In my typical HaveWind fashion, I had to do a ‘Twas the Night post to celebrate the holiday. (For fun, here are some super oldie ‘Twas the Nights from the HaveWind archives – you’re welcome! : ).
In blog time, Phillip and Ubi and I had just endured one of our most terrifying moments offshore (where Pam Wall’s wisdom was with us) making our way up the east coast back to New England for the summer. This moment—the centerpiece of my Christmas poem—was one of our favorite in the Long Island Sound before we made our way to Maine for the summer, which we cannot WAIT to share here. Phillip and I hadn’t really planned on being in Newport for the start of the iconic Newport to Bermuda race, but there we were, having landed yet again, simply by sailing when the weather allowed, in the center of all the fun! Hope you enjoy the holiday fun. Cheers followers and Merry Christmas!
June 2024:
‘Twas the night before the Newport to Bermuda race and all through Narragansett Bay, not a sailboat was stirring, not even a 40 J.
On Ubi, we’d hung our outfits for the race from her handrails with care, in hopes that a certain female ‘round-the-world solo sailor would soon be there.
Phillip and I were nestled snug up in the vberth, dreaming of super maxis sailing for all their worth!
The next morning we arose and donned our race day attire, eager to dinghy over to Fort Adams to see what all would transpire.
When out on the green there had sprung up such a clatter, so many sailors, fans, and admirers starting to chatter.
I saw old pilgrims marching and drumming with flags in tow, as well as children, adults, dogs, and picnic baskets packed full for the show.
Everyone was abuzz listening to the pre-race commentary, filling their arms with chairs, towels, cups, and anything else they could carry.
We met up with good cruising buddies: “Hey there Jeff and Irene!” And set up shop on the rock wall by the bay to take in the scene.
Boats with masts soaring above one-hundred feet, began to sweep by, dazzling us as they jockeyed among the fleet.
While we’ve seen Narragansett Bay filled with sailboats many, many times, the start of an iconic offshore race was something sublime.
Knowing every one of these impressive yachts—from extreme racers to cruisers—is setting off on a 636-nautical mile race, crowning some winners but no losers.
The boats invigorated us all with their strategic positioning visible from ashore, leaving us wondering what the conditions would be like for them once they got offshore.
As I took in the sunny June day, to my wandering eyes did appear, the person I was most excited to see here.
I lost control of my decorum, my humility, my manners, when I started screaming randomly at her.
“It’s Cole! It’s Brauer! I can’t believe she’s really here! She’s like every female sailor’s dream, she literally has no fear!”
“Stop shouting,” Phillip chided. “Let’s see if we can get near her booth, so you can meet her in person and not act so uncouth.”
As we approached the tent, I was astonished by the sight of her: a young, beautiful, athletic woman, all smiles and chipper.
If you didn’t know a thing about Cole and her incredible sailing feat, you would have approached her like a new friend meeting on the street.
She was so humble and friendly, taking time to greet each fan, that I wanted to shake each one and tell them: “You don’t understand!
Cole is the first American woman to sail single-handedly around the world, non-STOP all while being her true self: wearing fuzzy PJs, high heels (once), and colorful tank tops!”
Her eyes, how they twinkled. Her spirit and aura, so humble and merry. “Well, get in line then,” Phillip urged. “I wouldn’t tarry.”
Approaching, I was overwhelmed remembering Cole in her bulky wellies, flares thrusted out, crossing the finish line with pride from deep in her belly.
Yet, here she was right in front of me, a woman, sailor, daughter, friend, encouraging other women who face barriers to boldly transcend.
I wish I could say in her presence I had been elegant and smooth, but I was a bumbling, blithering fool, rigid and hardly able to move.
I did get to tell, Cole, though, that—to so many—she is such an inspiration, and she thanked me, smiled, and posed next to me without hesitation.
Then it was time for Cole to help start the race and blow the the first horn, and she shouted over the mic as if the act was something to which she was born:
“WE WISH YOU WELL SAILORS, MAY YOU KEEP UP A GOOD PACE. FAIR WINDS TO YOU ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD RACE!”
She was tiny. She was big! She was excited and loud, but also soothing at the same time. An effervescent voice of wisdom. I’ll never forget the moment I first saw Pam Wall. She’d just had both her knees done, and she was slated to come on right after John Kretschmer at the Miami Boat Show in 2015. At that time—gosh, almost ten years now … ten?!— Phillip and I had only been cruising for a little over two years and had only sailed our trusty 1985 Niagara 35 from Pensacola down to the Florida Keys and back. That was some time ago. As Pam made her way through the folding chairs up to her place on the “stage,” several colleagues and friends in the crowd tried to help her walk through, but she shooed them away. “I’m proud!” she yelled. “I want everyone to see I’m not bowl-legged anymore!” And, then there she was. All five feet of her.
Pam was exuberant, happy, doing the exact thing she loved. The thing that pulled her out of her personal tragedies and inspired her to keep going: Inspiring others. Just like she inspired Phillip and I at that very show to—as only Pam can say it—“GO TO THE BAHAMAS!” And, just like with about everything else Pam told us to do, we did. I will forever be grateful for having the privilege of knowing Pam and calling her a friend.
There are several pieces of advice from Pam, however (in addition to what you should bring to eat on a trip: “Take. What you like. To eat.” : ) that have stuck with me over the years. Pam’s wisdom, her experience, and her ability to see adventure and excitement—even at her small statute—where others see terror and fear will never leave me, even though she has left this world and left many heartbroken, teary-eyed sailors in her wake. Just recently, I had her words come to me like a bolt of lightning, when Phillip and I were battling our worst conditions offshore on Ubiquitous. In sharing our worst moment offshore, I felt it fitting to share some of my favorite Pam Wall truisms as a humble but heartfelt tribute to a woman I looked up to like a mother. Pam, this one’s for you.
“Everything I worried about, never happened. So get out there and do it!”
I, myself, have repeated this one to many newbie cruisers over the years because it is 100% true. All the things I worried about when Phillip and I first started cruising—Phillip falling overboard, the boat taking on more water than it could expel, a fire aboard, a deadly medical emergency—thankfully, none of these have happened yet. However, many things I never would have dreamed of in a millions years (which means I never worried about them because I couldn’t fathom them) did happen. Just a few key ones come to mind: the time the Windex arrow slid up the VHF antenna threatening to snap it off, water spewing from the stuffing box, the rudder trying to drop out of the boat, the dinghy ripping off the stern rail in the middle of the Gulf. These are all things I could have never dreamed up, but what did Phillip and I do when they happened? Just like Pam said. We dealt with it. And, what did that do for us? Just like Pam said, it empowered us.
“Overcoming obstacles together is empowering!”
Everything Phillip and I have tackled together as equal cruising partners and boat owners has empowered us. And, there have been some doozies. The time we found rotten stringers under our mast and had to—as our buddy Brandon would say—“rebuild the backbone of our boat” which kicked off our YouTube Season 3 “Hard Times on the Hard”. When we hauled for that project, Brandon had a great time telling us “your keel’s falling off.” In jest. But, our keel seam was cracked and weeping, so we had to grind it out and Gflex it (for those skeptical, that bond is still holding eight years and hundreds of blue water miles later). Then there was the time our transmission was dripping fluid into the bilge and we had to capture it and pour it back in every fifteen minutes to get back to shore. And, those are just on the Niagara. On Ubiquitous we’ve had to deal with a riser elbow that was lost in the mail and almost required us to haul and wrap Ubi for the entire winter (what was slated to be our first winter cruising on her), not to mention us dealing with a second failure of that same part. The time we found the generator was water locked and would not crank. Then, the time Pam was able to help us sort out, when an unprecedented rainstorm walloped Ft. Lauderdale, swamping our dinghy on the davits and breaking them beyond repair.
Every obstacle Phillip and I have overcome in our—now, twelve years of cruising—have done exactly what Pam said it would. Each obstacle empowered us. Yet again, I will say it. Thank you, Pam. And, I will share her favorite picture of me (her words) because she loved to see women sailors really getting in there, grabbing the helm, grabbing a wrench, and getting elbow-deep in the workings of the boat.
So, how did Pam’s words of wisdom come to me just recently when we were miles offshore battling the conditions? And, more importantly, what words were they?
May 24, 2024:
The shelf cloud that was forming around us was daunting. It was intimidating. No matter how strong I know our boat is, no boat, anywhere, is a match for Mother Nature. It’s just a fact. After overcoming the failure of our riser/elbow in February in Jacksonville, FL, Phillip and I started making our way up the East Coast to spend the summer once again in exquisite New England. Phillip and I left Charleston in late May expecting fair conditions of S/SW winds of 10-15 that (we hoped) would push us nicely up the Gulf Stream and around Cape Fear toward Wrightsville Beach, or Beaufort, or Cape Lookout where we could stage up to round Hatteras on the next leg. Our repeated weather checks in the days before had also forecast the least chance of thunderstorms on the day of our departure. Everything was going smoothly into the evening. We had been sailing most of the day—with the full main up and a poled out genoa, making 7.0 knots avg SOG—and we were preparing to ease into our night shift routine. Phillip and I do two hours on/two hours off during overnight passages beginning right after dinner. Spoiler alert: we didn’t make it to dinner.
As we still had cell signal, Phillip was getting pings on his phone around 5:00 p.m. notifying us that Charleston was getting hammered with severe thunderstorms bringing 60 knot winds and hale up to one inch! We hoped the storm over Charleston would pass south of us. It did not. Right around sunset (of course!), just as we were losing visibility, the ominous shelf cloud appeared, allowing me the perfect moment to share the one and only photo I took during this whole ordeal:
Checking the radar, we saw two other storm cells: a small, but intense cell that appeared it might pass behind our stern as well as a larger cell coming off of Cape Fear that we hoped would head across our bow and then offshore. We learned later: they did not. All three storms converged on us.
The winds started to increase to 20 knots into the evening, which is not uncomfortable on an Outbound 46 if you have the right sail plan. With the genoa poled out and the main fully up, we were flying, making 8 knots SOG which was plenty (or, more likely, too fast) considering what we were sailing into. We decided to furl up the genoa that we’d had poled out. Like Pam had taught us, we had secured the pole independently with a topping lift and a fore and aft guy and clipped the pole around the working sheet NOT (“NEVER!” Pam would say) to the clew of the sail itself. Doing it this way, we could furl the sail while leaving the pole out completely secure and worry about putting the pole away another time when the conditions were calmer. Phillip suggested at this time that we put the pole away and Pam’s voice came to me.
“Know your boat!”
I know putting the pole away on our boat is a bit of a process. Not that it’s risky or overly laborious, but it takes some coordination between Phillip and I to release all the lines, walk the pole toward the bow and steady it while the other crew member simultaneously lets out the topping lift to lower the jaws end of the pole while also raising the other end of the pole that is attached to the mast to bring it back to its position clipped to the mast. This process takes some balancing on both of our parts to ensure the pole doesn’t fall or bang (crack) the deck and that no fingers or persons are injured in the process.
Knoooowwwing all of this, I was quite hesitant to start that process with the storm building all around us, the seas were kicked up to 4-5 feet now, with heavier winds and lightning coming. I worried taking the pole out of its currently secure position would leave us in the middle of the process, hands occupied, our balance precarious with everything we would be juggling, and something worse would happen—a wind shift, a big wave, a bolt of lightning—I didn’t know. But, because I knew my boat I vetoed the idea. Knowing the boat equally well (if not better) Phillip immediately agreed and also decided we should not worry about the pole but, rather, reef the main down to its second reef, to which I readily agreed. In all fairness, anytime Phillip starts to think about reefing, I had already considered it fifteen minutes prior and I always agree to reef. Knowing this about me, he usually waits until he’s confident we need to reef before suggesting it. It bothers me none that I am a reef often, reef early/less canvas is usually better sailor. Every day of the week I am.
Of course, during this exchange and decision-making process, the winds had increased to the upper 20s and the sea state continued to get more chaotic. And, of course, as soon as we decided to reef the main, it started to rain. Before executing the reef, Phillip and I got our PFDs and tethers out and did a double check sweep below to make sure everything was stowed sufficiently. We decided to crank the engine so we would have him warmed up and at the ready if we needed whatever extra propulsion or steering control he might be able to provide. Heading topside in the wind and rain, I clipped in and prepared to heave the main down as Phillip eased the halyard in the cockpit.
As is always the case, the conditions felt more extreme topside in the wind, which always makes me grateful for the protection our boat provides us from the elements—even just wind protection under the dodger. The shelter and quiet and calm it provides compared to outside-in-the-elements brings immense comfort, but stepping out into it, feeling what the boat is powering through while protecting us always humbles me. As I looked back to Phillip in the cockpit a huge bolt of lightning cracked nearby, the bright pink light it created contrasted to the dark scene before, temporarily blinded both of us and we both worried, for a brief second before our vision returned, whether Ubi had been struck. When my vision came back and I saw Phillip’s face, lit by the glow of the chartplotter before him, a wave of relief washed through me knowing we hadn’t been struck. At least not yet. In that moment, in my full foulies, clipped to the mast of my gallant boat who was battling the wind and rain for us, Pam’s voice broke through again:
“Don’t Be a Passenger!”
Know this, Pammy: I damn sure wasn’t. Not in that moment. It was me and Phillip and Ubiquitous against the elements. We had our sea savvy, level heads and healthy bodies, and one of the most capable boats I have ever set foot on. We were all three equals out there, taking it on as a team, and I knew Pam would be proud. I got the main down and cinched in the second reef and headed back to Phillip in the cockpit as the winds only continued to increase up to 32, 33, 35 knots and building. I went below and put all the handheld electronics in the oven to protect our lifesaving devices if we did suffer a strike that blew out the electronics or VHF on the boat. It was approaching 10:00 p.m. and we had been battling this storm now for several hours. Phillip and I were both cold, wet, and hungry, but there was no choice but to stay focused and keep the boat on course. With the second reef in, the boat was surprisingly well balanced and holding well. We were still going faster than we wanted to, making 8-9 knots approaching Cape Fear, but Ubi was handling the conditions incredibly well. We were just hopeful we were finally pulling out from under this gnarly storm, and that the storms overhead would finally begin to dissipate. They did not.
As the three thunderstorms converged and intensified above us, the lightning started to crack every 5-10 seconds. It was so dark outside and the lightning so close and bright that every time it lit up the sky and deck of the boat, it was so bright both Phillip and I were blinded momentarily and worried the electronics had been blown out with every hit. It would take us a second or two—each time—for our eyes to adjust and see that the chartplotter was still in fact showing data to assuage our worries that Ubi had not been hit. Not yet. This continued for another 30 or so minutes as the winds began to increase to 40, a number I never want to see while sailing my boat offshore. We hoped that would be the end of it. It was not.
Phillip and I watched horrified in the cockpit as the winds increased from 40 to 43 to 45, 46. The storm was not done with us yet. I remember hearing someone yell “THIS IS HAPPENING!” and I was surprised to find it had been me. We were heeled so hard on our starboard tack that I feared—as I often have—that one of the shrouds was going to explode or rip out through the deck. This is one of the things I seem incapable of following Pam’s advice on, because I have feared a shroud breaking since Phillip and I started sailing in 2013. Has it ever happened? No. But—as much as I try, Pammy—I can’t seem to not worry about that one. But it didn’t happen this time, either. Here’s what did happen.
The winds increased, upward and upward, to 50 knots. I know many sailors have been in conditions just like this, if not infinitely worse, but we had not. Fifty knots of wind—which is closer to sixty mph—is more than Phillip and I have ever experienced offshore, even during our two ocean crossings. Watching it all, I was mesmerized how Ubi held her course. She did not round up. She did not tack through the wind. Miraculously, she held her course and just, pardon my French, but charged the fuck through. I’ve never been prouder of her, or of us. Phillip and I had remained calm. We’d done what we thought was best to prepare our amazing boat for it. Then it was all Ubi, and she did her damn job. And did it well.
After that horrific gust, the storms seemed to finally decide Ubi was a more formidable opponent than they had calculated, and they began to retreat. Finally. It was nearing 11:00 p.m. by now. Phillip and I still laugh looking back on this incident, when we both saw the winds had dropped to 35 knots, and we were like “Oh, whew. It’s only blowing 35 now.” Perspective, I tell you. Is key. Once the winds started letting up, however, and Phillip and I could take a breath, pat ourselves down to make sure we were okay, then check topside to ensure the rigging and mainsail had survived just as we had hoped. Phillip, however, found we did have a problem. With all the racket and chaos of the storm, we hadn’t heard it, but—somewhere in the middle of it all—our engine had stopped running. The panel was still on, which was a good sign, but it had just shut itself down for some reason. Probably not a good one we thought.
Phillip and I tried to re-crank several, times with no luck. It would try to turn over repeatedly but would never fire. It had power, thankfully, which meant the engine had not been struck by lightning. We checked all the wires and connections to make sure something hadn’t simply rattled loose during the chaos. Everything appeared fine. We checked our fuel levels. On Ubi, we have four diesel tanks, spread out underneath our feet in the raised saloon floor, where they serve doubly as important ballasts for the boat. We had been on a forward tank which is smaller, but it still had at least 10-20 gallons of fuel left. Plenty to crank. We followed fuel lines, as best we could, trying to see if one had been compromised or disconnected.
Remember, this is nearing midnight, and we’re both recovering from being drenched and frigid. Phillip and I shoved granola bars in our mouths while we continued to work the problem and make sure Ubi was still sailing just fine in the winds that had leveled out to the mid twenties and staying on course. In hindsight, I’m still amazed at how patient and capable Ubi was during this whole ordeal. Phillip and I were both tired and frustrated and wanting the whole thing to be over, but we stuck with it. We did not want to have to limp on without an engine and have to call for a tow to shore, but if it had to be done, we knew it was an option. But, we wanted it to be our last option.
We shut the engine’s sea cock so we wouldn’t continue to pull water in trying to crank, knowing we would open it immediately if the engine did turn over. Knowing our generator had suffered a waterlock from raw water having come back into the engine, I was worried the same had somehow happened to the Yanmar when we had heeled over in the 50-knot wind. That was my biggest fear, but I hoped I was wrong. Looking at the engine’s oil and finding it was not milky as I had suspected, I was immediately relieved. The sound the engine was making in trying to turn over sounded like a fuel problem, like the engine couldn’t get enough fuel to combust and turn over. I liked that theory better than the waterlock, so we proceeded on that. Phillip thought it through and surmised we may have been so heeled over that the intake into the smaller fuel tank might have lifted out of the fuel and created an air bubble in the system that shut the engine down. It was a good theory. One we operated on as we set to work trying to bleed the system.
On our old boat, the Niagara 35, our Westerbeke was self-bleeding, which was nice. It would automatically push air out during the crank process—until it was all bled—and then turn over. Not so with our Yanmar. It does have a manual air pump on the secondary fuel filter (not the big primary Raycors) that you can push manually to push air out of an open petcock. We tried that numerous times, dozens upon dozens of pumps with little squirts of fuel out of the petcock, but no dice. The Yanmar would not turn over. We poured through manuals and kept trying, as we eased into the next day exhausted and frustrated but thankfully sailing on course around Cape Fear with no injuries or other severe damage that we knew of.
We were dry and protected, so it was simply worrisome and troubling, but not terrifying or deadly. We kept at it. We decided to try to turn the engine over (with the sea cock closed) but this time with the petcock open until we got a steady, robust spray of fuel out of the petcock. That was a fun, messy job for Annie—I was not a passenger, Pam!—but we finally got a rock solid spray coming out that Phillip and I were hopeful had finally solved our air problem. We cleaned the fuel spray up as best we could, and we prepared to try to turn the engine over again, this time with Phillip at the sea cock ready to open it immediately once the engine turned over. We crossed our fingers, held our breath, and …
Shouted raucous bursts of joy when our engine turned over. “WHOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOO. YEEEAAAAAAHHHHH. WAAAAAAYYYY TO GO YANNICK!” I got hoarse from yelling. Our engine, a Yanmar we lovingly named “Yannick,” after the French captain with whom we crossed the Atlantic back in 2016. Why? Because they’re both unbelievably hearty (said with a cheese ball French accent, hhhuuu-hooouh : ).
It was 1:00 a.m. by this time. Phillip and I had been battling the storm and then the failed engine for going on … seven hours by now. But, having endured that intense wind and sea state, with hundreds of bolts of lightning all around us, and air intake in our engine, Phillip and Ubi and I had done it. We had come out the other side, with all systems working and our magnificent, strong boat powering around Cape Fear sailing us to our intended destination. It was a miraculous feeling. One that was only bolstered when we were rewarded with an exquisite sunrise as we sailed toward shore.
The bolstering only continued as we arrived, exhausted, humbled, and grateful, in Wrightsville Beach, only to find a fellow sailor who had been in the same conditions as us, but who had been struck by lightning, losing both engines on his catamaran, and had to be towed in only to drop the hook and await significant repairs. That just as easily could have been us. I don’t know why it wasn’t this time, and I’m confident it could be us another time. The only determining factor between our two boats out there was luck. That’s it. How’s that for humility?
But, our takeaway was huge. We had done it. As a team. And, Pam’s advice had never rung so truly and resolute. The things I had worried about—a shroud exploding, Phillip falling overboard, a deadly emergency—hadn’t happened, so I shouldn’t have worried about them. I pushed them aside and went sailing anyway. The thing I had never worried about—our engine heeling over so much, the engine could suck in air—did happen. But, because we knew the boat and we operated as equal crew, not Captain and passenger, just as Pam had told us, we overcame the obstacle. And, guess what.
It was so fucking empowering.
That was some colorful language, there, Pam. But, I think you would approve. We are all sailors after all. I dedicate this one to Pam Wall, a shining light and unforgettable voice among sailors, particularly women sailors. She was a beacon, a joy, and an inspiration to thousands.
Pam, we all miss you. And, next year, we’ll do again what you have always told everyone to do, as you did us during our first ever Pam Wall Seminar.
“Everything I worried about never happened. And everything that did happen, when we took care of it, just felt so empowering. So don’t worry about it. Get out there and do it. The biggest thing is, don’t ever be a passenger. Because if you’re a passenger, you don’t understand things. You don’t understand your vessel. You’ll get frightened. But if you know what to do for those situations, if you can toss a line and make it get to where you want it to go, if you can steer the boat and if you can dock that boat, you will feel so empowered.”
