Sail Skills – Page 5 – Have Wind Will Travel

“I’m Okay!” … sort of (Viewer Discretion Advised)

September 18, 2014September 18, 2014anniedike

April 28, 2014:

The first thing I remember seeing after the fall was the big, white meat of my arm. Between the time I hit, opened my eyes and blinked several times at it, it had grown twice the size. I knew it had hit, something, and I knew it hurt, but to see it so swollen, so suddenly, just mesmerized me. I really thought it might be broken. In all of the wild antics of my youth – gymnastics, barrel racing, cheerleading, jello wrestling and other numerous, countless stupid decisions in college – I had yet to break a bone (knock on wood) and I was thinking this might be the end of that lucky streak. I clenched my first a time or two and rolled my wrist and, while my entire forearm was numb and throbbing, everything seemed to be working fine, so I decided the bones were at least intact.

“I’m okay … I think,” I said. “I, … I think I’m okay.”

I heard Phillip set the auto-pilot so he could come on deck to check on me and I noticed the main halyard (that bleepin’ thing) was now dangling at about his waist-level on the deck. Before thinking about how it got there, I grabbed it (that bleepin’ thing) and began to surmise that I must have pulled it down, at least in part, during my fall because it was now so much lower. But, I couldn’t recall exactly, grabbing it or letting it go. But that got me thinking about the fall. Why had I fallen? What had snapped?

As if hearing my thoughts, Phillip said “the lazy jack snapped,” as he stepped up on deck. I didn’t even look up (assuming I even could turn around to see it), I knew exactly what he meant. We had busted the lazy jack line for the stack pack on the starboard side during our passage to Port St. Joe.

That time it was because of rough wind and weather that had caused the sail to put too much force on the starboard lazy jack line, causing the rivet on the spreader to rip clean off.

And, what we gathered from that incident was that the lazy jack lines are not intended to hold extensive weight. We have since learned (from our trusty rigger, Rick Zern) that this design is intentional so that the rivet for the lazy jack line will fail before excessive strain is placed on the spreader. Makes sense. But, clearly this riveting (no pun intended) fact somehow escaped me as I was doing my circus act up on the boom, reaching with all my might, one strained, out-stretched hand to the halyard, the other with a mighty death-grip on the port-side lazy jack line.

And, then SNAP! I’d done ripped the one on the port-side off, too, and suffered a mighty fall as a result.

Dad-burnit!

It all made sense–now–as I lay in a crumpled heap on the deck. But, what’s done is done. At least I hadn’t broken anything, or so I thought. As I started to stand, though, to re-secure the halyard, I discovered a new pain–my knee. It seems it, too, had hit something and it, too, was already swollen. Phillip frowned at me and laid a sturdy hand on my shoulder, which told me to sit tight for a minute. He secured the halyard then helped me to my feet so I could hobble back to the cockpit. Like my arm, my knee was numb and throbbing, but it appeared to be working. Phillip seemed to be comforted, slightly, by the fact that I was somewhat satisfactorily mobile, but I hated to see such a look of worry and anger on his face. While I had managed to get that bleepin’ halyard down, it was at a serious cost, and it was clear the Captain was not impressed with my … heroism.

We set me down in the cockpit for a good once-over (I warn you, this is not pretty):

The arm had developed some gnarly purple streaks where (I can only assume) it sheared down the lifelines on the way to the deck.

It was fat and painful, but, like I said–working.

The knee had developed this very strange ping-pong ball-shaped lump on the left side of my kneecap:

I wasn’t sure what to even make of that. Why the perfect round lump? Why swelling in such an isolated spot? I had injured my knee before–well, this knee (the left) actually, years and years ago. I tore my ACL while tumbling in high school and had it surgically repaired back in 2000. But, just last year, I sprained the MCL in my right knee during my first attempt at skiing. It had swollen then, too, almost instantly, but it was a global swelling of the whole knee–not just a perfectly segregated ping-pong ball lump–and it required a massive needle and surgical suction for that swelling to eventually dissipate. (You may recall the removal of the spawn of Satan from my knee!). This lump was strange … We did all we knew to do at the time–ice everything and see what developed.

As I sat there, looking back on it, I can’t promise I wouldn’t jump back up on that boom to try and retrieve a swinging halyard–it is such a monstrous chore to retrieve it once it inches its way out of your reach–but I guess the best I can say is I hope to never let go of the halyard again. We already knew this lesson, we’d learned it several times, but it just happens, sometimes as a result of rocking waves or other hazards, but other times just as a result of a senseless human error (it’s entirely possible to just accidentally let go of something). I mean, you have hands to hold things, but they’re human hands, so they err. I am hopeful, at least, that we have now sufficiently modified our halyard-shackling procedure to eliminate the frequency of the latter.

We always secure our halyard away from the mast while at anchorage or the marina so as not to be “that guy” at the party.

Yes, that one. If the sun’s just starting to set at the anchorage, folks are just starting in on their second cocktail or dinner, kicked back in the cockpit for a quiet evening on the hook and you’re the one whose halyard is banging, trust me, you are that guy.

And, to make sure my internet scouring for the perfect “that guy” images does not go to waste, do know that there are various websites on the web devoted entirely to helping you NOT be “that guy”:

1) “Avoid Being that Guy (or Girl) at a Party” (you gotta love Wikihow’s gender equality – no one wants to be “that girl” either); and

2) “Office Holiday Party – Making a Good Impression”

Rather, we like to come to the party real quiet-like, nice and smooth and subtle. The svelte gentlemen in the black attire, if you will, the guy that everybody likes.

Yeah, that guy. So, when we drop our main sail before dropping the hook, we have made a habit of securing the main halyard to one of the lazy jacks that holds up the stack pack. Here:

After this incident, we decided to snap the shackle back to the sail before leaving the dock or anchorage, but we found this occasionally allows the sail to start bouncing up a bit, particularly in rough seas, putting slack in the main halyard line which may cause it, if the wind is on your stern, to get wrapped around one of the arms of the spreader. Recall, this is exactly the incident that caused me to climb up on the boom in the first place. And, this is true even with the stack pack zipped closed as the rocking and bouncing of the boat can cause the sail to inch the zipper open and try to climb. This does not happen often, however, so we chose the lesser of two evils–that is, securing the main halyard to the sail before leaving the dock/anchorage so that we are not doing it up on the deck, while underway, potentially in rough seas.

But, we have since learned an even better trick from a trusted boating friend and the knowledgeable fellow that did our bottom job back in May of last year (thank you Bottom-Job Brandon with Perdido Sailor). We still remove the shackle from the stack-pack line and attach it to the main sail prior to leaving the dock/anchorage, but we now bring the line down and wrap it around the winch on the port-side of the mast so that the tension is pulling the sail down (not up) to prohibit any slack from forming in the line.

See? In sailing, you learn something new every day. And, trust me, you will find a way–every day–to do something you’ve been doing for years in just a little better way. It’s all about getting out there and doing it, making mistakes and learning, but continuing to do it. A fine example is our stack-pack lazy-jack fix! If you recall, when the lazy-jack line on the starboard side busted, the Captain came up with an ingenuous way to raise it back up using a somewhat-of-a spare line (the staysail halyard), so that we still had a functioning stack pack for the remainder of our trip to the Keys:

He’s kind of smart like that sometimes!

But, since we had had to improvise and rig up a busted lazy-jack line before, we now knew how to do it again. With another somewhat-of-a spare line on the port-side–this time, the topping lift for the spinnaker. But, as it seemed we were running out of “spare” lines to hoist broken things, we vowed – “no more lazy-jack snaps!” – for the rest of the trip and hoped it would stick. For the time being, I was numb but not broken. We decided to hold the ice on for the first hour or so to attack the swelling, then we would remove it and have me move about a bit later in the day to assess the real damage. I was sure there was going to be some (potentially severe) soft-tissue injury to my knee–and what an annoyance on a boat!–when it’s always up and down the companionway, kneel down here, squat there. I couldn’t imagine losing the full function of such a crucial joint. I was nervous and anxious about my limbs and my ability to fulfill my duties as First Mate for the remainder of the trip. I mean, we had just left the Keys. We still had 500 nautical miles to sail …

But, what’s done is done. I had fallen, and I couldn’t change that. And, we were still on the best sailing voyage of our lives. I laid back on the ice, the Captain handled the sails and we set out for a beautiful day of sailing across the Gulf.

“Annie, Are You Okay??”

September 12, 2014September 13, 2014anniedike

April 28, 2014:

It was time to say goodbye to the Keys. While we certainly enjoyed our time on that quirky little island (and the breathtaking ferry over to the Dry Tortugas), it was time to give our livers – and pocketbooks – a break and start making our way back north toward Pensacola. After a week on dry land, though, we were ready to make another passage, ready to find ourselves back out in the middle of the Gulf with nothing on the horizon but blue sky meeting bluer water, water gently lapping the hull, the sun warming our skin as we read on the deck all afternoon, and, yes, even the night shifts, sailing that beautiful boat under a smattering of stars. It was time to make way!

We woke early and started readying the boat for passage. We tossed the lines first thing and headed out (literally, bow first from our stern-in slip at the A&B Marina – which was much easier exiting than entering, I can assure you). We made coffee on the boat for the first time since we had docked in Key West, and we promptly decided the Cuban Coffee Queen Hut had “nothing on us!” There’s just something about making your own coffee on the boat in the french press, and sipping that first warm mug while you’re starting out on a long passage.

We waved goodbye to Sunset Key as we made our way out of Key West Bight.

We had a bit of a scare when a pretty intimidating law enforcement vessel started motoring right toward us.

Phillip and I watched them with furrowed brows likely thinking the same thing – “Is that Y valve in the head turned the right way?” We had heard they keep a pretty close eye on regulation compliance in the Keys and the Coast Guard guys won’t hesitate to come aboard for an inspection. We were sure it was, but it’s one of those things if you ask yourself twice – “Are you really sure?” – that you start to second guess. Thankfully, though, The Law motored on behind us and continued on their way. Whew! Disaster avoided … or so we thought. But the adventures that day were just beginning.

You ever have one of those days that starts out perfectly normal, you begin your typical routine, you go about your business – completely unaware that this day is probably going to stick out in your mind for the rest of your meager existence. Everything seems to routine, so mundane and then BAM! It happens. Whatever it is – a car accident, a fire, an unexpected encounter, you win the lottery (let’s all hope!) – but, whatever it is, it’s something that makes that day stand out among the hundreds of bland, uniform days that preceded it. I guess being on this trip – a daily adventure – sort of changes that equation (in that every single ONE of our days on this trip held something new, something that will probably stick out in my mind for decades to come) but, still, I thought we were just going to get underway and make passage back to Ft. Myers. I thought maybe we would see a shark, perhaps run into some weather, some “adventure” I was mentally prepared for – but not this …

My day started something like this,

but that’s not how it ended.

We were motoring through the channel out of Key West Bight. It was a beautiful morning, around 9:00 a.m., not too hot yet, a light breeze coming in. We were ready to do some sailing! We decided to raise the main while we were making our way out of the channel so we could throw the Jenny out as soon as we made our way out and catch the wind.

I hopped up on the deck to attach the main halyard (the line that raises the main sail) to the sail. We always detach it from the sail and clip it away from the mast so that it does not bang when we’re in the marina or on the hook. (But, I’ll tell you – as a direct result of this very incident – we have since formed the habit of connecting the halyard BEFORE we leave the dock so that we are not doing it underway.) But, that is now. This was then. This is how lessons are learned.

I loosened the halyard and hopped up on the deck to connect it. Unfortunately, the wind was on our stern so it caught the slack in the halyard and blew it around one of the spreaders. For those of you who are sailing newbies – just imagine an important line is caught on some of that stuff up there on the mast, so we can’t pull it to raise our sail. And, the wind is on our stern, so it’s holding the halyard firmly in it’s ‘caught’ position. I let out more slack and embarked in an ancient rope-whipping dance (do recall my country roots),

that thankfully freed the halyard. You would think the hard part is over, but I’ve got to move quickly to get the slack pulled out so the line remains free and untangled so we can raise the main. So, I’m now holding the shackled end of the halyard in one hand, and holding the slack taught down the mast in the other. Basically pulling against myself to keep tension in the line so it stays flush on the mast and cannot snag on anything. A fine practice, if you’re standing on the deck, doing nothing other than holding the line, but I get the brilliant idea that I can go ahead and climb the step up the mast and hook the shackle whilst holding both ends of the halyard taught in 2-3 foot waves. Looking back on it now, that’s probably a three-handed job, and I’ve only got two, so …

As I’m stepping up the mast, a light wave rocks the boat and I have to grip or I’m going to fall. My body takes over instinctively (I guess) and lets go of the bleepin’ halyard so I can grap a cleat on the mast to avoid falling. To avoid falling … yes that was the plan, initially. But, now you know I’ve committed the ultimate sin.

I LET GO OF THAT DAD-BURN HALYARD!!

I couldn’t believe it had actually happened until I saw it swinging playfully in front of me, taunting me, just out of reach. As you recall, we have only let go of the halyard a couple of times on the boat, but each time required a monstrous chore to retrieve it – climbing the 50′ mast. The first time, we were at the marina back in Carrabelle and we raised the halyard on the Jenny back up the mast not knowing it wouldn’t come back down with just a wiggle and a shake. A rookie mistake – but it meant a mast-climb (thankfully secure at the marina, though) for me. The second time was when we were making the passage from Dog Island to Clearwater on our way down to the Keys (you remember the attempt at the butterfly-net retrieval?). Since we were underway, that time meant another mast-climb for yours truly, only this time mid-sea. That climb was one of the scariest moments, so far, on the trip for me, and I was damn sure I wasn’t going to let that happen again. I was going to get that halyard! Nothing was going to stop me!

It was swinging around just out of reach, I didn’t even think the Captain knew what had happened yet, and I thought if I could retrieve it and snap it on the sail before he even knew — even better. I jumped up on top of the boom.

Yes, the boom. I told you — I was going to GET THAT HALYARD!

And, up there, I was eye-level with it. I had a fighting chance! I just needed it to swing my direction (in those random, bouncy 2-3 foot waves – it could happen!). It came so close several times, and I almost had it. Phillip had seen me up there by now, but all he could belt out was a forceful, “Annniiee” followed by a stern “be careful!”

I will try my best to depict this with my rudimentary sketch skills, so bear with me, but it at least helps you visualize. Here I am, up on the boom, going for that bleepin’ halyard!

I was standing on the main sail, holding daintily onto one of the port-side lazy-jack lines that holds the stack-pack up, just for balance. After we had snapped the one on the starboard side clean off the spreader during our first rough night into Port St. Joe, I knew it didn’t take much to rip one off, so I was just using it for balance. I was, I swear. Until …

Until the halyard came swinging toward me. Finally! There it was! I could reach it! I stretched a hand out toward it …

and then SNAP!

With the halyard in sight, my fingers finally feeling the threads on it, I am sure my dainty little hold and light pull on the lazy jack line became a full-on death grip and full-weight dependent tug. Just as I clinched my hand around the main halyard shackle, I heard a loud SNAP!, I can’t remember what I saw or how my body reacted, but I felt a sickening thud, and the next thing I remember, I’m raising myself from a crumpled position on the starboard deck (between the cabin and the lifelines) with the main halyard in my right hand. Phillip stepped out from the behind the bimini with a horrific look on his face, his voice commanding, “Annie, are you okay?”

“I, I … ” I couldn’t really form a complete sentence. I didn’t know how, or what to say if I even could.

“ANNIE, ARE YOU OKAY?” Phillip persisted, his voice now a stern shout.

“I don’t know,” I told him. Because I didn’t.

Of Biblical Proportions …

June 20, 2014June 20, 2014anniedike

April 17, 2014 – Keys Log, Day 15:

It was around 4:30 in the morning. Phillip had been holding the helm hour upon hour as we beat our way through the Gulf. It was shocking to see the wind hold so steady. We glared at the instruments like you would your mom telling your prom date how cute it was when you used to run around the neighborhood naked. Please say something different. Please! But, no. The wind instrument registered 25+ for hours, upon hours, upon hours. Sometimes, it would fall down to the low twenties, or even 19 (oooh!), and we would start to get excited. We’ll take 19. But then it would crank right back up to the upper 20’s again and hold steady for hours, upon hours, upon hours. It was a very rough night. I think I might have fallen asleep for two minutes – twice – out of sheer exhaustion, but then a loud crack on a wave and my head would bang against the companionway and I was up again. Phillip never shut his eyes. Not once. All night long he held that wheel.

After battling these conditions for 4-5 hours, we had decided a little after midnight to pull out of the Gulf and take cover in Charlotte Harbor. It was clear the wind was not going to let up. We had wanted to make it from Tampa Bay to Ft. Myers in roughly 24 hours to beat the “numerous thunderstorms” that were set to come in later that afternoon, but with the horrendous night we were having, it just wasn’t looking feasible. And, we had both been up for about 20 hours straight at that point. We were beat.

But, just when you think things are going to get a little easier, in sailing it seems that’s just about the time they get a little harder – always pushing you to your limits. Here we were, 4:30 a.m., and we were coming into a new harbor at night, in 3-4 waves and 25+ mph winds. We had made our way out of Charlotte Harbor one time before, during the Gulf Crossing when we brought the boat back from Punta Gorda.

Man, look at us. There’s Mitch. “Hey Mitch!” And, my God, we still have the dinghy! That seems like forever ago …

But, when we made our way through Charlotte Harbor that time, it was in broad daylight and much calmer conditions. We certainly wouldn’t call this a pass we were truly “familiar with,” and we were coming in at night.

Phillip gave me the wheel (for the first time since 9:00 p.m.) so he could check the charts to make sure there weren’t any shoals or other hazards.

It seems there are always hazards. I guess we just prefer to call them “adventures.” There were a couple of areas where we had to go outside of the markers to avoid the shoals, but I’m thrilled to say we made our way safely into Charlotte Harbor, at night, and left the tumultuous waters of the Gulf behind us. We pulled into the Pass just as the sun was coming up.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful to see warm rays of sun on Phillip’s face. The Captain really stepped up that night and brought us in safe. We were both so grateful. The sun was out, the horizon was visible and we were intact – me, Phillip, the boat and everything on it. We had made it through that harrowing night.

And, we could see land on the horizon. Yippeee!

We pulled into the harbor and found the first place with a decent swing radius off the ICW to drop anchor and get some rest.

It was around 8:30 a.m. by then and we had both been going about 26+ hours. I don’t even remember crawling into the vberth and shutting my eyes. In fact, I’m not even sure how I got into bed. (That’s not the first time that’s happened, though, and I’m sure it won’t be the last).

But, it was a short reprieve. We hadn’t been asleep an hour – at most – and the Captain sprang back into action. He was up, walking around on the deck, making sounds that sounded all too much like he was readying the boat. I was cursing him from the vberth below. But, I finally roused and asked him what the plan was. “We’re going,” he said. “It’s beautiful out here. Not a cloud in the sky. We can make it to Ft. Myers today.”

That man … He’s got a sailor’s heart, no doubt. But, his enthusiasm was infectious. I started nodding my head slowly, then with a little more vigor, like a slow standing clap. You’re damn right we can! Our plan had been to make it to Ft. Myers that day and, after the horrendous night we had had in the Gulf, and we were now here, safe in the ICW, just a 5-6 hour motor away from our goal, then by gollie, let’s do it. Let’s get to Ft. Myers today! I started readying the boat with him.

And, if there is anything out there like “sea karma” or “gulf good will,” we had certainly earned ours. It was a beautiful motor day. Phillip was right, the sun was shining, the sights were superb along the ICW – Cayo Costa, Cabbage Key, all of the state parks along the way. We had definitely earned some favors from the Sea Gods (if there is such a thing). We tied on some swimwear and let our hair down. It was a glorious day on the boat!

This way Cap’n!

We let the solar shower warm on the deck during the day and enjoyed a luxurious cockpit shower in the afternoon. It’s amazing how much you can take for granted the feeling of just being clean. That is one of the things I truly love about sailing. How much it makes you appreciate the little things – a hot shower, a warm bed, a hearty home-cooked meal. Many of the things that, in all the hustle and bustle of a stressful day-to-day life on land, just seem like an afterthought, feel like a lavish treat when you’re out on the boat. It doesn’t take much, a good book perhaps, a warm cup of coffee, and you’ll find yourself warmed from head to toe with complete contentment.

We made easy way along the ICW that day through Pine Island Sound,

over to San Carlos Bay, by Sanibel Island,

and under the Sanibel Causeway Bridge to Ft. Myers Beach.

We were really excited to see the Beach in the distance. We had made it! The same day we had expected to – which was shocking considering the night we’d had. It was strange how the howling winds and treacherous seas of the Gulf now seemed a million miles away. Nothing could phase us here in Ft. Myers!

Do I really do that? Make that stupid face and thumb-point to landfall behind me?

Apparently … I certainly felt the need in St. Pete.

Well, let’s just throw in a self-serving selfie while we’re at it:

Needless to say, we were thrilled to be coming into Ft. Myers Beach. We even spotted a Pensacola boat headed in with us.

“Look Captain. He’s from P’Cola!”

How fortuitous. Take us on in Pensacola!

When we made it to the Matanzas Pass Bridge, we saw this massive pirate-looking ship just in front of the bridge – its mast easily too tall to get under:

And, there were these guys, way up in the rigging, doing some repairs or something I guess. But, they were dangling there, hundreds of feet from the ground (okay, I don’t know – maybe 70 feet – some courageous number I’m sure):

It was wild. We learned later that the boat was used for filming some of the scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean. You’re telling me Johnny Depp’s been on this boat? This … very … boat?

Mmmm Hmmmm … I would hurt him …

But, back to Phillip. And, the boat. We made our way nicely under the bridge and snagged a mooring ball in the Matanzas Harbor Mooring Field. Operated by the Town of Ft. Myers Beach and again, great rates – $15/day – includes dingy dock, restrooms, shower, laundry, pump-out, you name it. That place rocked!

And, I feel thankful now that we had really paid our dues the night before, fighting and leaping our way across the Gulf, because I think we ranked up just enough good will to save us from this one last catastrophe — a storm … of biblical proportions.

We made it to our mooring ball with ease and hooked up. Ahhh … Nothing to it. We’re experts on the ball now. I stepped up into the cockpit to snap a few shots to capture our new “home” for the next few days, and I’m glad now that I did. Because this is what we saw come over the horizon:

You see the Matanzas Bridge there?

Good, because do you see it now?

The rain came in sheets. Torrential, hard-hitting sheets. Not ten minutes after we had hooked up. Phillip ran up topside to get some our clothes and things off the “line” (the lifelines) and he came back soaked in seconds.

The sky grew an ominous boding grey,

And, rain buried the boats around us.

The wind was blowing 38 mph, with gusts of 42. It was intense and immediate. Frightening but thrilling at the same time. I really felt like I was going to start seeing animals, paired in twos, running along the shore to safety. And, while the thought didn’t strike me until the storm had passed, I can only wonder now what we would have done if that storm had hit 15 minutes earlier …

“Way to Work the Hydro Foil!”

June 13, 2014June 13, 2014anniedike

April 16, 2014

The wind was pumping when we headed out into Tampa Bay the next morning.

19.6 nautical mph. We motored out, nose into the wind, and as we were headed out into the bay, I swore to Phillip I could see a kite on the horizon.

Just the tiniest blip. See it there:

But, this guy was flyyyy-ing! Well, more than the kite. He was zipping across the water, at alarming speeds, with almost no wake. Phillip and I kept watching him zip back and forth, until he finally came up on us, and we could see that he was on a hydrofoil.

I don’t know if you all have seen these yet. They kind of blew my mind when folks first started telling me about them. “So, you’re kiteboarding, but your board is not really touching the water??” I really couldn’t wrap my mind around it until I saw it in person, but that’s what it is. There’s a lower fin, the foil, that pushes water upwards, like an airplane wing, to literally lift the board up out of the water.

See? Pretty bad ass if you ask me. That Bernoulli guy really knew what he was talking about. But, in the water, less surface contact means less friction and more speed. I believe the hydrofoil was initially designed for the America’s Cup vessels, but don’t quote me on that. It is really insane to think these tiny fins have enough power to lift those monster racing yachts out of the water, but they do. Water is an incredibly powerful force.

So, this kiteboarder was zipping through the waters of Tampa Bay on a hydrofoil, and he came right behind us. I mean, right …

behind …

our boat.

It was awesome. Check out the video here:

After a collective sigh and a slow recovery of our jaws from the floor of the cockpit, we decided to finally do some sailing. We pulled the main up to the first reef point to ease out of the Bay in the still steady 20 knot winds. Strange, though, all morning the sun had this luminous circle around it. It looked like some kind of reverse solar eclipse or something.

The Captain and I were stumped. If any of you followers know what phenomenon this is, please, do tell. It felt like we were sailing in some sci-fi thriller. I kept thinking I was going to look down from the sky and find us sailing through pitch black waters toward a golden crystal on the horizon known as the Isle of Vriptonia. It was weird.

Thankfully, the sun circle eventually dissipated and the wind laid down as we made our way out of the pass, and we ended up having a great sailing day – steady 12-14 knot winds all afternoon through crystal green waters.

We said goodbye to Egmont Key (no sweet dreams there!) and headed out into the Gulf!

Nothing like our buddies on Laho (you guys rock!), but some great amateur sailing footage here:

You can tell, though, that we were moving! We averaged 6 knots most of the day, thinking we would easily make it into Ft. Myers the next morning. While we had a great time in St. Pete, heading out on the town every night, checking out the rooftop bars and fine dining, we were both excited to be back out in the open water. Just the two of us and the boat, looking forward to a silky sunset and a serene night sail under the stars.

Unfortunately, that’s not what we got. The placid sunset was a deceptive omen. The wind had been blowing a steady 8-9 knots most of the evening and it looked like it was going to hold true through the night. So, after the sun dipped out of the sky, we decided to set up a movie on the laptop in the cockpit. Now, you remember what happened to us the last time we tried to have Movie Night on the ole’ Rest. Perhaps we should have taken it as a sign. Like when you wash your car and it rains. Because, it seems, when we set up for movie night on our boat, sh** tends to hit the fan.

It wasn’t ten minutes after we’d nestled in that the winds kicked up to 15 mph. The boat heeled over and groaned, but we were fine. Overpowered for a quiet evening sail, but still fine. We paused the movie and decided to reef the sails a bit and that’s when total chaos ensued. In a matter of five minutes, the wind went from 9 knots to 15 to TWENTY-FIVE. We were trying to wrestle the sails down to the first reef but the Jenny was whipping and popping in the winds, and there was so much force on her, even luffing, she felt impossible to pull in. After struggling with the sails for several minutes, we were turned every which way, and Phillip decided we had better crank the engine and drop the sails to get back on course. The right call, but still a bit of a dangerous proposition in and of itself. The wind had kicked up the sea state and we were beating into 3-4 foot waves. It took both of us to muscle the Jenny in. I then headed up to onto the deck to wrestle the main sail down into the stack pack, careful this time to fasten my safety harness and clip in everywhere I went. And, it was a good call, there were several times a wave hit and I had to grab onto my harness for balance. It was a bit of a Deadliest Catch moment but, thankfully we got the sails down and secure.

That was just the beginning though. The wind definitely brought some rough seas, and we were beating into waves, bare poles, fighting our way through the Gulf. The boat actually felt like it was leaping sometimes. It would lunge over the top of a wave, but then come almost to a dead stop at the blunt face of the next one. It’s hard to imagine a 35-foot, 16-ton vessel can be so agile, can move or be moved so easily, but out in the open Gulf, I assure you it can. It’s incredibly humbling to be reminded of how absolutely tiny and fragile you are out there in the open water, no matter how big your yacht.

The sea was not our friend that night. The sounds of the boat groaning and pounding into waves was deafening below, and there was no way either of us were going to be able to sleep in those conditions. We both hunkered down and strapped in in the cockpit, our eyes glued to the instruments, pleading with the wind to ease off. But, she wouldn’t. She kept coming at us in swift torrents, holding a steady 25-28 knots for hours on end. All we could do was hold our course, hold onto the boat and hold out until daylight.

This was Phillip in the eighth hour:

April 3, 2014 – Keys Log Day 1: Lazy Jack Snap!

April 17, 2014April 16, 2014anniedike

Clearwater by Sunday morning was going to be a two-day, three-night haul. The longest Phillip and I had ever undertaken together, but we were excited about it. Invigorated by the challenge and adventure of it. But, it was early in the trip – we were still feeding happily on excitement, adrenaline and the thrill of taking sailing selfies!

Look at me! I’m headed out to SEA!

We had a great sail out into the Gulf. The tide was coming out at the Pass and, even with a strong southeast wind pushing against us, it pretty much gushed us out of the pinchpoint at 4 knots. We motored through to be sure to stay in the channel, but once we were safely out, we cut the engine and clocked over southeast.

It was around dusk at that time, and I learned another of many important lessons in sailing. Don’t try to eat light when you’re sailing. “Oh, I’ll have the salad greens with the low-fat dressing, please.” No. That’s not going to cut it darlin’. We had been working on the boat all morning, packing up the last of the provisions, re-tying the Jerry cans and the anchor, running the solar lights, packing more provisions, filling the water tanks, etc. A lot of up and down the companionway stairs, hauling heavy items here and there, in general, some hard work. And, allst I had was a bowl of cereal and a little salad under my belt. Probably around 600 calories … total, and I’d probably burned about 2,469.82 calories, approximately, by that time. I was starting to feel a little pekish and convincing myself it was not seasickness. I’ve crossed the Gulf before, in 4 to 6 foot seas. I don’t GET seasick. But, I just felt weak, a little queasy, a little weird. Then Phillip mentioned the idea of dinner and it sounded like some grand revelation. Food?? Why yes, yes I would like dinner! And, let me tell you, I ate my friends. I started inhaling and choking down my fair share and thensome of the tuna salad we had brought for dinner while Phillip eyed me suspiciously as I shoved heaping forkful after heaping forkful clumsily into my mouth. And, he told me I needed to eat more. “You need to eat before you’re hungry,” he said. And, he was right. I should have stock-piled some energy hours ago. But, I wasn’t going to let this happen again. I started eating! A handful of almonds, three handfuls of pretzel crisps, followed by chocolate-covered pretzels, peanut butter Chex, trail mix, some snap pea crisps, some more almonds, before I finally just gave it up and inhaled a calorie-dense protein bar – much like the kind boxers scarf when they’re trying to get to the next weight class. I was ravenous, carnivorous, OM-nivorous. Eating anything in sight with unabashed abandon.

But, within minutes, I felt better. Much better. Food. Who knew? Ladies – it doesn’t matter if you’ll be slipping into a bikini later, if you’re sailing, you’re burning it off. Eat early and eat often.

Unfortunately, the wind was right on our nose all evening and into the night. We were taking long tacks back and forth, trying to make our way upwind but not making much ground. While underway, we entered our coordinates, as well as our heading, speed, the sea state, weather and other note-worthy items, in the log book.

The afternoon sail was nice, albeit not very productive, i.e. we didn’t make much ground toward Clearwater, but it was a comfortable sail. After the sun dropped down, we donned our safety gear and settled in for the evening.

Later in the evening, the wind picked up to 15 knots, and we put the first reef in the main, followed by the second, followed by a reef in the Jenny. The sea state was probably 4 to 5 foot waves, thoughout the night, which made for some rough wave jumps and crashes on the boat, all of which sound entirely manageable in the cockpit but horrific down below. When we started taking our two-hour shifts, it was hard to close your eyes and try to get some sleep when each wave sounds like the hull is cracking in half. It’s not, and some part of you deep down knows that, but another small part also asks “Are you sure? Was that a crack? Maybe I should get up and check … ”

That first night was pretty rough. We rode waves up and down, crashing water over the bow, and occasionally spraying us in the cockpit, and took turns getting fitful, disjointed pockets of sleep. But, the true champion that night was Otto — our auto pilot. That guy. I mean. Damn! He held through howling 15 knot winds and rolling 5 foot seas. He held much more than I ever thought he was capable of. He would, of course, on occasion, lose his ability to grip the wheel. It would spin freely under his belt, his motor screeching out trying to stop it, and then he would follow up with a cackling cascade of beeps to let you know he was losing it. As much as you wanted to curse him. (Okay, I did often – “Damn you Otto!”), you really couldn’t. He held the wheel probably 80% of the night. I mean, a little slippage was allowed. But, the problem was, if you weren’t at the wheel the moment he slipped, by the time you jumped back there, clipped in, got your bearings and turned Otto off it was sometimes too late. He’d fallen too far off course and you were in a jam, having to turn the boat around in a large circle and catch the wind with a forceful pop around the backside. Needless to say, it was a long night, and was certainly hard on the boat.

We woke the next morning to find out just how much. Phillip was holding the sunrise shift and when I started to blink to, thankful to see light pouring in through the windows, Phillip heard me stir, and shouted down to me, “I’ve got bad news.” Oh-no, I thought. That’s just what we need. I scrambled up the companionway to see what he was referring to. And, there it was, the remains of our lazy jack lines (on our new stack pack) strewn haplessly across the deck. The eyelet on the spreader that held them up had snapped clean off.

Well, they must be called lazy jacks for a reason. Perhaps we could handle the not-so-lazy route for the rest of the trip. In all, considering the night we had, it seemed a minor loss, really. One day down and only one piece of (lazy-slash-luxury) equipment down. We shrugged our shoulders and continued south. What do you have in store for us Day Two?

November 29, 2013: Last Day – The Places You’ll Go

January 16, 2014anniedike

With that succulent bird basking before us, it didn’t take long before plates started clanging, corks were popping and knives were pulled from their sheaths. Yes, we keep them in sheaths. We’re sailors, remember?

See? She is totally a sailor. … Totally.

I whipped my sea-gull carver out of its holster and went to town on that turkey.

I severed every single morsel I could off of her while the crew hauled the patio table in from the balcony (very classy) and set us a royal feast.

We snapped a few fun shots on the deck and toasted the sunset while the last of the Thanksgiving goodies were baking.

And, I can assure you none of us was donning anything that could be remotely considered a “skinny jean” for this meal. Calories don’t count on Thanksgiving – or so I’ve been told. Only stretchy pants and elastic waistlines would do for this crew. And, if what they say about turkey is true, it certainly worked on Phillip and I:

ZZZZzzzzzzzz

Within fifteen minutes of dinner, we were out. (Although, it seems the turkey myth has been busted! Apparently, they now believe it’s actually a combination of booze, bad conversation and boatloads of carbs. Well, we had all of that too, so … who’s to say). We were sleeping soundly, with little wishbones and sweet potatoes dancing in our heads. And, John Besh. He was definitely dancing through mine. It was a great meal, spent with a great group and was a nice change of pace from the quiet little dinners Phillip and I had been cooking up on the boat during the voyage. But, we were – as always – ready to get back on her. We spent one more night on the pull-out at the condo, ran eight more loads of laundry (including the curtains) and started readying the boat the next morning for the last leg of our Thanksgiving Voyage.

We waved goodbye to our sail groupies, tossed the lines and headed back out toward Wolf Bay.

Dinghy in tow.

The wind was blowing about 25 knots that day, though, and it was some tight maneuvering through the ICW, so we couldn’t raise the sails for the day’s jaunt. We had to motor, but I shot some Pulitzer-worthy footage of us braving the wind and weather that day.

Video here. A Chilly Happy Holidays!!

The sun was out, though, which meant the temp was decidedly tolerable, and we weren’t suffering from frozen phalanges and snotsicles. This time. We motored from The Wharf back to Fort McRae and decided to drop anchor at one of our typical haunts, Red Fish Point (just west of Fort McRae), to enjoy one more peaceful night on the hook.

We curled up with some books and a few choice cocktails and took in our last sunset of the trip.

Great view of the pink horizon from inside the boat:

Although we had been out there ten days, it seemed to fly by. I couldn’t believe the trip was coming to an end. Getting a bit sentimental, I even made Phillip suffer through a shamefully embarrassing “selfie” to memorialize the event.

And, for those of you unfamiliar with the term:

Selfie:

A picture taken of yourself that is planned to be uploaded to Facebook, Myspace or any other sort of social media networking website. You can usually see the person’s arm holding out the camera, [or a shadow of the camera itself] in which case you can clearly tell that this person does not have any friends to take pictures of them so they resort to find internet friends on whose pages they can post pictures of themselves, taken by themselves.

Ouch. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that doesn’t apply to us. All evidence to the contrary (i.e., me, posting a selfie on the blog), we do have a few real friends. But, the term was apparently awarded the high honor of word of the year in 2013, with the best selfie shot going to this chick:

Who totally earned it with that heroic display. Click!

It even appears our esteemed president finds himself in the ‘selfie’ mood on occasion.

Perhaps Nelson Mandela’s memorial service was not the right occasion (even Jon Stewart says tssk, tssk), but if the president does it, then I don’t feel so bad about it.

After our selfie shoot wrapped and the sun set, I got creative and baked us up one last Thanksgiving treat – some fresh homemade pumpkin bread.

A box mix is still considered homemade, right??

It was delicious regardless and we savored the setting, the silence of the evening and the sanctuary of our last night on the boat. And, as it usually happens, the best is somehow inexplicably saved for last. The very last day of our 10-day ‘voyage’ turned out to be the best sail we’d had since the last leg of the Gulf Crossing. And, I’ll bet when I start to say “another great day of sailing on the Plaintiff’s Rest … ” many of you glaze over and check out, and while I get it. I do. At the same time, I hate it for you. I know it’s just because you don’t know how freeing sailing really is. I hope, with this blog, and my meager words, over time, I can change that. I can give you a glimpse of what sailing means to us. At the very least, I can try to take you along with us, transport you, plant you right there in the cockpit beside us, one hand gripped tight around the Jenny sheet, the other wiping a splash of salt water from your face, as you watch the sails pull taut and get that roller coaster feeling in your gut when the boat heels over. Hold on to your drinks kids, we’ve got plenty in store.

May 25, 2013 – The Crossing Finale – Not Very PC

September 23, 2013May 23, 2014anniedike

Like Phillip told me, apparently watching others dock is highly entertaining, particularly couples and particularly mouthy ones. It’s now a favorite past-time for Phillip and I. If Phillip and I are kicked back in the cockpit at the marina and we see some big troller coming in and hear the Captain shout “Now Linda, I need you to tie the springer line first this time!” (emphasis on first) our ears perk and we elbow each other and silently nod toward the troller because we know we’re about to get a show.

First off, trollers are huge. They need lines running from every direction to hold them in place.

Second, we know we’ve got a couple, a highly vocal Captain and a poor ‘Linda’ somewhere who’s scrambling for lines. We also know this is not the first time they’ve docked together because apparently old Linda didn’t tie the right line first last time and the Captain was displeased. He then shouted “And make sure to do a cleat hitch, remember!” (emphasis on MEM). Poor, poor Linda. A cleat hitch isn’t hard. It’s just around a couple of times, some swoop loops on each end and pull tight (or that’s how I’ve programmed it into my mind anyway – real technical Annie speak for you), but here ‘tis:

Sadly, though, it seems our dear friend Linda had been struggling with it. Poor, poor Linda. Phillip and I smiled slyly at each other. Oh yeah, this scenario is fraught with potential. We are definitely watching and standing ready to hop up and grab a line if Linda botches it.

It seems the good folks of Panama City felt the same about Phillip and I that day, and they, too, were definitely watching. Thankfully, they were also ready and willing to lend a hand. As the boat lurched into the slip, an old salt came running down the other side of the dock (apparently the side I should have jumped off on) and had Phillip throw him the stern line. He told me to jump back on the boat and toss him the bow line, which I did. I then jumped off, this time with a springer line in hand, and got us nice and secure. Whew! No crashed boat, no dock wreckage, and Phillip’s eyes finally returned to normal after an hour or so. Well, technically after a drink or three.

Having played the role of Let-Down Linda for the day and justifiably displeasing the Captain, as soon as we were showered up and back on the boat, I promptly threw him together a stiff drink. That always helps!

Here you go Cap’n.

Whew. He smiles. All better.

And yes, people, I was wearing a dress. You can see a little white fluffy sliver of it in the first pic. I mean, I only jumped off the boat without a line – no damage was done – it warranted a remorseful drink only, not a full-frontal apology, okay?

After drinks on the boat, we set off and and started foraging for drinks on the street.

Downtown PC was quaint and lively with fun little quirky bars scattered about. We decided on a place , that being The Place (http://www.theplacerestaurant.net/4543.html), and popped in for a swig.

The old-timey bar was great (and well-stocked!). Our bellies full of fine liquor and our “spirits” high, we stumbled on back to the marina to stock up on transmission fluid and hunker down for the night. Phillip played the domestic role this time and whipped us up an amazing batch of shrimp feta pasta.

Don’t crowd the onions!

This dish has definitely become a favorite for us on the boat. The ingredients are fresh and easy:

Onion, parsley, garlic and shrimp.

Oh, and butter of course. That salty, yellow bounty of the gods. Butter just makes everything better.

Tossed with fresh tomatoes and pasta. Super simple and easy to throw together at sea. (Recipe here: http://havewindwilltravel.com/2013/06/04/april-17-23-2013-the-crossing-chapter-two-sailors-delight/).

And, as it always seems is the case at marinas, we had some front-row seating to some real entertainment while we were making dinner. While we definitely prefer to anchor out as opposed to docking at a marina (for one, it’s cheaper – the nightly rate on the boat is … ummm … FREE) it is fun sometimes to stay at the marina and watch all the “crazies.” They’re everywhere. And, marinas seem to attract a very unique breed of them. Drifters, so to speak.

While Phillip and I were putting the finishing touches on dinner and setting the table up in the cockpit, we noticed the guy next to us was working on a real project boat. It was dusty and chalky with tools and buckets and hammers lying everywhere. A real mess of a boat. It looked something like this:

And he was coated with dirt and paint splatters, sweating and sanding away on the deck. Then, out of nowhere, we see this woman walking toward his boat. Well, I take that back we heard her first, very distinct heel clicks coming all the way down the dock. And, these were some serious heels, wedges I guess you would call them, about yay high:

Yeah, the crazy kind, that crazy people wear.

And when she finally came into view and we could take her in, she looked something like this:

Yeah … a real fox. And, paint-splatter guy looked something like this:

I know, right? This scenario was fraught with potential. We were definitely watching. Phillip and I slouched down a bit in our cockpit and eyed them furiously over the rims of our rum drinks. Miss Fox walked right up to his boat, gave him a knowing nod and held her hand out for assistance. Dirty Dude helped her into the cockpit, no words having been exchanged yet that we could tell, and she turned around and made her way backwards down the steps in the companionway. Granted, I think that’s the only way you can take steps like that

in heels like those.

Once she was down below, Dude put his hand in his pocket, pulled out something that I can only describe as “folding money,” fondled it for a minute, then shoved it back in his pocket and followed her down. Phillip and I shared an excited “inquiring minds want to know” look and kept our eyes on them. They stayed down for all of 3.5 minutes, give or take, and then she came back up solo (not a smudge of makeup out of place) stepped off his boat and clicked her heels right on down the dock. Dirty Dude came back up about a minute after, big grin on his face, chugging down some Gatorade and then he set back to work on this boat, like nothing ever happened. Phillip and I poured over the possibilities. Was she a hooker, a prostitute? His dealer, his daughter? Who the heck knows. Marinas are so entertaining. Hell, sailors are entertaining. This one, in particular, was not very PC.

Phillip and I could not stop chuckling about it as we plated up dinner.

Table for two please?

This place was super fancy. We had to make reservations well in advance. I mean, it was dinner

AND a foxy show.

We were ready for a relaxing evening after the passage from Carrabelle and we knew we needed a good night’s sleep before we made the last 24-hour run to Pensacola. We settled into the cockpit, devoured the shrimp pasta and toasted the sunset before calling it a night.

May 18, 2013 – A What Chair?

August 19, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

A bosun’s chair. Much to David Copperfield’s dismay, I’m going to reveal my secret. After I took you all to Such Great Heights last time, many of you seemed far more concerned with my safety than the halyard (really? the halyard is so important!) and you wanted to know whether I climbed the mast without a safety net. “Why yes, yes I did.” she said with a wink and a smile. There was no net, but I can assure you it was climbed safely. “How?” You ask. With a bosun’s chair!

No, not bison.

Bosun. (Yes – that’s me – rocking the Artic Cat outfit with the bison up in Yellowstone. Phillip and I saw plenty on our snowmobile tour through there when we went up to Big Sky last February to ski – you remember that trip: “Knee Schmee – Let’s Ski!” http://havewindwilltravel.com/2013/04/07/march-3-2013-knee-schmee-lets-ski/).

So, bosun. Let’s look it up, shall we?

bosun

NOUN (also bo’sun, boatswain)

ˈbəʊsn

; ˈboʊsn

An officer on a ship whose job is to take care of the equipment and the people who work on the ship.

A “swab,” basically. And a bosun’s chair is really just a fancy little strappy device that you can use to hoist a swab (like me!) up to patch the sails, untangle a line, get the halyard down, etc.

You sit in the chair and hook a halyard (I’m sure you’re starting to get this by now – a halyard is a line that’s used to raise anything on the boat – including people!) to the orange rings shown above, and your faithful captain hoists your happy-swabbing behind up to do his dirty work. You’ll see in this picture, I was safely seated in a bosun’s chair for the entire “death-defying” ascension:

See! There’s a big, strappy bosun’s chair swaddling my derriere at all times. And, apparently you all think my ass just looks that big without a bosun’s chair because no one asked what that big, honking thing was on my rear. Thanks for that.

In all seriousness, bosun’s chairs are quite useful for repairing sails or working on the mast, but, much like the Slap Chop, they have many other uses as well. You can latch one to the spinnaker sail (we’ll get to that another day) to swing out over the water:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95wJzlY6fwE

You can use it to drag misbehaving mates alongside the boat for punishment:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_5gm7329RI

You can even use it to hoist Granny up and throw her over the side:

“Bye Granny!” And, sorry, I couldn’t find a video for this one. I know people do it all the time. Apparently they just don’t post it to YouTube. I don’t know why. You’ll just have to let your imagination run wild.

So, the bosun’s chair. Although we did use it, as well as a secondary line, to ensure my ascent was made safely, that’s not to say the climbing act didn’t require some good ole’ Annie gumption and secret circus tricks. Do not try this at home kids – I began climbing and jumping things at a very young age and have a wealth of circus knowledge to pull from:

Oh yeah, that is 100% authentic. Notice the metal Tonka truck (that’s before they started cranking out all that plastic BS), the flat soccer ball and the “bench” made out of an old railroad tie sitting on cinder blocks. Yes, that is indeed my New Mexico backyard circa 1992.

I had no idea at the time that it would take me some day to such great heights. We merely found it entertaining. Unlike kids today, the only thing we thought could make a hot, summer afternoon in the backyard with some rope and rebar hammered into the ground better was ice cream. Just ask my high-waisted friend here. Those were such good times …

May 11, 2013 – Such Great Heights

August 14, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

After the bad news from Kevin about the batteries, we tried to call the marina in Carrabelle several times to get Mechan-Eric or a technician, anyone, on the phone to make sure our boat was plugged in and getting a charge. I finally got a woman on the line who said she’d “look into it” but I got the impression she was less than enthused and not nearly as concerned about our boat as we were. Or, scratch that, not nearly as concerned I felt she needed to be.

It sounded like she was writing my name and number down while painting her nails and twirling her hair, planning to leave them on a flimsy post-it note on the desk of someone who was already gone for the day. I was less than pleased with her response.

But it was Thursday. And, whether I went postal on her or not (which I didn’t – thinking she could light a match to the boat if she wanted to – best not to piss off the caretakers), we were not going to feel comfortable about the batteries until we went down there ourselves to see what kind of charge they would hold, if any. When we got back to the boat on Friday night, she was plugged in but only had about three (out of four) bars. That meant she was not yet fully charged but she was taking a charge, which was a good sign. When we had left her the weekend before she had NO bars – nothing, zilch, nada. So, some bars were good.

Now, I think it’s time for a fun little battery tutorial, don’t you? Because I now know way more than I ever want to about marine batteries and if I had to suffer through it, alas, so do you! So, shall we?

This is our E-Meter which shows four different readings for the batteries (these are the four circles under the “18.3” reading) from left to right:

1. “V” for Volts: Our battery bank is wired for 12 volt output. Meaning, the volts reading should ideally show around 12.5 – 12.6 volts (at max charge – a little over 12).

2. “A” for Amps: This reading (which is lit) is showing 18.3 amps are going into the battery because it’s plugged in and receiving a charge. This reading indicates the flow of amps either in (a positive number when the battery is receiving more charge than it is discharging) or out (a negative number when there is more discharge, like when we use it to run the fridge, lights, etc. while not simultaneously charging it). Much like a tank of gas, the batteries have a capacity to hold only a certain number of amps (i.e., gallons of fuel). Ours holds 450, so when we’ve burned 50 amps off and don’t re-charge it, we’ve only got 400 left, no more.

Knowing this, you start to get real familiar with just how many amps certain appliances are going to “cost” you. For instance, the fridge pulls about 4-5 amps/hour, the lights and fans another 1-2/hour, and these are purely luxuries (you can always bring ice and use flashlights). As you can imagine, it’s easy to start getting real “Scrooge-ey” with use of electronics on the boat.

Turn that light off would ya? It ain’t Christmas!

But, Scrooge or not, there are some things you simply HAVE to run whether you like it or not: a mast headlight so other boats can see you when you’re at anchor (1-2 amps/hour), navigation lights (bow, stern and mast) so other boats can see you when you’re under way at night (2-3 amps/hour), etc. Hence the all important “Ah” amp hour reading.

3. “Ah” for Amp Hours: This reading shows you how many “amp hours” you have pulled off of the battery, much like the needle on your fuel gauge. If the amp hours are showing roughly half of your 450 amps (around 225) remain, you’ve used about half of your tank of gas. Which begs the question: how long can I go on a half tank? That’s where the time reading comes in.

4. “t” for Time: This is the total time you have left on the batteries based on your usage and is akin to the number of miles you can go on the remaining gas in your tank. As you know, the faster you go, the less miles you can travel on that tank. Similarly, the more appliances you use, the less “time” you have left on the batteries. And, just as you don’t want to suck up all the rusty junk floating around in the bottom of your fuel tank, you don’t want to let your batteries get down below 50% because it’s not good for them. So, when you near the half-way mark, you should really try to give the batteries a charge (either by running the engine or plugging in if you have access to shore power).

See? All very interesting stuff that you can impress your friends with at cocktail parties.

Oh Bob … Your amp hour calculations are so exciting they make my head spin. Ha, ha ha!

Trust me, everyone is dying to know about marine batteries. I promise, just ask them. If they say they’re not, I would just walk away. They’re clearly boring people.

So, we let ours charge up fully and then unplugged her and kept the fridge and some lights running to see if she would actually “hold” a charge. It wouldn’t help anyone if she showed four bright shiny bars when we set off into the Carrabelle River only to drop down to nothing the minute we got back in the Gulf. This is what Kevin told us can happen when batteries are completely drained and re-charged. But, we were apparently lucky – this time. We watched her for two hours and she held a steady charge, which gave us hope.

With the battery situation now put to rest, we set our sights on the Genny and getting her raised back up on the forestay. (Recall that’s the wire that runs from the mast to the front of the boat that the Genny furls around).

Well, I’ll tell you we learned a very valuable lesson that day. “Don’t let go of the halyard!” That may mean nothing to you, but you’re about to see why it’s so darn important. It’s something terribly basic but easy to forget. Like the sailing equivalent to “Don’t crowd the mushrooms!” Such brilliant advice.

Thanks Julia!

So, the halyard. On a boat, that’s any line (which, remember, is a rope) that is used to raise a sail. On our boat, there is a clamp on the end of the halyard that pulls the Genny sail back up the forestay. After we had dropped the Genny halyard from the top of the mast down to the bow of the boat to lower and take off the Genny, we promptly pulled the halyard right back up to the top of the mast, thinking “What a nice, safe place for it. I’m sure it’ll drop right back down when we need it to … ”

We were dumb. So dumb. Julia herself should’ve slapped us.

BAM!

Because I’ll tell you what didn’t happen. That halyard didn’t drop. Wouldn’t drop. We shook and banged the line, hoping the clamp on the end of the halyard would vibrate and wiggle down, but it wouldn’t budge. So, I remind you again, “Don’t let go of the halyard!” Now, how does this all translate to entertainment for you? Trust me, it does. Because guess whose happy little ass had to climb that 50 foot mast to get the halyard down. Uh-huh … That’s right. Yours truly. Albeit a bonehead move and not one I think we will make again anytime soon (let’s hope), that little mistake of ours took me to such great heights:

And there she goes …

Annie are you okay? Would you tell us? That you’re okay?

I’m okay!

That is one tall mast let me assure you. And, you may be wondering how the heck you climb a thing like that. Years of training with Tibetan ninjas, that’s how.

But I think I’ve enlightened you enough for one day. I’ll save that post for another. I’ll tell you, though, it really did feel incredible up there. Every tiny little rock of the boat is magnified and it feels like you’re swaying from side to side like blowing with the wind in the top of a tall pine (when the boat below appears to be standing perfectly still). Funny thing about climbing a mast, though. It seems to attract a crowd. A bunch of old salts, who clearly had nothing better to do, started to gather around as I ascended, telling Phillip “Woman like that oughta have a sister!”

I do. She just didn’t get the looks in the family so we don’t really like to acknowledge her.

Poor thing. I don’t know what she’s made of herself. Probably nothing nearly as cool as a sailor-slash-blogger. Not nearly.

The good news is I made it down safe and sound and the boat was looking ready to go. We emptied out the fridge and turned off all the electronics so she would stay juiced up no matter the “plug” situation. Mechan-Eric told us they were expecting the new transmission to arrive the next week and then they would drop it in there. All seemed right with the world, so Phillip and I headed home to start planning the last leg of The Crossing – over drinks and dinner of course! Phillip made us his famous pan-seared grouper and mushroom risotto with sauteed spinach to celebrate the big climb:

Because he’s just kind of amazing that way.

May 9, 2013 – Plaintiff’s Rest Unplugged!

August 8, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

We woke up the next morning to a hot, stuffy boat. The fans we had blowing on us during the night, our “boat AC” if you will, weren’t running and we were sweating like two prostitutes in church. The fridge wasn’t cold either so a nice, refreshing glass of OJ was out of the question, too. What kind of five-star operation was this? Pretty Woman got better treatment than this, and she was an actual prostitute! Phillip went up to check on the cord and, sure enough, Plaintiff’s Rest had most definitely been unplugged:

Ours is the sad, little unplugged one on the bottom.

We had been operating under the assumption that our boat would remain plugged in while the folks at the marina were working on it, which is why we had left the fridge running. Don’t want the caviar and Cristal to go bad. Well, you know what happens when you assume … There we were – two asses baking on the boat.

It could have been our boat neighbor, good ole’ Tenille, who unplugged us so he could run a belt sander or beer fridge or something, or one of the mechanics or some other boat that pulled up. We eyed everyone around us suspiciously, but the truth was we had no way to know who dunnit and it didn’t matter anyway. It was already done. The batteries had run clean out. We plugged her back in so she could recharge and started packing up to get back home.

If you recall, we had taken the Genny sail down so we could re-sew the sail cover. Now, the sailing newbies out there (trust me, I used to be one) may be scratching your head. What on earth does that mean? Let me drop some sailing knowledge on you. So, the Genny (short for genoa sail) is the headsail on the boat.

It’s called the headsail, or foresail, because it’s for-ward, up near the “head” (the bow) of the boat, as opposed to the back (the stern). The Genny is furled (really fancy sailing term for ‘rolled up around’) the forestay, which is the wire that runs from the mast down to the front of the boat. In the previous photo, she’s pulled out, and here, she’s furled up:

Now, you may be thinking: Well, how do you pull her out and roll her back up? Great question. With your teeth! I’m kidding (but that may explain some scraggly pirate grills out there …

No, you do it the same way you handle all sails on the boat – with lines (another real fancy word for rope!). So, you have lines (ropes) that pull the Genny out, either to the starboard side or to port

You see them here, one going to either side of the boat.

You then secure them on either the port or starboard side with big wenches in the cockpit. You remember these (they debuted in several of The Crossing photos):

And you roll (furl) her back up with one line that runs back to the cockpit and it spins the drum you see here at the base of the Genny to roll her up:

Ahhh … learning. Wasn’t that fun? Reminds me of the good old days of PBS and “The More You Know!”

Oh, and Reading Rainbow circa 1983.

And if his pink ski jacket and knitted fingerless racquetball gloves (hot!) didn’t take you back, this certainly will: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQcItttVuRY.

So, the UV cover on the Genny is the green trim you see here:

That covers the entire sail when it’s rolled up to protect it from UV damage when it’s not being used.

The cover on our Genny had begun to tear and flap during The Crossing which meant we needed to sew her back down to be sure our Genny was getting adequate protection from the sun. Nobody likes a burnt Genny.

So, we packed the sail up and took it over to our trusty broker’s house for some hard-core Martha Stewart action with the sewing machine. Did somebody say Sew Party?!?! Yes, please!

Roll that fabulous footage:

Yep, that’s exactly what you think it is. A big ass sail we dragged into Kevin’s foyer.

Kevin was a rockstar with the sewing machine.

After we (well, I should say Kevin – he did all the real work) got her all stitched up, we dragged her out to the front lawn to properly flake her.

In other words, fold her up right – like so:

It took some thinkin’

More on my part than the boys. But that didn’t stop me from telling them how to do it (never does!):

But we got it done and shoved her back in the Prius till we could get her strung back up on the boat.

Then, as one always must do after sewing festivities, we engaged in a rousing arts and crafts session with Kevin and Laura’s little cutie – Kai (beautiful name by the way – it’s Hawaiin for ‘Ocean’ – he’s clearly got sailor’s blood).

Did someone say Sticker Party?!? Yes, please! Let’s face it – pretty much anything that ends with “party” is going to be a ‘yes’ in my book!

Anyone who can rock a Sponge Bob sticker on the forehead gets a kiss from yours truly!

Great fun was had by all and it was very productive. We got the sail cover fixed and we thanked Kevin, Laura and Kai by leaving them with an original, signed hand-made Annie sticker masterpiece.

So good it kind of blows your effin’ mind, right? I know. I get that a lot … They can hock that puppy once I die and make some real dough!

But, we had one major problem. As we were telling Kevin about the boat and the battery situation, he laid some nasty news on us. Apparently, it is not good at all to run the batteries on the boat completely down. Turns out simply plugging her back in doesn’t always work. Once they’re run completely out, they sometimes can never be charged back up, or if they do charge up, they can’t hold the charge. Kevin was worried our batteries might never recover.

I tell ya … with boats … if it’s not one thing it’s a damn-nother.

We still had one more leg of The Crossing to make (about a 48 hour sail total) to get her from Carrabelle back home to Pensacola, and if the batteries were toast, we were going to have to throw a new batch in along with a transmission. So, we needed to know exactly what kind of state our batteries were in – sooner, rather than later. We jumped back in the car the next day and drove our happy behinds back to Carrabelle to check on the boat … yet again.

Nice action shot of Phillip making the drive – all serious and Japanese anime-like. Go, go Speed Racer!!!