Part Two of the Epic Adventure

Going below for my second attempt at rest was about the same as the first, except this time there were a different set of noise. One of the fenders had slipped from the windward deck and smacked against the hull about three inches from my ear. The owner's liquor collection in it's beautiful plexiglass slots was clanking to and fro with every passing wave. The howling in the rigging continued unabated. But this time the exhaustion was deep and I slept very soundly for about 90 minutes. The wake-up alarm sounded and I struggled to stand up and put on my gear. I headed straight for the galley to start some coffee going, because I do not deal well with 0800 hrs sans caffeine!

On deck for the second watch was a revelation. The inky blackness was replaced by a crystal clear sunny sky and moderating winds of 25 knots, but the swells had grown to 10 or 11 feet. We were now off Wildwood, NJ, and the skipper was chatting on the VHF with a large ocean tug who was drawing away about a mile from our bow.

I switched to the weather broadcast on the VHF; since gale warnings were still in effect we elected to leave the jib partially furled until we turned the corner into the Delaware Bay. In an optimistic bout of culinary inspiration I decided to make oatmeal for the crew. The stove once again was swinging like crazy on its gimbals but no one was scalded, as the kettle remained rock solid on the burner. I don't know why I found that so entertaining; must be because it was the only steady object on the boat.

We were much more comfortable sailing now, I suppose because of the daylight. Now we could actually see the bigger waves approaching, instead of being surprised by them as the boat suddenly rose skyward before falling back. Skipper reported that a couple of waves had broken over the cockpit in the night. This explained the salt encrusting all of the instruments, making it a bit of a challenge to make out the readouts....

A bird came to visit us in the morning. His name was Sparrow. And he refused to leave us alone the entire day. He was a smart one, that Sparrow. Every time someone came up the companion way he would hop over and try to get inside where it was nice and warm. Thwarted every time by our still-alert crew, he exacted revenge by crapping on most of us in turn. Matt was forlorn as Sparrow left us near an island in the Delaware; I think they had bonded. I celebrated by keeping the companionway hatch open.

We made the buoy marking the southern reach of the Cape May shoals by mid-morning, and turned north-west onto a broad reach to the north west up into the Delaware. Not a single vessel had been seen all night, save the Coast Guard intercept and the tug. We did, however, follow the tale of a sailor aboard a 28 foot mono-hull who had to be rescued 5 miles off Manasquan by helicopter around 0300 hrs; Rob and Theresa saw the chopper and listed to the unfolding drama on the radio on their watch). Now, however, there was some traffic to contend with in the wide channel leading to the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal. The channel was plenty wide with little risk of skinny water at the edges, until a gi-normous container ship closes from astern at 20 knots. I really wanted to be on the right side of the channel as per the Col-regs, but it didn't seem to make much sense to cut from our track on the left side and cross the bow of the ship just to make a pretty traffic pattern picture, so we stayed the course and studied the Danish vessel with binoculars and radar, willing him to not favor the left as he made his way up the channel. No sooner had we breathed a sigh of relief at his receding stern light when another strange structure was spotted a few miles off the bow. At first we thought it was a light house but 10 minutes elapsed and the lighthouse turned into a three story tug pulling a set of barges, heading toward us. Once again, the radar was useful, showing that it was a target in motion, and once again we remained on the left edge of the channel to give it as wide a berth as possible.

As night fell, we resumed helm duties at the entrance to the C&D canal. So calm on the canal compared to the wild ocean! But a new set of learning experiences soon were made. First, there were logs in the canal. Not sure why, or how, but there are basically telephone poles drifting in the wicked current. Matt's eagle eyes spotted the first one in enough time to take evasive action. As darkness grew our luck ran out and we struck the second one. The third one too, come to think of it. Oh well, we were still floating for the moment. The ebb tide empties toward the Chesapeake, and the boost we got from the current grew to 1.5 knots pretty quickly. We were flying through the night now. Around 2300 hrs, nearing Chesapeake City, all the sodium vapors lights along the canal edge merged with what seemed to be a low bridge ahead, and I asked Matt to throttle back until we could sort out where the heck we were going. At the Elk River, once out of the canal, the scene was similarly a bit confusing if you haven't sailed at night. The channel is well marked, but all off the red and green lights appear to be equidistant from our boat. Between the GPS, Debra's sense of direction and my sweating we managed to avoid running aground. Three hours into the watch we were counting the minutes until it was over; it was very cold, it was getting hard to stay awake, and we had run out of hot chocolate. In short, pretty miserable. But the experience of navigating the dark, desolate waters in the middle of the night was really a unique, zen-like experience, a memory that I won't soon forget.

Shortly before 0000 hrs we gratefully handed the watch over to Rob and Theresa. Seeing Rob checking the chart below a few minutes before watch hand-over was like seeing an oasis in a desert mirage, I was so happy. And I could tell that Rob was very glad to be sailing the utterly quiet Chesapeake at night, his home waters. There was very little wind or heel as we motor-sailed, and we were finally able to sleep for the complete 4 hours.

At 0430 we arrived in Annapolis in the dark and decided to motor around in circle for half an hour, attempting to find the slip that had been described as "between an Island Packet and a trawler". Yes, it was a fail. We grabbed a mooring ball, dropped the slimy pennant onto a bow cleat, and were asleep two minutes later, 32 hours and a lifetime after casting off at Atlantic Highlands.

Epic adventure - Part One

(The Harbor at sunset)

Was it really epic? In the grander scheme of human experiences, probably not. Others have done far more adventurous treks. And others have certainly done this exact same quest without the sense that there was anything beyond the usual. Epic means that it goes beyond the ordinary in size or scope; from my perspective this tale meets that simple test. I'll call it epic after all!

(Casting off from Atlantic Highlands)

The clear November half moon was already shining on the wind-flecked waters as the sun set. The north wind blew cold, it gusted angrily, seeking to balance the pressure systems to the east and the west. Anemometer read 22 knots and we hadn't even left the somewhat protected harbor waters. The forecast was for 20 to 25 building to 30, with gusts to 35 knots later in the night further down the coast as the system moved up the and just off-shore. Before we would be heading south, a north-east bound leg would serve to clear the top of the Sandy Hook bar protecting the harbor. And before clearing the head, two out- of- the- ordinary things happened to remind us that this was indeed an Epic Adventure.

The diesel engine rumbled to life and propelled us steadily through the chop in the harbor. No other vessels were out on the water except for a giant cruise ship miles away, lit up like a city block on water, departing New York for points east. Matt called out traffic at 5 o'clock. The skipper and I exchanged looks "Who the hell cares about power boats behind us? They have to yield to vessels that they are over-taking" was our unspoken commentary. Matt called out again "they are gaining fast!". With a sigh I turned to see what was in the black night that was all-so-important. The Coast Guard ship raced up doing 30 knots or so and circled backed and forth on our stern, the crew studying us with binoculars from the bridge. "They'll hail us on channel 16 if they want to board us, right?" I asked the skipper. He nodded and confirmed with a dash of concern "That's right". After a couple more circuits to our port and starboard stern quarters , the Coast Guard lost interest and roared off into the black. We figured that they were just curious about a large sailboat leaving at a dark hour into an unfriendly sea. Nice to know that Homeland Security is protecting us!

The second reminder came a few minutes after the Coast Guard encounter as our boat lunged over the top of a larger wave and slammed down into the next with a gigantic spray of water on all sides. Our 25,000 pound vessel getting a little air time got our attention rather quickly, and the skipper cut the engine back to reduce speed, before something expensive got broken. His contract with the owner of the Jeanneau said something about delivering the vessel in one piece, reasonable wear and tear excepted.

An hour after casting the lines off at Atlantic Highlands we found ourselves in the ocean swells east of Sandy Hook Point. Debra and I had secured the fenders aboard after casting off, and we all four crew pitched in to coil and stow the dock lines in the lazarette. The next order of business was to get the radar working and set the sails for the long run down the New Jersey coast that night. The crew positioned themselves to set the jib when the first minor disaster struck; the furling line would not budge. If you can't pull on the furling line, the drum at the base of the jib won't turn and you can't unroll the sail, meaning no sailing. This boat only carries about 65 gallons of diesel, which we had supplemented with 15 gallons in jerry cans in the anchor locker in the fore-deck, but it would be a close call to try and reach our destination motoring with this limited fuel supply. That's why they are called sailboats instead of motor boats! I had made notes on my phone when we were checking the lines out before setting sail, and Debra and the skipper soon figured out that we were pulling on the wrong line. But to get to my phone required about five minutes of unzipping various pockets and velcro closures on my wet weather jacket, and a trip below to the freezing salon to use the protection to read the notes. Once the correct spin-lock was opened, the jib cracked to life and we were sailing.

The swells were unreal, lifting and dropping the 53 foot vessel like a toy. It was mesmerizing to just feel the rising and falling of the boat as we accelerated southwards. Only the jib was set, and just 60% of that single sail, as we were expecting much more wind later in the night and did not want to have the night watch have to deal with de-powering the sail plan at night. We soon turned into our cabin to try and get some rest before Debra and Matt and I would take over the midnight to 0400 watch in just three hours time. Skipper Rob and Theresa remained on deck for their watch.

Down below I checked the charts again to estimate where we would be when our watch started. After hours of sailing we were still close to home, maybe 10 miles south of Long Branch. The ship was twisting and heaving, making getting into bed a ten minute chore. Once in the the bed, it was impossible to sleep. The wind howled through the rigging, the waves slammed against the hull just inches from the ear, and the rocking of the boat made us roll back and forth in the berth until we managed to position a bunch of pillows to wedge us in tightly. About ten minutes after turning in, my phone beeped that the four hour rest period was up, and we spent another ten minutes putting on sweaters, hats, gloves, foul weather gear, boots, and making some hot water for coffee and cocoa. I always wondered if the gimbaled mount on a marine stove was really necessary, and I stood in awe of what happened when I pulled the knob after lighting the burner under the tea kettle. That kettle did not move an inch as the stove swung through 60 degree arcs, keeping perfect rhythm with the rolling of the Jeanneau. All sorts of other objects hard and soft kept breaking loose below, but that tea kettle swung back and forth without a care on the world.

Once on deck, Skipper gave me the current navigational points, and quickly retreated to the warmth of the salon. Matt, Debra and I checked the auto-pilot and the sail trim, and settled in for our four hour watch. The wind itself was astonishing in its strength. We have sailed in 20 or 25 knots of wind before, but never out on the open ocean. The ship rose and fell in great 10 foot increments. at the trough of the waves we could see walls of water rush up and over the height of the cockpit, only to slip under the hull at the last possible moment. Debra said that it looked like one of those Japanese woodcut prints, of the fisherman lost at sea in mountains of water and under a canopy of sea foam, and that simile captured the mood perfectly. The moon set around 245, and orange crescent dropping below the dim lights far on-shore, and we were left with blackness deeper than I have ever experienced except for the odd cave. I was a bit, well, "concerned" when a particularly powerful gust would heel the ship and cause great commotion in the rigging above, the bow yawing crazily to windward until the auto-pilot countered with a soft-whining of the hydraulic pumps and put the nose back on our southerly heading. After a few hours, unbelievably, the wind freshened even more but by now we felt used to the extreme motion of the ship. We didn't become one with the ocean without making a couple of offerings to Neptune, though. One of us took another Dramamine but then threw it up 30 minutes later. Another one of us rushed from the stateroom to the deck when the watch started to avoid falling victim to the nausea.

After forever, plus a few minutes, our first watch at sea was over, and the sight of Rob and Theresa coming into the cockpit was uncommonly welcome!

(Waves never show up well in photos!)