19 September 2008, St. Augustine, FL
Today
was the marine survey and sea trial; I am in FL for both.
We
started at 0830 on the hard. The surveyor spent a total of seven hours going
over the boat, first on land, then in the water. He checked a very long list including every nut, bolt and
line on the boat. He crawled in every hatch and checked every deck fitting.
After a month dry, she went in the water at 1130, and we went sailing. Onboard
were the current owner, his wife, the surveyor, the broker and me. We tested
engines, batteries, hull fittings, holding tanks (fuel, water, waste)
electrical systems, generators, air conditioning, standing rigging, running
rigging, and finally, the sails. Everything checked out as I expected. The
surveyor said in his preliminary written response provided today, ”The vessel
is a production model fiberglass catamaran, sloop rigged and fitted with twin,
inboard diesel auxiliary engines and a Next Gen diesel auxiliary generator. Of
model year 2007, the vessel is in excellent condition, remarkably clean, near
new and exceptionally well equipped, outfitted and maintained. This vessel
could be a show model...” His biggest negative observation was
that one of the fire extinguishers was out of date.
I
signed the Vessel Acceptance Agreement, the owner countersigned and all parties are now committed.
I
drove to Fl in a rented SUV hauling 550 lbs of boat supplies from home such as
food, clothes, books and DVDs, galley utensils, personals, scuba gear, fishing
rods and CD’s pirate map, all of which I will move aboard next week.
Next
is closing on the 25th. Weather permitting, a licensed captain and I will leave
Florida waters within the week (by law), head into open ocean for three days
and nights of continuous sailing to reach Oriental, NC, her home for the next
year. Because we will be well out of cell phone range, I have a satellite phone
with me for emergencies.
26 September 2008, St. Augustine, FL
Today
she is ours. All paperwork is finalized and she is now legally named “Extra!
Extra!”
The
delivery captain will arrive tomorrow morning for a scheduled departure in the
evening. A northeaster has been blowing a steady 25 kts with gusts to 30 for
the past week. The seas are running 6-8 feet, and I’m nearly sick with
anticipation about the crossing. I have never sailed out of sight of land, and
this promises to be three days (and nights) of rolling ocean. I’m worried, but
have faith in the captain. He says
our weather window is adequate, and the sailing should be good.
I’ve
lived aboard for the past two days and have things pretty much squared away.
The packing boxes are gone, there’s food in the pantries and I’ve changed
enough things around that it now seems like home. I’ve even figured out where
to hang a hammock. I’ve cooked on the grill, showered, and I’ve dropped a boat
part in the water - not my fault. My only regret is that Jen isn’t here.
I’ve already met some very nice sailors,
including a woman on a 44-footer who’s been single-handing for a couple of
years. I’ve got a lot to learn.
30 September 2008,
Oriental, NC
Most
of Saturday, the 27th, was spent getting the boat ready for open ocean. Captain
Joe Hanko, my hired gun, decided the rudders were out of alignment and the
steering cables were loose, which we corrected. We then tuned the standing
rigging, which bent, angled and stiffened the 60’ mast to his satisfaction. We
checked the engines, impellers, through-hull fittings, electronics (GPS [2],
auto-pilot, depth sounder, speed indicator and radar), and everything else that
might become a problem at a critical moment. The process took about six hours.
We dumped the rental cars and ate Chinese take-out for dinner. (My fortune
read: To live your life in fear of losing it is to lose the point of life.)
At
2130 Joe said, “Let’s go.” For me, in what was the dead of night, we snugged
down the hatches, fired up the diesels and running lights, dropped our mooring
lines and eased away from the dock. We were aweigh.
Departing
St. Augustine in the dark was unnerving. Not only was I completely unfamiliar
with night sailing, the boat and my companion, but I had no way of knowing how
I was going to react to such an alien - and frankly, frightening - environment.
I was soon to find out.
The
first 30 minutes were easy. We picked our way through a calm, unlit channel,
using a three-million candlepower hand-held searchlight to find the marks. A
drawbridge opened on my radio request and we motored under without incident.
What we found on the other side was the stuff of my nightmares.
Joe
was navigating; I was at the helm. As we approached open water where we were no
longer protected by land, the wind showed force, waves mounted dramatically and
spray flew. The boat started to rise, pause, then fall with a dull thud, on the
agitated sea. There was less than 15 feet of water under us. The radar went
wild; it reported every wave and whitecap as an obstacle. Channel markers were
invisible in a flurry of radar blips. A charted rock jetty to the right
presented a clear hazard, but the sand bar to port remained an unseen menace.
We were blind to good water. Inside, books and plates crashed around. An unlit,
uncharted buoy slipped by our starboard hull, alarmingly close, highlighting
the danger. We slowed to a near-crawl, assessing our situation, trying to see
marks through the spray, trying to steady our course, and at least once
wondering aloud if we should turn around.
We
didn’t. Instead, we pushed ahead slowly through the blackened maze until
eventually Joe spotted the buoy that marked clear water. No rocks. No bars.
Only high rolling swells, remnants of hurricane Kyle, hundreds of miles to the
north. Extra! Extra! glided easily through the relative calm. Joe relaxed. I
struggled in the darkness to get a grip on my still-pounding fear.
We
kept watch in three-hour shifts. At midnight, after a mere two-and-a-half hours
under way, I collapsed exhausted into my rack, trying to believe that the
boat’s heaving would settle, and that the ocean was not angry and vindictive,
and that everything would be OK. I slept immediately.
At
0300 I was foggy and tense, but went topside for my first watch. It was
incredibly dark. No light defined the horizon in any direction. There were
abundant stars, but no moon. It was too intimidating to look at the water with
the light; it was too large and too deep and too dark. I did not dare step out
of the cockpit onto the deck to admire the heavens. (Had I taken a misstep and
gone overboard, the boat would have left me without prejudice, and I would not
be missed until next watch.) I was glued to the helm, with nothing much to look
at but the chart plotter’s radar screen. The blips had shrunk to only a few,
and those few were ships that had to be watched. That was my job: don’t run
into any ships. Don’t even come close. I took the job seriously. My boat. My
ass.
The
watch passed without incident. I relaxed a little, played with the instruments,
figured out how to track the ships, took readings of our location and kept an
hourly log of our speed, time, distance and lat/lon positions, so that in the
event that all the electronics got fried in a lightening strike, we could go to
paper charts, know where we were and sail our way home, aka dead reckoning.
The
first morning was clear, bright and beautiful, and the weather stayed that way
for the duration of the cruise. The sea was a deep blue and the rolling swells
continued, though they were not as fearsome in daylight as they were when I
couldn’t see them coming. The main sail was up much of the time, but there was
never enough wind to drive the boat, so one engine was running all the time,
first the starboard, then the port, depending on who was below resting. The
main cabins are located above the engine compartments.
The
combined effort of the sail, the engines and the Gulf Stream’s lift had us
moving at seven to eight knots (roughly 8 to 9 mph). Eventually we were about
80 miles into the North Atlantic Ocean, riding the Stream off the coasts of
Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina. We were at sea from
Saturday night to Tuesday morning. The depth sounder stopped recording at 344
feet. We saw charted depths of 2200.
The
passage was spectacular. The sun kept us in swim suits. Flying fish routinely
popped to the surface and flew dozens of yards before disappearing. Dolphins
visited every day and we ran forward to watch them charge at us, turn on a dime
and play around the bows, circle, dive, leap out of the water or snort quick
breaths of air. They are quite large mammals who seem very friendly, although I
resisted the urge to jump overboard and get to know them better.
I
like to fish, and kept a trolling rod on duty with a 12-inch blue and white
squid lure swimming about 150 feet in our wake. Jennifer swears I should buy
only the cheapest fishing tackle since I rarely actually catch anything. HA! We
caught several mahimahi (a blue/green/gold stunner of a big, beautiful fish)
and a king mackerel which put up a fight like nothing I’d ever hooked before.
So, now I’m hooked. More rods! BETTER rods!
Captain
Joe and I fell into an unhurried routine: standing watch, fishing, tweaking
boat things, cooking for each other, he teaching, I learning.
Land,
when spotted, was not the welcomed sight I thought it would be when this
adventure started. “The hard,” with all its obstacles and things to run into
had new meaning. It also represented coming back to a former reality, one from
which I had been free, and one to which - suddenly - I was not anxious to
return. I loved it out there.
Among
my firsts for this cruise were: night sailing, its solitary watch and the
attendant records; dealing with solar panels; trolling for big game fish;
sailing out of sight of land on a boat under 100 feet; sailing in water so
deep; using radar, with all its confusion as well as the security.
I
learned to trust my boat to stay afloat and get me where I’m going. I learned
that I’m not afraid of the dark, or the deep, but that I am not fearless. The
sea is not angry with me, although I respect her and will not approach without
caution. I learned I can fit under a bridge with a 64-foot clearance, and that
it does not help to look up and hold ones breath when doing so. I learned to
trust my judgement and my capabilities at the helm and on the charts, and where
my shortcomings lie. “Slow is pro” Joe told me repeatedly when I horsed the
engines in close quarters. I learned that the Intracoastal Waterway, aka the
ICW and “The Ditch” is one way to transit north or south along the coast, but
that “outside” is not only significantly faster, but has other advantages that
are unmatched in beauty or surprise.