Riding the Bull
by Jeff Doubek, 1/13/01
It was a sailor's exotic fantasy.
There is not likely to be a more outstanding experience in a sailor's life than the first ride on a Class "A" iceboat.
Any iceboat ride is exhillerating at the very least, but gliding over a frozen lake on 'Ferdinand the Bull' -- arguably the biggest, fastest of all iceboats in existance -- is pure ya-hoo adrenelin.
I took the ride of my life Saturday afternoon on this iceboat, owned by legendary yachtsman Buddy Melges. My friend Charlie Harrett was my willing and able helmsman.
The yacht is affectionately known as "The Bull". You might call the thing One Big Contraption if it wasn't so darn beautiful.
Forty feet long, 50 feet tall and 70 years old. History speaks in volume as you look at this craft. It's a fine ensemble of antiquated wood and steel, the only modern advantage being a set of fairly new sails.
The Bull has earned a fabled name of its own -- just as do all A iceboats, which are also called "Stern Steerers" for their unique iceboat design of a rear-mounted steering device.
The ride begins with a sprint. The two of us get behind this one-ton behemoth and push like we're jump-starting a Studebaker. Once momentum is acheived we hop into -- actually onto -- the cockpit platform.
Accelleration begins. It's not a "throw yourself backward" burst, but rather a steady, deliberate pace, quickening. The Bull runs silent. The only sound being a soft rattle from the rigging -- perhaps an announcement that true speed has begun.
"Trim!" Charlie yells -- indicating that it's time to take another turn on a large steering wheel shaped object that actually pulls in the hulking sheet of sail. (Later, I'm made aware that I was cranking tons of wire tension onto a winch fashioned from a "Model A Ford" brake drum.)
A light afternoon breeze is building. As our ride hits its pinnacle I realize we're actually eating up ice at 50 - 60 mph, though it feels faster in much the same way a school bus rumbling downhill feels like a rocketship.
It's not so much the speed -- it's the thrill of the moment. I'm crouching on a padded bunk suspended 18 inches above the ice, and I'm clutching this wheel as my only means of holding on. There were no seatbelts when this thing was built.
Despite the breeze whistling past my face and freezing my skull, I manage to feel each new puff on the side of my head. Each time, the boat responds in a burst of power and accelleration.
"Trim!" Shouts Charlie. "Trim!"
I lean out and take another massive turn on the wheel, only temporarily ignoring my fears of an untimely exit from this screaming freight train.
Looking forward at the fine array of wire pulleys, bolts and painted wood that was early 20th century technology, and I think that very little here actually resembles a sailboat. Though, this dinosaur is one of the finest components of Skeeter iceboat legend.
Alongside me, 4-foot steel blades knife through tufts of snow and patches of water. It's my only evidence that this boat is firmly attached to the ice and NOT, in-fact, flying.
I'm watching shore arrive in a hurry and wondering how we control this beast. Charlie prepares me for a turn with the common sailing command "Haaaannngg On!"
The boat rattles into its turn and feels like what I imagine a B17 bomber would feel like banking into a final approach for landing. The craft vibrates around and I realize there's very little to stop me from being catapulted across the ice at millennium speed.
Powerfully swerving through the apex of a turn, this green monster feels like it might take matters into its own hands. Control is restored by my skipper who is deftly wielding a large wooden tiller that one might imagine "the Old Man and the Sea" himself may have clutched.
Back to mach speed we go. As I look ahead past the wooden fuselage thoughts flash through my mind of others who took the same thrill ride, but perhaps wearing Gatsby clothes in the 1930s... or flat tops in the 1950s. I see and feel pure history here.
Again, land fast approaches. As we prepare for another run, we see a small figure flagging us down on the shoreline. It's Buddy, and it's his turn on The Bull.
As we disembark, all of my meaningful thoughts of history and awe were reduced to primative giggles and high-fives. But one statement rings true:
It was the ride of a lifetime.
