NOTES ON ANCHORING
Anchoring is somewhat like sex. You really don't want other people watching you while you're doing it. However, how you anchor tells other boaters what kind of sailor you are.
First there is the “screamer.” He stands at the wheel and screams and yells at his crew on the bow. He does this because he doesn't have the slightest notion how to anchor. There is also the “reverse screamer,” who stands at the bow and yells at his crew at the wheel. Next there is the “do-it-yourselfer.” He doesn't let his crew do anything because he doesn't trust her, him, or them. He must have a history of running track, because he sprints up to the bow . . . then back to the wheel . . . up to the bow . . . back to the wheel.
And, of course, there is the Frenchman. He plows through the anchorage at five knots and drops his anchor. When the boat comes to the end of the anchor line it swings madly around, just missing the boat behind it. Then the captain and crew hop into the dingy and are away. You will notice that I said that his boat just misses the boat behind him. This is because there is always a boat just behind a Frenchman. If there is only one boat in a harbor a Frenchman will anchor just in front of it, allowing about six inches of swinging room between the two boats. Obviously the boat behind them is their anchor alarm.
One sailing couple we know was so impressed by the French way of anchoring they even bought a French anchor.
“They anchor so quickly,” he said. “I just had to have one of those anchors.”
“Have you noticed how many French boats drag their anchors all through the anchorage?” I asked.
He blushed and said, “Well, yes, that's why we still anchor the old way.”
Saturday we sailed for Norman Island with Nona Rosa, cruising friends the Steven sons we met in Annapolis. Norman Island is a nice little island where pirate treasure really was found some years ago. There are caves there near Treasure Point where you can snorkel. Most all the charters anchor in a bay named The Bight, but we elected to try to get away from the charterers by anchoring in Benures Bay.
This is a deep bay and one has to anchor in fifty feet of water; therefore, it is not one of the recommended charter anchorages. We dropped anchor in 48 feet of water so clear we could see the anchor on the bottom and watch it dig in. We put out 250 feet of chain and settled in for the night. Toward evening a charter boat came into the bay and dropped his anchor. He just let it go, tied off the end of the nylon line, and went swimming. It must be nice to have such faith in your anchor, I thought.
The night was calm with hardly a breeze blowing. There was so little wave action it felt as if we were at dockside. I got up at dawn, made some coffee and went up on deck. Looking around the bay, I noticed the charter boat had dragged her anchor clear to the other side of the bay.
Now how could that happen without wind or waves? I thought. Later that morning Jim from Nona Rosa came over. He had talked with the man on the charter boat and reported on their conversation.
“Hi there,” said Jim. “I see you've dragged anchor.”
“It looks that way,” said the charterer.
“It's hard to drag on a calm night,” said Jim. “How much line did you have out?”
“Oh, I put it all out,” he said. “There must have been at least 100 feet.”
There is a story going around about a conversation overheard on the VHF radio.
“Just Charters, Just Charters, this is Maribell.”
“Go ahead Maribell, this is Just Charters.”
“Could you bring us another anchor?”
“Why do you need another anchor? There were two of them on the boat when you left.”
“Well . . . we've anchored twice already, and will want to anchor tonight.”
I guess that cutting one's anchor line is easier than hauling it up, but . . .
We stayed at Trellis Bay, Tortola, BVI, for more than a week. After a great sea chanty fest with our cruising friends , we gathered our courage and departed the next afternoon for the overnight crossing of the Angola Passage to the French and Dutch island of St. Martin.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
The British Virgins Are Better
5/7/92 Lat. N 18 20.0' W 64 57.1' St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
Early the next morning, we hoisted our dingy onto the davits and hauled up the anchor. We had a lovely fast sail to Jost Van Dyke Island, which is part of the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage at Jost Van Dyke was nearly empty when we arrived just before noon. It took several attempts at anchoring before we felt the anchor was truly secure. The test I use to determine this is running the engine in reverse at 1500 RPM until the prop wash reaches the bow. If the anchor doesn't drag then, it’s not likely to drag in a blow.
We went ashore to clear customs and see some of the island. The whole beachfront is given over to restaurants, the most famous of which is “Foxie’s,” so we headed there for lunch and found something a little different from what we were expecting.
Foxie's is a restaurant/bar with a dirt floor, a thatched palm roof, and a few long picnic tables. One section is floored for dancing. Foxy himself sits around playing guitar and singing songs, needling those who enter the place. There were a few people sitting around, drinking beer and eating sandwiches, but all in all it was rather quiet at noon.
There were two thirtish looking men, dressed in shorts, T-shirts and deck shoes, sitting in the bar sipping their beer quietly. A woman, in her late 20’s wearing a bikini, came over to the table.
“Hi there,” she said, sitting down.
“Hi, you want a beer?” One of the men motioned for the waitress.
“Sure,” she said. “You guys chartering?”
“No, we're just cruising around.”
She looked around the place disdainfully and asked, “Is this all there is?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is this all there is to do? Doesn't it get any more exciting and fun than this?”
“Ah . . . no,” replied one of the men, leaning back in his chair. “This is about it.” He took another swig of beer and added, “But it sure beats working!”
We returned to the boat and at about 1500 just in time for the show to begin. The charter boats started to enter the anchorage one after the other, and I watched their anchoring techniques. They would come roaring in, drop the anchor, get into the dinghy and head for shore. Very few of them set their anchors. One came in across the wind and dropped his anchor directly ahead of us. He was amazed to find his boat coming down on ours when it swung to the wind.
Early the next morning, we hoisted our dingy onto the davits and hauled up the anchor. We had a lovely fast sail to Jost Van Dyke Island, which is part of the British Virgin Islands. The anchorage at Jost Van Dyke was nearly empty when we arrived just before noon. It took several attempts at anchoring before we felt the anchor was truly secure. The test I use to determine this is running the engine in reverse at 1500 RPM until the prop wash reaches the bow. If the anchor doesn't drag then, it’s not likely to drag in a blow.
We went ashore to clear customs and see some of the island. The whole beachfront is given over to restaurants, the most famous of which is “Foxie’s,” so we headed there for lunch and found something a little different from what we were expecting.
Foxie's is a restaurant/bar with a dirt floor, a thatched palm roof, and a few long picnic tables. One section is floored for dancing. Foxy himself sits around playing guitar and singing songs, needling those who enter the place. There were a few people sitting around, drinking beer and eating sandwiches, but all in all it was rather quiet at noon.
There were two thirtish looking men, dressed in shorts, T-shirts and deck shoes, sitting in the bar sipping their beer quietly. A woman, in her late 20’s wearing a bikini, came over to the table.
“Hi there,” she said, sitting down.
“Hi, you want a beer?” One of the men motioned for the waitress.
“Sure,” she said. “You guys chartering?”
“No, we're just cruising around.”
She looked around the place disdainfully and asked, “Is this all there is?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, is this all there is to do? Doesn't it get any more exciting and fun than this?”
“Ah . . . no,” replied one of the men, leaning back in his chair. “This is about it.” He took another swig of beer and added, “But it sure beats working!”
We returned to the boat and at about 1500 just in time for the show to begin. The charter boats started to enter the anchorage one after the other, and I watched their anchoring techniques. They would come roaring in, drop the anchor, get into the dinghy and head for shore. Very few of them set their anchors. One came in across the wind and dropped his anchor directly ahead of us. He was amazed to find his boat coming down on ours when it swung to the wind.
Monday, August 24, 2009
DOWN ISLAND, PART TWO (A)
We made the trip from Bermuda to the Virgin Islands in seven days arriving on December 13, 1992. The sailing was spectacular and I was sorry that I could not continue to South America, but my wife talked me out of it – vociferously! That's what it's all about; six to seven and a half knots day and night even with reefed main. We ate well this time and, although tired, we are in great shape. Paradise at last!
Paradise
5/5/92 Lat. N 18 20.0' W 64 57.1' St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
We have been hanging out in the USVI for five months now. I don't know why. We took a side trip to Culebra, an island off the east end of Puerto Rico, but mostly we've been anchored in Honeymoon Cove.
Why? Maybe we stay because our friends are here. Maybe because we can buy boat equipment and get mail from the States easily. To stock the boat? To have friends visit -- at least Judy's parents came for a week. And perhaps to rest and recover from the trip here. Whatever, the scenery here is great, especially at St. John. I know what is not keeping me here. The islanders! They don't like tourists. They don't like each other. They are rude. Perhaps we have taken their pride away from them and given them good old American dollars to take its place.
An example: We go into the “Tourist Welcome and Information Center” for directions to a store. The lady behind the desk is talking with her friend. After several minutes I clear my throat and move around, hoping to get her attention. Can it be she can't see me standing here? Judy and I have been in front of the counter five minutes now. No, she can see me. She looks at me with annoyance. I am disturbing her conversation.
“Miss Julie ain't got no brains, she think George gonna take care of her more than sexin' her.”
“You right.”
I can't take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I say. She looks at me with anger smoldering in her eyes.
“What you want?”
“I'm a visitor here,” I say, hoping that I might get welcomed.
Silence. She just stares at me.“I need some information.” I thought I'd try this, since the welcome part wasn't working.
“Well, what is it?” she asks as if I were intruding on her private time.
“We are trying to find Carneba Street,” I said.
“Don't know where that is.”
Silence.
“Do you have a map?”
“There's one over there.” She points.
“We've already looked on that map and can't find it.” The map referred to was only of the downtown section.
“I t'ink it may be in French Town,” says her friend.
“Yeah. Go to French Town. It must be there.”
“Where is French Town?”
“It down the street mon,” she says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.
“What direction?”
She sighs a great sigh as she points behind her. “Go that way. It not far.” She turns back to her friend.
It's time for us to pull up anchor and move on. We've lost paradise here, at least.
Paradise
5/5/92 Lat. N 18 20.0' W 64 57.1' St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands
We have been hanging out in the USVI for five months now. I don't know why. We took a side trip to Culebra, an island off the east end of Puerto Rico, but mostly we've been anchored in Honeymoon Cove.
Why? Maybe we stay because our friends are here. Maybe because we can buy boat equipment and get mail from the States easily. To stock the boat? To have friends visit -- at least Judy's parents came for a week. And perhaps to rest and recover from the trip here. Whatever, the scenery here is great, especially at St. John. I know what is not keeping me here. The islanders! They don't like tourists. They don't like each other. They are rude. Perhaps we have taken their pride away from them and given them good old American dollars to take its place.
An example: We go into the “Tourist Welcome and Information Center” for directions to a store. The lady behind the desk is talking with her friend. After several minutes I clear my throat and move around, hoping to get her attention. Can it be she can't see me standing here? Judy and I have been in front of the counter five minutes now. No, she can see me. She looks at me with annoyance. I am disturbing her conversation.
“Miss Julie ain't got no brains, she think George gonna take care of her more than sexin' her.”
“You right.”
I can't take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I say. She looks at me with anger smoldering in her eyes.
“What you want?”
“I'm a visitor here,” I say, hoping that I might get welcomed.
Silence. She just stares at me.“I need some information.” I thought I'd try this, since the welcome part wasn't working.
“Well, what is it?” she asks as if I were intruding on her private time.
“We are trying to find Carneba Street,” I said.
“Don't know where that is.”
Silence.
“Do you have a map?”
“There's one over there.” She points.
“We've already looked on that map and can't find it.” The map referred to was only of the downtown section.
“I t'ink it may be in French Town,” says her friend.
“Yeah. Go to French Town. It must be there.”
“Where is French Town?”
“It down the street mon,” she says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.
“What direction?”
She sighs a great sigh as she points behind her. “Go that way. It not far.” She turns back to her friend.
It's time for us to pull up anchor and move on. We've lost paradise here, at least.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
One Boot Jackson
12/10/94 Lat. N 21 00.0 W 63 30.0' En-route to VirginIslands
The days passed by as waves under our keel as we sailed en route to the Virgin Islands. This part of the trip was as soft as the trip to Bermuda had been hard. One afternoon, while I was on watch and steering the boat just for the fun of it, I began to think of the first boat we had — El Marinero.
Although designed to be a ketch, she turned out to be a yawl, mainly because the West Indian boat builder had only built sloops and had no idea about mast placement for a ketch.
With pine planking and Santa Maria frames and keel, she was built under an almond tree in Coxen Hole on the Island of Roatan, Honduras, back in 1965. Captain Freddy, who built her without the use of any power tools, was 83 years old. His friend Captain James, who sewed the sails for her, was much the same age. Captain James had lost most of the four fingers of his left hand, yet he had sewn beautiful sails.
I asked Captain Freddy how Captain James had lost his fingers.
"We were sailors then and workin' on a clipper carrin' grain from Australia. I tell you it was the roughest trip I ever made round the Horn. We was homeward bound from Australia with a hold full of grain. The weather had been fearsome. It was so cold and snowy that our beards froze solid on our faces, and the waves were a steady thirty feet with some forty and even fifty feet high. The wind was howlin' and screaming through the rigging and the deck was always awash. We couldn't do no work except to trim the sails. Sometimes when we were at the leeward sheets a wave would board us and we all grabbed for a hold on, or we'd been washed over.
"Me old shipmates, which had sailed together for three voyages, was together on this trip and were on the port watch with me. There was poor Jim, what we now call Captain James, who was short and scraggly, but with a fine sense of humor, strong as an ox. And Tom, who could beat everyone to the maintop if challenged. And 'One Boot' Jackson.
"One Boot got his name 'cause he only had one boot. He'd lost t'other at the beginning right after we left old Boston. A great squall it was too. He come on deck with one boot on at the call of 'All Hands' and as he was trying to put the other on a wave washed it from his hand. He were so proud of his new boots too.
"'Ain't gon' ta buy no more,' he told us. 'Ain't got me money's worth from this one yet.'
"So 'One Boot' could be seen on deck in this terrible weather wearing the boot, one day on his left foot and on his right'un the next. He truly were the character in the group.
"Anyways, one day we had just got off watch in the miserable weather off the horn, when we hears the bosen's call whistling us from off soggy bunks to shorten sail.
"We only had the fore lower t'sail set, but the ship was laying over with her lee rail a foot under water. We was mighty feared that this would be our last voyage. We got ourselves spread out the slippery sixty foot yard, covered with ice, and tried to furl the sail. But it was stiff as a board and frozen solid. We tore our fingers on the icy canvass, but couldn't make no way on it. At times the yard was almost touching the waves, and at times we could only grab a becket and hold on.
"We knew that if we couldn't get the sail off o' her we'd capsize.
"About that time we heard a wild yell from above and old 'One Boot' came swingin' down on a line from the upper yard and kicked that sail right in the middle with his one boot. This broke the ice from off it and we were able t' get our hands on it. Someone started up 'Patty Doyle' and singin' we furled that sail in a minute or so.
"To me way heh, he....heh,
We'll pay Patty Doyle for his goods
To me way heh, he.....heh,
We'll all shave under the chin.
To me way, heh, he.......heh,
We'll all buy whisky and gin.
"As we was making our ways back to the ratlines to go on deck, Jim called out for us to help him. He'd made a bad mistake and grabbed the steel yard, instead of the becket, with his bare hand. His hand had frozen to the yard. We tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge.
Jim yells 'I'll get it off, by God!' and he pulls his knife out and cuts off the fingers on his left hand at the second knuckle. We helped him down the rat lines and into his bunk below. Poor old Jim he wouldn't be goin' to sea no more now. Yes Mon, that was my worst trip ever.
"So I hopes you appreciate those sails he made for you, 'cause he put him whole sailing spirit in 'em."
They weren't modern sails, but I don't think I've had any others I've appreciated more.
The days passed by as waves under our keel as we sailed en route to the Virgin Islands. This part of the trip was as soft as the trip to Bermuda had been hard. One afternoon, while I was on watch and steering the boat just for the fun of it, I began to think of the first boat we had — El Marinero.
Although designed to be a ketch, she turned out to be a yawl, mainly because the West Indian boat builder had only built sloops and had no idea about mast placement for a ketch.
With pine planking and Santa Maria frames and keel, she was built under an almond tree in Coxen Hole on the Island of Roatan, Honduras, back in 1965. Captain Freddy, who built her without the use of any power tools, was 83 years old. His friend Captain James, who sewed the sails for her, was much the same age. Captain James had lost most of the four fingers of his left hand, yet he had sewn beautiful sails.
I asked Captain Freddy how Captain James had lost his fingers.
"We were sailors then and workin' on a clipper carrin' grain from Australia. I tell you it was the roughest trip I ever made round the Horn. We was homeward bound from Australia with a hold full of grain. The weather had been fearsome. It was so cold and snowy that our beards froze solid on our faces, and the waves were a steady thirty feet with some forty and even fifty feet high. The wind was howlin' and screaming through the rigging and the deck was always awash. We couldn't do no work except to trim the sails. Sometimes when we were at the leeward sheets a wave would board us and we all grabbed for a hold on, or we'd been washed over.
"Me old shipmates, which had sailed together for three voyages, was together on this trip and were on the port watch with me. There was poor Jim, what we now call Captain James, who was short and scraggly, but with a fine sense of humor, strong as an ox. And Tom, who could beat everyone to the maintop if challenged. And 'One Boot' Jackson.
"One Boot got his name 'cause he only had one boot. He'd lost t'other at the beginning right after we left old Boston. A great squall it was too. He come on deck with one boot on at the call of 'All Hands' and as he was trying to put the other on a wave washed it from his hand. He were so proud of his new boots too.
"'Ain't gon' ta buy no more,' he told us. 'Ain't got me money's worth from this one yet.'
"So 'One Boot' could be seen on deck in this terrible weather wearing the boot, one day on his left foot and on his right'un the next. He truly were the character in the group.
"Anyways, one day we had just got off watch in the miserable weather off the horn, when we hears the bosen's call whistling us from off soggy bunks to shorten sail.
"We only had the fore lower t'sail set, but the ship was laying over with her lee rail a foot under water. We was mighty feared that this would be our last voyage. We got ourselves spread out the slippery sixty foot yard, covered with ice, and tried to furl the sail. But it was stiff as a board and frozen solid. We tore our fingers on the icy canvass, but couldn't make no way on it. At times the yard was almost touching the waves, and at times we could only grab a becket and hold on.
"We knew that if we couldn't get the sail off o' her we'd capsize.
"About that time we heard a wild yell from above and old 'One Boot' came swingin' down on a line from the upper yard and kicked that sail right in the middle with his one boot. This broke the ice from off it and we were able t' get our hands on it. Someone started up 'Patty Doyle' and singin' we furled that sail in a minute or so.
"To me way heh, he....heh,
We'll pay Patty Doyle for his goods
To me way heh, he.....heh,
We'll all shave under the chin.
To me way, heh, he.......heh,
We'll all buy whisky and gin.
"As we was making our ways back to the ratlines to go on deck, Jim called out for us to help him. He'd made a bad mistake and grabbed the steel yard, instead of the becket, with his bare hand. His hand had frozen to the yard. We tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge.
Jim yells 'I'll get it off, by God!' and he pulls his knife out and cuts off the fingers on his left hand at the second knuckle. We helped him down the rat lines and into his bunk below. Poor old Jim he wouldn't be goin' to sea no more now. Yes Mon, that was my worst trip ever.
"So I hopes you appreciate those sails he made for you, 'cause he put him whole sailing spirit in 'em."
They weren't modern sails, but I don't think I've had any others I've appreciated more.
Monday, August 10, 2009
THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE DARK
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.
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 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)