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

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.

Wave diagram

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.

Heeled over

Graphic – boat heeled to starboard.

 Heeled 1

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.

Horse with 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,






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:

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 Three – By the Moon

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.

Sail by stars

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.