Chapter 6 - Stinger

Ashley's story

Hobart and William Smith Colleges sailing on Seneca Lake — Photo by Kevin Colton

“The ‘Lake Gun’ is a mystery. It is a sound resembling the explosion of a heavy piece of artillery, that can be accounted for by none of the known laws of nature.”
~James Fenimore Cooper - 1850

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The immense weight of the Laurentide Ice Sheet carved deep, narrow valleys into the earth, leaving behind eleven long lakes in the heart of what would one day be the home to the Iroquois Confederacy.

The lakes outlasted the mammoth, then the wild buffalo, and even the mythic lake gun of Seneca—its echoing boom finally silenced by gas fields and drilling rigs.

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That autumn, Gar stared across Seneca, the largest of those lakes. The air had been unseasonably warm in the weeks following Hurricane Maria. The Category 4 storm had torn through Puerto Rico, leaving ninety percent of the island’s residents without power. The callous response to people’s suffering, forgotten by most, was a lasting irritant to Gar.

He scanned the far shore that revealed the first signs of autumn, maples tinged with orange, sumac deepening to rust. He sensed in the breeze the first hints of the season’s decay; the faint, earthy aroma of flora winding down, the ancient cycle of life returning to the soil. The diffused light on the lake showed dark patches undulating slowly. Cat’s paws of wavelets marked where the wind was beginning to fill in.

Mairin put on her light-blue windbreaker as she closed the car door with her hip. Walking up behind Gar, she slipped her arm through his. With a shared smile they joined a small stream of talkative parents and a handful of laughing college students making their way down the gravel path to the lake. As they crossed the railroad tracks the view opened to reveal the cedar-shingled boathouse and the 420s already fanning out across the water. Skipper and crew moving in practiced unison, running tactical drills ahead of the start. The ratcheting of main sheet blocks echoed across the water, as eighteen mainsails marked with HWS threaded through each other in what would seem like chaos to the uninitiated.

The committee boat was repositioning the line. A member onboard could be seen holding an orange 420 fleet flag. Gar and Mairin took an open spot on the dock railing as boats began to disperse and reposition. Ashley’s boat, HWS number 3, worked to windward, then went head-to-wind at the line, gauging the favored end. At the helm was Brittany Snow, part of Ashley’s friend group and the source of seemingly endless stories involving questionable decision making, and an anathema to Mairin.

Brittany came from money. The family were long-time Oyster Bay residents where she enjoyed the kind of upbringing where a 420 was second nature. She’d likely spent more time helming a sailboat than most classmates had behind the wheel of a car.

This contrasted greatly with Ashley’s experience growing up near the rocky shore of Lake Ontario. No salt spray, no tidal estuaries, no seafood restaurants—just the vast, often unforgiving stretch of freshwater that could crash violently against the jagged southern shore. It was a place where fall weather turned tumultuous as gales brought by Canadian winds whipped up waves—a place where winter lingered late into spring, trapped in the lake’s frigid depths.

Ashley was drawn to sailing. Encouraged by her brother, she applied to Hobart and William Smith Colleges for both the academics and the sailing team’s strong ranking. Her talents at sail trimming and balance had won her a spot in the A division.

As the sailors vied for position on the line, Gar happened to glance down at his scuffed topsiders, then at Mairin’s stylish Frye boots, wondering if he might be trying too hard to play the old salt. The sound of a handheld air horn drew everyone's attention to the lake. Conversations dropped to a murmur at the signal of the five minute gun.

Mairin leaned in close and said, “Dave and his wife are coming down the path.”

Gar looked even more intently at the lake. “I was hoping we could catch a break today,”

“You could try not hanging on his every word.” Mairin smiled while craning her neck to appear distracted by the field of boats.

Gar sighed.

Most of the eighteen boats in the 420 fleet seemed to be lining up in an attempt to make a starboard start—hugging the favored end of the line. Gar stole a look behind him and caught site of Dave and Colleen Volberg walking up the dock with folding chairs. “Hmmm, they've got chairs.”

“Why don't we have chairs?” Mairin whispered.

“Hey you two!” Dave said as the couple stopped behind them.

Gar and Mairin turned in unison trying to look completely surprised. “Oh, hey how are you guys?” Gar hoped his voice sounded natural.

“So, you're up from Florida?” Mairin asked while Dave shook Gar’s hand.

“Yeah, we wanted to come up and see the leaves change and catch Blake sailing against University of Rochester,” Dave said with a wink and a laugh.

“I’m not conflicted about who to root for—I only work there,” Mairin said, smiling flatly.

“Okay, we’re going to go find a spot to sit—we’ll catch up after the race.”

As the couple walked away Gar and Mairin looked at each other, “How’d I do?”

“Good,” Mairin turned her attention back to the water just as the one-minute horn sounded. “So far…”

The surface of the lake, which had earlier shown only a steady breeze out of the south, was now breaking into a fine chop. With thirty-eight miles of open water stretching north to south, a strong southern wind could make for challenging racing and build waves of three feet high or more.

Almost all of the boats all came head-to-wind at the line as the last few seconds ticked away. Boat 3 was not in the best position and tacked over to port just as the start horn was heard.

“Are they over early?” Mairin asked.

“I don't see a flag—they had a hole—they must have hit it perfectly.”

The southern breeze that had been gently carrying a few yellow leaves was now strong enough to sway the tops of the trees. Gar guessed it to be around 12 knots, a perfect breeze for racing 420s.

Brittany and Ashley caught a slight backing wind on port tack making their first leg to the mark ever so shorter than the rest of the fleet on starboard. It was an advantage that would be imperceptible to most people, but immediately felt by any seat-of-the-pants sailor.

As they approached the windward mark their slight advantage on the first tack put them just ahead of the rest of the fleet, Gar raised his eyebrows and looked at Mairin. “Well, that turned out okay.”

The surface of the lake continued to be pushed by the southern wind as Boat 3 rounded the mark and aimed for the offset—just four boat lengths away. They reached it quickly, then turned down to run with the wind. Behind them, shouts carried across the water as the fleet fought for position at the weather mark, hoping to close the gap on the lead boat.

Ashley shifted her weight forward and to windward, tilting the boat just enough to extend its waterline and lift the boom clear, allowing the mainsail to catch clean air as Brittany eased it out.

Behind Boat 3, Kings Point’s cadets from the Merchant Marine Academy were working to blanket their wind. Ashley watched them closely and, in a whispered shout, said, “Let’s gybe.”

“Ready to gybe?” Brittany responded.

“Ready.”

“Gybing.”

Brittany pulled the mainsheet tight as she turned the boat and slid smoothly to the opposite side. Ashley snapped the jib across and shifted her weight, keeping the boat balanced for speed.

“Let’s see if they can keep that lead,” Gar whispered mostly to himself, absorbed in the competition—just as he felt a hand pat his shoulder.

“Hey, Mr. Bergan…”

Gar turned to see Ashley’s coach hauling an ice chest down the dock. “Hey, Steve, how’s it going?” He immediately wondered if Steve was actually his first name.

“Ash and Britt are looking great out there.”

“You remember my wife, Mairin?”

“Hey, Mairin, great to see you again.” Steve glanced down the dock, then back at Gar. “Did you see that Volberg and his wife are here?”

“They stopped and said hi.”

“I’m going to see if I can peel myself away before I hear more about his America’s Cup exploits—it’s cool, but I’ve got thirteen schools here today…”

“Yeah, don’t let us hold you up. We’ll catch you when it's over.”

Gar watched Steve drag the cooler farther down the dock—its plastic wheels thumping along the deck boards and drawing people’s attention as he passed. He stopped to chat with another set of parents, and Gar saw Dave and his wife sitting further down the dock entertaining two other couples. Dave’s left hand was raised, tracing the arching gesture of a dive bomber. Gar could only guess he was mid-story, telling how he’d been on Stars & Stripes when it sank in Long Beach Harbor back in 2002.

He always left out the bit where he’d actually been aboard the other boat—USA-66—the one that didn’t sink. Maybe he didn’t leave it out exactly, but it was easy to confuse when there were two identical Stars & Stripes boats on the water that day. Dennis Conner had been on USA-77, the faster of the two. Dave was on USA-66, the one later determined to be a little slower.

Dave was an excellent sailor, a standout on the Yale team back in the ’80s. A well-connected friend had introduced him to Dennis Conner during the 2002 Stars & Stripes campaign, where Dave served as backup tactician. Gar figured his college record must’ve been exceptional to earn the spot.

As Gar returned his attention to the water Mairin said, “They might be first to the bottom mark.”

It was tight. The Maritime crew had overlap as they neared the mark, but Ashley and Brittany had done a good job protecting their lead. As the gap closed, it was clear they were still ahead. They rounded the mark and hardened up onto a port tack—apparently judging it to be the favored side again. Maritime broke away, heading onto starboard. The rest of the fleet was closing in on the bottom turn.

“Well, we will see where they end up on this next crossing.” Gar knew that both boats would sail the longest tack first. If the crew felt it was on a good heading they would stick with it and throw in one or possibly two other tacks before getting to the windward mark. So now, from shore, it was a wait-and-see as to which crew had made the best choice.

Mairin looked at Gar and said, “They’ll be on starboard at the cross—right? They're on port now so that's good.”

“Yep”

“It's going to be a quick day of racing with this wind. We can plan on taking Ash out to dinner by 4:00. She’ll probably want to do Halsey’s with that wood-fired pizza.”

“She’ll be ready to eat by then.” Gar paused then said, “Speaking of food, how about we go grab some lunch after this race? I think she’ll probably be too keyed up and maybe eating something the team has. We can go grab something then come back. Maybe buy some chairs…”

Mairin laughed. “We’re not buying chairs, but we are getting food. We’ll figure it out after this race.”

As Mairin had predicted, the next crossing brought the Maritime boat and Boat-3 vying for the same patch of water. Ashley and Brittany had tacked onto starboard—an advantage. In sailing, a boat on starboard tack has right of way over one on port—a rule older than yacht racing itself.

It’s a rule that every young sailor learns, tracing its history back to ancient boat design. ‘Starboard’ comes from the old steering board—an oar fastened to the right side of early vessels. When a boat heels to port, that steering oar rises partially out of the water, reducing its effectiveness. A port-tack boat, by contrast, heels the opposite way, pushing its steering foil deeper, increasing maneuverability. So the less-agile starboard tack earned the right of way. Once rudders were placed on the centerline of a vessel, the rule was well established—and its origin largely forgotten.

The Maritime sailors had made a slight gain on their initial tack, but the slight advantage was about to disappear as the boats converged. The crossing ended in a draw. Ashley called out “Starboard!”, as required to alert the oncoming boat of its obligation to give way. With a small adjustment, the Maritime crew dipped behind Boat 3’s stern, leaving Ashley and Brittany grinning at each other.

“That was a squeaker!”

“We lost a little. Let's see if we make it up. Have we got a lay line coming?”

“Maybe about twenty more yards…” Ashley said as she hiked hard to windward in an attempt to keep the boat as flat as possible.

As they neared the spot where the angle to the windward mark would allow them to make one more tack, she called out, “Let's tack… 3…2…1…”

“Tacking,” Brittany replied as she rolled onto the new tack, Ashley seamlessly followed her to the high side as she maintained trim on the jib.

The rest of the fleet was behind them but not comfortably far. She could see the Maritime boat through the small clear panel in the jib. They were on the opposite tack heading for the mark. “We might be clear ahead at the mark.”

“Let me know if you think I need to duck them.”

“They look like they're pinching to make the mark,” she had her head on a swivel as she balancing the boat, kept the jib trimmed, and gauged the speed and distance of the other boat. Finally she saw the evidence she needed. “We're making trees! They aren't going to make the mark!

Ashley could read the visual cue that one boat is moving faster than another. The Maritime boat appeared to slide backward—trees on shore appeared to be slowly popping out in front of their bow.

As the two boats converged at the mark, it was going to be close—very close. Brittany, drawing on years of experience, was almost certain they’d squeak by. Ashley wasn’t so sure; her heart raced in the adrenaline-charged moment.

Seconds ticked by, and the shifting geometry and physics of this single, high-stakes crossing was exactly what Brittany loved about sailing.

The Merchant crew hailed, “Starboard!” as they approached. But it was clearly in vain as their bow sliced through the water a mere foot behind the stern of Boat 3.

“Fuck!” could clearly be heard coming from one of the crew on the Merchant boat.

The instant they cleared, Brittany called for the tack. They flopped over onto starboard, neatly blanketing the Merchant boat. The tack was clean, speed perfectly preserved. They were clear ahead by inches as they bore away on the downwind leg.

Gar was trying to capture the moment on his iPhone. “That was a pretty nice rounding…”

“Let's just watch the race…”

Gar knew she was right and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. “I thought Boston University was going to make up more time, but they are dropping behind,” Gar thought out loud.

The students from HWS lined up in front of the boathouse could see that this was going to be a close finish between the two lead boats. The chant “Go Herons!” mixed with “Go Brittany and Go Ash!” had even the most disinterested spectators watching.

“I’m glad we got here to see this,” Mairen pulled Gar in with an arm around his waist as he continued to gaze out at the race.

“It's a drag race to the finish.” Gar could see more prominent white caps forming out closer to the race course making gybes exciting. He could see Brittany pump the mainsail to try and ride down the backside of the building waves. The lake surface was just beginning to show signs of gust nearing 16 knots—Gar guessed. The women were able to throw in one gybe as the Merchant boat tried to cover them from behind, but the distance was too great to have any real effect.

Steve ran behind Gar and Mairin and yelled, “Well done Ashley!” for their benefit on his way down the dock to prepare for the next rotation of sailors.

Dave and Colleen walked up the dock smiling at Gar and Mairin, “Woah, those girls are good! That turn at the top mark was close—fun to watch.”

“Yeah, got the old heart pumping,” Gar admitted.

“We’re coming up to Rochester this summer,” Dave looked a Colleen for agreement. “I had a great time out on Fury last time I was up. I'll have to catch a ride again if you need crew?”

“The guys at the club were riding me about having a ringer onboard—always nice to have an expert telling me what I'm doing right.”

“Well, that Evelyn of yours is a sleek boat Garner. For a guy who only gets to sail four months out of the year you’ve got that boat figured out.”

“Well, yeah, anytime you guys are up you’re welcome to sail. Shoot me a text…” Gar could feel the sharp twinge of anticipation and anxiety at the thought of Dave on his boat again.

It wasn’t just that Dave knew more—it reminded Gar of everything he hadn’t fully learned. Their paths had split long ago, in very different places.

Dave had grown up around sailboat racing, unlike Gar, who had spent his sleepy summer days at Orchard Creek. It had been a quiet place in the ’70s when Garner was a teenager. The narrow stretch of lakeshore had offered townspeople a summer escape since the mid-nineteenth century. A small but dedicated group of sailors raced out of the club on Sunday mornings, but Gar’s formative sailing experience came mostly from hours spent alone on his family’s Sunfish, tacking back and forth in front of the line of weathered cottages, many of them relics from the boom of the 1920s.

In his youth, the days had felt endless, with few distractions beyond the handful of kids his age—none of whom shared his appetite for sailing hours on end.

In his late teens, his father joined the Yacht Club, and Gar was drawn into racing. He and his brothers were counted on as crew aboard his father’s boat, and he began to learn the finer points of sailing for speed rather than enjoyment. But racing had changed something. He found it difficult to recapture the feeling of being alone on the lake—no distractions, just the wind, the sail, and the quiet rhythm of the water.

Gar’s sailing experience was hindered by the inevitable reality that Lake Ontario was a formidable place to try to stretch a sailing season. Yacht racing ran mostly from Memorial Day to Labor Day, and the water didn’t begin to warm until July. By the Fourth, swimming was less painful—not quite comfortable, but bearable. Capsizing a Sunfish wouldn’t be life-threatening by then—just a shock.

And then there was the family dynamics. Gar’s father was an unassuming thinker. He seemed to just know things. Whether it came from experience or reading, it was hard to tell. He didn’t run in intellectual circles, being more of an enigmatic loner even at home. Once he became captivated by thoughts of sailboat racing, he absorbed every book he could find by experts in the field. His talent for synthesizing and retaining information on any subject paid dividends in sailing—a sport with so many variables it was akin to an art form.

Gar also absorbed it, even if he didn’t fully realize it at the time. His father was a man of few words and Gar had learned to read the subtle tells. As his father mastered sailing, Gar’s solitary, instinctive introduction to sailing slowly gave way to a more technical understanding. Gar understood he had to be comfortable living in his father's shadow if he ever wanted a chance to step out of it.

Gar’s attention was brought back to the lake as an audible groan went up from a few of the spectators.

“Boston broached,” Dave acknowledged as nearby group of HWS students looked on excitedly.

“It's really picked up out there,” Gar said. He could tell the breeze had increased out further on the lake, unimpeded by the shore. The white caps had become more pronounced.

Boat 3 was nearing the finish line with a comfortable boat-length lead over the Maritime boat. The win became obvious.

As the horn sounded indicating the finish, Mairin said, “Maybe I should go get the sub out of the car.”

“We’ll see what mood she’s in. She might be so keyed up she won't want it.” Gar thought for a moment and realized it would be better to have something to offer her either way. “I’ll run up to the car and grab it.”

“I’ll just stay here—in case she gets in for the rotation.”

The next group of sailors was gathering at the ramp end of the dock to swap out for the start sequence of the next race. Steve jogged between them with papers in his hand flipping through them as he went.

Gar turned and headed up to the path as Mairin turned her attention back to the water. She saw Boat 3 just as it gybed to get out of the way of the other racers nearing the finish.

Brittany called for the gybe and let the mainsail whip across the deck just as Ashley was set to release the jib sheet. Her wet fingers slipped at the first attempt at releasing the line. As she reached forward to grab it a second time the jib back winded and put more pressure on the cam cleat holding the sheet tight. What would have been an easy routine release became a bit more urgent. This small error was just enough to push the bow of the boat into the backside of a wave as the boat rolled into the trough throwing Ashley slightly off balance. As the boat healed she lost her footing and her right leg slid under the hiking strap.

The horn blew as more racers crossed the line. The Boston boat had righted themselves and were well back in the pack. The Maritime boat harden up thier sails to clear the finish area and get back to the dock. They watched as Boat 3 did a slow capsize in the gusty wind only a few yards away.

On shore, Mairin watched and realized what was happening. The capsizing of a 420 was pretty standard fare. She was prepared to see the well-choreographed recovery: Ashley might swim out to the end of the mast and push it up, while Brittany instinctively hung from the centerboard. She quickly realized this was not happening. Not this time.

Mairin turned to see Gar far enough up the walkway to be out of range of a shout, and she realized she probably wouldn't send up an alarm just yet. She was hoping he noticed the situation. He had not.

On Boat 3, Brittany immediately realized the mast was starting to sink as the boat lay on its side. She had instinctively rolled over the high side to put her weight on the centerboard, but the boat should have started to right itself—it didn’t feel right. She couldn’t see Ashley on the far side—only heard the panicked, “Fuck… fuck… fuck!”

Brittany pulled herself around the stern and found Ashley’s face contorted in pain as she struggled to pull herself up to the deck which was slowly rolling toward her as the boat capsized further.

“My fucking leg!” she cried out.

“Is it caught?!” Brittany stated the obvious as her adrenaline surged.

“I can’t get it!”

She could see that Ashley’s lower leg had slipped under the hiking strap on the high side and was now awkwardly pinned to the centerboard trunk. The only way to relieve the pressure was to let the boat fully capsize.

“Let it fucking turtle!” Brittany shouted, as waves undulated against the hull. Slowly, the boat rolled until it was nearly upside down. The pressure eased, and Ashley kicked free with her uninjured leg.

“Jesus fucking Christ—my fucking knee! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck…!”

“Can you bend it?!”

The boat was now fully turtled, rigging muffled beneath the surface. The sudden silence above the water was eerie.

“Brit, this fucking hurts so bad…” Ashley was on the edge of tears. She was tough—Brittany knew this was bad.

Without hesitation, Brittany threw both hands in the air—a clear distress signal for the crash boat.

Mairin saw it instantly. Her heart rate spiked. She looked back for Gar but didn’t see him. She turned toward the dock, heading for the ramp—knowing that’s where the Boston Whaler would bring them in.

Gar walked back down the path with a turkey sub and a bottle of blue Gatorade enjoying the beauty of the place. He always found that his spirits were better near water. As the opening in the trees opened up the view to the lake he saw the hull of a sailboat with the centerboad in the air. The HWS crash boat had pulled alongside the hull and was helping a sailor aboard. He looked for Mairin where she had been standing on the dock. Not seeing her, he scanned further and saw her blue windbreaker near the ramp end. His mind quickly filled in the story as he began to jog.

Mairin couldn't quite tell if it were Brittany or Ashley that was being brought in. The young women had similar builds and hair color, but her gut knew it was Ashley because Brittany would have been the one who grabbed the centerboard—the one who went to the other side of the hull to help.

Gar shook the dock as he tried to get down to were Mairin was standing. The boat was now only yards away and one of the assistant coaches called out that they would need help. Gar walked further down the ramp to meet the boat as it pulled up.

Ashley was stretched out on her back and propped up on her elbows as the boat came to a stop. As she looked up she saw her dad and she broke into full tears. “Dad, it's my knee. I really messed it up!”

“Okay, okay…” Gar tried to respond in a calm tone but sensed the panic in his voice. “Mom’s here!” he said as Mairin stepped ahead of him.

“Hey sweetheart, we’ll get you whatever you need…”

“Hey, Mom and Dad, why don't you step back outta the way while we get Ash off the boat and let the EMTs take a look at her,” said the assistant coach whose name Gar could not remember. Gar bristled. He didn’t like being told to step back—not now, not with his daughter hurt and scared. His weight shifted forward, almost involuntarily.

Mairin saw it and touched his arm lightly. “Let them do what they need to do,” she said quietly. Gar nodded, jaw tight.

He stepped back, but not far as a couple of the larger college sailors stepped into the boat as others held it steady. They lifted Ashley off the boat supporting her leg and up to the level part of the dock. Dave was standing with his folding chair as a silent offering. Ashley's teammates lowered her into the chair and placed her leg on extra sail bags for support and stepped back.

Mairin and Gar moved in and crouched to eye level. Gar shook his head with a worried look and let Mairin take the lead, “What happened?!”

“My leg got pinned when the boat rolled over—I just slipped—it got caught on the hiking strap,” she looked at her outstretched right leg with pained disbelief.

“Does it hurt now?” Gar asked as his eyes darted around her face.

“It feels wrong—like floating. It's not bad as long as I don’t try and move it.”

A teammate jogged up and threw a towel around Ashley's shoulders and asked, “Do you need anything?”

She said, “I’m good—thanks Liam.” Gar held out the Gatorade and Ashley nodded. He unscrewed the top and handed it to her.

Gar and Mairin stepped back as the college EMTs chugged up the dock.

After checking vitals and then the range of motion and pain on her knee the told her they were going to immobilize her knee so she could make the short trip to Geneva General. Then one of them turned to Gar and said, “Do you want us to take her and you follow—or go in your car?”

“Mom, can you guys just take me?” Ashley asked in a voice that Mairin remembered hearing many times years ago.

“We’ll put the seats down—you can ride in the back—it's so close,” Mairin hugged Ashley's shoulders.

Within twenty minutes, Ashley was being seen by a doctor. She turned and walked over to Gar and Mairin standing in the open curtain and said, “So, I just did a physical exam of Ashley’s knee, and the Lachman test shows more forward movement of the lower leg than we’d expect. That strongly suggests a tear in the ACL—the anterior cruciate ligament. It’s one of the main stabilizers in the knee.”

“Shit…” Ashley whispered loudly.

Mairin walked over beside the bed and put her hand on Ashley’s shoulder as she studied her face.

“Okay…okay…” Gar repeated.

“It's common in athletes, especially in twisting or sudden stop-and-go movements like sailing, soccer, or skiing. It lines up with what she described and what we’re seeing now—swelling, instability, and pain with movement.”

“How sure…?” Gar asked.

“I can’t say it’s a complete tear without an MRI, but the signs are pretty strong. I’d recommend we get her in for imaging as soon as possible to confirm, and then we can talk about the best next steps—whether that’s physical therapy or surgical repair, depending on her activity level and goals.”

“What I can do for her now is give her something for the pain she’s experiencing,” the doctor said gently, already scribbling the prescription. “Just enough to get her through the next few days while the swelling comes down.”

It sounded reasonable—routine, even. No one questioned it. Not Ashley. Not her parents.