(The Harbor at sunset)
(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!)
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