The 2016 Delivery

Final Preparations

My mind was now racing as I was committed, now. I began researching offshore life jackets and harness and tether systems. I sent an email to some folks at the Branched Oak Yacht Club who I thought might have a life jacket I could borrow. No one did but some of them had questions. Like why the heck did I need an offshore life jacket and tether in Nebraska! As friends asked I relayed the story as it had happened up to this point. Their questions and excitement for me made me that much more anticipatory of what was to come.

I looked at personal rescue beacons, rescue knives and considered buying foul weather gear. I could have easily spent $2000 on gear to insure my survival in the middle of the ocean. At night, laying in bed next to Karen and the cat, I stared at the ceiling in the dark. I pictured sailing maneuvers in my head, reviewed navigation formulas, and the process of plotting positions on paper charts. I wondered what the skipper’s policies would be on watch schedules, ships logging, life jackets, etc. I started making mental lists of what to pack. I didn’t want to pack too light but didn’t want to show up on the dock like a gentry strutting into the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo for a summer in Monaco. There was just a lot to think about. I didn’t sleep much.

I figured this was probably a good time to think about a last will and testament.

I downloaded a form from a legal website. I filled out the form carefully, listing all the special items and who they were to go to. My '73 International Scout, my guns and and my tools to my brother. Karen gets the rest.

It was Friday, June 3, the day before I was to fly to St. Thomas. In need of witnesses to sign the form, I took the form with me to our regular Friday evening hangout, Old Chicago. Karen had hastily assembled many of our friends to pre-celebrate my birthday coming up on June 17. As I was recounting the story of getting myself recruited for the trip, I produced my Last Will and Testament form. And as everyone laughed at my last minute morbidness, my friends signed my will as witnesses. We raised our glasses. It was an interesting sendoff.

I love my wife, Karen Klein-Heinzle

20160604-The Trip Begins

Even though my flight from Omaha was to depart at a reasonable time on Saturday morning, because of the drive and recent kerfuffle about long waits in TSA security lines we had planned a 0530 departure time. Karen had offered to drive me the hour or so to the airport, which would turn out to be a enabling factor at the end of this adventure.

Leading up to this point, I had felt some tension with Karen. I think she was a little resentful of my going off on an adventure and leaving her to run the house for up to three weeks during one of her busiest times of year in property management and real estate. I was reluctant to address it as the trip came together and so it was on the morning of my departure.

I unloaded from the car my trusty North Face duffel , now with about 50,000 miles booked on it from scuba and sailing trips past, a backpack and book bag. I turned to find Karen with a crinkled upper lip and tears in hers eyes. I hugged her. We told each other, “I love you.” I didn’t ask her at the time why she was crying-- did she think I was about to sail off the edge of the earth and she’d never see me again? I didn’t know. I knew I couldn’t stay there any longer or I would lose it. I slung my backpack and bookbag and sherpa-ed my North Face on my shoulder and gave her a kiss and went through the door of the airport. Turns out the TSA line was not all that long. I shuffled through. Using a system of dumping all the things I must carry onto the belt, first, then all the things I wear last, I proceeded through the line. I got flagged for a pat search. Once I cleared the pat (cough), I reverse-order picking everything up and went to find a coffee.

While I was chatting up an acquaintance from a previous job, Lou Shields, a young woman came up and asked if I had left a hat behind at the checkpoint. I realized I had, thanked her and made my way to the security area.

This hat was a staple of my trips. It was a floppy sort of fishing hat that had almost as many miles on it as my North Face duffel. It was specially modified with a wire in the rim so it would not collapse in my eyes while sailing or on dive boats. It was just the right fit to not blow off under such conditions. It could get wet and survive. I’m not a big fan of sunscreen, so this hat is the barrier to the tropical sun hitting my hairless noggin-- and the lights on the airplane while napping.

I  looked around the end of the line where I had cleared through. No hat. Someone must have found it and turned it in, I thought. I asked one of the agents and he checked a couple of different lost and founds. Nothing. Someone must have accidentally picked it up with their stuff. I figured I’d go walk around the three or four operational gates and see if I could see it. In the meantime, maybe whoever had it would realize they had something that wasn’t theirs and return it to TSA.

I walked the gates eyeballing everyone. It’s interesting how you can identify what people are traveling for and even, generally, where they are going. You can tell who’s on business--no one on Saturday morning. The couple on honeymoon to the tropics-- she has a giant pastel bag, he’s in cargos and they both are in flip flops. The destination wedding- Pops is handling the dress, Mom is fawning over the bride already, the in-laws are generally keeping to themselves but they are obviously part of the party because aunt Em keeps trying to talk to them.

I’d get distracted by all this and refocus, “Find the hat.” I found nothing.

Back to TSA, Nothing, same thing all over again.

About the third time back to TSA- I’ve now made acquaintance with nearly every TSA person on the morning shift-  agent Van Valkenburg gets an idea and he disappears in a little office where the others have already gone into to check for my hat. I went from hopeful to discouraged. Been there, done that, I’m thinking. He’s gone a long time. I kinda slink my way back there and peek in the door. He’s going through the security video. NICE!

We discussed about what time I went through the line. He’s rolling the video back while I watch. One of the other agents shoos me away from this sort of off-limits area. No problem. I waited around the corner.

Suddenly Van Valkenburg yells toward another agent in the vicinity. They both were aflutter. Van Valkenburg waved me over. He showed me my hat on the screen and asks,  “is that your hat?” Bingo. “That’s it,” I said. He told us to get a good look at the screen. At the older woman in the blue, flowery-print dress. We commited the image to memory and go off to find her.

We scoured the gates back and forth. Obviously we were looking people over very carefully and they know it. They are uncomfortable. Some looked away,  some stared me down. I didn't really care. I just have to find this lady who must have made a mistake and picked up my hat.

No dice.

The agent and I have looked at everyone-- twice. Everyone in the gate are since I came through the TSA checkpoint. Everyone... except the people on the flight to Los Angeles that had just pushed back from the gate.

My hat was on that plane.

We went back to the checkpoint and tell Van Valkenburg. I thanked him for his effort. I said something to the effect that it was an innocent mistake made by a little old lady.  He looks at me obviously a little cheesed. “No,’ he said, “She picked  it up, looked around, and then rolled it up and put it in her bag.” He really wanted to get her and is not happy about her not getting her comeuppance at his hand.

Since the TSA always gets a bad rap, I posted this little story to Facebook before I got on my flight to Atlanta. I can’t speak for Chicago or New York, but the team in Omaha did a great job that day.

So,  if you were at the airport in LA on June 4th to meet an older lady in a blue floral print dress and a new hat that smells like sweaty sailor, your grandma’s a goddam thief. And she’s also a damn fool stealing a hat at a security checkpoint laced with cameras and federal law enforcement- you’re probably lucky your gene pool wasn’t snuffed out in a fight with a penguin.

20240604 - Arrival in St. Thomas

After the TSA adventure I texted Karen and told her about the adventure my hat was having. I was also worried about having left her when she had been so emotional. I texted her not to worry and that I would be careful, implying I’d make it back in one piece. She replied it wasn’t her being worried so much as not being able to have any contact with me whatsoever for many days at a time once we left St. Thomas. I understood. I had done this to her once before in a time before smartphones and mercurial communications when my Dad, brother and I had gone to the Alaskan bush for 5 days in 2002.

The remaining trip to St. Thomas was uneventful. After landing, I followed Duane’s advice and signed up for the $15 van ride from the airport to Red Hook. In the van with me was a couple and a family. Judging by their accents and dialects, the couple was from the Midwest and the family- consisting of grandparents, their daughter and grand kids had the sound of Massachusetts. The couple was in the back, I was in the front passenger and the Massachusetts gang occupied the middle seats.

Right from the moment she got in the van, the irritating, nasally, Kennedy-esque drone of the grandmother started. All the way to Red Hook she complained  about how expensive it was to live on St John (a neighboring island). How everything has changed over the last however-many-years. How it wasn’t the same as it used to be with all the people visiting. Oh, but it is nice to have the new ferry so they don’t have to wait so long. By the way, Driver, make sure we make the 5:30 p.m. ferry!!

Finally we got to the Ferry terminal and they got out. I could finally breathe without fear of saying something negative about how I wished a gang of outlaw brutes would visit her neck of the woods to steal her silverware. The woman in the back blurted, “Oh... my…. Gawd!” I turned and threw a grin at her over my shoulder. They both smiled back.

Our next stop was the marina. We pulled in right down to dock “B” and I unloaded my North Face and carry-ons. I geared up and walked down the dock to find the sailing vessel Weatherbird. I approached to see the dinghy has been hoisted onto the foredeck in prep for our trip. I came to the very thin finger dock that extends between Weatherbird and the neighboring larger monohull and dropped my stuff. I walked down the wooden finger of thick, uneven timbers to the gate in the boat’s lifelines and knocked on the port deck of the boat, “Ahoy!”

Greetings are heard from below from more than one person. A head popped out of the companionway and says, “Come aboard,” in the unmistakable voice of Duane Moran I had heard on the phone a few days prior. Duane proceeded below and I follow. On the settee below is a man in mid-breath of recounting a yarn. He picked up right where he left off, obviously interrupted by my arrival. He quickly finished up with an abridged version and I introduced myself. We shake hands. “Al Hatch,” the skipper said.

Duane is the same age as I, about 50, and Al is retired in his early 60s. Duane is an active instructor for the sailing school. The school owns Weatherbird, the boat we are going to be deliver. He’s been in St. Thomas for a few days helping finish up the instructor season and prepping the boat for departure. Al used to be a full-time instructor for the school,  but doesn’t do it full time anymore. He was with the school in 2001 when he and David went to France to take delivery of Weatherbird, which was new at the time. He’s had a long history of sailing on Weatherbird. Al arrived in St. Thomas just a couple of hours before me.

Duane and Al had never met before this day. They are recounting people and places they both know around Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, where the main location for the sailing school resides. They are comparing notes on instructors and clients who have come and gone and boats they’ve trained  their students on. I am listening intently to all this, holding back asking 1000 questions. Al and Duane each talked about students they’ve had-- mostly the ones that have done something unseaman-like. I’m taking mental notes so I do not repeat one of these mistakes, immortalizing myself into their sea story repertoire. Although even I’m shaking my head at most of these tales.

Finally, we decide some dinner is warranted and we cross the street in front of the marina to a roadside dive for a seafood poo poo platter we split three ways.

And then the rum starts...

0604 - ExtravaRUMza

After the scrumptious seafood poo poo platter and a couple of beers we adjourned, walking back across the street and up the stairs of a three story retail strip mall, occupied right in the middle a faux tiki bar. The bar overlooked the marina and faced south-southeast. Somewhere along the line we lost Duane, which would become common during these outings. Al and I saddled up and both have something rummy.

Al has had a storied life. He served in the Marines, worked in oil fields  in Wyoming, had his own construction company, managed boatyards in New England, was a sailing instructor and, probably, a couple of trades he didn’t share. As he moved from personal history to tales of wildcatters,  sailors, yard workers, boat owners, and clients, we kept drinking. It was a warm evening. The easterly trade winds managed to waft their way down Vessup Bay and through the palms. With the help of the cold rum, the breeze quelled what would have been an uncomfortable heat.

At dinner, Duane had mentioned a little Mexican joint down at the end of the marina complex. Al and I decided to wander back down the stairs and west to the next stop.

This little place was trying to be many things. The motif was Mexican with a Caribbean flair. The menu was create your own burritos a la Chipotle or Qdoba but here you ordered and  they prepared it and served it cafe style. The music was night-club bass beat, but no dance floor. Just a bartender, a very attentive waitress who never let you see the bottom of a glass, and three or four patrons at the bar. Al and I took seats at a table and it was Pineapple and rum all night.

Al has endless tales. I was sure he was telling me all of them and would be out in a couple of days if this pace  kept up. We were going to be marooned on a vessel making 6 knots/hr for  a distance of 1450 nautical miles. There was going to be a lot of dead air to fill. I was glad I brought some books. It would be awkward when no one had anything left to say.

We made our way back to the boat, not at the end of the night for the clock, but it was for us. I don’t recall where we found Duane again, but we did. As I rolled into my  bunk for the first time, I heard Al say something about 0630 wake up. UGH!

0605 - Recovery, Recon and Readiness

Tomorrow came fast. I woke to the clang of the stainless coffee pot- a percolator type-- being charged with water and coffee. Duane scientifically guessed at how much coffee, just pouring it in from the can. It didn’t matter at this point. I was in the state of a perfect hangover where you don’t dare take anything for your headache for fear you stomach will rebel. I suffered. And I think just enough boat motion didn’t help things.

There was no time to recover from the night before as boat prep started right away.

First on the agenda was a rig inspection. We hoisted Al up the mast. He sat in a bosun’s chair, a sling/seat with pockets all around for tools and supplies needed when working aloft. The chair is attached to one of the halyards used to raise the sails up the mast. Instead of sails, we raised Al using the cabin-top line winch. We hauled him all the way to the top and he inspected every wire, pin and fitting that holds up the mast as we slowly lowered him back down to the deck. Hauling a 200lb man up a 50' mast while fighting a hangover was a bit much. Duane and I took turns grinding the winch.

I inspected all the deck-level fittings to make sure all the pins had retaining cotter pins or rings and also used white electrical tape to cover anything that looked sharp enough to snag lines, sails, clothes or skin.

Al rerouted the port and starboard jacklines, moving them from the stern padeyes to the much stouter stern cleats. The jacklines are one inch tubular nylon webbing that serve as an attachment point for the crew when on deck during solo watches or rough weather. The jacklines run along the side decks from the bow of the boat to the stern corners. We also had two running from the rear of the companionway-- the door to the cabin of the boat-- to the base of the steering wheel pedestal. The crewmen all wear harnesses and attach themselves to the jacklines with a two-meter tether. The tether has a quick-release carabiner at the end with which the connection to the jackline is made. Al felt the cleats would be much stronger than the padeyes to hold the end of the jackline. The forward end was attached to to the forward cleats on their respective sides.

Duane had filled about eight five-gallon fuel cans with diesel fuel before Al and I arrived. We lashed these securely to the lifelines and the pulpit around the cockpit. The on-board fuel tanks held about 35 gallons of fuel. Since there was a near 100% chance we would be motoring across a windless, flat sea sometime during the trip, these extra 40 gallons would ensure we had plenty of range. Not to mention we would have to run the diesel engine 2-3 hours day to recharge the on-board batteries. The largest electrical loads on the boat were the refrigerator and the auto-pilot, when the boat is underway.

Al was really starting to look at the weather forecasts this day. Tropical Storm Bonnie was in the mid-Atlantic about due north of us near Bermuda. The prediction was it would  continue east and completely weaken. Otherwise the easterly trade winds should be with us for the first 2-3 days out of St. Thomas, with a move clockwise (called a veer in sailing parlance. A counterclockwise shift is called a back, or a backing wind) to become southerly and then southwesterly over the next 5-7 days.

Looking at the weather prompted us to get out the bag containing the sea anchor and associated lines and blocks. A sea anchor is a specially designed parachute (the first ones were actually military surplus parachutes) that is deployed from the bow of a boat and is used to stop the boat as much as possible while at the same time keeping the bow turned into waves and wind. It’s deployed when the wind reaches better than 40knts/hr and/or the waves start to break like surf-- the tops of the waves extending over the base of the wave and then falling. Breaking seas hitting the boat broadside could easily roll it over, tearing the mast and associated sailing rig from the deck  and doing all sorts of damage to the hull, deck and crew in the process. Keeping the bow of the boat pointed into the waves presents the strongest part of the boat to the sea and also orients the boat so it cannot be rolled as easily. These are storm survival tactics-- something  to which we hopefully would not need to employ. But just to make sure everything would be ready if it was needed, we took the deployment bag out on the dock and unspooled most of it, making sure there were no tangles.

By this time it was nearing 11 a.m. and we decided to break for breakfast. I followed Duane up the stairs to the same landing the tiki bar occupied near which was a coffee bar also serving breakfast sandwiches. My stomach, still not feeling well, was ready for dose of greasy eggs and breakfast meat. We ordered breakfast bagel sandwiches and polished them off. Duane had some errands to run so I went on a tour of all the retail stores in search of a new hat to replace the one stolen by a heathen grandmother.

0605 - Hat Success and Disaster Plans

After the satisfying breakfast sandwich, and now on a quest for a new hat, I was still not feeling normal after our previous night at the mexican joint drinking rum (that just sounds odd). I bought a Gatorade to try to help get my body chemistry back in balance. Then, I went from one tourist trap/t-shirt store/boutique surf shop to the next looking for a floppy bucket hat to replace what I had lost. I instead found every cranium cover that a fashionista tourist, surfer dude or beatnik might love. Every neon colored, giant or tiny brimmed, useless scalp serape was found except the utilitarian style I was after. Floppy. Fold-able. Tan, grey, or the like. A brim to keep the sun off my face and hairless dome but not obtrusively large. I tried all the clothing, drug and tourist knick-knack stores and came up empty.

On the way back to the boat, I stopped by the Island Marine store- a local marine supply store. Right away I see Al and Duane in the store. As I mosey in I spot a hat rack full of not-stupid hats. I picked out a Panama Jack for $22 and paid the man. Al and Duane are shopping for bolts and twist drills. I have no idea what for, but they both seem driven. They have some project or another on tap.

Upon returning to the boat, Al and Duane began removing panels to gain access to the steering system; the rudder post coming up through the hull from under the back of the boat, the steering arm attached to the rudder post, the steering gear, and the autopilot. All this exists just under the cockpit and between the double-bed quarter-berths in the back of the cabin. Al is concerned about a repair he had done a couple of years ago while under way. A bolt holding the steering arm to the rudder post had sheared and he had replaced it with an inferior quality bolt he had on board at the time. The repair had taken 4 hours to complete while hove-to in the open sea. He did not want to repeat the experience. He planned to remove the existing bolt, drill out the hole and insert a thicker bolt in its place.

There were six or eight tool boxes on the boat, in this locker or that. Each containing tools for specific uses; electrical, sails and rigging, mechanical, plumbing and pumps, etc. We ended up with the contents of two or three of these toolboxes spread around the saloon of the boat. Using wrenches, hammers, pry bars, etc to remove the existing, seized bolt and replace it with a hardened, proper bolt. The drill would not quite access the area and at the last second Al decided not to try it. Duane and I agreed this was a good decision. If the drilling operation went awry, it could damage the rudder post. Repairing a damaged rudder post might require the boat to be craned out of the water and the rudder removed and this would scrub the trip. Thankfully, everything went back together easily and the whole endeavor took just an hour or two.

The steering gear is attached to the underside of the cockpit floor with four bolts. However, there is a fair amount of flex in the mounting as the load on the rudder increases while at sea. Duane explained that if it flexes enough, the chains connecting the steering gear to the steering wheels will come off. This only happens when the rudder is under high load, like during heavy seas and wind--- when you need the steering the most! This apparently was discovered years ago as there are a series of wooden blocks stacked up between a reinforced area of the hull and the steering gear.to help stabilize the steering gear. Al and Duane shim this system up tight in prep for departure.

The steering system would play an antagonistic side character in the upcoming drama of our ocean crossing.

After we had all the tools returned to their proper tool boxes and stowed back in their respective lockers, Al rummaged under the navigation station and took out a sheet of paper. Using the parallel rules used for chart navigation he drew a grid. Along the left side of the grid he listed, from top to bottom, Fire, Flood, Dis-mast, and MOB (man overboard). Across the top he wrote Life raft, ditch bag, epirb/satphone, seacocks fwd, seacocks aft, rig cutters, lines, fire extinguisher. This was a grid of emergencies and actions.

He wrote our names in the empty spots in the grid. I was assigned these tasks in case of these emergencies:

- Fire = Get the life raft from its mount on deck, just behind the mast, and take it to the opposite end of the boat that’s burning. If I’m at, or nearest to, the helm at the time the fire is discovered, turn the boat to 1) keep the fire away from the companionway so if crew are below so they can get out and 2) turn the boat so the flames are blowing off the boat so as not to ignite more of the vessel. 

- Flood = Get the life raft; the ditch bag containing flares, emergency rations, simple first aid, radio, beacon, etc; and the EPIRB 406 Mhz distress beacon. Once all that is assembled, if the boat is not immediately going down, help with flood control.

- Dismasting = I would retrieve dock lines and work to secure the remains of the mast and rig to the boat so it can’t thrash about and knock or wear hole the hull of the boat. We would then design a jury rig with these items with which to sail, albeit at a reduced pace.

- MOB = (man overboard) = First on deck spot the MOB and DO NOT EVER take eyes off of them until they are back onboard. The remaining crew will maneuver the boat to retrieve the swimmer.

The sheet of paper was taped to the bulkhead right between the galley and the companionway with blue painters tape so we would see it continuously. I committed my individual responsibilities,  as well as all the discussions we had about it, to memory.

We all decided to go to dinner at the mexican place. Al was hoping the cute waitress from the night before would still be there. She was. She tried to get us started on rum and pineapple from the get go. We joked about that probably not being a good idea. Al ordered water-- he is admittedly a PTSD sufferer from his time in Vietnam and is concerned multiple nights of hard drinking will make him short fused. He seems to be speaking from experience. Duane and I had beers only, with a plan to leave town the next day.

All the day’s work had been to prepare the boat- and ourselves- for the upcoming passage where being as self reliant as possible would help ensure a trip that, If not uneventful, would at least not be catastrophic.

0606 - Departure

0600 - The day is finally here. It seems like I’ve been working toward this day forever. I guess it’s been more than a year in the making-- in my head. More rattling of the percolator to get things going-- I’m glad we are all coffee addicts.

First, we tied the spare spinnaker halyard from the masthead to the bow eye of the upside down dinghy and hoist it up with the winch. The hoisted front of the dinghy has uncovered the anchor locker on the very bow of the boat. Opening the anchor locker reveals a fill port for one the freshwater holding tanks. We pulled a hose onto the boat and ran it overboard for a minute to flush out all the water that’s been absorbing the rubber taste from the hose. Then we stuffed it in the deck fitting and topped off the tank. Once that tank was filled, we pulled the hose down to the water tank opening in the transom of the boat and repeated the process. While I was finishing up filling the stern tank, Duane lowered the dinghy and is lashing it to the foredeck. The foredeck is a much safer place for it than being towed behind the boat for 1500 miles on a painter. A good way to lose a dinghy.

We grabbed breakfast and I ran to the drugstore for a quart of sports drink-- more for the bottle than the drink. I need the wide-mouth bottle in which to mix my own powdered Gatorade. This is something I’ve learned to always bring to the tropics-- drinking only water all day in tropical temperatures seems to wash the electrolytes from my body and makes me feel abnormal. I was planning on staying well hydrated to help stave off something I have NEVER experienced-- sea sickness, the specter of which I was sure was hiding the in the bilge.

0930 - Shoving off. Al doesn’t follow the accepted practice of warming up of the diesel. He asked, “are we ready?” We all affirm and he just started it up and threw it into reverse. He backed us out and we are off, following the rush hour traffic of day tripping charter powerboats, dive charters and day sailors. I wondered if they know we are not like them. We are leaving and not returning. In my mind, we are adventurers in the spirit of Shackleton and Hillary, spiriting forth into a vastness that even now seems immeasurable, even though we are able to attribute numbers to it. It’s like fathoming the distance from the Earth to the moon-- and we’ll be just slightly more likely to be rescued should the worst happen. Al seemed completely at ease. Duane was a little more anxious. We exited the marina and motored E-NE through the bay into the easterly trade winds. During this transit we stowed the fenders in the forward v-berth cabin below and the dock lines in the locker in the cockpit-- they should not be needed for the next ten to fifteen days. After about a mile, we came even with Redhook Point off our port beam. We hoisted the mainsail, then turned North, pointing just east of Thatch Cay. As we came to this course, we unrolled every stitch of the genoa from the furler and cut the diesel. As the sound of the engine faded, the sound of the wind through the rig and the bow wave off the hull takes over, mixed with nervous conversation about courses, weather and what not.

We settled onto a beam reach on starboard (the wind from the East to our northerly course). The swell was also from the East. As the swell would come up to the starboard side, the boat would roll over onto the port side and then, as the wave would proceed under the boat the boat would roll onto the opposite starboard side. It was a slow roll and was not more than 15 degrees or so either way. Once we are clear of any underwater obstacles, we set a course on the autopilot to 345 degrees true/0 deg magnetic.

As of 2016, this is my fifth time to the Virgin Islands area-- second time to the USVI. Add to that three sailing charters I’ve skippered in the neighboring British Virgin Islands. The BVIs are considered one of the best destinations for new charterers because of the easy sailing, easy navigation, good anchorages and moorings, and of course it’s just a lot of fun. Most of the time chartering in the Virgin Islands is in waters sheltered from the easterly Atlantic swell by the reefs and islands surrounding the Sir Francis Drake Channel-- a lake-like body of water devoid of swell. The first day or two of a sailboat charter is conducted within this area-- an easy adjustment for landlubbers to the motion of the boat and the routine onboard. The last two trips we’ve adventured up north to Anegada. This four-hour trip is still behind a coral reef system but exposed on the surface to the trade winds. As a result, we’ve experienced some 3-7 ft swell.

Karen and I have been scuba diving for the past 20 years. We’ve been on a lot of boats of varying sizes and out in some light swell, but nothing too spooky. I have NEVER been seasick

As we were making our way out of the lee (downwind side) of the BVI, the swell was confused as it rounded the islands and came together with the unencumbered sea just to the north. Sea sickness was on my mind. A week or two before, in Lincoln, I had gotten a prescription for a Scopolamine patch to test drive. I wore it for three days over a weekend without any side effects I could detect. But, the Scope patch was expensive. I tried Bonine during the week and nearly went to sleep at my desk at work-- no good if I was on a solo watch in the middle of the night. I had brought Dramamine, ginger tablets, and Bonine. But, I wanted to see if I could handle the motion without medical aids. As we cleared the islands the swell seemed to settle into a more predictable roll and mostly flat. I was 50/50 if I was going to get away without getting sick. I was a little uncomfortable but could stave it off by keeping an eye on the horizon off the stern of the boat. Looking to starboard or port as the boat rolled was definitely a bad thing.

The Virgin Islands still visible probably 30 miles behind us as we sail North. 

I was hitting the Gatorade mix to stay hydrated. I wasn’t really hungry at lunchtime. Al made sandwiches. I ate a half-piece of bread. Al and Duane knew I was off and they seemed to know it would pass. I just had to deal with it. I considered how many students they’ve had doing these crossings, all landlubbers whose inner ears are resolutely shocked by the three- axis motion of a boat at sea. They must have seen hundreds of green crewman in their careers. Knowing something bland would be best for my stomach, Al made mac and cheese for dinner. I was hungry and ate all of my portion. I stayed on deck as much as possible. Going below where my visual references didn’t agree with what my balance center did not bode well.

The sun set as I was trying to hold off getting sick with Gatorade and crackers. I was mentally preparing for my first solo watch starting in a couple of hours.

0606- First Solo Watch

Earlier in day, before dinner, we had casually discussed a overnight watch schedule and settled on:

Joe- 2100-0000 (9 pm-midnight)
Duane - 0000-0300 (midnight to 3 am)
Al - 0300-0600 (3 am to 6 am)
Joe - 0600-0900 (3 am to 9am)

Between my semi-queasy stomach and my poor planning, I had not had any sleep since 0630 this morning. The sun set about 8 p.m. (2000hrs). I was about to start my first solo watch at 2100 having been up since 0630. The responsibility for the boat and its crew would be on my shoulders until midnight, when I would wake Duane and he would take over.

The New Moon had passed just the night before, so tonight it would be a sliver of an evening crescent- hardly any moon at all. I had read that on moonless nights at sea it can be pitch black--can’t see your hand in front of your face dark. I expected it to be very dark. Would I be disoriented. Maybe seasickness would be more likely if the horizon cannot be identified, your brain tricked by the motion of the instrument and navigation lights rocking in the blackness. I was anxious to not screw up by falling asleep and subsequently getting run over by a container ship.

2045- I went below and get my life jacket/PFD squared away. A new purchase of an offshore inflatable with an integral harness. It uses a CO2 cartridge to automatically inflate a few seconds after it becomes submerged. It can also be manually inflated via a lanyard that trips the cartridge inflator-- or by mouth. I checked the “armed” indicator to make sure it’s still showing green. I donned the jacket and attached the tether to the harness using the quick-release shackle and made my way up into the cockpit.

As I came on deck, I clipped the end of my harness to the cockpit jackline. I’m now tethered to the boat. I’m assuming watch from Al. I checked our course on the compass. It’s the same as it’s been since we turned north around Thatch Cay, 0 degrees magnetic. It’s a beautiful night. The tropical cumulus clouds are illuminated by the stars and moon. The breeze is a solid 15knts from the East. The boat is moving really well, probably 7-8knts. I assumed my position facing aft on one of the cockpit seats, still battling seasickness. Al and I talked for 20 minutes and then Al retired. His last words are to make sure I know to take a look around every 10-15 minutes and to wake him if I see any lights-- or anything else.

The moon rose without me even noticing. The light to see by was amazingly bright under just the stars and slight moon. I could see the water all around as every slight wave and ripple reflected the light from the moon and stars. The whitecaps had an odd glow as they appeared and then dissolved back into the dark of the ocean water.

Soon after Al  retired, my the struggle to stay awake began. I stood up behind the wheels,  holding on to the aft support hoop of the canvas bimini top covering  the cockpit. It’s at least 80 degrees, I’m wearing shorts, a technical  tee-shirt under my life jacket-- and boat shoes. The breeze was nice and the sound of the wake rushing as the boat surges through the swell was hypnotic-- just what I didn't need.

I hallucinated lights on the horizon for about hour until one appeared that would not go away with a shake of my head. It was a very faint glow to the East, off our starboard side. The light was so faint it was hard to tell the color, but it looked most likely to be a single green.

Marine navigation lights can be white, red or green and can come in various arrangements in vertical and horizontal planes to indicate different vessel sizes, operational configurations and direction of travel. A single green would mean I’m looking at her starboard side. This would mean we are passing roughly right-side to right-side, like head-on traffic passing on a two-lane road-- in England.

Whatever this was it was barely peeking over the horizon. I waited a few minutes to try to determine if the bearing to the light will change-- if it doesn’t that indicates we are on a collision course.

Al and Duane’s respective bunks were directly under the cockpit, port and starboard. I woke Al by poking my head through his cabin’s overhead hatch on the rearmost part of the coachroof, ahead of the port cockpit seat. He woke immediately from my soft-voice hail. I reported the boat, that it looked to be a green and it’s very far away and losing bearing. Duane was awake now and asked if there are any white lights-- he is wanting to determine if the vessel is a ship. I said no, but it is very faint. We all agreed it’s a sailboat's mast-top tri-color light and she’s headed south and is not a threat. They both went back to sleep without getting up.

We passed to the south of the boat on our starboard side, probably 18-20 miles away. The green glow changed to white, indicating I was looking at the boat more from the stern, now. It disappeared over the horizon after about an hour.

Later, off to the West, I saw what looked like a very small island lit up like a church. It rapidly dropped away to the south. A two-engine airplane flying quite low passed directly overhead. It was going northeast toward… where? There was nothing in that direction. Perhaps a Coast Guard aircraft out of San Juan?

I could barely keep my eyes open. And when they were open everything was spinning around with every blink. I was hallucinating objects on the water. Time moved so slowly. I played a game where I very carefully tried to estimate the time from the moon position and gut feeling. My guesses were too optimistic, further lengthening the time before I can go to sleep in my bunk.

I woke Duane at midnight. He put on coffee. I cordially remained on deck for just a few minutes. I told him about the island. He said it was a cruise ship. Geez, I'm dumb. I went below.

What seemed like a quiet express sail in the cockpit was a somewhat unsettling racket down below. Keep in mind, I had been mostly on deck the whole trip to ward off seasickness. I hardly noticed this as I peel my life-jacket and harness off as quietly as possible and fall into the v-berth on top of the pile of fenders, spinnaker, sea anchor and other stuff stored there. I didn't bother to get in my actual bunk in a crew cabin. I was so glad to finally be able to close my eyes without fearing sleep. The thankfulness was short-lived. About 8.5 seconds after I dropped into the berth, my stomach began sending very urgent signals it’s going to expel everything residing there. I popped up and got into the head and gave way to resisting. Immediately after, a wave of relief came over me, I was completely cured of seasickness. I drank a pint or so of water and went back to the v-berth and generally passed out. I slept relatively undisturbed regardless of the sound of impending destruction from the bow crashing through the swell.

0607 - day 2 at sea

I rose just after 0600. I had expected Al to wake me after his three hour watch from 0300-0600. Maybe he was purposely letting me sleep a little longer to help me recover from being sick. I thought about asking  him about it but refrained. From now on, I set alarms on my watch for 2045 and 0545 so no one has to get me up for my shift.

The wind was from the east and east-southeast, which was almost exactly perpendicular to our direction of travel, or a little behind us. This is the fastest point of sail for a sailboat-- and we were moving well, this morning.

A regular sailboat going downwind cannot go any faster than the wind pushing it and, since the boat is going with the wind, the felt breeze the crew feels is from astern and very light in normal weather. As a result, sailing downwind is hot and seems slow. Because the wind is from behind and not putting constant pressure on the sailplan from one side or the other, but from behind, the motion of the hull tends to roll side to side.

The same boat going upwind as much as it can, which is about 45 degrees to the actual wind direction, will be leaned over about 15 degrees. The wind will feel very strong to the crew as the boat is going into the wind and it's speed forward adds to the felt breeze. The boat must struggle as the aerodynamic lift of the sails sort of “pulls” the boat toward the wind and into the windswept waves on the sea surface.

But, with the wind off the beam, or 90 degrees to the longitudinal axis of the boat, the ride is near perfect. The boat does not have to overcome the added struggle of trying to progress into the wind, so the speed is good with little effort. The breeze the crew feels keeps things cool in the tropical temperatures and the steady pressure on the sailplan from the side helps lessen the rolling motion.

I’m felt better this morning but I’m still purposefully hydrating with the powdered Gatorade mix. Duane rummaged around in the nav station and found a set of the pressure point wrist bands and I slipped them on. I was more curious to see if they work than in serious need. I hedged and skip lunch.

The boat routine has settled in. I took a nap in the late morning/early afternoon. When I woke after an hour or two, Duane told me a pod of dolphins visited for 20 minutes. I’m was bummed I missed them but Duane assured me there will be more.

I have started reading a book Karen sent with me, “Sailing A Serious Ocean” by John Kretschmer. It’s a recounting of many voyages in which Kretschmer encounters bad weather on various boats in all parts of the world. He's mixed in his thoughts on storm tactics and boat design with the tales of his trips. It will prove to be my reference in many conversations with Duane and Al as we encounter similar situations.

I was so completely tired when I finally turned in the night before, But I was still surprised I slept so well in the moving boat. I woke a few times but immediately returned to regenerative bliss each time. This despite the exaggerated motion of being in the bow as it rose and fell over the waves and the amplified crashes as Weatherbird’s bow sometimes outran the water supporting the bow. The result ending in a profound low frequency crash as gravity returned the 20 thousand boat to equilibrium. Over the course of this trip, after many days and nights of lying in my bunk experiencing this in various wind and sea conditions-- often certain the hull must have actually split in two or gritting my teeth waiting to hear the crash of the mast rig landing on the deck-- I can only describe the sensation like this:  Imagine being in a Cadillac Eldorado hardtop from the early 70s, feeling the weightlessness of cresting a hill at a rapid clip as the soft suspension unloads. Then, just as the car resettles and gravity increases to a multiple of more than 1x, a sizeable box full of books, having been dumped from a three-story building, land on the roof in an extended KEERAAASHHH! Now imaging you and the Caddy experiencing this when effectively, completely alone. Like in the middle of North Dakota... in the winter... at night… with no one within 200 miles... and the doors are locked... and it’s on  fire.

After a couple of 150-mile days you start to realize you are really out there all alone. I expected to see a lot of shipping traffic, other boats, etc. But, once we were away from the islands we were really ALONE. Not even contrails from overhead jets. No helicopter could reach us so there was no chance of a rescue by aircraft. If we had an emergency, the nearest help was probably a ship over the horizon maybe a day or two away. I started considering appendicitis, heart attacks, sepsis, flying fish in the eye (it’s a thing). While we had a reasonable chance of reporting our emergency-- the sat phone we had was shit but might work-- quick response would be limited to that of the verbal variety. Not to mention sailboats are dangerous things when they are this big. Fingers yanked off in a winch, burns in the galley in a rolling boat, injuries from lines under thousands of pounds of load parting or getting wrapped around limbs, head injury from the boom or a swinging pulley block, slip and fall and the ever present specter of falling overboard.

Everything around you for 360 degrees is hostile-- the water. Only one-half inch of French fabricated fiberglass separates our little ecosystem from the endless sea. I imagine only climbing mountains in the Himalayas could seem as isolated. I found myself casually reviewing Al’s emergency assignment sheet as I walked by the bulkhead to which it was taped.

As the afternoon drifted by, the wind shifted clockwise. Now, from the southeast and lightening up. The jib was partially collapsing as the boat rolled over the waves.

My friend, Aaron Clark, lent me a GoPro video camera for the trip. The camera was new in the box. I played around with it some as the rest of the crew was napping.

I napped a little before dinner. I can’t remember what Al whipped up. Since I didn’t cook, I did the dishes. A routine I would fall into to pull my weight. Al was comfortable cooking and seems to like it and that was fine with me. This time, however, I barely escaped without turning green. It was hot below-- we’re still in the tropics-- and the boat motion got to me. I finished quickly and rushed back up into the cockpit, sweating. The cooling breeze and the fixed horizon cured me in about 10 minutes.

I hit the rack for a nap before watch. Getting a pre-watch nap helps while on-watch.

2100- Watch. I got up and put my life jacket and tether on. I filled up my water bottle and took it up to the cockpit. This night turned out to be much easier than the night before. No motion sickness so I moved around to stay awake. My time guessing game continued and I’m not improving all that much. I’m always thinking I’m 10 minutes closer to being off watch than reality shows.

The moon set a little later. It’s still a sliver, but the light is abundant from the starlight. There are no boats, airplanes or anything else to occupy my thoughts.

0608- Near miss with a giant ship

My wristwatch alarm woke me at 0545. Again, amazed at how well I’d slept. I felt pretty good after a solid 6 hours.

After Al and I exchanged morning salutations and yak for just a few minutes, Al crashed for a nap in the cockpit. I shot a little early morning video.