Sail Skills – Page 6 – Have Wind Will Travel

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Seven – Right of the River

July 8, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

We didn’t reach the mouth of Carrabelle River until around 9:00 p.m. on Monday night. It had been a very long day (and an even longer night). Nerves were worn and it was clear we were trying not to snap at each other but anything that had previously come across as an easy request or friendly suggestion (“Hey Mitch, can you had me that line?”) now seemed like a personal attack and was responded to in kind (“I was just about to give it to you” with a snare). We were just exhausted. We’d been at sea for about 36 hours, and the dinghy incident had really drained us. And, we were hungry. Which didn’t help matters. All we wanted to do was dock, shower, eat and rest. In that order.

We were able to find the entrance to the river on the Garmin, despite the sad excuses for markers. I mean, it’s usually pretty easy to see the red and green blinking lights at night, they look like Christmas trees on the horizon, but these must have been the Charlie Brown version.

They were blinking once every four seconds, at best, and were barely eeking out enough light that it you squinted and turned your head to the left, you could just make them out. We were like George Costanza without his glasses – spotting those dimes!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5gxLzoK2-Rc

But, spot them we did and began making our way into the river. Phillip asked me to find a marina on the river, whatever was closest that had fuel, water and pump-out, get directions in, and get us a transient slip for the night. Sounds like a tall order, and for me, it was. That’s a lot to ask of a blonde (I mean, directions? Are you kidding?). But, remember what I said about the personal attacks. Phillip was in no kind of mood for questions. I just started Googling and hoped for the best. I got another Harry-Dick-Lou character on the phone. He was with The Moorings marina on Carrabelle River. And, I swear to you, these are the exact directions he gave me:

“Just stay ‘right of the river’ till you get around the bend, then you’ll see our fuel sign.”

Now remember who I’m dealing with – your average, everday dockmaster:

I asked several times for clarification (knowing this probably wasn’t going to suffice Phillip), but that’s all he would give me: “Just stay right of the river and you won’t have any problem.” Right of the river. I have to admit I was a bit confused. I was sure he meant stay on the right side of the river. Surely that’s what “right of” meant. But, I’d never quite heard it put that way (and mind you, I know a good bit of ‘country’ directional terms: up yonder, down yonder, past the ditch, up a ways, etc.) But, I guess I’ve never been introduced to nautical country, and I was clearly struggling. I came up to the cockpit and relayed the directions to Phillip, watching his face closely for what I was sure was going to be disapproval. His shoulders dropped and he looked me dead on and asked, “Right of the river?” He had the same reaction as I did. What exactly did that mean? Well, I tell you, we were about to learn.

We started into the river, trying to stay on the right side as much as possible, but Carrabelle River is about 100 yards across in some places, pretty narrow for a sailboat. The left bank was marshy and overgrown, and the right bank was littered with docks and piers and homemade sea walls. There were also plenty of boats docked up on the right side, jutting out and forcing us more toward the “middle” of the river, than the “right.” It was also hard to see in the river at night. There were just a few little pier lights and street lights casting a light glow on the water. We found a great spotlight on the boat only to find the DC inlet it plugged into wasn’t working. So, we relied solely on the ‘Costanza squint’ and kept checking the depth gage every few seconds. Mitch saw some other sailboats anchored up ahead on the left side of the river, which gave us some comfort, but apparently too much. Mitch was pointing and we were all looking ahead, trying to make them out, when the boat came to an immediate, gut-halting stop. We all lurched forward as a thick, muddy sound erupted from the river.

We had run aground.

I couldn’t believe it. I had spent hours (yes, hours, probably – all told) watching that depth gage and calling out readings to Phillip. I knew it was a concern. I knew it was a possibility, but it’s like I didn’t believe it could actually happen. Surely the boat doesn’t go that deep …

Apparently it does. I thought that was it, we were through, that was the absolute worst thing that could happen. Images of the boat looking like this the next morning flashed through my mind:

But, thankfully, it seems if you’re going to run aground, the best place to do it is in thick, soft river mud. Phillip threw her in reverse and she lurched out, with a loud, muddy smack. We all let out a monstrous sigh of relief and started looking around, apparently with new clarity, because it wasn’t until then that we noticed, right in front of our faces, was a string of red day markers (no lights), forming a line beyond the middle of the river, showing us how far out the shoal came, leaving only a narrow channel between the markers and the docks on the right side that was deep enough to travel. Lou really meant right of the friggin’ river. Phillip rolled his eyes and shook his head, but kept on.

We made it to the marina and, this time, docked with ease. The river was protected from winds and we were a bit more experienced at bringing her in. We got her tied up and buttoned down and hit the showers. If I had to describe them, I would call them … semi-functional truck-stop showers.

Although some ‘stalls’ had flimsy, torn curtains, most had none at all, so they were pretty much like gym-class community showers, but at least I didn’t have as much to worry about as the boys.

Truth is, though, we were exhausted and smelly and dirty and salty. Any rusty spicket that dribbled luke-warm water on us would have easily been deemed the best shower we’d ever had. It’s funny how uncomfortable conditions can make you truly appreciate the smallest amenities of your everyday life. A hot shower … it was like a Christmas miracle.

I was second back to the boat. I climbed on board, every muscle and joint aching, deep, purple bruises forming on every bony prominence and just thoroughly exhausted, and I find Mitch stretched out on the settee. I mean laid out, the full length, arms behind his head, ankles crossed, totally kicked back and he asks me, “So … are you going to make that sausage for dinner?” It was a record-scratch moment. Time stopped, at least for a second. I wish I could have seen my face when he asked me that. Because if this is what Mitch was thinking:

Here’s what I was thinking:

I didn’t even know what to say. Thankfully Phillip walked in and I didn’t have to (because I don’t think Mitch would have wanted to hear it). I turned my back to Mitch, looked at Phillip and told him I was going to go check the dock lines while he got the sausage started for Mitch for dinner. I bit my lip and threw up an eyebrow as I passed him on the way out. I don’t know what conversation ensued while I went topside to emit some hot fumes but when I came back down Mitch was setting the table and pouring me a glass of wine and we all made dinner together and never mentioned it. There wasn’t any need. We were all tired, we were all hungry and I’m sure it was just his caveman instinct kicking in. “I am man. Feed me.”

Except this guy is way better looking than Mitch. Ooohhh … burrrnnn. Okay, now I feel better. (We’re even Mitch).

We inhaled our food, eyelids drooping and heads bobbing, and went straight to bed. I don’t think I’ve slept that hard since my last college bender. (Okay, my last bender – we all know it was well after college). We woke up a little disoriented and groggy, each blinking and looking at each other suspiciously wandering where exactly we were and why we felt like we’d been run over by a Mac truck. But, we rallied quickly, cracked some jokes about community showers and started readying the boat for the last leg of the passage. It was Tuesday morning. We were about a day and a half behind schedule, but we had crossed the Gulf. Our plan was to cruise along the coast to Panama City for a quick stop, overnight if necessary, before making the last leg of the trip into Pensacola Pass late Wednesday evening. We all moved with a little more spring in our step as we fueled up, pumped out and filled the water tanks. Phillip checked and filled the oil and we cranked her up and started back down the river.

I went down below to start some coffee and breakfast for the boys, making some light joke about sausage. But, just as I started to fill the kettle, a deafening blare filled the galley. It was the sound the engine makes when you turn the key just before starting it, and it was a somewhat familiar sound (in that I heard it often during the trip) but it was usually one sound in a series of several familiar sounds that ended with the cranking of the engine: click, beep, rumble, crank. This was just the beep. A shrill, lonesome, ear-piercing beep. Then it dawned on me (I know, I’m brilliant, try to keep up) that the engine wasn’t running. That’s why the beep seemed so loud and persistent. I heard footsteps pound overhead on the deck and Phillip shouted “Mitch, go get the … ” something. I couldn’t make it out, but the tone in Phillip’s voice was urgent. I climbed the stairs to the cockpit and saw Phillip looking frantically about, his hands on the key and ignition. Mitch shouted back to him, “Did you try to re-crank it?” Phillip looked at me and rolled his eyes. It was a legitimate question, but I mean, really?? Nope, I’m just sitting back here watching the wind blow. I could tell by now that we were having engine trouble, but I have to admit, as a sailing newbie that didn’t worry me immediately. So, the engine won’t crank. What’s the big deal? I know what you’re thinking. Remember, you heard it from me, first. I’m brilliant.

Then I looked out and the gravity of the situation set in. We were floating helplessly along the river. The narrow, shallow, expensive-boat-lined river. And, without the engine, we had no way to stop ourselves from crashing into any one of these options – the bank, the bottom, the half-a-million-dollar Catamaran that we were drifting effortlessly toward. It then dawned on me why Mitch had run up to the bow. He was trying to drop the anchor to stop us.

And, I know you boating enthusiasts and avid sailors are getting a big hearty laugh right now at my ignorance. Go ahead, laugh it up, seriously. Looking back on it now, I do too:

Golly jeepers Cap’n. The engine won’t crank? Are we in a pickle?

I was an idiot. I know this.

Phillip scrambled in the cockpit and asked me to help him get the other anchor out of the lazarette. We were both grabbing and throwing lines, jamming our hands in as fast as we could to get everything out because of course (of course!) the anchor was on the very bottom. I tore a huge chunk out of my knuckle in the process that I only discovered later by following the blood trail back to the lazarette. We finally got the anchor out and chunked it overboard. We fed out line frantically, hoping she would catch. We looked up to see where we were drifting and the owner of the half-a-million-dollar Catamaran, who, before, had just been gingerly polishing his boat, wiping away any small, unwanted spots and specks, was now watching a 35-foot, 15,000 pound unstoppable sailboat head straight for it. I gripped the line to the anchor and watched as the Catamaran guy stood up and stretched his neck tall like a crane, his hose now hanging aimlessly, splashing water loudly on his deck, and his eyes opening wide as we inched closer. There was nothing we could do. We were going to hit him.

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Six – Never Trust a Non-Drowsy Drug

July 1, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

After the dinghy incident, Mitch’s “non-drowsy” Dramamine kicked in again and we lost him to the settee (the boat’s version of the couch) for another 8 hours. Phillip and I stayed up at the helm through the night, enjoying the now smooth feeling of the boat heeling left to right and the pleasant swish of the hull rolling back and forth in the water. Don’t get me wrong, it was still spitting rain and we were chilled and soaked, clinging to the helm like a wet cat on the edge of the tub. But, without the screeching and banging of the dinghy on the back, what was once about as pleasant as the dragging of hooks across sheet metal now felt like a summer afternoon on a sun-drenched porch swing. I curled up next to Phillip at the helm, laid my head on his back, closed my eyes and let the movement and sounds of the boat engulf me. Although serene, the night was a bit eerie in the sense that we could not, had not, seen the horizon since sunset and there was not a sign of any other vessel that night, no other ship, boat, plane, train or automobile anywhere to be seen. We were still in the middle of the Gulf, completely alone, with stinging rain and cold winds. But, we bundled up and hunkered down at the helm.

The boat performed beautifully that night. The waves were still 4-6 feet, but she climbed them effortlessly and without complaint. It was as if the dinghy was the one bloody thorn in her heel and now that we had pulled it out and rubbed the wound, she embraced us with gratitude and carried us through the storm. Phillip, too, was a rock that night, holding the helm for about 8 hours, without complaint, despite the steady heeling and rough waves.

Once the sun came up on Monday, and we could finally see the horizon and the waves and assess our state of affairs in the daylight, my survival instincts sauntered to the background and my initial, adventurous tendencies returned. I whipped out the camera to begin, once again, documenting our tale. While trying to capture Phillip in photo at the helm, I inadvertently took a short video clip. Funny thing is, I scolded my phone at the time for going rogue but clearly she had the right idea as I wish I had recorded another 10 seconds to give you a real feeling of the waves we had been scaling for the last 24 hours. But, alas, as it always rings true, my “smart phone” is, indeed, smarter than I. I give you the clip regardless:

http://youtu.be/SDeP9-LlZIc

I fear, much like a third of a gopher, that video would only arouse your appetite without bedding her back down.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2qw6Hon013E (Complete with spanish subtitles for your viewing pleasure).

No, no. Only a whole gopher village will do for my faithful followers. Here you’ll find some much more fulfilling footage of the friendly, finned ambassadors that welcomed us that morning into the Pass at Apalachicola.

http://youtu.be/wYOXuOrBMkk

We’d been out to sea for approximately 27 hours (Phillip and I having spent about 24 of those in the cockpit or at the helm). A slightly-less ghastly Mitch finally woke to the light of day and joined us in the cockpit.

We finally made it into the Pass around noon and spotted land. The shelter from the shore also gave us some relief from the wind which, for the first time since we had left Clearwater, was finally pushing us along toward our destination as opposed to beating us broadside and making us fight for every nautical inch. But, most importantly, we were finally on the “other” side of the Gulf. We had done it, crossed it, conquered it, put it behind us and we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief having simply achieved it. Being in the Pass, in the sunlight and comfort of familiar shores, definitely put the crew and captain in good spirits.

We were eager to get to Apalachicola, get the boat secure and get ourselves to a hot shower. We finally regained cell signal and called the Bottom Line guys to check in. Although we learned later we had not actually lost radio contact the night before. The main unit below simply wasn’t working because the handheld had gone out. Once we disconnected the handheld, the main unit worked fine. But, that was certainly not the understanding the night before and, regardless, that revelation came a bit too late because it turns out the Bottom Line crew had been trying to hale us on the radio throughout the night and, after hours of no contact, had reported to the Coast Guard that they had lost contact with us. They were just getting into Apalachicola (about 3 hours ahead of us) and were glad to hear we were safe. We contacted the Coast Guard to let them know we had made it safely, albeit minus one dinghy. Looking back, that was a small price to pay.

We expected to get into Apalachicola around 3:00 p.m. and we motored along the Pass, enjoying the sights of land, other boats, a bridge, all the soothing signs of civilization around us. The Bottom Line guys had told us the bridge into Apalachicola was 65 feet, so we wouldn’t have any trouble getting under. One little lesson about sailing (a very obvious, but easily overlooked one – or at least I over-looked it) is that you can’t go under a bridge that’s too short for your mast. The mast on Plaintiff’s Rest’s is 50 feet, which is definitely on the high end of the spectrum and something we considered at length when we were thinking seriously about buying her. But, you learn, over time, that every option and feature on a boat is a trade-off. While a Sloop Rig, like ours, with a taller mast means less sails to deal with:

shorter masts (usually two – like on a Ketch Rig pictured here) means more sails to wrestle and wrangle:

I stand behind my original analogy in that finding the right sailboat is like finding the right mate. Any sailboat is never going to be absolutely, 100% perfect. There’s always going to be things about her that you have to work around or deal with, it’s just a matter of deciding which “flaws” you can live with and which ones you cannot. Our mast height is one we decided we were willing to live with. But, “living with it” means we have to check and double-check each time we come to a bridge. So, Phillip got the guy at the marina in Apalachicola (another Lou, Bob, Dick, Harry type) and asked about the bridge height. He told us he thought the bridge was 50 feet but that he wasn’t certain. Thanks man, real helpful.

This troubled Phillip to no end. And, for good reason, because I’ll tell you, the time to learn your mast is too tall for a bridge is not right when you come up on it.

As much as we may curse our mast on occasion, we never want to see her laying down on the deck like this:

So, Phillip pulled out the paper charts Jack had left on the boat to check the bridge height. Sure enough, the chart said it was 50 feet, which meant this Plaintiff was not going to be Resting anytime soon, and particularly not in Apalachicola. We began looking for another marina where we could come in to dock for the night and we found we had passed the inlet for Carrabelle River about eight miles back. (Funny, I’ll bet you’re thinking, like I used to – eight miles, that’s nothing, whip around!). Let me drop some knowledge on you. Our optimal speed in the boat is about 4-5 miles/hour. So, “eight miles back” translated to another two or so hours backtracking in the Pass (against the wind) and then another two to three hours to get into the river and get docked and it was 2:00 p.m. already. But, considering the dilemma with the bridge, it was the only option. The crew was a bit disheartened as we turned around and started steering away from Apalachicola. It was just there on the horizon, within reach it seemed, but we were now turned, steering away, putting more distance between the boat and land. Mitch and I stared back like two kids leaving Disneyland. Thankfully, though, the weather had died down at last, Mitch had regained color and we were moving along smoothly. We looked forward to getting to Carrabelle. Little did we know what was waiting for us in the River.

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Five – A Harrowing Debacle

June 24, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

Some of you have already heard this story and know where things are going. If you fall into this category, I hope you’ll keep reading with vigor, in search of any extra details I may have missed when I told it in person, which I’m sure was over big, hearty drinks and involved grand arm gestures and finely-crafted impersonations. If you do not fall into this category, I’m glad. That means you’re a virgin to my tale, which is no tale at all, and will be soaking it in for the first time. And, it will allow me to engage you in an old fashioned game of Can You Spot the Difference:

Okay, so there are many differences. Thankfully, in the latter photo, I managed to clean up and change my outfit (I do that on occasion). Although I am sitting all side-saddle and lady-like in the first photo, clearly, I’ve forgone that option and just plopped down full-frontal and tacky-like in the latter. In one photo I’m wearing gloves and the other I’m not. Okay, I’ll give you that as well. There’s also a coffee mug in the cup holder and a visor on the gear shifter (good eye my nerdy friends!). Sure, those are all well and good. But, what is the main difference? Look hard …

That’s right, the dinghy. And, the flag, true, but that’s attached to the davits (the steel arms) that hold the dinghy on the back of the boat. The difference is the dinghy. The damn dinghy. The source of our harrowing debacle. And I credit this title to a good friend of mine who, when I first told her this fine tale, which I lovingly called “the most exciting adventure of my life” (primarily because I survived it), claimed it sounded more like a ‘harrowing debacle’ than an adventure. Thanks Dottie. But, debacle or adventure, it happened. And, we all, thankfully, lived to tell the tale.

So, we set out Sunday morning on a beautiful morning sail, headed to Apalachicola. The sun was out, the wind was blowing and the boat was performing beautifully. We felt like we had taken measures to ready the boat for the storm we knew we were going to face, and we were ready to get the passage behind us. We started to see squalls on the horizon around 2:00 p.m. The waves were 2-3 at the time and we furled the Genny and reefed the main sail (pulled it down so only about half the sail was exposed to catch the wind). The Bottom Line guys had put some distance between us earlier in the day, and we could no longer see them on the horizon, but we knew we could hail them on the radio at anytime if we needed to check in. We were just motoring along, holding our heading, bracing for the storm. The wind picked up in the afternoon to 20 knots, and we dropped the main sail entirely and latched her down. The sea state increased to 3-4, and the waves were hitting us broadside on starboard (the right side of the boat). And by that, I mean there was no way to turn into the waves to cut into them and ease the impact on the boat.

Much like the red boat in this picture, but we were almost directly parallel to the waves.

We were headed northwest and the winds were coming at us northeast. There was nothing we could do but let the boat heel to and fro over them.

Graphic – boat heeled to starboard.

Visual – boat heeled to port.

And heel she did. Probably 50-60 degrees in each direction. Back and forth. For hours. I snapped a few shots trying to capture it, but the pictures just don’t do it justice. You have to really experience it to appreciate the sensation.

Notice Phillip’s foot propped up on the portside of the cockpit, bracing himself. And, do also notice the Gorton’s Fisherman pants he’s wearing.

The rain started late afternoon and spat at us all evening and into the night. With the rain and waves splashing over the starboard deck, we were all getting soaked in the cockpit. So, we scoured the boat that afternoon hoping Jack had left some good wet weather gear behind, and boy did he! We struck gold with a complete Gorton’s fisherman outfit – big yellow hat and all.

We each swapped and shared each piece of that yellow rubber suit – jacket, pants, hat and boot. When it came time to hold the helm, you could hear each of us holler at one of the other “Where’d you put the Gorton’s hat?” “I need the Gorton’s pants!” And, I think I heard at one point, “God, I love Gorton!” We certainly appreciated that dry, rubbery goodness. That stuff is for real.

The waves kept coming and the rain stayed on us all afternoon. We were pruny and drenched and squinting out onto the horizon, only to see clouds, darkness and swells. We tried to hale the Bottom Line boys on the radio at one point to see how they were faring, only to find our radio had gone out. (We later learned only the handheld in the cockpit had shorted, due to the heavy drenching, and our main unit down below still worked once the hand-held was disconnected – but we certainly did not know that at the time). We were 150 miles offshore, in 4-6 foot seas with no radio. But our engine powered through and we pushed on, heeling left and right for hours. You could often look down and see the water was just inches away from the deck.

At first, it was hard for me to believe every time the boat kicked over that it was, in fact, going to right itself. But, it did. It does. Every time. The boat always comes back up. And, after enough heeling and righting, you start to develop limitless trust in the boat. No matter how far she heels over, you never believe for one second that she will actually tip. Not ever. Like she’s a Weeble or something.

Unfortunately, after several hours of weebling and wobbling, Mitch started to get a little green around the gills. He kept fumbling around for something in his bag and couldn’t find it. Remember what I told you about him going up and down the companionway stairs? He looked like a grown man romping around the Play Place at McDonald’s. So it was incredibly obvious when he kept going down below to “find something” only to come up empty-handed. He finally faced the music and admitted to us that he was looking for his Dramamine (as if we didn’t notice he had lost all the color in his face and his head had been hanging low on his shoulders for hours). You can tell from his solemn expression in this photo; he was irretrievably seasick:

We finally found his Dramamine tucked away behind some hidden zipper in his bag, and he dosed up. I noticed at the time the package said “non-drowsy,” but I’m here to tell you that was the not the effect it had on Mitch. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Mitch tossed his cookies just a few times. To his credit, he found himself a bucket and kept it nearby, trying to be a gentleman about it, but I kept coming across that dad-burn thing on the table, or the kitchen counter, splashing around and reeking with vomit. I wanted to tie it around his head like a horse with a feed bucket.

He declined.

But his meds must have finally kicked in, because Mitch perked up for a bit (probably just a placebo effect and mental fortitude) and sat up with us in the cockpit as we soaked up the last bit of daylight. The waves were around 4-5 then, and our trusty captain held fast at the helm while we watched the sun set.

As the last bit of light dipped below the horizon, a loud ping rang out of the cockpit. It was the same sound Phillip and I had heard on our last passage when we found the sheared bolt head. Phillip and I looked at each other knowing it had to be another bolt. But a deeper worry was the thought that it likely came from the same place. Some plate or bracket or other immensely-important fastening device on the boat was giving way. This time I didn’t look around the cockpit to find the bolt head that had flew to its watery death at our feet. We knew it was a bolt head. What was more important was where it came from.

I immediately started looking around the cockpit again, at shackles and pulleys, the bimini frame, everywhere. But, the answer screeched out as us before I could find her. Just as the boat heeled hard to port against a wave, the davits on the stern rail screeched and the dinghy swung to the left and clanged.

Here’s another shot of her portside from the day before. You can see the davit arm reaching out over the back of the boat holding the dinghy up, and the outboard motor (with the green cover) was attached to the dinghy as well. The dinghy itself weighed about 100-150 pounds, and the outboard another 150.

We all stared at her for a minute, thinking the same thing: it was the davits, those stupid, frail, stainless steel little rods holding up the dinghy and the outboard motor on the back of the boat. But, it was as if we all wanted validation. We waited in silence as the boat heeled to the starboard side and eased down the wave and another swell came toward us. The davits squeaked a bit and we could see the dinghy nudging its way back to the right, but when the next wave came and sent the boat effortlessly over to port, we all watched as the davit brackets on the stern rail slid visibly down the stern rail to port side. The davit arms swung to the left and clanged as the weight of the dinghy swung around. If we wanted validation, we got it. The davits were not going to hold.

We examined the davit bracket on the portside rail and found, sure enough, two bolts on it had sheared through.

This is the bracket the bolts were shearing off on, and by the end of it, it had slid about a foot to portside, almost around the corner of the stern rail.

There were only two bolts left in the bracket. We began looking for spare bolts, all over the boat, to fill the holes but we couldn’t find one the same shape and size. We had brought a lot of spare parts for the passage: primary and secondary fuel filters, oil filters, impellers, gaskets, fuses, belts, etc. We felt we had really tried to think of everything that could possibly go wrong, but I have to say, replacement bolts for the dinghy davits just in case they started shearing through was just not something we had planned for. We got creative. We started filling the bolt holes with cotter pins for sails, allen wrenches, anything that would slide through and somewhat hold. We also started tying the dinghy with any rope available, trying to stop it from banging to port every time we climbed a wave.

We tied it every which way to try and stop the portside banging. And, it seems it was the last physical act Mitch could stomach. After that it was: Going,

Going,

Gone.

Goodnight Mitch.

He was out. Like a light. Phillip said he had never seen someone so sick able to sleep so soundly. Non-drowsy my ass. Mitch slept like a baby. Even admidst steady heeling left to right. Note the gimbled lantern in this photo:

We are heeled to port baby!

Phillip and I stayed up at the helm as darkness set in around us. The wind screamed as it passed over the mast and through the cockpit. It was blowing so hard it stung our eyes and made it hard to keep them open, particularly in light of the rain which, probably, without the wind, was only a steady dusting, but the gusts transformed it into pelting sheets. The sound of the waves against the hull and the groaning and creaking of the boat as she tipped mightily over each wave became far more prevalent, almost haunting, at night. As if our sense of sound was heightened. Think how much easier it is to hear a pin drop in a pitch black room as opposed to one brightly lit and full of visual distractions. Around 9:00 p.m., we heard our “pin” in the dark. Another bolt sheared off the davit bracket and pinged loudly in the cockpit. I would love to say Phillip and I shared a knowing glance. We certainly locked eyes and shared a moment, but I can honestly say I didn’t know he was thinking. I didn’t know what we were going to do. Thankfully, Phillip did. A resolve came over him, and he spoke in short, commanding sentences in a tone I had never heard from him before. He told me to go down and wake Mitch, which I did without hesitation. And, to Mitch’s credit, he woke instantly, shook off the nausea and came up to the cockpit. I’m sure he could tell by the tone in my voice as well that things had changed. We were in trouble, and there was no time for sickness.

We all sat in the cockpit, looking to Phillip. He told us he thought the davits would eventually give out and the dinghy might take us down on port side. We had to be ready to cut it off if that happened. Neither Mitch nor I questioned him. There was no need. We agreed. Altogether, the dinghy and outboard weighed about 300 pounds. If that thing hit the water, it would easily pull the boat to portside, and with the way we were already heeling over waves, we couldn’t afford any “pull” to the left side. We also had no way to pull her out of the water. Wrestling 300 pounds up over the stern rail and onto the boat was not even a possibility, much less an option. Nor was there anywhere to safely store the outboard motor (which was full of gas and oil) safely on the boat while we rode out the storm. There was also a real concern that the dinghy could rip the entire stern rail off or, worse, rip a hole in the deck where the stern rail attaches, making sinking not just a possibility but a probability. There was no denying it. The dinghy had to go. Phillip gave me the helm while he and Mitch went down below to round up anything we could use to cut the lines: knives, box-cutters, a hacksaw, anything with a blade. We lined them up like surgical utensils on a tray near the companionway. The davits continued to screech each time we heeled to port and the dinghy banged loudly as her weight swung around. We knew it wouldn’t be long.

Finally, it was too much. A huge swell tipped us over to port, and when the dinghy came swinging around the davits gave up. They broke off the stern rail and the dinghy crashed into the water, outboard engine first. The boat groaned and pulled hard to her portside. It amazed me how sensitive the sailboat was. The weight of the dinghy dragging in the water pulled hard on her and I could easily see now why Phillip thought it could tip us over, if the right wave hit. The dinghy foamed and flailed in the water like panicked drowning victim, and the cockpit filled with the smell of oil and fuel. The outboard was submerged, choking on waves and water, and leaking fluids everywhere. The boat was heeled over and it didn’t help that we were all on the low-side trying to get to the dinghy, tipping her even further. Phillip’s voice cut through the waves and wind with startling clarity: “Cut if off!”

Mitch grabbed a knife, I grabbed a hacksaw, and we started attacking the lines. There was no time to try and untie or salvage them. They were an easy casualty to save the boat. But it was dark behind the boat, and we were struggling to see the lines and, worse, distinguish them from another mate’s hands or fingers. Mitch was having trouble reaching the lines because he couldn’t get very far out over the stern rails. I sent him to the high side of the cockpit with the flash light and told him to hold the light for me. I climbed over the stern rail with one foot hooked back in the cockpit and reached out to the end of the davits to start sawing every line I could feel. It was surreal. Like we were a living episode of Deadliest Catch:

The more lines I cut, the more dinghy made contact with the water and pulled us further over to port, but it had to be done. I finally made my way up to the high side to cut the last of the lines on the starboard side. One I could feel was particularly tough and when I first struck it with the saw, it sparked. I pulled back, momentarily frozen, frightened, smelling the gas fumes that were still emanating from the outboard motor. I shouted to Phillip, “I’m getting sparks!” He reached back and felt the “line” I was holding. Turns out it was the cord to the navigation light that was mounted on the back of the dinghy (much like brake lights on the back of a trailer). It was a thick electrical cord running out to the nav light on the outer edge of the dinghy, which was still dimy lit, flickering and choking behind the boat, but too far to reach. Phillip looked at me sternly and said, “Cut it.”

I bit down hard, clenched my teeth together and began sawing the electrical cord. A few more sparks flew, but thankfully, nothing ignited. Apparently, the cord was the last thing holding the dinghy on, because when the hacksaw finally made it through the last of the rubber and wire, the dinghy crashed violently in the water and began, finally, to pull away from the boat. Lines were dragging helplessly from the back of the boat and, thankfully, Phillip had the fortitude to still think clearly in that moment. “Get the lines in!” he yelled at us, knowing they could get caught in the propeller and put us in more danger. Mitch and I snapped to attention and grabbed lines viciously, throwing them into the cockpit with reckless abandon. We hit Phillip with several of them but he didn’t say a word. He hunkered down, held the wheel and steadied the boat while Mitch and I pulled in the last of them. Afterward, we all fell into a heap in the cockpit, drenched and shaken, but feeling more alive in that moment than we had the entire trip. I doubt Mitch could even comprehend nausea at that moment. Our bodies were feasting on adrenaline. We sat there, our chests heaving in unison it seemed, gathering our thoughts and wondering if what just happened had really happened. Phillip shined a light out into the sea as it to confirm our collective inquiry and there it was. The dinghy. About 50 yards away from the boat, lines floating around her like spindly fingers reaching back for the boat. She was truly out there, detached from the boat and floating away. We had really done it. Cut her off. The damn dinghy. The boat breathed a sigh of relief as if she had just finished a forty-mile march and finally set her rucksack down to air her sweaty back. Her heeling back and forth was now graceful, soothing almost, and we all finally appreciated how much she had been struggling with the dinghy on her back. We breathed with her, equally relieved, but our faces were still heavy with worry. We were hundreds of miles from shore, in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, in the middle of the night, without a radio, and, now, without a dinghy. And we were only half-way there.

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Four – Good, Quality People

June 18, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

I would like to say we woke Saturday morning to the peaceful sounds of birds and water gently lapping the hull, but that’s just not how it happened. Phillip and I had the pleasure of waking to his Dad hovering over us in the V-berth snapping photos at 6:00 a.m. like the paparazzi proclaiming, “Awww … your first night in the little bed. How was it?” Was? … We’re still kind of sleeping in it. So …

He had the best of intentions, but we were really waking up to a photo shoot at the crack of dawn. Thankfully, Phillip knew just how to handle him:

Phillip: Yeah, Dad, it’s great back here. Let me show you. Take that door, there. Yeah, unlatch it.

Paul (with excitement): Oh, neat. Here?

Phillip: Yep, right there. Now pull it toward you.

Paul: Like this?

Phillip (with patience): Mmm-hmmm. Just like that. Now step back behind it.

Paul: Okay.

Phillip: Keep pulling it until it shuts.

Paul (muffled from the other side of the door): Oh, I see what you’re doing …

Phillip: Yep. We’ll see you in a bit Dad.

I swear I could hear Paul’s shoulders slump like he was the last kid picked in P.E. class. (Which by the way – never happened to me – you never get picked last with a name like this):

BOOM!

But, Paul did the right thing waking us up. Whether we were going to head out that day or stay and ready the boat for the passage, we had a lot to do. We got up, made some coffee and enjoyed the sunrise while we checked the weather.

Around that time, we ran into a fellow docked there in Clearwater who, like us, had just bought a boat down in Punta Gorda and was sailing it back to Pensacola. His was a 32-foot Seaward Unlimited. A beautiful boat:

The Bottom Line. And, it just so happened Phillip knew one of his crew. They were former neighbors in Pensacola. So we chatted them up and talked about our plans for crossing the Gulf. They were interested in buddying up and making the passage together. Having another boat make a passage with you (especially one like this) is always a good idea. So, we agreed to stay and wait out the worst of the storm in Clearwater on Saturday and head out with them first thing Sunday morning to cross the Gulf.

We started readying the boat for the expected 20 knot winds and 4-6 foot seas. Phillip got Jack, the former owner, on the phone and asked him about the storm sail (a smaller sail that is used in heavy winds) and the dinghy, which was held up by davits on the back of the boat with the outboard engine attached to it. Jack told us how to rig the storm sail and told us he had strapped the outboard securely to the dinghy so we shouldn’t have a problem with it. We decided to spend the afternoon rigging up the storm sail.

Although it was the right thing to do, it was a futile endeavor because just as we were pulling the halyard to connect the storm sail, the line snapped and the sail fell in a loose heap on the deck. The halyard for the storm sail (which is a fancy way of saying, the rope) was so old and dry-rotted that it just broke right in two. So, we decided to forego the storm sail and just secure everything else as best we could for rough seas.

After a day of hard labor, we made our first sit-down gourmet dinner in the galley. Remember the shrimp feta pasta I told you about? (http://havewindwilltravel.com/2013/06/04/april-17-23-2013-the-crossing-chapter-two-sailors-delight/). And, when I say “we” made it, I actually mean Phillip,

and I’m just taking full credit because that’s the kind of person I am. But, it was a grand meal, laden with heavy glasses of wine and tall tales at sea.

Full of liquid courage, we decided to hit the town and see what good quality people were roaming the streets of Clearwater. And, let me just tell you, my friends, the streets were littered with performers and peddlers of every kind of “ware” (and “wear”) you could imagine. Words will never do it justice. No, only a cheesy, finely-narrated slideshow will do.

There was a man on stilts making balloon animals (at least I think it was a man):

And please take note of the classy clientele in this photo, because unlike others, these ladies at least dressed for the occasion:

There was a woman getting an ass tattoo right there in the open:

And I normally wouldn’t say anything if Thelma here wanted to ink herself in front of a crowd. More power to you! That is IF she were getting something cool tattooed on. But no. This chick was getting some rainbow kittens permanently impressed on her derriere. Like, fifth grade, Lisa Frank, Trapper-Keeper kittens:

Real classy.

There were just crazy people everywhere. Some were talking to themselves. Some were imitating the statues:

I’d watch out for this one. I’m pretty sure she’s beyond help.

Some were apparently even dropping their panties.

Yep. It was a wild night in Clearwater. But, the finale performance for the night was a really cool one. This guy sets up a couple five-gallon drums and beats the hell out of them.

He wowed us all with his self-proclaimed (although I think it’s worthy) “world-famous” one-handed drum roll. Check it: http://youtu.be/a3IsqXpztnA. Phillip was definitely impressed:

Even Mitch was mesmerized.

Although I’m not sure you can see him in that pic. He looks just like another character we all know and love who likes to blend into the crowd:

Minus the hat I guess. Otherwise … a spittin’ image.

In all, we had a great time checking out the town and watching all the “crazies” that came out FOR the show but who, in actuality, WERE the show. We got back to the boat around 9:30 p.m. and crashed. We woke the next morning all business. The boat was buttoned down and ready. All we needed was a good breakfast before we got under sail. We hit up the local greasy spoon for one last rendezvous with our sail groupies and, unexpectedly, one last crazy! Our waitress. What a sight?!? This woman (again, I presume she was a woman) weighed about 89.4 pounds soaking wet and looked like a pile of toothpicks glued together. There were all kinds of tacky t-shirts and things hanging on the wall and she repeatedly told us:

“Now all of this crap …

is for sale!”

And, for her, “sale” had two syllables, and a “y.” I, naturally, bought a tacky t-shirt to memorialize the occasion. Who wouldn’t? Phillip and I now lovingly call it my “big boobs shirt” because it’s graced with their infamous logo:

Phillip and I checked the sea state one more time,

then it was back to the boat and time to get under way. We checked in with the Bottom Line guys and they were ready to pull out too. We picked a haling channel to go to if we needed to talk via radio, decided our next stop would be Apalachicola, an approximate 28-hour passage (138 nautical miles) from Clearwater, and set off. We had a great morning sail.

The sun was peeking through the clouds, we had some strong, but steady, northeast winds, and we could see Bottom Line in the distance.

That was, until, the squalls began . . .

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Three – By the Moon

June 9, 2013May 23, 2014anniedike

After a beautiful sunset and a warm meal, we settled in and sailed all through the night on Thursday. If you’ve never done it before, never felt that feeling, it will be hard to conjure. I don’t know if I can really capture it but I, of course, am going to try. I remember before the trip I had asked Phillip, “How do you see at night?” Now, understand this question came from the same, silly girl that asked him when we bought the boat, “So … how are they going to ship the boat to us?” So I would have completely understood if Phillip had tilted his head to one side and patted me on the head slowly like I was a lame dog while he answered, but I really felt like this was a legitimate question. How could we travel across the Gulf in total darkness? What if another ship didn’t have their lights on? Or what if there was some other inanimate object out there – an unknown land mass, a whale … an iceberg?? Okay, an iceberg was very unlikely, but I was ready with my big one-line acting debut if it did occur (Brittish accent and all: “Iceberg, right ahead!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2TAX0bgWIps). But, I really was unsure how we were going to be able to see to sail at night. And, while the answer Phillip gave me seemed impossible at the time, I now know it is true: by the moon. Without all the glare and reflection of city lights, the moon and stars and their reflection on the water, illuminate everything. You can see the entire boat, all the way up to the bow, and for miles out across the water. And, you can hear the boat, harnessing nothing more than the wind, gliding through the water, making way in the darkness. It’s incredible.

This may give you a glimpse, but it will never do it justice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uG4zR46RpZE. I will never forget my first night sail.

Mitch shone that night, too. That night he taught me how to “sight sail.” To understand, I’ll have to give you a small sailing lesson. When you’re making a passage from one point to another (usually one marina or anchorage to another), assuming it’s a straight shot, you have to find your heading. Without highways, street signs or land markers of any kind, it’s kind of hard to know exactly where the heck you’re going when it’s just you and the horizon. Hence, your heading. This is a number, a degree between 1 and 360 that you need to hold to travel a straight path to your destination. Now, you can calculate your heading the old-school way with charts and a parallel ruler and compass rose, which would make you about as exciting as this guy:

Or you can new-age it by plugging your destination into your fancy, schmancy GPS and it will spit out your heading. Now, how exactly do you hold that heading? (Much like a reservation – it only works if you hold it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4jhHoHpFXc). Forgive me but I just love that bit and have been dying to find the perfect place to use it. And, if you don’t think this was the perfect place, I’m eager to hear your comments. Please be sure to properly log your complaint in my newly-created complaint box at www.idontcare.com).

So, holding your heading. It’s fairly easy. Every boat is equipped with a great big compass right at the helm. You’ll see it here in this pic just behind the wheel.

The compass has North, East, South, West on it, with the accompanying 360 degrees (North is 0, South is 180 and you can figure out the others in between – if you can’t, know that I thought much more of you and am thoroughly disappointed. East is 90 and West 270). One great big circle. The aforementioned GPS also tells you what “degree” you’re traveling on. So, you can watch the compass or the GPS to make sure you’re staying at or near your number. While this is great and very efficient, it can often make holding the helm seem like a bit of a chore. The boat is agile and eager to follow the seas. Much like a two-year old in Toys-R-Us, you turn your eyes for one second and she’ll slip right off in another direction. You have to constantly hold the wheel and make small, minute adjustments to keep her on course. This can seem particularly tiresome when you’re night sailing and your eyes are glued on the compass for hours on end (and these are the wee, early, you want sleep more than anything else on the earth hours). Unless you know how to sight sail. Sight sailing is probably how they did it in the old days. Think Christopher Columbus and his voyage to the New World. It’s sailing by the stars. You hold your heading and find a star in the sky that “rides” on some point on your boat, say near the edge of one of your sails or right on top of a rail, just some fixed point on the boat. Then, rather than stare at the compass or the GPS, you simply watch the night sky and keep that star on that fixed point on your boat and voila, you are now holding your heading my friend without use of a single instrument. Something about it made me feel connected, to the stars, to the night, to the old sailors that did that way hundreds of years ago.

It certainly freed me, from squinting and focusing on a number and, at the very least, from staring at the orange, aging glow of the compass and I will forever thank Mitch for it. It was a long night but we made it through our first night’s passage without any real issue. We toasted the sunrise Friday morning with steaming cups of coffee and made plans for getting into Clearwater.

The wind began to pick up mid-morning and we watched with excitement as the sails filled and pulled taut and powered us through the water. But the wind continued to build so we decided to reef them in a bit. While I was pulling in the furling line to reel in the Genny (the genoa sail up front) Phillip and I heard a loud “ping” in the cockpit. We both looked at each other sternly, asking without saying: What was that? And it was clear neither of us knew. I began looking around the cockpit for some kind of clue and there it was: a bolt head lying on the cockpit floor near the helm. And, I say a bolt “head” because the bolt had sheared right through, just below the head. The stem of the bolt was nowhere in sight. I held it up for Phillip to see and we again exchanged the same question in silence: Where the hell did that come from? I began looking around the Genny cam cleat and the winch and where I had been working when we heard the ominous ‘ping,’ but nothing. Every bolt seemed to be fully in tact. We were confused, not yet concerned, but without the luxury to worry about it at the moment. By the time we made it into the pass she was blowing about 20 knots, and our primary concern was finding the marina and getting docked.

As soon as we had signal, Phillip told me to call the marina and get directions. I got on the phone with a man named Lou. His voice was thick and garbled like he either weighed 300 pounds or was talking through a mouth full of marbles. I assumed the latter and it turned out to be true. He was the dockmaster, and I swear they must all be cut from the same cloth (at least down there in South Florida) because I talked to many during the course of this trip and they all had similar one-syllable, car mechanic names (Jim, Bob, Lou, Joe), spoke with the same garbled dialect and looked something like this:

Minus the goggles. Wait … scratch that … some of them wore goggles.

And, they gave directions just like my Dad would, not with precise streets to turn on and miles to travel before you’ll see your exit. No, they use obscure, only locally-known markers like “take a left after Briscoe Hill and head toward Johnson’s barn and then she’s just right up the road on the right.” Thanks Dad, big help. These dockmasters were exactly the same. Lou told me to: “Come in through the pass until you go under the ‘big bridge,’ then hang a left and you’ll see our marina there with the fuel sign.” Yep, that’s as clear as it got. And, I even asked him, like a dumb blonde asking for directions, “the BIG bridge??”

Lou said “Yeah, honey, the big one. There’s only one big one.” I knew I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him, so I did all I knew to do. Relayed the message exactly as it was told to me and hoped Phillip could make sense of it. Thankfully, there was only one “big” bridge (although I don’t think it required the “honey” prefix), but it was huge and noticeable and we went right under, preparing to “hang a left.” I know, now, how stressful docking can be in a new marina, but I did not know at the time. I just knew Phillip was tense and stern, all business, and focused entirely on the GPS and the depth readings. I knew our primary focus was not to ‘run aground,’ but I didn’t know what else to do to prevent it other than shout out depth readings periodically to Phillip. Mitch was up at the bow looking out for the “left” we were supposed to be hanging and he saw a marina just off the portside of the bow, but it was far more “dead ahead” than left. He swore to Phillip: “That’s it. That has to be it. That’s the marina – head that way.” But, thankfully, Phillip wasn’t satisfied. He turned us around and had me hold the helm and make a few circles while he checked the paper charts and, sure enough, the “marina dead ahead” was just on the other side of a very shallow shoal that would have run us aground for sure and wreaked havoc on the boat. Phillip eventually found the inlet we needed to get into to get to our marina (the “left” we were supposed to hang) and we headed that way. But, the marina certainly wasn’t protected and we had 20 knot winds coming off our stern as we headed into the slip.

We tried to toss a dock line around a pole near the stern but we couldn’t get it around. And when I say “we,” I actually mean me, and I’m still mortified by it – but I did try very hard and know, now, that is not an easy thing to do – even for a salty sailor. Without a line to keep the stern in place, there was nothing Phillip could do in the cockpit to keep the boat from moving forward. The wind was just too strong. Thankfully, Dockmaster Lou apparently had a brother, whom they called Red, and he was even bigger than Lou. With those big boy hosses holding the bow, it looked like we had two sumo wrestlers pushing the boat off of the dock.

They held us off while we scrambled to tie dock lines and drop fenders and get her secured for the night. We were all exhausted at that point and in desperate need of a shower, shave (yes, me too) and, most of all, sleep. Our sail groupies (Phillip’s parents) met us at port and engaged in a fun photo op.

Thankfully they had also rented a hotel there near the marina and we unapologetically took advantage of the facilities. We dipped in the pool:

And commandeered the shower and finally made our way back to the boat for an easy snack dinner in the cockpit and some wine.

We were ready to get a good night’s sleep but we certainly had some decisions to make. The 20 knot winds we had faced in the pass were the beginning of a nasty front that was coming in. The sea state on Saturday was predicted to be very rough: 20-25 knot winds and 5-7 foot waves. Phillip was inclined to wait it out but he knew that might take days and we all, unfortunately, had jobs and deadlines to get back to at some point (and that was putting it lightly – Mitch’s magazine was actually scheduled to go to print the day after we were going to get back (Tuesday), and I had a jury trial starting the following Monday – it was just hard to take any more time off). It was already Friday evening and we were still a good four days away from home. But, this storm looked bad. Phillip knew better than the rest of us how rough the passage would really be and I could tell he was struggling with the decision. We decided to rest up for the night and make the call in the morning. The crew was tired and in need of a solid eight hours of sleep. I put the sheared bolt head in the companionway tray and we shut her down for the night.

April 17-23, 2013 – The Crossing: Chapter Two – Sailor’s Delight

June 4, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

On the 18th, the crew woke to a lavender sunrise and a light breeze. It was a beautiful day. We were rested and ready to go. We tore through the Hampton Inn schmorgas board breakfast and hit the road. Our sail groupies were eager to make the big send-off.

The parents and I headed to Publix to make the big provisions run and, I have to say, I ran a tight ship. Mary was assigned canned goods and other non-perishables while I ransacked the produce and meat departments. I sent Paul to the back to gather boxes and bags and he cleaned them out. We looked like the old Supermarket Sweep contestants

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgPFlPXK7yc

Minus the matching numbered jersey sweatshirts of course. Man, these people are excited. And, just for an extra laugh (so all my hard blog work doesn’t go to waste) – this is worth a minute of your life, trust me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UO_tm-C7yfU).

I texted Phillip a few pics to make sure I had picked up the right items.

Annie: The pink right?

Phillip: That’s my favorite color.

This was for the shrimp feta pasta we made on Saturday night. Yum! (Although Phillip’s version is way better, this recipe will help get you there: http://www.food.com/recipe/michelles-penne-with-shrimp-tomatoes-and-feta-318465).

364 dollars later (ouch!) we made it to the boat and started stacking up all the goodies in the cockpit. Down below, I was initially a little worried about how we were going to fit everything in the boat. Remember all that crap on the Provisions List? Well, now we had it – we just had to find a place to put it on a 35 foot sailboat. But, I will say, that turned out to be a non-issue. There were more nooks and crannies on that boat than an English muffin. (Which, interestingly enough, are patented and were recently the cause of a top secret muffin scare. Oh my! A riveting read I assure you: http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/money/industries/food/2010-07-29-english-muffin-lawsuit_N.htm). Thankfully, we were able to cram all the crap in all the crannies in record time. We shook hands with Barbara and Jack and engaged in a nice photo op to memorialize the big event.

They were excited for us but a bit sad to see their beautiful boat go. We promised to take good care of her and they assured us if we did, she would certainly take good care of us. We set off around 11:30 a.m. and headed out into Charlotte Harbor.

The sailing was prime that day. The sun was out. The wind was blowing 8-12 knots and the waves were 2-3 feet all afternoon. We started to play around with the sails some and learn the systems. No matter how much you know about sailing, it always takes a bit to learn the rigging when you’re on a new boat. For us, this consisted of a very complicated pull-and-wiggle approach where I would pull or wiggle a line from the cockpit and Mitch, up at the mast, would find the line I was expertly pulling and wiggling and determine what it controlled, the outhaul, or the boom vang or a reefing line, etc. We, of course, forgot most of that when it came time to reef (pull the sail down a bit) but it just takes a while. After we got the sails up and trimmed and on a nice tack, the crew took a collective breath and let the afternoon seep in. We put on some good music, made some snacks (tuna salad sandwiches and homemade guac!) and, as all good sailors do, shed a few clothes.

Some of us relaxed more than others:

Now I did promise a full-fledged Chaucer rendition of Mitch, didn’t I? You readers … so demanding. Mitch. Where do I begin? First, I must say, he’s an incredible friend to give up five days to sail across the open Gulf with us and help get the boat back. As fun as it is, remember what I told you about sailing, it is indeed hard work, and we were out of touch with the rest of the cellular world for days at a time. That’s a big commitment, and there is no way we could have done it without him. There, now that I’ve given Mitch his due praise, let me give him his due description. As I’ve told you, Mitch is all of six feet, four inches. While that may seem pretty normal for a guy … on land … it’s a bit much for a 35-foot sailboat. Mitch lumbered and bumbled around that boat like an elephant going through a carwash. Each step of his foot on the deck sounded like Neal Armstrong landing on the moon. I honestly felt sorry for him while I watched him clamor up and down the companionway stairs and through the hatch. He must have felt like he was crawling around on Playskool equipment.

I think the fear of getting stuck in the hatch prompted him, each time I got up to go down the stairs, to ask me for something he needed from down below, rightly earning him the name “Mitch, While-You’re-Down-There, Roberts” for the duration of the trip. He was a talker and a screamer but he had a heart of gold. Mitch taught me a great deal about sailing and he was a true asset on the trip.

We watched the sun set over the bow of the boat on Thursday evening and congratulated each other on an excellent day of sailing.

I got industrious and labored away on some sweet potato chili in the galley. I managed not to blow the boat up and fed the crew right and proper. It was a sailing miracle! Clearwater was still another 15 hours away and we had a long night of sailing ahead, but the crew was full and content and ready to make way.

March 7, 2013 – Knots Landing

April 10, 2013December 30, 2013anniedike

So … I assume, to sail, you have to know how to tie a bunch of knots. Big, thick, heavy ones, used to swing the rope around your head like a lasso and launch it out to save a drowning deck hand, as well as small, quick, handy ones, that you can tie in less than two seconds flat and throw your hands up in the air when you’re done – like hog-tying a steer. (For the head-scratchers: http://youtu.be/7t6-LRJ_JRc. And, I hope you didn’t miss the commentary at the end “These are some fresh, lost, wee-looking little kicking boogers here today!” Good stuff).

But – back to the wold of sailing. Someone shouts “Grab that line and tie a monkey’s fist in it!” and I should know what to do, right? Right. Of course! Any sailor worth his salt would. So, Phillip and I decide one night to delve into the wonderful world of knot-tying. This is knot (pun intended) the most entertaining way to spend the evening, I can assure you, but it does pair well with a glass or two of wine. Three at most. After that, you begin to lose dexterity and cognitive function and find the next day that you got a little too creative with shoelaces, apron strings, and any other tie-able things around the house that cannot now be un-tied. Trust me; I speak from experience.

So … knot tying. I recommend mastering the bowline. It’s a simple, easy knot, that holds tight but is easy to break free, and it can be taught in all of two minutes (three post-wine). A cleat hitch, used to fasten lines securely to cleats on the boat or dock, is also a must. A figure eight is also great to stop a line from running through a pulley, and the clove hitch is a given to tie the boat to a piling.

There are many more knots you could spend hours learning, but I’m assured there are only a handful you will really need on the boat. As for the other 800 fancy ones you could spend hours mastering, you’re likely to completely forget them anyway when you-know-what hits the fan and there’s even a remote chance they would come in handy. In all, I recommend spending an evening with a good knot-tying book and some string to conquer the basics. And, while I recommend pairing many things with wine (because, let’s face it, it just makes everything better), in this case you’ll find the bottle (a full one, so drink slowly!) serves as a good wrap-around base to practice the essentials. Like the bowline shown below!

Master them on land, and you’ll be a whiz at them on the boat. There will also be many other skills to practice and pick up along the way – splicing, for one. But, that’s another post for a nicer day. You’ll need to suffer a few knotty ones first, so get to it! Cheers!