DOWN ISLAND, PART 1, Sec. A

Waiting

10/24/91 Lat: N 34 42.5' λ: W 76 39.5' Beaufort, North Carolina

I am tired of waiting. We arrived here several days ago. Had a great time down the ditch (ICW), and I am a more than a little frightened as to what lies ahead. I once was navigator on a racing boat being ferried to Hawaii for the Clipper Cup Races, but I have never made an ocean passage in my own boat before. From here to St. Thomas, VI, is about l, 000 miles.

I am trying not to let Judy know I'm scared. She thinks I know everything. I don't, and I don't want her to find out. Will the boat hold up? I've gone over the standing rigging three times now. It should be replaced as it is seventeen years old, but we can't afford it. The forward hatch could be replaced. It seems strong, but in a storm will it hold up? Will I hold up?

There are so many boats here waiting for good weather to cross the Gulf Stream that we are anchored bow and stern. The marinas are all full, and every night the skippers and families roam the streets of Beaufort looking for some information to give them the courage to head out.

All I heard while hoisting my glass of beer were the words "Gulf Stream." They have instilled terror in my soul.

"You had better watch out or the Gulf Stream will get you!"

“Yeah. Especially when the wind blows from the north.”

“Those off-shoot currents are not nice either. Got’ta watch out for them.” I don't want “it” to get me, so I'm watching out.

Right now it's blowing thirty-five mph from the north. Not a good time to cross the stream. With its northerly current against this wind they must have thirty-foot waves out there. Meanwhile, the cruisers stand around trying to out-guess the weather.

We all know in our heart of hearts that we are mostly stalling. The weather we really want doesn't exist. One of the skippers has enough money to hire a private "weather service" which sends him a fax daily detailing the weather situation. We all crowd around to see what it says. None of us, including myself, wants to make a commitment. We are all apprehensive.

"I donno," says one. "Looks like that low over Georgia may be coming too quickly."

"Maybe," says another, "but looks like the northern wind has calmed down. The Stream must be getting better."

"What'd your weather people say?" one brave soul asks the guy with enough money for his own personalized weather service.

"They said to leave between Sunday and Wednesday. Think I'll go on Sunday," came the confident reply. Panic gripes my heart and my guts become watery. I know that it is time to leave. Is the boat ready? Is Judy ready?

No, I know that's not the real question. Am I ready?

"I'm leaving on Monday," I state, as everything I had eaten in the last twenty-four hours gives a flip in my stomach.

After traveling through the “ditch” (ICW) from Annapolis, MD, to Baufort, NC., spending three weeks checking rigging and loading stores, my wife Judy and I set sail with the assurance of good weather, for St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands. We left in the afternoon and by morning we were in the middle of the Gulf Stream, which was still filled with large waves leftover from the recent storm.

Offshore

11/8/91 Lat: N 18 25.0' λ: W 630 7.8' Offshore

Every time I go offshore I get a strange feeling. I realize that between me and the ocean floor, a thousand fathoms down, there is only one and one quarter inch of fiberglass. Pushing the boat down towards ocean floor is the weight of 8,000 lbs. of lead keel, engine, fuel tanks, anchor chain and tons of equipment. All of this stuff wants to go to the bottom but can't because of that thin layer of resin and glass. I feel suspended above the rocky and craggy floor and hope that the hull doesn’t give way.

At the same time, I also know that the wind is trying to blow me over. It hits the sails, masts and rigging, and actually tries to roll the boat over so the ocean can get in and push that thin fiberglass layer to the bottom. Rationally I know the ballast and the hull and the rigging all work together to make the boat sail. I just hope they keep on doing so.

Bermuda Isn’t the Virgin Islands

11/11/91 Lat: N 32 15.8' λ: W 65 0.4' St. George's, Bermuda

Eight days and 730 miles since we left Beaufort headed for the Virgin Islands . . . so why are we in Bermuda? Six days of winds between 25 and 40 knots on the nose is why. No sun. No moon. Just grayness: gray sky and high waves during the day, and dark gray sky and black raging seas at night. Only once did we get a glimpse of the sun.

I had picked the best weather . . . I thought. I even used the weather report from the guy with his own weatherman. We even left with six other boats . . . surely we all couldn't have been wrong. The experienced cruisers had guaranteed the wind would be from the east, but we had wind from the southeast. It was on our bow and we were taking a beating.

Six days out, we turned north to Bermuda. I felt as if I had failed. Judy and I were tired of being beaten to death, and I was very tired of eating peanut butter sandwiches (for eight days it had been too rough to make anything else). Our HAM radio complained after being baptized in salt water and gave up the ghost the second day out. I had no idea where the other boats were, but I was sure that they would make it to the Virgins while I sat in Bermuda and licked my wounds.

I was ecstatic when five out of the six boats entered St.Georges within hours after I did. The sixth had fled to the Bahamas. It was a year later that I discovered we had been in the tail end of the Low Pressure system what was part of the “perfect storm.” Great!

Exhausted and bruised we cleared customs in Bermuda, crossed the little bay and anchored for the night. The next morning we discovered that we were anchored in the old munitions anchorage, where it was said, a ship had sunk with all its cargo.