From Goulies, Ghosties and Things That Go Bump In The Night…
Good Lord Deliver us!
12/1/91 Lat: N 32 15.8’ Lon: W 65 0.4’ St. Georges, Bermuda
Now that I’m sitting in our cockpit, feeling the bright sunshine and the cooling breeze on my face, none of the voyage to Bermuda seems real. I feel rested enough to attempt to put my thoughts together concerning some strange occurrences that transpired en route.
It all started about the third night out from Beaufort, while the storm was howling around my ears as I kept watch from my cozy corner of the cockpit.
“Ames, dinner is ready,” Judy called from the galley. “Hurry, Ames. Dinner’s ready.”
I was starving. We had been eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the last two day while we banged and walloped into eight to sixteen foot seas. No sun. No moon or stars. Just gray clouds closing in on us, trying to press us into the grey turbulent sea, and screaming wind – a steady thirty-five knots and gusting to fifty. I was hungry and frightened.
If I stopped to think at all, I would have become immobilized with fear.
Again Judy called. As I unwound myself from the corner of the cockpit, which protected me somewhat from the wind and spray, and while untangling my safety line, I thought it was strange for her to make dinner at 0200. I danced across the bucking cockpit and leaped over the wash of water left from a wave that had crashed aboard. Making my way down the ladder, I noticed that the galley was dark and Judy was snuggled in her bunk, sound asleep.
Shaking my head in wonderment, I stumbled across the deck again, trying to miss the splash of wave over the weather cloths and failing. I checked the horizon for ships, noted the compass course was being held by the autopilot, adjusted my life jacket and settled into my comfortable corner again. Had I dreamed she was calling? I settled back down to complete another hour of watch.
“Ames…Ames…Dinner is ready,” called Judy again.
The galley was dark. Was I beginning to hallucinate? Perhaps I had OD’d on peanut butter sandwiches? It must be the wind in the rigging combined with wishful thinking.
I told Judy about these experiences, half hoping that she would indeed cook a big dinner. I was to be disappointed, as it was impossible to cook much of anything, even a can of chili, as the waves tossing the boat also tossed our pans from the stove. Judy once tried to make a stew, but the boat threw the pressure cooker at her.
Judy said had heard our daughters calling to her. We heard whole choirs singing in the rigging the following night and we started looking forward to the company of these ghoulish, disembodied voices which kept us company during our watches.
Our violent motion through the waves caused a cacophony of clashing and banging. Rags, towels, cloths and anything else available were stuffed between dishes, pots and pans, equipment, and foodstuff in order to quell the noise and get some rest. However, there was one sound that drove me crazy. It was a deep, hollow thump…thump, thump. Then there would be no sound for a while.
As soon as my eyes closed, following my aching body’s command to sleep, that darned noise was repeated, “Thump…thump, thump.” It sounded as if something was knocking on the bottom of the boat. I searched the boat over but could not locate the source of the sound. Was King Neptune trying to grab the boat?
I was relieved the day before entering Bermuda when, on lifting the bottom of the starboard bunk to open the fuel tank valve, I found a can of beans that had slipped down from the locker above. It would roll up the side of the hull and then come down, hitting the tank. One “thump” at the top and two “thumps” on the tank.
After we arrived in Bermuda, all the boats that had just crossed gathered to compare notes and tell stories of the rigors of the voyage.
“I was tired and very discouraged,” said one skipper. “I spent most of one watch petting our dog. It relaxed me and I felt much better.” He smiled sheepishly, “Until I remembered we had no dog!”
Another captain told us how he would lay his head on his arms, which were resting on the binnacle. As he rested he would hear his compass talking to him. “It will be O.K. Everything’s going to be just fine,” it said, reassuring him.
One day a little land bird, blown out to sea by the storm, arrived on Butterfly. He stayed with us for five days. We named him “Stormy” and his antics took our minds off the raging tempest outside. He would sit on my stomach as I slept, peck on the chart to show me where he thought we were, and the one time Judy did attempt to cook, he sat on her head.
However, he was a lousy crewman. At night he slept clutching the port bungee cord, unwilling to stand a night watch. At dawn he would come on deck and scold me until I got him fresh water and breadcrumbs. The day before we arrived at Bermuda Stormy left. Both Judy and I were overwhelmed with sadness, and it helped to picture him on a beach with the girl-birds in Bermuda.
“Let me tell you girls,” he would brag, taking a puff on his cigar, “about my cruise out here. The weather was stormy, the cuisine great, but the service could have been better.”
That evening as we hoisted our “dark and stormy” drinks, toasting the setting of the sun, other skippers and crews shared more stories of voices and music heard while on watch. Although all of us experienced these auditory illusions, none of us seemed to have been frightened by them.
Judy had a book she had started to read before we left, but never finished. It was Dr. Cohen’s Healthy Sailor Book, by Michael Martin Cohen, M.D., International Marine Publishing Company, 1983. The one chapter she had not read was “Sailing Psychology.” Although it speaks mainly to single-handed sailors, we found it to be very applicable to small crews. What had happened to us, according to the book, probably stemmed from fatigue and sensory deprivation.
Was the bird, “Stormy,” real? Or was he an hallucination? Judy assures me that he was a reality and not a figment of our imaginations. She proves it by showing me the picture we took of him and the stained cushion over which he perched at night.
One thing is for sure. I’m going to add part of an old English Litany to our prayers: “From ghoulies, ghosties and things that go bump in the night . . . Good lord deliver us.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)