Now that you’ve met the crew, it’s time to see what they can do. Video No. 6 – Race for the Roses – Race Day! “Reluctantly crouched at the starting line … ” Subscribe, share and enjoy!
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Here we go kids, Episode No. 1. I have a lot of friends and followers who are curious what it’s like on the boat and they ask me: “Is sailing fun?” If you want to know, I have three questions for you …
Stay tuned next time for another good salty yarn on the blog. I write to share the stories and I now film to share the journey with you. Enjoy!
Thanks to my Patrons who help me share the journey. Get inspired. Get on board.
April 25, 2015:
Since our Buffett debauchery started early, our night ended pretty early, too. After a few hours hooting and hollering and bopping flying beach balls at the Buffett concert, we were beat.
We crashed hard on the boat but woke well-rested and were glad we still had one more day on our Buffett voyage. It was Saturday, April 25, 2015. We had no real plans or agenda other than to make way west during the day over to Red Fish Point or Ft. McRae to spend the night on the hook before heading back to Pensacola on Sunday. Some coffee was lazily brewed and the docks were meandered before we decided to go ahead and get under way. We had no idea what was coming that day. As I said, no one did. But, by some stroke of luck we decided to toss the lines and head out just in time to tuck in safe for it.
Our de-docking was an unexpected adventure. Reminds me of Cap’n Ron when he barrelled in, skidded up to the dock and jumped off with a hearty “Hey, hey!” — except ours was unintentional. We were tucked in here at slip L175, with a strong (17 knot) west wind on our nose.
Our plan was to back out of the slip, ease the stern around to port, then head back out to the ICW. Simple, right? Sure, in theory–not in execution. We started backing out just fine, got all the lines untied and on the boat and were making our way out. I’m at the bow, ready to push off poles if need be and the bow (not the stern) starts turning strangely to port.
“Are you going to pull back in?” I holler to Phillip, a dock line in hand. He doesn’t answer me immediately. I know not to ask a million questions when he’s struggling with a situation like this, but I did feel the need to ask the one important one. “What’s the plan?” I can see him looking around, handling the wheel, fettering out what the wind is going to let the boat do. But, seconds are passing, he’s pretty much all the way out now, stern to the ICW facing the dead end wall with what does not appear to be enough room to turn around, especially with the west wind and a wall of big, expensive boats behind us.
“Nope,” he yells back after a few calculated seconds. “We’re just going to back out of here.”
Oh Lord. I stood at the bow, ready to push off of boats on our port side where the wind was blowing us, ready to throw a line if need be, ready to–I don’t know, really, do anything necessary I suppose. But, none of it was necessary. Once Phillip got some speed, he was able to handle the boat perfectly in reverse. You should have seen the folks at the dock watching us, slowly easing their coffee mugs down, cocking their heads to the side, eyeing us strangely.
You would have thought Jimmy Buffett himself was backing out of there with the looks we were getting. I’m sure it was a sight to see, us backing out like that. Once I could see Phillip had it all under control, I kind of posed up at the bow, like a hood ornament, waving and smiling. We were rock stars in reverse!
Phillip backed us up into the ICW, clocked the bow around and we set off. It was around 10:00 a.m. With the steady wind on our stern, we threw out the Jenny for a fantastic day of sailing. This little box-of-a-boat passed us along the way (headed to Pirate’s Cove I’m sure).
We sailed all the way down the ICW, through all the turns and dog legs and everything–never cranking the engine once. It was an awesome day on the water. The winds ranged between 14 and 19 knots, strong, but, on our stern, they were nice. We sailed right up to Red Fish Point and were picking out a spot to drop our hook around 3:00 p.m. Looking at the texture and chop on the water, though, Phillip was starting to question our decision to anchor there.
“We’re pretty exposed here,” he said, looking at the weather and radar on his phone. I had to agree with him, bouncing around up at the bow, ready to drop the hook but seeing exactly what he was talkinga about–textured water, white caps, etc. “I think we ought to pull into Ft. McRae tonight. Get a little more protection,” Phillip decided.
“Fine with me,” I hollered back and set my anchor gear down so we could make the 15 minute motor into Ft. McRae. Right about that time, Phillip started getting severe weather alerts on his phone. He certainly wasn’t questioning his decision to pull into Ft. McRae then. When we saw what was coming on the radar, we kinew we needed some shelter. We tucked in on the south side of Sand Island and dropped 100 feet of chain to be safe.
The scene in Ft. McRae was deceiving. There was a guy kite-boarding on the east side of Sand Island, several families set up near the fort with tents and tables and chairs and such. It was cheery. We saw a big foil kite launch over on the west side of Sand Island so I decided to go for a quick run on my paddleboard to check out our neighbors and the goings-on.
The guy with the foil kite was paragliding–jumping off the sandy dune cliff on the west side of the island and letting the steady west wind push him back into the soft sand. It looked like he was just getting the hang of it and had found a good safe place to practice. He was fun to watch. I found some buddies of ours who anchor out at Ft. McRae often and said a quick hello as I was paddling by. They were on a trawler and had a center console rafted up to it. An older couple sat leisurely on the cockpit of their Catamaran on the south side of us, sipping cocktails and watching the sun drop. The guy kite-boarding on the east side was zipping back and forth, making some nice runs with the west wind. It was a quick, 15 minute paddle, but you would never have guessed any severe weather was coming with the look of things in the anchorage.
Phillip and I agreed when I made it back to the boat that it was high time for a cocktail. I mean, we had just dropped the hook. It is protocol. But, before I even got the paddleboard strapped to the stern rail and got back into the boat, Phillip got another alert on his phone. Severe weather alert No. 2 went out, but this time they were reporting the potential for hale and winds of 70 mph.
It was a quick consensus that we had better drop some more chain before we made those drinks. I headed topside and we let out another 25 feet, so 125 feet total and snubbed her off with our Mantus like we always do. By then, the sky had darkened.
Ominous black clouds hung on the north horizon, and the wind, blowing around 18-20 knots by then, took on an eerie chill. Phillip and I could both sense it coming. I wish our barometer on the boat still worked. I would have liked to have seen what was registering.
We started bringing cushions down below, shutting hatches, readying the boat for a storm. Our actions were precise and swift, our nerves pricked with energy. When we heard more chain rattle out of our buddy’s trawler up ahead, a sense of community urgency started to register. People on the beach quickly hustled kids and buckets and toys back to their boats as the wind continued to build. Center consoles and smaller motor boats started zipping by, parents huddling children and holding onto dogs for what was sure to be a bumpy ride home. We saw a sailboat barreling in the inlet to Ft. McRae and watched as they hauled up next to us, kicked the stern around and started dropping anchor the second after their bow fell behind us. I was worried–okay irritated at first–knowing we had some crazy wind coming and now we had a boat not 30 feet away to worry about. But, you could tell by their movements that they were sharp sailors, doing exactly what needed to be done to protect themselves and their vessel in the coming storm.
Phillip and I stood in the cockpit, donning our foul weather gear over our swimsuits, cocktails filling the last thought on our minds and watched as the rains began to engulf the boats ahead of us to the west. Then the wind came–30 knots, 35, 40, 42.
“HOLD!” Phillip shouted into the wind, his thunderous voice about as useful as a spit into the ocean. But, it was all we could do. The only thing that was going to save our boat was that anchor holding. I have never felt such power on the boat from wind alone. We were heeled on anchor. Our boat was swinging so violently to the north and south on its pivot point that it registered a hull speed of 1.2, again while on anchor. The wind didn’t blow, it howled, over the mast, the dodger, every shroud, before it shrieked past us in the cockpit. I wish I had videoed it. I really do. But, documenting is really the last thing on your mind when the only thing saving your boat from popping loose, smashing into the boat behind you and dragging both vessels to shore in a sickening cacophony of banging aluminum and crunching fiberglass is one little anchor in the mud and some chain.
“HOLD!” I hollered it with him. It seemed to help because she did. Thank the stars in heaven she did, even with the bow dipped down so far water cascaded up over the pulpit and the toe rails. It was a strange sight to see all of us cowered in our cockpits or looking out port lights just watching one another. I imagine it’s the same look of helpless terror you would share with someone on an elevator that’s dropping uncontrollably. Phillip and I watched with bitten lips as the head sail on that Catamaran south of us started to flip and flail and wiggle its way out. As soon as it started, it wasn’t ten seconds before it unfurled halfway out and ripped to shreds. The couple emerged and put on a frantic show, the man up at the forestay trying to wrestle the sail in 35 knots of wind, the woman back in the cockpit trying to sheet it in. I had just paddled by them not 20 minutes earlier and admired their serenity, sipping cocktails in the cockpit waiting for the sun to set. No one knew the fury that was about to be unleashed.
Tents ripped up and rolled along the beach. Little buckets and toys and cans raced and tumbled along the sand. We could see the hands and faces of the guys on the sailboat that had scooted in last minute pressed up against the port lights, looking out. The captain would pop his head up every once in a while quickly out of the companionway to look around as his boat whipped around as violently as ours. Then the paddle board zipped across our view. Stupidly, we had left it hooked by its springy leash to the stern rail and it was now airborne, 10 feet behind the boat, hovering and spinning like a pinwheel on a windy day. Like I said, I wish I had videoed it, particularly because I had my phone right there with me. I kept refreshing the radar to see the blob of shit that was upon us. It was huge but thankfully moving fast, up and to the north. I had at least thought to take a picture of the radar:
We were just on a little sliver of green on the south side of the storm and we were getting 40 knots? I can’t imagine what it felt like for the folks in Mobile Bay at the Dauphin Island regatta. Truth be told, I don’t think I ever want to. One of the last gusts on the boat registered at 44 knots. That’s approximately 55 mph. Ass-puckering is what that is. It’s the most wind I have ever felt on our boat and the most I ever want to feel. The anchor wailed and groaned and the bow dipped, but she held. Thank God she held. And, thankfully, the storm passed through quickly. It was about 10 minutes of terror and then it was gone. I finally thought, after the worst of it had passed to get a little footage and video, but it in no way does it justice.
The guys in the sailboat next to us starting easing out, blinking and looking around, taking it all in. They quickly determined the coast was clear and started working, just as efficiently as they had to drop the anchor, to raise it and get the heck out of there. The captain gave us a knowing nod of his head as he passed by. We had survived it. We had no idea at the time what went down in Mobile Bay and the people that were fighting and flailing in the water at that very moment. We just knew we had 30 more knots of wind on the boat than we wanted but we had survived it. Phillip and I slowly started bringing up cushions, opening hatches, getting things back to normal. Phillip checked the anchor line and snubber to make sure we hadn’t suffered any damage at the bow.
Afterward, we started joking around about that cocktail: “Okay, now, it is definitely time for that drink!”
And, as it always seems, nature likes to remind you sometimes, what had just 30 minutes prior been a treacherous scene–thick black clouds, sheets of rain, driving wind–cleared to reveal one of the most beautiful and serene sunsets we have ever seen in Ft. McRae. Aside from the littered beach and the shredded foresail on the Cat next to us, it was like it had never happened.
We fired up the grill, cooked some chicken and kind of sat wondering if it had in fact happened.
I know what we experienced was pretty insignificant compared to the mariners who were sailing, full canvas up, in Mobile Bay in the Dauphin Island regatta when that wicked storm hit. They reported winds of 73 knots, numerous passengers overboard, many boats capsized, damaged or lost. Here is some footage if you haven’t yet seen it:
I believe it’s been reported as the most deadly regatta race tragedy to occur in the states. Looking back on it, I can’t believe the day started so amiably–Phillip and I just sipping coffee, meandering the docks, lazily tossing the lines and making our way down the ICW. The fact that we made it safely into Ft. McRae before the bottom fell out was pure luck–not an ounce of sail savvy involved. The decision not to anchor at Red Fish Point, though, I will say was all Phillip. He’s good about checking the weather before we drop the hook, trying to see what winds are predicted and whether we are in a sufficiently protected area to weather them. (I’m usually planning my post-drop cocktail … )
I am also glad we decided to throw out another 25 feet of chain for a total of 125 feet of rode out. That is more than we would usually need in Ft. McRae but I’m certain it played a factor in our anchor’s ability to, as Phillip said, “HOLD!” We also had the anchor snubbed up, which we always do with a Mantus hook and rope cleated at the bow. That much weight and pull would not have been good for the winlass I’m sure.
Now, leaving the paddle board attached to the stern rail was just dumb. That thing could have easily ripped off and been halfway across the bay in 10 minutes. That’s an expensive toy to lose to a stupid mistake. But, it would have been a small price to pay for the storm we were able to weather. I hated to see the couple on the Catamaran lose their head sail. I don’t know if there is anything different they could have done. Sometimes these things just happen. They can’t be stopped. But, it did make us think we could have easily put some extra bungees around our head sail because you just never know. Looking back, we also probably should have put on our PFDs and grapped the EPIRB just in case. You might think that would be a bit much in the protected cove of Ft. McRae, but, with those winds, you could get sucked out and blown across the Bay pretty easily. It’s easy to panic in times like that and waste precious energy trying to swim against the conditions. We heard many of the folks who went overboard in the Dauphin Island regatta weren’t wearing life vests. Also, several who were rescued from the water were found only because they had cell phones or hand-held GPS devices on them that they used to help direct the rescue boats to their location.
In all, we took away several important lessons from the storm. However, while I hate to say it, it’s just true–for the most part, it was pure luck and that’s just a big part of it. We had several friends who we discovered later had been racing in the Dauphin Island Regatta when the storm hit and, though shaken, reminded and humbled at the power and magnitude of the weather, they all agreed–they were just plain lucky to be alive. But, take it as it comes. If you’re going to get out there and sail, you’re going to run into storms and, while you can be smart and cautious, often the determining factor of whether or not you survive them unscathed is just plain luck.
Thanks as always, to the many patrons who help make these posts just a little more possible through PATREON.
February 14, 2015:
Who wants to learn about sailing?
We did!! Sure, the Strictly Sail show is a great place to look at a ton of sailboats, but it’s also a great place to learn a ton about them, too. The Strictly Sail folks bring in speakers from all over the world–real experts in their field when it comes to sailing, cruising and crossing oceans. And, they offered so many different topics! From chartering to boat buying, ocean sailing, engine maintenance, navigation, tropical destinations, you name it. They offered something for every skill level and interest. We only had four days at the show with a half-day committed to a hands-on sail class and, of course, the desire to check out all of the boats and “cool boat stuff” on display. Time was of the essence. We had to be selective!
I felt like Elaine on Seinfeld trying to decide which seminars were really “spongeworthy.”
(And notice I said seminars not speakers – keeping it classy). We had a checklist that we stuck by and tried to coordinate and catch the topics we were really interested in or certain “sailebrities” we knew we just had to see. While we saw plenty of seminars–most were great, although there were a few snoozers (I will not name names)–here are the highlights:
1. Kretschmer‘s “Storm Sailing Strategies”: Ahhh … Mr. Kretschmer … where do I begin? This is a man who has crossed the Atlantic ocean more than 20 times and has taught and trained hundreds of mariners worldwide in hands-on storm tactics, yet he prefers to walk around the dock barefoot and hang with the everyday, no-name sailors. Our primary takeaway from his “Storm Sailing Strategies” seminar? “Forget about the main!” When downwind sailing, drop the main and just throw out the head sail. The main just bangs around shadowing the head sail, often accidentally jibes and basically just drives you crazy. I think it was Al Pacino who said it first, but Kretschmer sealed it for me:
2. Nigel Calder’s “Lessons Learned Along the Way”: Hands-down favorite presentation for us at the show. As I mentioned before, Nigel, being the hyper-technical yet undisputed expert of marine diesel engines and electronics, I expected him to be knowledgeable, yes. But, entertaining? No. Absolutely not. Was he, though? You better believe it. Nigel was surprisingly humble, self-deprecating and willing to re-live any number of his colossal screw-ups with a comedic timing that would knock your socks off. In this presentation “Lessons Learned Along the Way,” Nigel recounted, in vivid detail, not two but the THREE times that he, in the process of changing the oil in an engine, drained the oil from the engine, forgot entirely that he’d drained it (usually because a friend said “hey let’s go get a cold one at the pub”), then cranked the engine (to get to the pub) and promptly “seized it up solid.” Repeat that in a thick, British accent and you’ll come remotely close to understanding how wildly entertaining Nigel Calder was. Our primary takeaway from his presentation?
“If you’re going to seize one up solid, try and be sure it’s not yours.”
Smart man, that Nigel.
3. Lee Chesneau’s “1-2-3 Rule for Hurricane Avoidance”: Smart man, that Lee, too. We caught two of Lee’s weather forecasting seminars and learned a great deal from both of them. I, in particular, learned these are not little haircombs dotting the chart
Rather, they are wind symbols (arrows to be exact), indicating wind direction and speed.
Ahhhh … brilliant! Lee also did an excellent job of explaining the National Weather Service’s 1-2-3 rule for avoiding a hurricane path. If you’re out there, too far from land to get to shore, you can safely maneuver your way out of the path of a hurricane by estimating the “danger area” over a 72-hour period. Using the NWS’s 10-year average track predictions, you can predict the path of a hurricane’s danger zone (meaning the radius where the winds escalate above 35 mph) by projecting its path 100 nautical miles over 24 hours, 200 nm over 48 hours and 300 nm over 72 hours.
Voila! The 1-2-3 rule. Thank you Lee!
While there were plenty of other seminars we thoroughly enjoyed, I’ve tried to not be a snoozer myself by recounting them ALL in excruciating detail here. Pam Wall’s “Do You Want to Go to the Bahamas?” and Woody Henderson’s “Sailing Offshore” presentations, though, do get an honorable mention. In all, the seminars at the Strictly Sail show were well-planned, informative and–once you’d bought your $20 ticket to the show–absolutely free! Always a plus in our book. And, they were very intimate settings (think 20-30 folks, at most, attending, although it was usually 15-20) where you could interact with the speaker, interject and ask questions during the presentation and approach them afterward to ask them pretty much anything you darn-well pleased, which, for me, was … Will you read my book??
I hope I didn’t scare them too badly …
We had checked out a good deal of the boats at the show and heard plenty about them. And, I’ll tell you, one thing walking around a lot of sailboats makes you want to do is — SAIL! Isn’t that the point? We had signed up for a hands-on sailing class out on Biscayne Bay and were really excited to get out there on the water and put some of our newly-acquired sail plans to work.
Hands-On Essential Cruising Skills Class: We headed out Saturday morning (Happy belated V-day followers!) from 9:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. for a three-hour hands-on sailing class. The workshops are limited to 6 persons and were $99 a person.
We weren’t sure what to expect, but at $99 for a 3 hour sail around beautiful Biscayne Bay we figured we couldn’t miss. Perhaps he (and, yes, I assumed our instructor would be a “he” – totally misogynistic of me, I know) would spend an hour telling us which lines controlled the main sail and which ones the jib, how to drop the anchor, etc. Really basic stuff. That was definitely a possibility. But, what if he jumped right up and made us put a triple reef in in some heavy winds or … even better – HEAVE-TO!
Heck yeah!
What is “heave-to” you might ask? I once heard a boat instructor say, “It’s not where I heave, and then you heave, too … ha ha, snort,” and I hate to admit I actually chuckled when he said that. Heave-to is actually a critical sail skill for cruisers. It’s basically where you stop the boat (pretty much) in the middle of water so you can get some rest, make some food, hold your ground in a treacherous storm, or worse, turn around to pick up a man who has fallen over-board. For those of you non-sailors (or sailors, but non-heavers!) out there, heaving-to is basically where you leave the sails as is and turn the boat around in the wind to back-wind the jib. See how the Jenny, the head sail, on our boat in this picture is full because the wind is coming across the starboard (right) side of the boat?
If we were to heave-to in this position (i.e., turn to starboard until the wind came around and pushed on the back side of the Jenny), it would look like this:
Notice how the head sail is backwinded. We would then slowly turn the wheel back toward the wind (to port, or the left) until the boat basically parked itself in this position. It’s kind of crazy to think a boat can just stop itself in the middle of the water with sails up and the wind blowing, but it can. I’ve heard many sailors describe it, in rough conditions, as “turning off the sea.” Basically the sails are fighting the keel and rudder and the boat barely moves, usually a knot or less. Imagine if you’re bucking and rolling over monster waves and you can execute this maneuver to safely stop the boat and wait it out? American Sailing Association video on heaving-to HERE.
Knowing how to quickly and effectively heave-to is an incredibly valuable skill and, one that I’m a bit embarrassed to say, Phillip and I had never actually tried on our boat prior to the Strictly Sail show.
I know. We agree. We should have never shoved off for the Keys without trying it at least once during a safe afternoon sail in Pensacola Bay, just so we could be sure we knew how to do it, and how exactly our boat would perform in a hove-to position before we got ourselves out in the middle of the freaking Gulf. But, suffice it to say, we were inspired by what we learned during our hands-on sail class and we have since tried it on our boat in the safety of Pensacola Bay. You’ll also be thrilled to know we (and by “we” I mean “I”) goobered our sails up sufficiently–or as Nigel would say, “seized them up solid”–in the process, with witnesses to boot! Look out for that doozy-of-a-post soon!
We were pleased to find that, in addition to some basic skills, our hands-on sail class also covered docking maneuvers in high winds, storm tactics such as heaving-to, anchoring in rough seas, best practices for picking up and securing to a mooring ball and other skills that were great for Phillip and I to broach for the first time or just brush-up on. It never hurts to practice (or get out on the water for a beautiful day sail!). We got to get out on a Jennau 35, one Cruising World’s Pocket Cruisers of the year (although I have to say, I don’t personally consider a 35″ boat to be a “pocket cruiser” but that’s just me). We had another couple aboard who had done some chartering and were looking to buy a boat soon and a guy who had just bought his first sailboat and was just getting into sailing.
A quick shout-out to our American Sailing Association sailing instructor for the day — Jeff Lewis — who was super knowledgeable but also easy-going, a great teacher and a lot of fun!
So, great edutainment at the Strictly Sail show. We learned a ton, and I hope you have too. Sailing is awesome, intriguing, forever challenging and rewarding. You never stop learning.
Now, on to the COOL BOAT STUFF! There were only like 500 booths (give or take) at the show, each offering some really innovative, helpful and interesting boat products.
Some highlights?
1. Boat Leather: This guy, Tom, has been producing leather boat products for decades. When we bought our boat back in 2013 it had one of his boat leather steering wheel covers on it. Unfortunately, it had a couple of tears and a flap that were driving us crazy, so we started doing some research to replace it. When we flipped through our previous owner, Jack’s, meticulous paperwork (the man kept every receipt – and we’re so grateful!), we found Tom had sold the wheel cover to Jack back in 1992! So, that one piece of leather had lasted on our boat for over twenty years! We reached out to Tom this past summer and bought a new wheel cover from him. His instructional video was very helpful and allowed us to easily stitch the cover on ourselves. Boat Leather is a great product with exceptional service and instruction behind it. Can’t recommend it enough.
Website — www.boatleather.com.
Installation video HERE.
2. The Furling Spinnaker (Code Zero): That’s right, it will knock your socks off. Literally, because you no longer need a spinnaker sock! Before the Code Zero, sailors would launch their spinnakers by raising a big “sock” that houses the spinnaker sail, letting it fly freely, and then pulling the sock down to douse the spinnaker when they wanted to drop it.
Not a bad method (and not a bad 80’s one-piece, Trisha), but they have now created a furling spinnaker which is not quite a true spinnaker but close enough and a lot easier to manage. It is asymetrical, called a Code Zero, and it furls, meaning it spins around a stay at the front of the boat like most jibs and stays there. With the Code Zero, your spinnaker can now actually stay out on its own fore-fore stay all the time and you simply unfurl it when you want to fly it, and furl it up when you don’t.
And the crowd goes aaaahhhhhh …. It was probably the most innovative and intriguing item on display at the show. Many of the new boats come with a Code Zero already installed or are rigged with the necessary equipment to easily add one. I’m not saying we’re going to go out and put one on the boat this year, but they’ll definitely make you start thinking you want one. Lugging that huge sail from down below up onto the deck and then raising and lowering the massive sock can often deter sailors from flying a spinnaker when the winds are right for it, and get them into some trouble if they can’t get it down fast enough when the winds have picked up and are too strong for it. Winds can gust up quickly and if the sock jams and you can’t get your spinnaker down fast enough, well …
let’s just say it’s not pretty. The Code Zero definitely got a lot of folks rubbing their chins and thinking twice.
3. Gill Offshore Weather Gear: They are cranking out some pretty flexible, seemingly light-weight, yet high-performance foul weather gear at Gill. They also offered a 15% discount if you purchased at the show. If you recall, we had been sporting the Gorton’s gear that came with our boat (thank you Jack!) for years now.
High fashion.
We are clearly in need of a new (non-circa 1994) foul weather set that actually fits us, so we were seriously considering picking up a pair of the offshore Gill sets at the show.
While we didn’t end up getting them there (thinking it was a little late in the season to be buying foul weather gear), I have to say I was almost swayed by the Gill sales guy who had something super flattering to say no matter what bulky piece of rubber I decided to put on.
“Oh Matthew, stop it!”
Alright, and last but not least. Now that we’ve reached the bottom, let’s talk about the head.
4. The Airhead: This little gem. A composting toilet for the boat.
Think no suction tube, no joker valve, no holding tank, no pump-out, no macerator, no extra thru-hull on your boat … Definitely a lot to think about. The “stuff” drops in and is then contained or composted until you are ready to dump it out. No odor (they claim) and anticipating standard use, the No. 2 bin should only have to be dumped about once a month. Hmmmm … considering the fun we had replacing the suction tube on our boat and every equally exciting head project since then …
we were certainly giving the composting head some serious thought.
So – you learn some stuff, you check out new stuff, you peruse boats, babes and bikinis and you drink a lot of booze. Who’s liking the boat show now? Raise your hands! Next time, we’ll pull back the curtain and give you a glimpse of the “show behind the show”–the food, the restaurants and the chance-sailebrity encounters–before we call it a wrap and get on to the next adventure!
Many thanks to the folks who make these posts a little more possible with PATREON.
May 20, 2014:
So, this sailing stuff? Nothing to it, right? It’s just ropes (which we call “lines”) that control sails which make the boat move. That’s pretty basic. But, then, there’s also the engine, the batteries, the thru-hulls and sea cocks, the water tanks and pressure systems, the propane and solenoid, the steering wheel and rudder, not to mention all of the instruments, gauges and meters.
Okay, maybe it can get a little complicated, but the good news is, when you get down to it, most of those complicated-sounding systems really are basic when you take the time to dissect and understand them. Meaning, most of them can be fixed on the fly, as long as you have the right parts, or parts that “will do” (we call this improvising).
During our trip to the Keys, we found most of the “issues” that occurred on the boat were operator error (sorry boat!) and most were fairly easy to fix once we figured out what had gone wrong. We chalked these up to “lessons learned” and felt it may help other cruisers out there to pass them along.
1. The Lazy Jack Snap! Before the trip, we had a new stack pack put on for the main sail with a new set of lazy jacks attached to the spreaders to hold it up.
The lines also cleated off at the boom, and our riggers had left some surplus in the lazy jack lines in case we needed to loosen them for any reason. Good idea, we thought … at the time. But, when the time came where loosening the lazy jacks would have actually been a good idea, thinking about the tension in the lazy jacks was one of the last things we were doing. Unfortunately, during our first night offshore, when we were heading from Pensacola to Port St. Joe, we ran into some rough seas–winds in the high teens and rolling five-foot seas all night long. Water was crashing over the bow, spraying us in the cockpit and the boat was beating into a steady southeast wind. The sails were taut, full to the brim all night long, likely pressing hard on the new lazy jack lines, but we didn’t know it. We heard plenty of cracks and bangs during the overnight passage, but it’s hard to tell–in the dark of night– if the sound you heard was just a normal ‘boat groan’ or something actually breaking. You handle the boat the best you can and try not to worry about her too much (key word being ‘try‘). But, sometimes you wake to find, in the rough winds of the night, that something did actually break. For us, it was the lazy jack on the starboard side.
Kind of a bummer. But, we figured they must call it a “lazy” jack for a reason, right? It must be the lazy way. Surely people have been raising and lowering their sails for centuries without these “lazy lines” to help. I mean, you have to ask yourself–What Would Columbus Do? (Back in 1492). He’d flank that sail the old-fashioned way, and keep on a-keepin’ on. So, that’s what we did. Until we got a little lazy …
Next leg of the trip, Phillip had the great idea to re-raise our busted lazy jack line with the topping lift for the spinnaker pole.
You see? Improvising. Once you know how the systems work, you can then use them in all the wrong ways to achieve whatever result you’d like. It’s a product liability defense lawyer’s dream! So, what did we learn? Be sure to check the tension in your lazy jack lines when your sails are full. If they’re too tight, the wind in the main can bust the line. And, if something breaks, don’t mourn. Look around! You may find something else on the boat that can serve its purpose.
2. A Spun-Out Jenny Much like the suicidal strung-out version in Forrest Gump,
just outside of Tamp Bay, we found our Jenny, too, was busted. During a fairly mundane furling of the Jenny, you might recall the pop we heard, followed by a clattering rainfall of ball bearings on the deck. Sadly, the spinning halyard for our Jenny broke in two while we were cranking her in. One half remained at the top of the mast, and the other came barreling down the forestay, flogging our Jenny and letting her pile down in a useless heap on the foredeck.
DOH!
Why did this happen? After some serious research, troubleshooting and second opinions, we decided it was caused by pulling the halyard up too tight at the mast, causing the shackle to pull into the throat at the mast and putting tension on the bottom top part of the halyard, which should be allowed to spin freely. A thorough review of the manual for the furling system was quite helpful in this regard (as most manuals are). I’ve said it plenty of times but have no qualms repeating it. Keep all manuals in a single, organized location and refer to them often. It’s amazing what you can learn from … I don’t know … the folks who built and designed whatever Godforsaken contraption you are cursing at the moment. We had dropped our Jenny prior to the trip to have the UV cover re-(re-)stitched and figured we must have pulled the halyard just a tad too high when we raised the Jenny back up.
Back then, we were also furling our Jenny in using the large winches in the cockpit. It was easier that way, but it was also deceiving because the winch is so powerful. If there is an inordinate amount of tension in the line, pulling by hand you’re going to feel it. Pulling by winch, you may not, and you’ll power right through it, likely breaking something in the process. I think there’s some appropriate saying I could insert here about a cannon and a mosquito. However, I believe a more vivid example (sorry Confucius) would be a surgeon who operates not with his hands but with a remote-operated backhoe. Are you going to let him in your abdomen? There is simply no substitute for the human touch. How does it feel? How hard is it to pull? Conway Twitty would agree. Don’t be shy. Sing it with me! “I want a man with the slooow hands … “
Luckily, we were able to get the Jenny repaired in St. Pete by a talented and resourceful rigger, who ended up having the exact halyard we needed (which had been discontinued) in his self-proclaimed “Sanford & Son boat part yard” (a.k.a. his shop). And, what did we learn? Don’t tighten the Jenny halyard too much. Refer to your manuals. And, when feasible, opt for the “slow hand” over the powerful pull.
3. Never Let Go of the Halyard! Have I said that one before, too? Then why the hell do we keep letting go of it? I’m not sure exactly. All I can say is when you’re up on the deck, riding your boat-of-a-bull as it’s bucking over waves and focusing all of your mental energy on the simple task of staying on the boat, you just kind of forget about that little thing that’s in your hand–the all-important halyard. I guess think of it like this–have you ever accidentally poured a glass of something on yourself when you turned your hand to look at your watch? Why did you do that? (Because you’re brilliant like me, of course!) And, also, because your brain just kind of forgot you had a glass in your hand. Well, same thing can happen with the halyard. When it comes to you grabbing something to keep your scrawny arse on the boat in the middle of pounding seas, your brain just kind of checks out of the whole halyard-holding process and forgets about it. And, then … You let go! Of the halyard! And, the minute you do and see that halyard start swinging around, you curse yourself! Stupid brain! Why did you let go of that?! It just happens. All told, we’ve done it four times, three of which required Little Miss First Mate to ascend the mast to retrieve it:
Once in Carrabelle (when we first dropped the Jenny to re-stitch the UV cover and pulled the halyard back up afterward, thinking it would magically drop back down when we needed it to–turns out we were wrong). Up you go, Annie.
Once in St. Pete (when the Jenny halyard busted, it left half of a mangled halyard at the top of the mast, which again would not magically come down with a little (or lot of) shaking). Up you go, Annie.
Once mid-sea, on our way into Clearwater when we accidentally let go of the main halyard while trying to raise the sail at night and it snaked its way all the way up the backstay to the top of the mast. Up you go, Annie.
And, the fourth time? Well, that retrieval was more of a fall than a climb, but I did get it back! Unfortunately, I busted the lazy jack line on the port-side (and a bit of my arm and knee) in the process.
Moral of that story? Never let go of the halyard. But, if you do, don’t be a hero trying to retrieve it. I guess the best advice would be to not do dumb things. But, we are human, and I am a blonde, so … it’s just going to happen. To lessen the frequency, we did come up with a better main halyard-rigging system in which we never un-clip the halyard from the main sail. We just re-route it down and back up to maintain the tension when the sail is down.
And, thanks to the Captain’s spiffy fix of the lazy jack line on the starboard side, we knew just how to fix the one I’d busted on port. This time with the halyard for the spinnaker.
Although I will say we were running out of spare lines to use to hold up our lazy jacks. It’s a good thing we were headed home by then.
4. Book Swap Mojo. One final lesson–not so much related to rigging as reading–but just as valuable. The Book Swap Mojo phenomenon. If you uncover a great book at one of the free marina book swaps,
be sure to give it back to another free marina book swap down the line when you finish reading it. If not, the Book Swap Gods will learn of your insidious hoarding and leave you with wretched book crumbs like this at every marina book swap to come.
Read it. Enjoy it. Then give it back.
While we learned plenty of lessons on the trip, these were just a few that stood out for us, particularly because of the valuable insight they provided in terms of rigging and equipment failure, and how to (try to) avoid them, overcome them, or improvise around them if we, or other sailors, found ourselves in the same predicament in the future. But, the biggest lesson learned? Mishaps are just going to happen. No matter how cautious you are. No matter how much care you take to try to prevent against them. Things are going to break. Things will have to be repaired. Things are going to slow you down and hold you back. So, what do you do? Keep sailing, of course. Keep getting out there and bumping into things.
And, in my case, keep writing about them. You never know when you might just have enough colorful tales and Conway Twitty bits to cobble them all into, I don’t know, say–a BOOK. One that might be coming out real soon. Big things are happening over here, followers. Be excited …
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May 7, 2014:
So, the whole world and only Carrabelle’s got it … I know your curiosity is killing you. As one faithful follower put it, “I’m sure the server crashed with the flood of responses you received.” Touche. But, I also had one correct guess, from a true Panacea native! Here’s the story:
They say the city was having problems with tourists making unauthorized long distance phone calls on its police phone. You see, now you call the police and it rings to a station. But, this was back in the day of the payphone. Call the five-oh in Carrabelle back in the 60’s and it rang to a regular old pay phone, one bolted to the side of the Shop-and-Stop (or some similar) building at the corner of U.S. 98 and Tallahassee Street. Despite harsh warnings, mean stares and policemen running at them, swinging batons overhead, the good folks passing through Carrabelle just couldn’t seem to pass up the urge to sneak up to the phone, pick up the receiver illegally and give sweet Aunt Ida back in Nebraska a ring. Just for kicks. “Hey Ida, you’ll never guess where I’m calling from … “
(And, yes, that photo is so good, you can buy it here).
In an effort to solve the overwhelming problem, Johnnie Mirabella (yes, from Carrabelle-uh), St. Joe Telephone Company’s sole Carrabelle employee at the time, first tried moving the police phone down the road to the Piggly Wiggly (or some similar) building, but the wily tourists discovered the phone at the Pig and continued their rampant illegal calls to out-of-state kin. In addition to the escalating tourist telephone problem, Johnnie Mirabella also noticed the officers were getting drenched when they had to answer the police phone on the side of the building in the rain. So, when the St. Joe Telephone Company decided to replace its worn-out phone booth in front of Burda’s Pharmacy with a new one, Mirabella seized the opportunity. On March 10, 1963, Mirabella had the old booth moved from Burda’s to its current site on U.S. 98 under the chinaberry tree and the police phone put inside. Not only were the good men in blue of Carrabelle now protected from the elements when they had to answer a police call and the rogue tourist collect calls deterred but the booth also became the first, last and only — WORLD’S SMALLEST POLICE STATION. Boom.
Seriously, the whole world, and only Carrabelle’s got it.
There’s the wise Mirabella there. Ain’t he a looker?
He probably looked better with a mustache.
Everyone did in the 70’s.
Eventually the dial was removed from the phone, making it impossible for tourists to make calls. Sorry Ida! But, the booth has been featured on various television shows — Real People, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, The Today Show, Johnny Carson — as well as the movie Tate’s Hell which was produced at Florida State University. Along with World’s Smallest Police Station t-shirts, you can also purchase hats, visors, postcards, and calendars bearing the distinct, copyrighted WSPS logo.
“I’ll take one visor please.”
They say life has not always been easy for the retired phone booth, though. Vandals have ripped phones out of the booth and shot holes through the glass. It has been knocked over by a pickup truck, and a tourist once asked a gas station attendant to help him load it into his vehicle to take it back to Tennessee. “Hey Gomer, help me load this here booth up into the bed-uh-my truck. Gramma Bickers will love this!” I mean … I really don’t need to tell stories when the truth is actually far more entertaining.
Needless to say, Phillip and I got a real kick out of the World’s Smallest Phone Booth when we were wandering around in downtown Carrrabelle. We popped our head in a few other places – one rough-and-rowdy looking motorcycle bar named Harry’s to restock our rum supply.
I swear I saw a guy in the back pick up his cue stick when we walked in and start smacking it in his other hand, much like a police baton, and I started thinking about that phone booth. We paid the nice 6’3″, 300 pound man behind the bar and gently made our way out. We then stopped at the trusty IGA to stock up on provisions for the boat for tomorrow’s passage to Apalachicola. Once we got everything stowed away on the boat, we were excited to get out and pay the fine crew at Fathom’s a visit that night, sip white wine, indulge on their fresh oysters and take in the live music for the evening. But, when we got there, we were incredibly disheartened to find Fathom’s was closed that night. That night!?! Of all nights. It ‘ppears the good folks at Fathom’s only find it fit to open their doors to the rogue tourists of Carrabelle Thursday through Sunday and we had the good luck to come on a Wednesday. But, we were only planning to spend only one night in Carrabelle so that was that. No Fathom’s. We headed back to The Fisherman’s Wife hoping to get some good ole’ Apalachicola Bay oysters there but we were thwarted again! “We’re out of oysters,” she said.
“What else can I get ya?” Bollucks! We ended up sharing a perfectly fine Fisherman’s Fried Platter and calling it an early night. Having thoroughly enjoyed the World’s Smallest Police Station and our downtown jaunt, we felt we’d satisfied our Carrabelle craving and we set our sights on Apalachicola in hopes of finding some good, local oysters tomorrow. Also, the droopy withered docklines and power cord on our neighbor’s slip told us it was a good time to toss our fresh lines and get the heck out of Dodge.
May 8, 2014:
“Seven point three!” I shouted, smiling goofily like a kid at the fair.
We were making 7.3. We had a spectacular sail across the Apalachicola Bay. And, it was high time, too. As you recall we had spent the last 30 hours on passage in our SAILboat doing anything but sailing across the Gulf. Have wind, will travel. Have not, won’t.
So, we were thrilled to watch our boat frolic and sprint across the Bay.
Phillip had to take a business call at one point and I remember him telling the guy, “Yeah, I’m not in the office today. Calling from out of town. It’s a bit windy here.” A bit windy …. We were doing SEVEN POINT THREE! An incredibly sporty sail across the Bay. Nothing we love more.
We zipped across the Bay in just under five hours. And, what’s even better? You know what we saw as we were coming under the bridge to George St. Island?
Mmmmhhh-Hmmmm … that’s right. Oystermen! Harvesting piles of oysters right out of the Apalachicola Bay. We saw several boats out there harvesting.
“You save a couple dozen for us boys!” we shouted as we sailed by. It was great to see them out there harvesting local oysters when we had heard so many times during the trip to/from the Keys that all of the oysters were coming exclusively from Texas and Louisiana. We were excited to get our hands on some fresh, local oysters, harvested right out of the Apalachicola Bay!
As we made our way under the St. George Island bridge and into the mouth of the Apalachicola River,
we heard a lot of talk over the radio about how they had not dredged the pass into the Apalachicola River in a while and there was some shoaling to look out for. As luck would have it, just as we were coming in, a large shrimp boat was coming out.
It was a tight squeeze, but he called us up on the radio and said there was plenty of depth for us on his port side. Real nice guy and we were thankful he was communicative, knowledgeable about the pass and the depth and attentive to a sailboat making its way in under sail. And, it was pretty cool to watch him pass by so close. I swear I thought one of his big shrimping arms (yes, that’s what I call them) was going to snag our genoa.
But, we made it through safe and sound under the John Gorrie Memorial bridge into the Apalachicola River and up to the City Dock. We had checked out this dock many times when we spent time in Apalachicola while our boat was stuck in Carrabelle having the transmission replaced. It was right downtown. Just dock your boat, jump off, and you’re right in the heart of the hustle and bustle of ole’ Apalach. Lookout!
I fully expected someone to mozey by in a horse-drawn carriage any minute.
We weren’t sure about the depth coming in but we had heard the river was really high at the time (remember the torrential rains and flooding we’d had in April in Northwest Florida) so we figured that would work to our advantage. We kept an eye on the depth and made our way in gently. We also didn’t know if the docking was free or how it worked, but we eased up without hitting bottom and tied her off anyway, hoping to find out. I guess the tourists in these parts do seem to get a little sneaky.
But, we’re an honest bunch of sneaks, so we started looking around for a contact and wouldn’t you know it, having just left the town with the world’s smallest police station, we found ourselves once again, resorting to the police. There was a lone sign on a pole at the city dock that read:
May 5, 2014:
Shrimpers. That’s what they were. Those strange looking UFO ships out on the water.
They were huge shrimping vessels with massive football stadium-like lights flooding the deck. No red or green for port or starboard, so you couldn’t tell which way they were going (or coming!), only that they were getting closer and closer and closer. Super annoying when you’re cruising at night and not sure if the shrimp boat is going to come across your bow or cut behind your stern. And, what was worse, when they finally passed us about 100 yards off of our port stern, it looked like there was no one on deck or at the helm. They were probably all below playing poker and smoking cigars or something, just trudging blind across the Gulf, blissfully unaware of any other potential vessels in their path! Stinking shrimpers! We were cursing them all night. We probably “encountered” four or five of their “kind” that night and had to stay on constant watch.
Sadly, too, there wasn’t much wind that night. We had to motor until about 1:00 a.m. when the winds finally picked up to about 3 knots. It wasn’t much, but it was the most we’d seen in 12 hours, so it was enough for us to throw out the sails. I will say the Hinterhoeller is an exceptional lightwind boat. Favorable seas and any breeze 3 knots or greater and we can usually achieve hull speed about 2 knots less than the wind, if not more. So, if it’s blowing 5 knots and we’re not beating into big waves, we can usually make around 3 knots, which is great. A typical wind of 7-8 knots, and we’re often making 5, easy. Like I said, an incredible vessel that still never ceases to amaze us. Thankfully, with a light 3 knots of wind that night, we were able to finally kill the engine for a bit and sail! Until about 4:30 a.m., when the wind died out again and we had to crank back up. Dag nabbit! But, we did cruise right on into a beautiful sunrise over the Gulf.
May 6, 2014:
And, have you ever had one of those perfect Saturday mornings where you wake up, lounge around in your PJs, make a big weekend-morning breakfast like french toast, or pancakes, and then fall back asleep till like 10:00 a.m.? Ahhh … Isn’t that the best? Well, this morning was kind of like that. We watched the sun rise, made some piping hot coffee, sipped it, devoured two heaping bowls of steaming oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar and then …
took a nap! The morning chill was still in the air and we were both a little tired from the two-hour shifts the night before, so we eased into the day nice and slow like, taking turns napping in the cockpit. But, the sun finally started to ease up and so did we. It was a gorgeous day out in the Gulf.
Unlike the crystal green waters we had encountered around Clearwater and Tampa Bay, the waters here were a deep, rich royal blue,
and just as stunning in their own way. We even had a sea turtle come and visit us!
I know, looks kind of like a grainy alien photo, but I promise, it’s a turtle. I finished a fun, quick suspense read that morning – Lee Child’s 61 Hours – and the joke was we had been motoring about that long, too. 61 hours, huh? Not quite that long, but it felt like it. About 12 hours the day and night before, and add another 6 or so since we’d cranked around 4:30 that morning. So, 18 hours so far, which is a long time to keep that engine going. We decided to turn her off and bob for a bit so we could let her cool and check the oil.
You know what they say — “Diesels love oil like a sailor loves rum.” (And, by “they” I mean Captain Ron … naturally)
There you go girl … Drink up!
The wind was still mocking us, gracing by our boat at a light 0.5 to 1.3 knots. 1.3?? Look out! It’s getting gusty up here!! It was amazing to see the waters of the Gulf, which we have seen many times brimming with 3 foot, 4 foot, even 6 foot waves, look like solid … glass.
There would be no sailing for this vessel anytime soon. So, we cranked back up and decided to heat up some of our broccoli-less broccoli crappola (also known as sweet potato chili),
and throw together a great cucumber, tomato and feta salad for lunch.
This salad is great because it’s super easy. It’s literally cucumber, tomato, a little bit of olive oil, salt, pepper and feta. A great way to throw together some random vegetables you may have on the boat or some feta that needs to be eaten. With water like glass, a nice lunch spread laid out before us, and nothing but easy motoring to do, we thought we were in for an tranquil day. But, that’s when it struck …
You might recall me asking you all, in jest — What’s the Worst Thing You Can Have On a Boat? And, no, it was not the “busted mate”
(although that was close). For us, it was the LEAK!
Our stupid dripping dripless. That was the worst thing we’d had on the boat … up unto that point at least. But recall we ran through some possibilities then – fire, lightning, etc. Now, it seemed we were about to have something new. Phillip and I had just curled up in the cockpit with our chili and salad and were ready to kick back for a relaxing lunch when
>> BOOM <<
Out of nowhere, with nothing out of ordinary in sight. We both jolted upright and starting looking around. And then again
>> BOOM <<
It sounded like bombs were exploding over head. I’ll never forget how quickly Phillip put his bowl down and jumped behind the helm, scanning the horizon. In military mode. Of all the things that we could expect to happen on the boat. A bomb?!? You have got to be kidding me. When another BOOM came with no sign of an explosion or threat near our boat, we started to run through the possibilities. Phillip said he knew they often used the northern part of the Gulf as a testing zone for bombs and other detonation devices. They would fly out of Tyndall or Eglin Air Force Base and drop in the designated zones. Tyndall AFB is just south of Panama City.
Assuming they had a drop zone about … yay … big (give or take)
and assuming our projected path of about … here’ish (I know, real technical stuff),
it was wholly probable that we were either in their testing zone or at least close enough to hear it. While Phillip knew they often did testing in this area of the Gulf, he said they usually issued some notice or warning to mariners over the radio to advise of the bombings. If they were bombing anywhere near us, he would have expected to have heard an advisory go out over the radio or to have seen marine vessels or air support checking to make sure the testing zone was clear. He clicked on the radio and listened for any advisories, but we didn’t hear anything. Either the testing was occurring much too far away to constitute any potential threat to us (although I can assure you it did not sound like it), or the ole’ Rest had gone rogue and done slipped through their barriers! Flanking them on the inside! We didn’t see any action on the horizon or hear any advisories on the radio, so we figured we were at a safe enough distance, but that didn’t stop us from standing up and doing a 360 every time another bomb went off! BOOM!
It was the wildest thing. As cruisers, you prepare for a lot of contingencies when you start doing overnight passages and Gulf crossings – you pack spares for every single piece of equipment, and then spares for those spares, you have a ditch bag handy and rehearse man-overboard drills, you keep a knife, a flashlight and a gaff near the cockpit in case someone or some thing goes overboard – all kinds of safety precautions. But, a bomb plan?? I can tell you we certainly did NOT have that. But, like I said, they seemed to be no real threat, so we let the bombs drop all around us all afternoon while we continued to motor toward Carrabelle. As the sun started the drop, the wind laid down even more (it was blowing — if you can even qualify it as “blowing” — between 0.3 and 0.5 knots) and the water began to look like a smooth satin sheet laid out before us.
Eventually the two became one and there was no discernible horizon.
It was incredibly beautiful and humbling, to know that a body of water so dangerous and deadly at times could lay down and spread out like a smooth silk path for our passage. Even more awe-inspiring was the friend who joined us for dinner. A tiny, lone sparrow flitted around our boat twice before finally coming to a shaky halt on a lifeline and heaving little pants of exhaustion from his overwhelming flight.
Where did he come from? Where was he going? How did he make it all the way to our boat, more than a hundred miles offshore, in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico? We didn’t know, but we didn’t need to. He was welcome regardless. He closed his beady little eyes and stayed right with us until the sun set and we could no longer make him out.
It was Phillip, the bird and I, motoring into another night on the Gulf, with Carrabelle awaiting us, on the other side of the sunrise.
May 4-5, 2014:
With 4-6 foot seas, a steady 17-20 knots of wind pushing us in, and our bow doing a nice ‘figure eight‘ motion in and around the Venice inlet, we made our way in. The Captain did a phenomenal job holding a steady line and making his way between the two rocky jetties on either side. No small feat considering the boat that had traversed before us, ended up like this.
Shaken and stirred, and most definitely ON THE ROCKS! That is such a terrible sight to see. I kept imagining the keel digging in between rocks with each passing swell, with paint and flecks of fiberglass grinding off. Uhhhh … Still makes me cringe just thinking about it. Thankfully, we passed through the inlet unscathed and got our boat safely docked back in the slip at Venice. While we had been excited to head out that day and we would have loved to have made the passage to Clearwater that night instead of coming back to Venice, the rough sea state and boat beating on the rocks of the inlet made us incredibly thankful to have our boat safe and secure. One more day wasn’t really too much to give up, particularly when it meant the difference between a rough and potentially treacherous passage across the Gulf as opposed to a predicted smooth one. Schedules are a sailor’s worst enemy. So, having docked our boat once more and resigned to staying another night, we did what any good mariners would do, and went to see what the status was with the boat on the rocks! And, I have to tell you … it was not pretty.
While I’m sure the keel was stuck, the hull on the side was also in contact with the rocks, beating against them with each mild wake and letting out a gut-wrenching, nails-on-the-chalkboard kind of metallic groan when it did.
There was a pretty good group gathered on the shore watching this poor sailor, but there was little that could be done. Nobody seemed to know much and the guess was that he lost his steering or engine power somehow as he was coming in. Of all the luck … But, it seemed the worst of it wasn’t over for this poor bloke, because soon Sheriff Willingham showed up!
Or, at least that’s what I assume his name was. He looked like a Willingham. He seemed to keep asking the pitiful Captain for his “papers” – for towing I assume, but perhaps registration, insurance, who knows? And, everyone was just gathered around staring at his guy. I felt so bad, I stood there and not only stared, but filmed the whole thing too!
See, once again, I almost could have gotten myself arrested trying to capture this tale! Such a dangerous sport, this blogging!
It was a beautiful afternoon in Venice, though, with lots of entertainment at the jetty.
We even got to see one of those weird pre-evolution snail-like things I’ve been going on and on about up close and personal! A nice, young bloke (a.k.a, your average pre-teen American redneck boy) fished one out of the water in his baseball cap and showed it to the crowd.
It was a little shy at first (all closed up),
until another nice young dame (a.k.a. your average pre-teen American redneck gal) fished it right out of his hat and started rolling it around in her hands telling the crowd — “It’s a conch. I’ve seen ’em before.”
Mmmhhh-Hmmmm … a conch without its shell. That little snail thought so highly of her characterization that he peed purple all over hands.
Nice. Then she proceeded to shriek and scream and sling it all over the crowd, including Phillip and his perfectly white shirt. Even nicer.
In all, it was a great “show” at the Venice jetty that afternoon. After taking in the show, Phillip and I finally sauntered back to our boat and were sipping cocktails in the cockpit when we saw the tow boat coming to get the struggling sailboat off of the rocks.
I’m sure it was a bad day for that fella, but, Phillip and I both acknowledged as we watched him pass by, that it’s happened to others before him and it will happen to others after. While we certainly hope it never happens to us, seeing it in person was a good reminder that it is entirely possible. Something can always go wrong with the boat, and it’s just as likely to happen when you’re coming in to a rocky inlet as when you’re in the middle of the Gulf, a safe distance from any rocks, docks or other detrimental obstacles for the boat. It is totally possible that could have been us out there on the rocks. Thankfully it wasn’t, and hopefully it never will be (knock on wood), but it was nice to see he was still afloat, being safely towed to a dock and that, aside from a costly bottom job repair, he and the boat were both going to survive it. At the very least, he could be thankful for that and admire the gorgeous sunset that was falling over the inlet.
Phillip and I enjoyed another dinner at the Crow’s Nest Tavern that night and talked of the next day’s passage. Because of our failed start that day and our extra night in Venice, we were technically one day behind schedule (if we even wanted to admit we had such a thing on this trip). So, I decided to pitch another idea …
Instead of making the passage tomorrow to Clearwater to stay the night and then make the big jump across the Gulf to Carrabelle,
what if we left out of Venice tomorrow and headed straight for Carrabelle?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Phillip said.
It was certainly worth a thought. The weather prediction was great. The seas were supposed to lay down. We were expecting a nice 10 knot breeze out of the North or Northwest. So, rather than the approximate 16-18 hour trip we were planning to Clearwater, why not try to make the approximate 40-hour trip all the way to Carrabelle. Go ahead and make the big leap? Why not? We had made about a 44-hour trip from Pensacola to Port St. Joe our first passage out of the gate on this trip and, while that was tiring, it was certainly doable. So … we decided to go for it. It was Carrabelle or bust!
May 5, 2014:
The next morning, we readied the boat (again), checked the fluids and headed out around 10:00 a.m.
See ya!
The seas were in much better shape this time. Whew! Unfortunately, the wind was right on our nose, so we had to motor quite a bit throughout the day, but we spent a beautiful day out in the Gulf. Man, what a difference a day makes.
We even had a whole fleet of fun little mammals come and visit us at the bow!!! They swam with us for about 10 minutes, flipping and flicking and rolling around up there. It’s true! That’s no …
I snapped a whole roll of them! (And, by roll, I mean approximately 34 iPhone pics – give or take). Notice the occasional thumbs and fingers in the shot. Very artistic …
But, it was rocking and rolling and if there’s one thing I do NOT want to drop while up at the bow … it’s my phone. So, grip it or lose it. I did manage to get some fun footage though:
And, lookie there! A real …
With the wind on our nose, we had to motor most of the morning. Around mid-afternoon, we decided to try and do some sailing, if at the very least, to give the engine a break. The tacks we had to make were so wide, though, that we were sure we were losing ground. We did some research and calculations of our velocity made good (VMG) to try and determine what speed we were actually making along our rhumb line. A little sailing knowledge for you:
So, let’s say (just to make it easy), your heading is 90 degrees, dead east, but the wind is coming directly on your nose, so to make way along your heading, you have to tack back and forth into the wind. Let’s assume, when you tack, the highest point at which you can hold the wind is 50 degrees off your course, either 40 degrees ENE or 140 degrees SSE.
VMG is the speed you’re actually traveling along your rhumb line (90 degrees) by tacking back and forth at 40 degrees and 150 degrees. You can use a VMG chart to determine what speed you are actually making along the 90 degree axis by using the speed you are making along the tack lines (the 40 and 140).
If you find that the speed you’re making along your rhumb line (using the VMG table) by tacking back and forth is less than the speed you are making just motoring directly into the wind, then it may be best just to continue motoring. We found this to be true in our case. We were doing about 4 knots motoring into the wind and on tack (about 50 degrees off), we were only achieving about 3.5 knots, where according to the table we would have to reach 6.2 knots on tack to achieve VMG. So, we decided to continue motoring, but we did enjoy learning the VMG tables and working the calculations. I mean – don’t you feel just a little bit smarter now?
You can thank me later. It never hurts to learn something new, and one of the great things about sailing is that you always seem to learn something new – every passage, every docking, every trip. We cranked back up and continued pumping on into the evening.
We made coffee right around dusk and curled up in the cockpit to enjoy the sunset.
There she goes!
There’s something so freeing about watching that bright pink ball sink beneath the horizon. Sometimes it can give you a little chill because you know you’re about to be faced with darkness, unable to see the horizon and barreling forward into the unknown for hours on end. But, a big part of that is also exhilarating. You’re about to forge into the darkness, with no horizon in sight, trudging for hours on end into the great unknown. It’s equally exciting and spine-tingling. And, this night was no different. While we have experienced quite a bit in the middle of the Gulf, we faced something that night that we had not yet seen before.
An eerie glow in the Gulf …
Was it another ship? A wayward, bobbing booey? Some mysterious glowing trajectory from a passing UFO … ??
Who knows. But, it kept inching toward us seemingly oblivious to anything in its path …
April 29, 2014:
Uh-huh. Go on. Say it. DRIP. We found while motoring that morning that we had a steady drip coming out from the stuffing box around our propeller shaft. The stuffing box is basically a seal around the shaft of the propeller to keep the water that’s supposed to stay outside of the boat … OUTSIDE of the boat.
While some stuffing boxes are designed to drip slightly when the shaft is turning, to cool the shaft, others are designed not to drip at all. Hence the name — dripLESS. But, ours was doing more than dripping. We had a steady trickle when the shaft was turning and a slight gush upon manipulation – think more of a heavy flow than light. We needed some protection!
Close …
While stopping the leak was a priority, until we could get to a marina to troubleshoot and diagnose, we certainly wanted to maintain the leak. It was dripping right into the bilge, which is not a problem assuming the bilge pump is working fine. We were certain ours was because the automatic pump actually seemed to have been kicking on a little too frequently during our last day or two in the Keys, a pattern we now knew was attributable to our dripping dripless. But, we decided to try and capture the trickle before it made it to the bilge to reduce the load on the pump in having to frequently dump the bilge. This called for the handy little pads we keep on the boat that I like to call “diapers.” Fancy name, I know. They’re those oil change pads you get at Auto Zone, CarQuest and the like.
We keep a roll of them on the boat and one always stuffed forward of the engine to capture fluids that might drip from the engine (particularly oil) before they can make it to the bilge.
There’s one!
We used them to capture the transmission fluid when it was leaking during our first Gulf crossing. You might recall the duct tape and Dasani bottle fix … good times!
Seeing as how we had a fresh new leak, we put a fresh diaper in to catch the water trickling in around our stuffing box.
Ahhhh .. that’s better. Motor-all-you-want protection!
We were making our way up the ICW by Sanibel Island where we had planned to spend a day or two at Costa Cayo.
But, that’s the thing about plans … They seem to all go to pot when you’re boat’s leaking! Granted, our leak did seem manageable. It was just a trickle (for now) and whatever made it past the diapers was only going into the bilge, which was pumping out fine as needed, but still. A leak is not something you just want to shrug your shoulders at, say “Ehhh” and keep on cruising. I believe it was a really smart man who said: “If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen out there.”
Brilliant.
So, immediately our priorities changed from finding a neat, new anchorage along the ICW to finding the closest marina possible. Turns out that was in Gasparilla – ironically, where we had our survey/sea trial for the boat back in April, 2013.
Here, we were a year later, bringing her back in, but this time we were hoping it would NOT require a haul-out!
Unfortunately, it was pretty tight in the ICW and we did not have favorable wind to sail, so motoring was the only option. Much like when we had the transmission leak, we were taking turns kneeling down by the engine, watching the drip, and making sure it was remaining JUST a drip. We were making good way through Pine Island Sound and expected to make it into Gasparilla around mid-afternoon.
All was well, right? You would think. Until I made just about the stupidest mistake I have made on the boat. Well … aside from the recent slap on the deck. But, it involved that … kind of. So, we’re motoring through the ICW. Nice and easy, plenty of depth, plenty of fuel, our drip was just dripping and our marina was just a few hours away. Nothing to it. Phillip set the Otto so he could go down below to — take care of some business (that’s all I will say) — and left me to watch our course on deck. To his infinite credit, he showed me the red and green markers in front of us and told me where to keep the boat. Easy peasy. But, this dumb mate decided to do something I will never again do when I am manning the wheel alone. I made a phone call. I know what you’re thinking. Wow … that shouldn’t be too hard. Drive a boat and talk at the same time? Okay, but do recall that I am unfortunately blonde, so walking and talking gives me a little trouble.
Me? I know …
But, apparently driving the boat and talking have proven to be the real challenge. I decided all was well on watch so I could take a moment to call some folks to catch up and let them know we had made it back across the Gulf just fine (well, despite the slight leak issue). But, I didn’t realize at the time that I hadn’t yet actually told anyone the story about my fall. I can safely say it was certainly a frightening, eye-opening experience, one that had left me battered and shaken and thankful to at least be upright, walking and conscious. I was re-living it again for the first time while talking to my Dad. I’m up on deck talking and sort of re-enacting my out-stretched hand for that damn swinging halyard, “I was reaching out, Dad, on my tippy toes, and … “
when I hear Phillip shout up from the head — “Annie, what was that?”
“What was what? I’m just up here talking on the phone.” (stupid First Mate)
“No, THAT. I feel it. Annie, we’re hitting bottom!”
SHIT.
I hobbled back to the cockpit as fast as I could and glanced at the GPS — 5.4 ft. SHIT! While engrossed in my fall story, I had let us drift out of the ICW onto a shoal. I turned the wheel sharp to starboard hoping to pull off. The boat grazed the ground, groaned and started to list to port. I could hear Phillip scrambling up and I knew what I had done. I hollered into the phone “Dad, I gotta go. We ran aground.” SHIT. I was apologizing profusely when Phillip came up. It was just stupid, and I had done it and here we were. But, thankfully we had been here before – running aground is just going to happen when you’ve got a big, honking keel down below. While it’s best to avoid it, of course, it also helps to know what to do when it happens. We had unfortunately hit bottom coming into Clearwater, on our way down to the Keys.
That time, Phillip threw it in reverse and I hung way over the lifelines on the port side to tilt the boat off the shoal. This time, we decided to take it one step further. We swung the boom all the way over to the port side and I hung all of my weight from it. The knee might have been giving me trouble, but the arms were functioning! With the wheel all the way to starboard and the boat listing to port she finally started to ease off and move forward. Within a minute, we were off and motoring forward again. I was sick with guilt, embarrassment, anger. I was SO MAD at myself.
One of my favorite all-time books growing up by the way. (John – you remember this one!). As a kid, I would get SO MAD at myself when I couldn’t do something right. I would stomp and huff and get in a real nasty funk about it – an all-out, over-exaggerated one-woman pout show. I’m sure it was wildly entertaining to those watching me. But I was MAD.
I apologized profusely over and over. Phillip was great about it. He knew it was a mistake and that I was incredibly sorry but we decided – no more phone calls for Annie while on watch. She just can’t handle it … But that did remind me to call my Dad back and let him know we were alright — disaster miraculously averted again. I’m sure hearing me say “we ran aground, I gotta go!” followed by a *click* was not very comforting for him, but he seemed to take it in fine stride. “I figured you were alright. You usually are,” he said. A true statement and a common one he made when I was growing up, typically when I fell off of things as I seemed I did a lot back then too. But, knowing me as well as he did, he told me “It was an accident, though, Annie. Don’t get in funk all day about it.” Good advice. I apologized to Phillip just a couple more times and pouted (just a little) as we made our way into Gasparilla.
I mean … a near-death drop, a leaking boat and a run-aground. What else was in store?
April 28-29, 2014:
I like to just ask it that way. See what people say. Most kind of look at you funny, scrunch up their brow (Yes, scrunch – how do you think a “scrunchy” gets that way?)
Rockin’ it!
and either ask “What exactly do you mean by that?” or start thinking on the possibilities. But, ask several cruisers that question, and I’ll bet you get several different answers:
A fire perhaps?
Just tragic …
Lightning?
That would also fall into the category of ‘Suck’
Phillip tried several of these when I first asked him, and then – to my pleasant surprise – threw out a wild guess of:
“A nagging woman?”
Nice try, but …
It is a fun question because it can spark so many different answers (as well as interesting follow-up questions – Do you mean to happen TO the boat? Or be ON the boat?, etc.) – and it usually leads to some really interesting tales at sea. I believe I would have answered that question the same way before we ventured off to the Keys, but I certainly did not expect to experience my particular brand of “worst thing” on this trip! But, that’s the thing about sailing you have to constantly expect the unexpected. So, where were we?
Ahhh … yes. The busted First Mate. Perhaps not the worst thing to have on a boat, but it’s definitely up there in the list of not-so-good things. So, we were heading across the Gulf from Key West to Ft. Myers, and I was icing the knee and arm, hoping for immaculate recovery.
Pretty. The swelling really makes my bi’s and tri’s look huge, though, doesn’t it? Like a body-builder. Think I’ll sign up for it next year!
Hell yeah!
Thankfully, once we took the ice off, the swelling had gone down some and, while the arm hurt, it was mostly numb and mostly purple, but seemingly fully-functional, so that gave me some relief. The knee, however, was the real cause for concern. It was king of popping and clicking when I bent and straightened it and causing some pain when lowering and raising while weight-bearing. Knees are just such complicated joints. One little strain or tear and it just doesn’t function correctly. I figured there was some soft-tissue injury for sure, but I just decided to really baby it and see how things went. Thankfully, it was a gorgeous sailing day.
We were on a perfect broad reach with 10-12 knots of wind most of the day. Otto was holding, so we kicked back, cracked open a few books (and the Kindle) and spent a leisurely afternoon sailing and reading. I was digging into the second of what I called the “Dragon Lady” books. I had read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo on the way down to the Keys, and now I was tearing through the second in the series – The Girl Who Played with Fire. Both very good reads – elaborate, intriguing plots and characters that keep you invested to the very end. We polished off the blue cheese gnocchi that we saved from 7 Fish the night before,
and also dug into Phillip’s ham salad that we had made before leaving Key West.
Yum!
Other than the potentially-permanent limp, we enjoyed an exquisite afternoon/evening of sailing.
There is just nothing like watching the sun set on the edge of a vast, blue horizon. There are no buildings or signs or structures to block it. You can watch every single pink inch as it drops out of the sky. Just proof that – more often than not – real life is better than the movies. But we love movies too …
Uh-oh, guess what day it is?? Guess!!
Mmmhhh-hmmm, that’s right. It’s MOVIE DAY! Or movie time, I guess. Since we had such a steady sail going, such great weather and a perfect heading holding, we decided to crank up the laptop and put on a movie. (And, yes, much to Phillip’s chagrin, I do the whole “Movie Day” camel bit EVERY time we put on a movie on the boat. Every … time … ) By the way, if you think about it – a camel. Also another strong contender for “worst thing you can have on a boat.” Can you just imagine …
We decided to put on Leonardo DiCaprio’s J. Edgar Hoover that night.
Trailer HERE.
Another captivating performance by DiCaprio (that man is such a chameleon), and a riveting look at the development of the FBI’s internal database. It was a little slow, though, and after the morning scare, my body’s attempts at recovery, gnocchi, salad and a soothing day of sailing, I hate to say it, but this crew was starting to nod off. That changed, though, about half-way through the movie, when we started to hear the beginning rumblings of a massive thunder-storm behind us. We had just been joking, too, when we began the movie that “movie night” on the old Plaintiff’s Rest seems just a bit cursed. You may recall the last time we tried to kick back and watch a movie in the cockpit and Armageddon struck – the winds jumped from 9 to 15 to 25 in all of 10 minutes, we battled another flailing halyard, broke out the Frankenstein-assembled butterfly net on a stick (a.k.a. a gaff) and eventually lost the halyard up the mast altogether.
And, now – we put on a movie and what? Thunder?? Cursed, I tell ya. Cursed!! It’s funny how on the boat, though, when either of us hears that first guttural rumble in the distance, you kind of ignore it at first. I mean, you heard it, you’re sure the other crew members heard it, but it’s like you don’t want to be the first to acknowledge it – as if you’ll bring thunder to life by mentioning it? You usually kind of wait until you hear one more, and then you exchange that “look” with your fellow crew of — you heard that, right? We both heard it. We both knew what it was. After a few rumblings, we paused the movie to look around the boat and – sure enough – a big, billowy cumulus thunderhead lurked behind us off the starboard stern and we watched as a vicious streak of lightning blazed through it. It was pretty far off in the distance, so it didn’t worry us too much, but just as we were looking out past our stern, a huge bolt raced through a cloud that was just off our mid-ship, maybe a mile or so out. That concerned us.
Okay, that image is *ahem* … borrowed, but I did try to capture a bolt or two while we were out there. It’s just so hard to click fast enough to capture the light. Here’s Phillip looking out, though, on the the only-intermittent darkness.
We kept watching the movie a bit longer, but the periodic rumbles and bolts were far too distracting. We decided to turn the movie off for a bit and sit up on the deck to watch the lightning. It was still a good ways off, but it was hard to tell which way the storm was moving – particularly the stack of clouds on our midship. While the storm was kind of frightening, it was also invigorating. The adrenaline woke us both up, and the sight was just breathtaking. To get to watch lightning streak through the sky like that, time and again, really is stunning. Thankfully, though, the mid-ship storm rolled past us at a safe distance. While it’s not at the top of my list, lightning is definitely something I never want to see on the boat.
We finished the movie and transitioned into our now pretty-routine pattern of “night shifts.” Aside from the occasional tricky ladder shuffle with my bum knee, the night went smoothly. We cruised right along on our same broad reach under a thick blanket of stars and sailed right through to sunrise.
Looks about like sunset, huh? But, that’s one of the great things about life on the boat – you start to rise and set with the sun. It was a rare day on the trip that we didn’t see both the sunrise and sunset, which is a really reassuring sign that you are truly enjoying every minute of every day. We boiled up a nice pot of coffee and enjoyed the cruise toward Ft. Myers.
A visual inspection proved not much had changed since the day before … my arm and leg were still looking … ummm … pretty.
We had made such great time during the night, though, that we decided – instead of stopping at Ft. Myers Beach again, where spent an incredible few days before making the jump to Key West, to go ahead and motor on up into the ICW by Sanibel Island to check out the area around Cayo Costa Key that our buddy Johnny Walker had told us about.
And, THAT’S when we experienced the worst thing I think you can have on a boat. Phillip headed down below to re-fill his coffee mug and re-up on the sunscreen (a regular routine on the boat) and fiddle around with a few things. I was a bit of a slow-mover that day, so I didn’t get off my keister to investigate, but I heard him pull the cover back on the engine. Not too abnormal of a thing to do when we find ourselves motoring for a while. It’s always good to pull the cover back every couple of hours and make sure you don’t have any drips or fluids or water leaking out of the engine. So, that wasn’t too out of the ordinary. But, with the engine hatch still back, Phillip took a few steps up the companionway ladder and started looking around intently, as if he was trying to figure out exactly where we were, just how far we were from land. That’s when my brow scrunched.
“What? What, is it?” I asked him. And, after a few solid seconds of silence, he finally let out a rough breath and responded.
“Well, we’ve got somewhat of a leak.”
SOMEWHAT?!? You either have a leak or you don’t. He confirmed what I feared was true. We had sea water coming into the boat. Now, THAT, my friends is the worst thing I think you can have on a boat. A LEAK.
