Ch. 11: High Speeds and Hot Temps

“Oh, that’s normal for cats.”

“Too much banging can cause metal fatigue.”

“You should tighten the shrouds.”

“How much?”

“Until it feels right.”

These were some of the varying pieces of advice we were getting when we reached out to folks about our shuddering shrouds on the Freydis.  To this day (primarily because of this experience) I am not a fan of rig tuning.  I don’t like the science behind it (or should I say the lack of science).  It’s like Matthew McConaughey’s “fugazi” from Wolf on Wall Street.

“It’s not on the elemental chart.  It’s not real.”  That’s about what the “proper amount of tension” on rigging feels like to me.  Thankfully, Yannick, with the seemingly endless supply of information he had compiled about his boat, found a very small notation in the back of a manual made by the previous owner of the boat when the rig was replaced in 2012 about the amount of barrel that should be visible in the turnbuckle.  It was the only resource we had that included a non-subjective component.  You know, actual numbers not just “I’m okay, the rig’s okay” feelings.  For that reason, it had my vote.  And Yannick’s as well.  According to the previous owner’s notation, the starboard shroud needed to be tightened until 2.5 more centimeters of thread were exposed in the turnbuckle.  The port shroud needed an additional 3.57 cm of thread.  With heavy PVC tubes that had to be lifted while two others handled the tightening and measuring below (while the boat was still bashing around underway), it was not the easiest of chores but it was do-able.

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With Yannick serving as our Chief Measurer, and Johnny and I awarded the honor of Turnbuckle Turner Nos. 1 and 2 we set to tightening the rig in the early morning hours of June 8th, eleven days into our trans-Atlantic.  I learned a good lesson from Johnny that day too.  I would say he cracked me up, but I think I actually cracked him up.  As we bundled up the tools, a towel and the cotter pins we would need for the job and headed up on deck, Johnny mentioned tying a safety line in case we dropped things.  Good idea I thought and I carefully tied a tiny Dyneema line from the turnbuckle to the new cotter pins we would be putting in once we finished tightening the shrouds.  When Johnny settled in next to me and saw what I had done, he doubled over chuckling and said:

“I meant tie a line to the tools.  We have plenty more cotter pins.  We don’t have more tools.”

Ahhh.  That Johnny.  You can tell he’s been around boats a while.  These were the kinds of simple tips and tricks I was picking up out there.  All part of why I went.

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Once we had tightened the shrouds to Yannick’s measurements, the murderous shuddering definitely subsided.  It was so comforting just to hear that sound in particular—such a horrid metallic clanging—stop.  That shrill cry is not something you want to associate with a boat beating its way across the ocean.  Water on hulls.  That’s fine.  Taut sails and crashing waves.  All fine.  Shrouds vibrating themselves to death.  NOT fine.

It seemed about the perfect time to tighten the shrouds, too, as the winds continued to howl through our rig that day, holding steady between 22 and 26 knots.  We knew exactly where there winds were coming from too: Tropical Storm Collins.

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As I mentioned, we got incredibly lucky with the weather on that trip.  No matter how much intel, satellite equipment and cautious planning you have or make for an ocean-crossing, a good bit of your fate still falls in the category of “pure luck” because once you shove off with the intent to cross an ocean, you’re exposing yourself to a big open body of water and a boat that doesn’t travel near as fast as storms.  We had been watching TS Collins forming in the Gulf and had actually heard from friends first with the worry that it might be coming toward mine and Phillip’s Niagara 35 back in Pensacola.  *gulp*

Yannick’s going to kill me when he reads this, but I’ll just be honest.  I pleaded with the storm to continue heading west to Texas, or perhaps hook and go east, go across Florida, go anywhere but to our poor little, just re-built boat in Pensacola.  Apparently the storm heard me because that’s exactly what he did.  The Wednesday on that storm tracker chart above is June 8th, when the storm was just starting to make his turn toward the Big Bend of Florida.  We were following it closely out in the Atlantic.  Thankfully, on Andanza, we had fantastic weather intel in the form of a hired weather router, a friend of Yannick’s (who proved equally capable) doing the same, as well as Weather Fax, GRIB files and unlimited Delorme texting available to reach out to anyone on-shore with the ability to follow the storm.  This may sound awful, but it actually became a little tedious trying to respond to everyone who reached out to us then warning us about TS Collins.  Our weather  router kept us on a more southerly route while TS Collins dissipated over head in the Atlantic.  But, Collins sure brought the freaking wind!

It didn’t seem thirty minutes after we’d finished the rig tightening the morning of June 8th that the blow started to creep to 27, 28 and upward.

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Although we had just finished our rather rigorous rig tightening, Yannick instructed the crew to drop the sails down to Reef 2.  I told you it’s never boring out there!  If you think it’s always sitting around, reading, writing, napping.  It is sometimes, but the other days feel like a flurry of projects, one after the other, and you can’t believe it’s time for your night shift already.  This was definitely one of those days.

And, sadly, while we did now have our reefing procedure down (thanks to Yannick and his typed-up, taped-up list at each crew member’s station), we still had so many things to learn about that boat.  I believe every day crossing an ocean will teach you something new about sailing.  However, I also believe every day on passage will teach you something peculiar or particular about that boat (or boats like it).  I am actually grateful that we all made it safely across the ocean so that I can now sit here and merely write and share some of these experiences as lessons learned (as opposed to tragedies) because some of the things we survived out there were just pure luck.  On that day we battled the Barber Hauler and almost lost in a big way.  Our critical lesson learned: Detach the Barber Hauler before reefing.

For many of you who sail with a Barber Hauler often, this may sound like a very basic proposition.  Common knowledge.  For those of you scratching your head merely at the sight of the word “Barber Hauler” … well, this is why you make trips like that.  To learn critical lessons like this.  Recall the Barber Hauler was a secondary line we ran from the clew of the genny down to the deck to pull the sail outward away from the center of the boat to open up airflow between the genny and the main sail.

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Brandon taught us this during our very first sail on the catamaran as he has raced many boats in his days and learned this trick to increase the efficiency of the boat, particularly catamarans where it is often difficult to make good use of the genny due to the boxy shape of the boat.  We had been using the Barber Hauler often on Andanza as it did, visibly, increase the speed of the boat on a close haul.  But, we made a serious mistake when we left it on while bringing the sails down to Reef 2.

Recall in our reef drills, the first step was always to head into the wind so we could furl the genny a bit (so she wouldn’t snap and pop and beat Yannick up at the mast while he handled dropping the main).  Once furled halfway, Phillip would then fall back off and fill her with a little wind while we set to dropping the main.

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Here you can see everyone’s respective positions as well: Yannick at the mast, Johnny at the genny winch on port, Phillip at the helm, and me at the winch(es) on starboard.  Here I’m furling the genny while Johnny is easing out the port genny sheet.  This is what we were trying to do when the Barber Hauler incident occurred.

The precautionary genny furl was usually a no-sweat first step and one that we could easily accomplish with both Johnny on port and Phillip at the helm on starboard who were both easing out the tension of the genny sheets while I furled her.  Our wild card this time was the stinking Barber Hauler, which we had fastened to the genny clew on port.  Think of it like a wild, uninhibited bull whip.  We had unclutched the Barber Hauler to allow slack to pull through so the genny could furl but we should have detached it from the clew because as soon as the wind came out of the genny the genny now had a live cracking wire in her hands and she started whipping Yannick at the mast with it and Johnny on port.

Soon after I started to furl, I heard shouts.  I looked to see Yannick holding his head down at the mast with a hand clasped over his right eye.  I looked to Phillip at the helm who was looking to Yannick for instruction, then I looked to Johnny on port and saw it.  The snarling beast that was off its chain.  The Barber Hauler was snapping on the deck, beating the windows, flailing out overboard and coming back again.  Johnny was crunched down near his winch with a guarded hand held over his head.  I cleated the furling line and bolted through the cockpit to try to catch the Barber Hauler as I heard Yannick shout to Phillip: “Fall off!”  Thankfully, even with the Barber snapping at him, Johnny knew to cleat the genny on port as Phillip was about to put the wind in her before he ducked back down.  And don’t think I was heroic.  It was probably dumb of me to try to jump in as the hero and wrestle that line in the whipping wind.  I could have probably been easily injured as well but (by luck yet again) I was able to get a hold of the flailing Barber Hauler, bring it down on the deck and pull and cleat the slack out of him before he could slap anybody else.

When we re-grouped in the cockpit, having only furled the genny a few wraps, we all could see now that Yannick had been popped in the face by the Barber Hauler.  A thick red whelp traveled from the middle of his scalp down to the top of his jawbone on the right side and he said he thought he had blacked out for a couple of seconds when it happened.  But, Johnny had truly got the worst of it.  He lifted his shirt to reveal a clear, puffed up red slash across his mid-section which I’m sure was painful.  But his voice was a little shaky as he rubbed his thumb and told us the line had got caught around his neck at one point and his thumb another.

We were all a little shaken up by the Barber Hauler incident, and were reminded—in a rather stark fashion—that things can go very wrong, very quickly and unexpectedly out there.  Like I said, thankfully all we did was suffer some whelps and learn a lesson.  We got very lucky that day with the Barber Hauler.  But, we still had winds of 27+ and three-quarters of our main sail up.  So, once we shook it off and realized the mistake we had made, we disconnected the Barber Hauler and secured it safely to the deck while we then went through, efficiently and safely, the rest of our reefing procedure to bring the main sail down to Reef 2.  By that time, we were beat, whipped and each of us ready for rest.

With the second reef in the sails, the boat was still bashing along but it was much more manageable and the boat held steady, romping and ripping through waves, everything soggy and moist, but with each of the boat’s primary systems (the sails, the rigging, the auto-pilot, etc.) all performing beautifully as we clicked off miles and days passed in a wet montage.  It was funny the things that would once seem abnormal on shore, now seemed totally normal out there.  Case in point:

Doing laundry with saltwater, a bucket and a clothes line?  Out there, it’s normal!

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Yannick playing dinner-prep D.J.?  NORMAL.

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Phillip breaking out arbitrarily in “What shall we do with the drunken sailor?”  NORMAL.

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Daily disassembly of random boat parts?  NORMAL.

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Finding yourself happy to be awake at sunrise?  NORMAL.

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Discovery of unidentifiable black objects in the food bin?  NORMAL.

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Discover of unidentifiable “gobbly bits” in the bilge?  NORMAL.

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Annie pairing shorts with rubber boots (and 100% pulling it off I might add)?  NORMAL.

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Yannick taking his morning Nespresso in the engine locker?

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TOTALLY NORMAL.

Yannick actually just told me a couple of weeks ago when he first watched my movie from the trans-at crossing with a friend that his friend said: “It looked like you spent the entire trip in the engine locker.”  To which Yannick replied: “It felt like I did.”

The movement of the catamaran, however?  NOT normal.  At least initially for us monohull sailors.  It was such a strange new feeling.  While the cat does not heel, I will give you that.  It does do this strange four corners type movement that keeps you guessing which way the boat’s going to throw you at any second.  It reminded me of that game we all used to play as kids where you move it right, left, backward, forward, trying to get that little silver ball to fall down through the right hole.  Well, we were the ball, and the boat was having a hell of a good time bouncing us off the walls, down the stairs and into our beds.  You could almost hear her laughing as she did it.  But, it wasn’t miserable.  I actually like the feeling of movement underneath me.  It reminds me we’re going, traveling over a frothy body of blue to a new place.  It’s fun!

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The waves, too, were absolutely incredible.  Just when we started making our way east of Bermuda, we saw some of the biggest of the trip.

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It reminded me of fire.  Something so natural and mesmerizing that you watched perhaps because of the seemingly inexplicable novelty of it—i.e., what it is exactly that creates a flame and causes it to dance?  What forces move water into mountains and push them toward your boat?  The sheer fact that it is threatening is entrancing.  You want to watch it because it’s beautiful and because you need to keep an eye on it.  The waves in the middle of the Atlantic would loom on the horizon, grow like lumbering hillsides until they appeared taller than the boat on the horizon.  Then, as one neared, Andanza’s stern would rise up.  You would feel her nose start to pitch downward as the wave lifted her high above the ocean.  Sometimes the boat would catch the wave just right and start skidding and careening down the surface, surfing the wave at speeds of 14, 15 and upwards before she lurched into the trough of the wave in front of her.  Other times, she would not catch the gravity of the wave on the front and instead it would roll heavy and foamy beneath her.  Better still, sometimes her hull would toss around and land just right, contacting a wave dead on and causing a wall of water to slap up and swamp the cockpit.

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Still I found it fun!  Cool snippet from the Trans-At movie for you here, showing the height of the waves and the moment when I was honored to have witnessed the highest boat speed of the trip.  Can you guess what it was??

 

Often a wave would grab the stern of the boat, kick her out almost 45, 50 degrees off course and you would sit at the helm, hands poised over the wheel knowing it would be your job to get her back on course if Auto did not do it for you but not 100% confident of your ability to do it.  It was shocking to see the degree of deviations the auto-pilot could correct.  A swift shove off course and he would diligently nose her back onto her heading.  Every time.  Every wave.  It almost created a dangerous sense of nonchalance.  We were definitely spoiled with the auto-pilot.

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Our main concern at that time was making sure he had power.  We were struggling with the generator at the time.  According to the MasterVolt, it was only charging the batteries up to like 60%, then it would trickle off and not put any more juice in.  Many discussions were had about voltage, amps, watts, generator cables, etc.  While I listened, I mostly stayed out of those debates because—pitted next to Johnny, Yannick and Phillip—I certainly was no generator/battery expert.  And, to be honest, even with all of their expertise combined, they seemed to be contradicting one another often.  But, not discussing it (10 out of every 24 hours of the day like the boys did) did not mean that I wasn’t concerned about it.

It was around 11:35 p.m. the night of June 9th and I couldn’t sleep.  My shift didn’t start until midnight and while I usually sank into my berth like a log until the very moment when my relief crew member shook me awake or the alarm on my phone went off, this night I could not quiet my mind.  I kept imagining the batteries were draining down to 10% and suddenly there wasn’t enough juice to power the auto-pilot.  I imagined this would of course happen when someone wasn’t close enough to the helm (or with enough mental clarity, myself included) to turn the wheel in the right direction the moment Auto gave out in order to keep the wind in the sails and the boat on a safe course.  It’s very easy to get disoriented—when you have to run up to the helm and you’re not in tune, at that moment, with the environment and wind direction—and easier than you think to turn the boat in a direction that backwinds the sails or causes a terrible accidental jibe or worse.  I kept imagining this would happen during my 12-2 shift and it was ruining any sleep I thought might be possible in the hours that lead up to that dreaded shift.  I finally just got out about bed around 11:45 p.m. to look, once again, at the percentage on the MasterVolt and confirm it was at least above 10%.  It showed 65% and trickling in.

Yannick was bent over the instruments at the nav station when I staggered behind him, his head hanging like the sad ornament on a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.  “I’ve been counting the minutes,” he said as he started to rise to go to sleep.  I thought, for a moment, to protest saying it was only 11:45, not midnight yet, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good anyway.  I wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep and Yannick needed rest more than anyone.  So, I just let him go.  But then I sat and cursed him as my dreaded two-hour night shift was now a dreaded two hour and fifteen-minute shift and was starting now.  Uhhhhh.  Yannick told me before he went to bed, though, that he didn’t trust the percentage on the MasterVolt.  He did not think it was calibrated correctly because the volts were showing 24.62V (plenty).  Yannick said the the number to watch was the volts.  If they fell under 24.0, then it was time to wake him.  The Captain then stumbled off to bed and the boat was in my charge.  Uhhhhh.

 After thirty minutes of sitting at the nav station below as Yannick had been doing, watching the instruments (particularly the rudder indicator on the auto-pilot instrument showing how far, starboard to port, the auto was truly having to steer the boat) and praying Auto would hold, I couldn’t stand it anymore.  I didn’t care if the wind was blowing, if it was wet and drizzly outside, if it was a little cold.  My mind would not let up unless I was sitting at the helm feeling connected with everything and knowing exactly what I would need to do if Auto gave out.  Bottom line is, I feel safer at the helm.  So, I slugged it out topside and it actually was much better.  It’s like sitting in a passenger seat of a fast, seemingly out-of-control car, or sitting in the driver’s seat, with your hands on the wheel.  I can’t explain it, but it soothed me.

And, my shift actually went quicker because of it.  The winds were finally easing off a bit.  We had shaken out the second reef earlier in the day when the winds dropped below 25, followed by the first reef when they dipped below 20.  While it was still blowing a steady 17-18 during my shift (an amount that would worry me on our Niagara) on the Freydis, with the sails fully up, it was a nice, steady ride.  With reliable winds, the big seas were our main concern and I liked sitting at the helm imagining myself actually steering through those collosal waves (that way if Auto did lose juice I could do it when the time came.)  Little did I know I would get more than my desired share of that experience on this trip.  But, before I knew it, it was nearing 2:00 a.m., the winds were lightening up, Johnny was rousing down below and I was about to hand over the reigns of that bashing boat (one of my favorite feelings) and crash back into my soft, cottony palace of sleep below (another of my favorite feelings).  Life was good.

Until the unmistakeable scent started to seep in.  The smell of burnt plastic in your berth? NOT NORMAL.

It crept into my dreams at first.  I was in a kitchen somewhere scraping an oven.  Then footsteps thundered overhead.  I started to rouse, but I felt so confused.  Where am I?  What’s that smell?  When did we crank?  I blinked my eyes awake to the sight of Yannick, his head careened downward into mine and Phillip’s berth from the hatch overhead, darting his eyes all over the room.  I popped my head out of the hatch, coughed up melted plastic fumes and asked what was going on.  Then Johnny emerged from the engine room on port with the sad state of the muffler in his hands.

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Ch. 10: The Shuddering Shroud

“If we snap one of those battens, I don’t have a spare,” Yannick tells the crew after we put in the third reef.

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Thankfully the storm off the tip of Florida was intense but very brief, lasting a grand total of about twenty minutes with peak winds of 32 mph.  We may not have needed to go all the way down to third reef, but after our (very first ever) drop to reef one did not go so well and the winds were still building at the time, Yannick instructed the crew to drop to reef two—for safety as much as for practice.   While reef three was primarily practice, it was necessary all the same as the crew had never done it before and we needed to learn exactly how to secure the sail down to that mark.  The third reef in Yannick’s main does not have a line at the tack (the mast) running back to the cockpit; rather, it is cinched down to the boom at the tack with just a strap.  So, it was good practice to put the third reef in simply to learn the set-up.  With the third reef in and winds holding at 28 mph, it was then just a fun romp in the rain, a nice shower for the salty boat and crew.

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Video Annie was clearly having a good time:

 

However, just like washing your car to make sure it doesn’t rain, Johnny put the kibosh on our rinse by breaking out some soap to take a shower.  I’d say I felt bad for him, all lathered up and sudsy the minute the rain stopped, but he looked so funny.  Like an unhappy cat in the tub!

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Yannick, ever the problem-solver, remained focused on the crew’s poor reefing performance.  “I’m going to write up instructions,” he said as he headed down below right after the storm.  It wasn’t like we had botched the whole thing but reefing can be difficult when you are on a 46 foot boat, cannot hear one another over the wind and waves and you’re not confident, without communication, which lines to release or pull and when.  It needs to be coordinated, rehearsed and performed like a tire change at a pit stop—quickly, efficiently and safely.  In order to do that, you need to know—before sails start popping and snaring and lines are whipping about—in which order to do things.  I was all for instructions.  Type away Yannick.

And type he did.  And printed them too!  Later that afternoon we each had a typed-up instruction sheet taped at each of our designated posts setting out each step of our specific reefing procedure and we started doing reefing drills.

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By the second drill we were all far more comfortable with our respective roles and the communication that needed to occur while reefing.  While our reefing was improving, we were still struggling with the boom.  Yes, the boom.  Or I was at least—having the luxury on our Niagara of a boom vang—having to deal with the added problem of a boom, if not held up by the main sail or topping lift would come crashing down on the bimini.  Whose boom hits their bimini?  This irked me!  Like an entirely new, complicated task stacked on top of all our tasks was just what we needed.  Imagine you’re making coffee in the galley (think of all the things you have to do—fill the pot with water, light the stove, measure the grounds, etc.) and if you let go of the stove, it will fall out of the counter and crash onto the floor.  That’s a little what this crashing boom felt like.  If the main sail is not holding it up, the topping lift must.  Once the main sail is raised, however, the topping lift must be slacked or it will chafe the main halyard.  So, it’s kind of like swapping hands, but keeping a constant hold on the stove while you’re working in the galley.  It was just one more thing.

Luckily, the additional tasks relating to the boom were added to Yannick’s reefing procedure at the mast.  His list was definitely longer than any one else’s.  In case you are curious, here is a rough reconstruction of our reefing procedure on Andanza:

  1.  Phillip turns slightly into the wind
  2. Annie furls the genny in to third reef – with either Johnny on port or Phillip at the helm easing the sheet out  [We did this so it wouldn’t beat Yannick up at the mast while reefing the main.]
  3. Phillip turns back off the wind while the crew prepares to reef the main
  4. Annie checks clutches for tack on deck and for clew on boom are all closed
  5. Yannick at mast tightens topping lift (so the boom won’t crash on the bimini when we release the tension of the main)
  6. Phillip turns slightly into the wind
  7. Yannick at mast begins to lower the main
  8. Annie on starboard pulls line for reef one at the tack down to the mark
  9. Johnny on port winches the line for reef one at the clew down to the mark [while my line could be pulled by hand, meaning if we were on a port tack the genny sheet could remain on the winch, Johnny’s task of pulling down the reef point at the clew was much harder and had to be done at the winch.  If we were on a starboard tack, he had a separate clutch on port that could hold the genny while he used the genny winch to pull down the reef at the clew.  Winching the sail down at the clew was definitely the hardest job as it held the most wind]
  10. Yannick raises the main back up to tension the sail back up (so it can raise the boom)
  11. Yannick then releases the topping lift (and we all hope the boom doesn’t crash on the bimini)
  12. Phillip falls off and puts wind back in the sail and we all inspect sail shape, line tension and check for chafe points

Yannick also liked to use a long Velcro strap at the clew to help ease the tension of the reef line that held the clew down.  As I mentioned, that was by far where the most tension was held.  Listening to that line squeal and stretch to its limit as Johnny winched down the clew point was not enjoyable for anyone.  And, because it held so much tension, it also squealed and squeaked with each slight movement of the boom as the boat knocked around over waves.  Yannick hated this.  He’s not a fan of anything that squeaks.  So, he would always go up on the bimini after we put in a reef point and run a long piece of Velcro through the reef point at the clew to hold some of the tension at the clew and instruct Johnny to then let out some of the line that held the clew down.  Yannick was happy when the Velcro and the line “shared” the load.

In all, it’s a good thing we got our sail tactics rehearsed and operating like a well-oiled machine because the winds were screaming, holding steady around 23 knots for three days!  After our lackluster, glassy days in the Gulf, it felt like Andanza shot like a slingshot around the tip of Florida and up the east coast.  It was fun to see folks who had been clearly watching us on the Delorme (albeit in silence) finally chiming in with comments like: “Now you guys are moving!” “There’s the wind!” and “No more motoring!”  And they were right!

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Yannick got some great panorama (i.e., GoPro on a stick) shots during those days:

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We had a Mahi grab onto the line the day after our Key West stop and I had to wonder if the line actually grabbed onto him, because we were hauling at 13 knots.

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I had never caught a Mahi before and I was mesmerized by the colors.  Brilliant yellows and shiny greens, followed by a kaleidoscope ripple across her scales as she gulped her last breaths.

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While I said previously that I didn’t feel bad for the tuna we had caught in the Gulf, that it felt like a gift, that did not ring true here.  The Mahi was so beautiful.  I really hated to pierce its stunning skin with my knife.  Then Johnny says, “Throw the hook back out quick.  You can often catch the mate.”

Ack!

Apparently, these amazing fish mate for life and, once the connection is made, they swim together for the remainder of their piscine years.  Now, not only had I stripped this sad fish in the water of his lifelong, by his side, every-day mate but then he had to watch me slaughter her before his very eyes.  I know he was just sharing some probably very helpful, valuable marine-life knowledge but Jesus Johnny!  I did not need to know that.  The Mahi was succulent, light, fluffy and white and I hated every bite of it.  Poor fishy.

The sailing those days was some of the easiest I’ve done in my life.  It was Brandon, back home, who had told us this many times in the days before we left.  “You’ll get on a tack and stay there for six days,” he said.  “Chafe will be your biggest problem.”  That Brandon, he knows his stuff.

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He was so right.  Once we had steady wind in the sails, with the auto-pilot holding like a dream, there was really nothing to do as far as the sailing went.  While Yannick continued (continued! continued!) daily to work on boat projects, the crew kind of fell into an easy routine.  Books were devoured.  I recall specifically Johnny starting one, finishing one and starting another in one day.

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Phillip and I found ourselves doubled over one day watching Johnny napping one days in the cockpit.

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Sleep was absolutely indulged.  Can you spot Johnny in this pic?  That was his favorite sleep spot!

I distinctly remember Johnny had Phillip and I doubled over in laughter one day when he woke up from a particularly-deep nap.  Sure, he’d had his mouth wide open, jaw dropped, overcome with sleep.  We’ve all been there.  You wake up on occasion, acutely aware your mouth is ajar, subjecting anyone around you to whatever funk is coming out, yet you find the weight of your jaw is simply too heavy to lift.  So you just leave yourself wide open and let yourself drift happily back away.  That wasn’t the funny part.  What was funny was this.  So he’s out.  Mouth open.  Heavy breaths of his chest up and down.  Phillip and I were sitting on the other cockpit benches reading and we both watched as Johnny stirred.  Pulled his heavy jaw up, smacked a few times, blinked around the table and let his gaze fall on a little bowl in front of him.  It had been Phillip’s and it had been once filled with cookies.  Now, only little cookie bits remained.

Johnny eyed the bowl, reached a lumbering hand toward it, dumped it into his mouth, closed his eyes while he chewed and swallowed (as if the act of consuming crumbs was so tiring he had to rest his eyes while he did it).  Then he eased on back, laid his head against the boat and was soon back in his blissful, slackjaw slumbering state.  Having both watched the entire scene in silence, Phillip and I busted up, snickering and giggling and joking about how now, at least, Johnny’s breath would smell like cookies.  Johnny was funny.  I made him post the group Delorme message that night where he said the trip was affording him “Days of undeserved rest.”  Some moments like that, as well as Yannick spitting his words at us in the rain from the mast, talking about the third reef and battens snapping, will stick with me.  Some moments from the trip are crystallized in my memory where other periods of time, days on end even, feel like a blue water blur.

Comraderie among the crew grew like vines.  First it’s just a seed in the sand.  Two things put together but not really connected.  Then over time, as the two are exposed simultaneously to elements and experiences, little shoots start to emerge.  A joke is shared, a frightening moment, a hand lent out with just the tool you needed, a story from one another’s past and before you know it, you’ve connected with the person.  Roots have reached out and the dirt has welcomed their hold.  You start to understand the person in a way you didn’t before.  You’ll start to sense when they’re content to be left alone, when they may need your help but haven’t yet asked for it, when they’re in the mood to hear a funny story, but more importantly, when they’re not.  Case in point:

When Yannick’s sitting in a pile of tools, frowning at the broken end of the windex: NOT a good time to tell him a funny story about your high school prom (he cares not).

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When Phillip’s searing steaks on the grill on the transom, smiling and salivating: PERFECT time to strike up a rousing rendition of Son of a Son of a Sailor.

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When Annie’s staring at her computer screen, tapping her lip trying to write something brilliant: NOT a good time to strum up a political conversation about Obamacare.  (She cares not.)

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When Yannick’s splayed out in his berth, asleep, drooling with Breaking Bad play on his laptop: BAD time to tell him there’s a screw loose on the bimini cover.

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When Johnny’s looking for the tonic water to go with his swig of gin: GREAT time to ask him to write the crew message for our bottle.  The message Johnny came up with:

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Andanza was here, with its ruthless crew.  (Give the date.)

You were lucky, you weren’t here too.

It is fun the moments you share out there.  Phillip spent those days cooking up a storm every day with often a fun, creative bite for lunch (egg salad sandwiches, sushi, seafood pasta, BBQ) and, often, a rather gourmet dish for dinner (pork curry, beef stroganoff, shrimp alfredo).  Thankfully, we were sailing then, no longer motoring, so Johnny finally got his days of deserved rest, reading and relaxing.  I read and wrote and filmed and created and ate Phillip’s wonderful dishes.  That man can sure cook!  We make a good team ’cause I can sure eat!  

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And, Yannick continued to work.  We all stayed out of his way primarily, with the long-standing premise that if he needed or wanted our help, all he needed to do was ask and we would jump to his call.  Rarely did he.  This system worked well, until two worlds collided.  When Yannick started cutting into Phillip’s cutting board (literally) to construct a new base for his windex (which he had to mount on the port side of the mast) to account for the Freydis’ rotating mast.

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Yannick and Phillip bartered and negotiated and it was decided Yannick could have a chunk, not the whole thing and Phillip was granted free reign of the cutting board that came with the Magma grill.  It’s all about coming to understandings and respecting each other’s space.  This is how you all get along on a boat.

But, let’s talk for a minute about how the boat gets along.  Have any of you made an offshore passage on a catamaran?  If you have, please chime in in a comment below.  I would love to hear from you.  The bashing on the catamaran shocked me.  Stunned me.  It was teeth-jarring at times. When water trapped between the two hulls rumbled, thundered and finally bashed its way out, I had to convince myself each time that we had not just hit a whale.  While I had felt our 1985 Niagara 35 slam into a wall of water plenty of times and suspected a hull breach, this was different.  It was a special breed of bashing, a violent, shrill collision that made me sure, not just suspicious, the boat had cracked in half.  The bashing on the cat stopped sentences.  It stung bare feet on the galley floor.  It was like a nervous system message so strong it bypassed your brain.  Muscles flinched without instruction.  The crew grew accustomed but never comfortable with it.  With the bashing, however, came a great deal of speed.  With winds of 23+ holding steady, we were averaging 10 knots most day, even clicking off a record 243 nautical miles in one day.  We were flying, bashing, sleeping while sailing into the heart of the ocean.

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We were also shuddering.  Once the wind found us and we started to do some actual very sporty sailing on the trip, the shuddering began.  We heard it first on the port side because we were on a starboard tack.  With each lurch and bash of the boat into eight-foot seas, the lazy shroud on the port side would let out a shrill metallic ringing.  It vibrated like a plucked guitar string with each romp of the boat.  The sound (as all sounds on a boat are) was amplified below and in mine and Phillip’s berth on the aft port side.

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Annie trying to record some of the wicked sounds of the boat.  Folks who have seen the movie, was I able to capture them?  Did it sound like you were there?  Do tell!

While I could try to find the words to describe it, the best way to truly convey our concerns would be to say it sounded like it was damaging the boat.  Imagine a sail flapping, snapping and popping.  Even a non-sailor would likely cringe and think to themselves: Make it stop.  As a sailor, you know the sound means trouble for the boat and your immediate instinct is to fill the sail with wind or drop it, to rescue the flailing part somehow.   With the shuddering of the shroud, the entire crew felt that way, but Johnny, Phillip and I, as strictly monohull sailors, had no experience sailing a catamaran offshore.  We had no experience with a boat that only has three stays or, better yet, one whose mast rotates.

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Once I found out we were dealing with a boat rigged up with lines to pull on the lazy shroud to lessen the vibration when on an opposite tack, I knew I had nothing to offer.

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What is the proper tuning of that rig and what vibration is permitted or intolerable with a rig like that was an impossible question for the crew to answer.

While Yannick had the most offshore experience with the boat, it was limited to a sixteen day run bringing Andanza from Martinique up to Pensacola and he said he didn’t recall as much shuddering on that trip and didn’t know exactly how tight was the right amount of tight in light of the rotating mast.  He sent out texts and emails to various professionals back in Pensacola via the Delorme (another benefit of having available satellite communication) but it was late in the evening when those were sent out and the crew knew we likely would not hear from anyone until the following morning.  In the meantime, the shroud continued its murderous shudder with each romp of the boat.

Yannick worked tirelessly to tighten the slack line for the shroud and checking the chain plate on port.  It looked solid at the time, but every time the boat went head to head with a wall of water, the wave would bash into the hull with a thunderous slap and immediately the metallic ring of the shuddering shroud would follow.  Slap.  Shudder.  Slap.  Shudder.  Sleep came in fretful snatches that night.  I woke around 2:00 a.m. to find Yannick checking the chain plate (for the fifth time) on the port side.  He just looked at me sitting up in my berth and walked back up, his face telling me nothing had changed, but that meant nothing had improved either.

When Yannick is checking the chain plates because the shroud is clanging itself to death: NOT a good time ask him if everything is okay.

 

Fun story?  I hope you all are digging the Atlantic-crossing saga because I’m sure having a helluva time telling it.  The full-length movie from our voyage is up now for Patrons on Patreon and coming to rent on YouTube Oct. 7th.  If anyone has already seen it, let folks know what you thought of it in a comment below!

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