but still an hour or more away. I don’t remember anything about that final leg. But I remember the rocky shore of an approaching beach. I remember feeling ground beneath my feet but was unable to stand. We lay in the water until fully beached, pushed up by a final wave like Jonah, spit forth from the whale. There we lay half in and half out of the water, just letting waves wash over us while cherishing the feel of Terra Firma. I think I cried profusely in joy and Thanksgiving,
Finally, we grabbed each other and struggled to our feet. We found we had washed up about five miles east of Pultneyville. We were in an apple orchard, so we went to a tree where I, at least, consumed no less than five apples in two minutes. Then we wobbled our way to the road.
Then a pickup truck approached and slowed.
“Are you the Dawes boy?” queried the driver. “The whole town’s been looking for you and thought you were gone!”
We climbed into the heated cab and I vaguely remember being asked and answering many questions by this kind stranger. I recall my sense of wonder and immense gratitude for being alive on that ride back to Pultneyville. As we pulled up to my house on Jay Street, soft light shone through the windows. A crowd had gathered here to keep vigil with my mother, and I could see her distraught and teary. At this point it looked like condolences and I felt I was about to enter a funeral home. My house. As we entered there was a momentary hesitation as if two ghosts had appeared. Then came jubilant hugs to affirm these were no apparitions! Warm baths, dry clothes and a bit of rum and we began to recover. My father, who had been out searching, arrived and I savored hearing a voice I thought I might never hear again.
“We thought we had lost you, Tim,” he exclaimed. I thought to myself “Me too.”
Like Dorothy home from Oz I shared that sense THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME.
The Jolly Boat came ashore about 4 a.m. the next morning. Though badly damaged, she was eventually restored by my father and sailed for many years thereafter. I lost touch with Louis after graduation, but I’ve often thought of him through the years.
That night on Lake Ontario we passed through one of life’s portals together, one that changed part of me forever.
By Tim Dawes