The Week's Sailing Trip

(posted 2/29 after we got Internet access once in port)

2-23-08 10 am

Sitting here in the cabin saloon of a small sailboat 50 or so miles off Cuba … that is, on the edge of a small sea … it’s all I can do to look at the screen and type. We’re rockin’ and rollin’ under not much canvas and a wonderful strong diesel, in seas that are typically 4-6 feet … which is to say, excellent weather, not much compared to what can happen out here.

I’ve learned a lot in my 36 hours of sea-time.

Left our mooring ball at 6:15 pm, just as the sunset conchs were beginning to blow (a Boot Key Harbor tradition – if you don’t have a conch shell, you blow a bugle or a horn, or ring a bell). We left under a light breeze with a quiet harbor. Everything was “stowed” below, restrained as well as we’d needed to in our shakedown sails. We motored out the channel and past the reef in the fading light, hurrying to get through the minefield of crabpots before dark.

Crabpots – wooden traps that lie on the bottom – aren’t really the problem – it’s their buoys. Each individual pot along the line has a little round float marking its position … and if you get too close, you can wrap its line around the propeller. This stops everything and requires diving to clear, which can take awhile if you don’t have scuba gear, and can be dangerous in high waves because of the lift-and-drop of the boat.

So … hurry to get out past the reef to where the crab pots disappear.

Then: hoist sails. We put up about 2/3 of the mizzen, 3/4 of the main, and maybe 2/3 of the genoa jib. Took us an hour. The main and mizzen are in-boom roller furling and are becoming better behaved as we practice. The jib is around-the-forestay roller furling and so far appears to be having mechanical problems. Clearly when we reach port we need to take it down and look at it again. But for now … it took an hour to raise sail.

Then we had a few hours of sailing, making 3-6 knots over the ground (no water-speed indicator working yet). Eventually the wind began falling and varying, and we added the engine to give us stability and make a little apparent wind to fill the sails for better stability. That was probably 2 or 3 am the first night – I could look it up, I think, in the log that has been only sketchily kept so far.

Yesterday in the daytime we continued motor-sailing as we crossed the Gulf Stream, which we apparently got into during the night – bigger waves, more rockin’ and rollin’, and also a current pushing us away from the Yucatan Straits. Late yesterday we wondered if we were through the Stream already, as things quieted down some. Last night at sunset we took down jib and mizzen because they were flapping in the too-light air, trimmed the main in tighter and kept it up for stability … and as soon as it got dark both wind and waves began to build.

The Full Moon kept us company all of the first night. It drowns the stars when it gets up at all, so we only had a few minutes to marvel. The second night Sunset was about 6:30 and Moonrise not until a few minutes after 8:00, and in that hour we saw the constellations of my childhood, mostly not seen in adulthood except out on the water, or at Camp … and just before Moonrise saw the myriad of lesser lights that appear almost as a cloud behind the bright stars whose names we non-astronomers know.

Sailing by Moonlight was easy. If I wanted to walk across the cockpit I could time my motion with the waves, which wasn’t possible in the dark. We’ll have the moon with us at least part of every night this trip, and I think I’ll be glad of it.

So … I’ve typed a page and a half sitting here at the table, and it’s time to stop looking at the keys. More later.

Challenges of the seafaring life

(written late 2-23; posted 2-29)

I was uncomfortably seasick beginning with the first evening. At some point Wade produced wristbands that he got in the habit of carrying while driving the snorkel boat, for the one or two passengers each trip who had trouble. Maybe they helped or maybe I recovered, who knows. The first 12 hours were pretty difficult, including one frantic run to become horizontal, eat one slice of bread slowly. The second 12 hours were only marginally easier, including leaping up from a sound sleep feeling panicky, trying to lie back down, and discovering my gorge rising. I made one attempt to heave into the tiny sink in the head … out of the question to kneel to this stinky and crowded porcelain goddess Wilcox … and then ran out to the cockpit. Alan brought me my life vest and clip-on harness (to keep me from falling out of the boat no matter what) and helped me into it.

Several times the illness cleared, or nearly, and on the evening of the second night I was able to eat – and enjoy – a moderate portion of my favorite pot roast. Provided, of course, that I ate in the cockpit – no sitting down inside the unventilated, rocking cabin for me.

Now on the evening of the third night I can sit here typing – a marked improvement – as we rollick up to 6 knots on lighter seas, picking up spray and rolling a bit but not doing so much rocking-horsing as before.

Edit after the voyage ended: That third night was the last time my belly objected to anything aboard, even though the fourth night was markedly more bumpy. Guess I've turned into a Blue Water sailor after all.

The Bliss of Sailing

4:30 pm Feb 25 (posted 2/29 after arrival)

Almost the end of the fourth full day at sea, it’s peaceful. We rock gently along at 4.5 to 5 or so knots (nautical-miles-per-hour, a bit slower than 4.5-5 mph) under 2/3 genoa, full main, full mizzen, heading South in maybe 10 knots of East wind. Every now and then we roll when a particularly steep swell rolls under us from the portside; a bit more often we rock forward and back like a rocking horse as the bow lifts over the 3-to-6-foot seas typical of the Western Caribbean at this time of year.

In the past 48 hours we’ve seen 3 ships, none closer than a couple of miles. One altered course to miss us, which we appreciated a lot; the others required no changes.

It’s quiet aboard for the first time in days, as we’ve turned off the engine for a bit. Behind us the 13-foot Boston Whaler follows blithely at the end of its 150-foot or so of double tow-line. Periodically we hear the hiss of a wave coming out from under us with a little break in it. In the whole round disk of blue water we see, there may be a couple dozen little whitecapped waves – just enough for color. We’ve joked about taking pictures of this empty horizon of blue sky above blue water, labeling the one over the port rail “Portugal”, to starboard “Mexico”, astern “Texas” and ahead “Honduras” … none of them visible. Just now our closest land is Mexico, 60-70 miles to the West.

The day is sunny with just a few cumulus and stratus clouds for color. We’ve seen a small tarpon, a small dolphin, and one of the seagull family – maybe a frigate bird? – and otherwise we’re alone out here.

This afternoon is the kind of sailing I came along for: a little steady creaking of the rigging, an occasional splash and hiss of the water, a gentle breeze in my hair, plenty of shade in the cockpit, warm enough weather to wear shorts and a tank top, easy enough motion to be cooking cornbeef and cabbage for dinner. This afternoon I’m enjoying a lot of this experience, and I’m glad I’m here.

Yesterday I wasn’t so sure. A night of rough weather in the Gulf Stream, a night of better weather during which I was still having trouble with my belly, and then last night … better weather but I was still feeling low-energy. On the second night I had a bit of a meltdown, crying and feeling fearful and exhausted. Not so much fearful about the boat – talking with Beloved Son about that, this was the first point to make clear.

During the first night I understood that Second Summit was really loving the weather and the water and wind and motion … and that we were in no danger. And that awareness has grown throughout the trip. While there certainly could be weather we would want to avoid, we’ve seen nothing like that.

My fears are more personal – we did such a poor job of stowing things where they wouldn’t go flying, or sliding, or falling onto the floor when we heeled over at 20 degrees or so. When will something huge and heavy do damage? So far we’ve managed to cope with breakage (crockery the first night, some wood the second) and re-stow what has slid around … but one of the things that came loose was a large fire extinguisher, which would make a heavy missile if it went flying. Fortunately we saw it before it fell more than the 20” to the floor, and now it’s bungee’d to the diningroom table’s massive 4” pipe leg.

My fears are more personal – what if I miss my footing, slip on the wet floor of the cabin (no non-skid inside, we thought (and our previous owner thought) it unnecessary)? What if I fail to reach one of the grab handles on the ceiling … what if I break a bone, sprain a wrist or ankle? And, until this morning, what if I can’t shake the seasickness?

But so far we’ve done okay. So far the trip has had many exhilarating and blissful moments, and a few that were stressful. So far we’re all treating each other with style and grace, giving each other space and breaks when needed.

Life is good.

Arriving at Mario's Marina on the Rio Dulce

2-28-08  (posted 2-29)

Arrived. Tied up across a dock end, side-tied to starboard. Powered up with 50 amps of 120V electric for the first time since April in Dania Beach. Went for a beer to celebrate.

Two beers on an empty stomach, after a week of no alcohol … it’s not that I was all that much ‘in practice’, but I sure am aware of being ‘out of practice’ at the moment. Good thing the dock’s three feet wide or I might’ve gone swimming.

Three hundred and fifty e-mails in the week off-line. Most are group lists, okay to catch up on during the next few days, but a few needed prompt responses and … the next thing you know it’s midnight or more.

800 miles from Florida and the wi-fi is cleaner, faster, and cheaper. Go figure.

Rio Dulce is amazingly beautiful.

Tomorrow must do laundry, but for now: bed.