tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46979454687445226382024-02-21T04:10:13.262-06:00Adventures of s/v WILD HAIRDavid and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.comBlogger88125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-90742345499269727392011-07-24T11:05:00.003-05:002011-07-24T11:14:48.100-05:00Our Last Night in Grenada<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij__K4IgPbavTOhQkyZFeZu0eR4KxszwCXP1ay6kG7GYXGu0_7wJLc02jeKLcexoja9r4r5nmKAAIhYuwoJ1Qa5mvh8SpTnIsBYVzHg022SPOHt_YG-ZMwmxtZ80tt56N22_k7uUv9KaQ/s1600/DSC02863.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij__K4IgPbavTOhQkyZFeZu0eR4KxszwCXP1ay6kG7GYXGu0_7wJLc02jeKLcexoja9r4r5nmKAAIhYuwoJ1Qa5mvh8SpTnIsBYVzHg022SPOHt_YG-ZMwmxtZ80tt56N22_k7uUv9KaQ/s400/DSC02863.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632952976817251330" /></a><br />We hear spring has arrived in Madison: 82 degrees, greening grass, and budding bushes. Here, we are melting. It is greater than 90 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade below decks. The humidity exceeds 70%. We live in our swim trunks/bikinis. (Poor kitten Dinghy in her fur coat). She moves very slowly in the heat of the day. I sometimes check her pulse. But, she specializes in sleeping in the smallest, coolest places aboard WILD HAIR--like on top of the freezer lid or in the shady spot beneath the forward breezy hatch. When the sun retreats in the evenings, the night turns delicious. The cool air settles upon us. It is heavenly.<br /><br />It is the end of the sailing season for us. I am exhausted by the last four days spent decommissioning the boat. I used a tank of oxygen to scrape barnacles from the hull. <br />The boat looks disturbingly naked as Dave and I removed the sails from the mast and forward stay. We polished every inch of the vessel—inside and out. Memories of a bag of onions forgotten at the end of one season haunted me as I scoured the boat removing perishables. Anticipating hurricane force winds, we removed from the deck every line, fender, and cushion that could conceivably take flight. Stowing these items below erased the livable space available to us. <br /><br />Now, the boat sits on a frame ashore; heavy-duty straps attached to screws nestled deeply into the soil, pull the hull down onto the frame. In this configuration, we live on land 15 feet in the air. The boat feels oddly like a tree house. At one point, a Brit borrows our latter for his own use and we are stranded. A damsel in distress, I “you-hoo” a Grenadian boatyard worker for assistance. <br /> <br />It’s time to go home to Madison, Wisconsin.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-76140285502881375822011-07-24T10:57:00.003-05:002011-07-24T11:04:32.312-05:00Nearing the End<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHIf2N72FzRIAtaYHbzZgMz0ziShWUdLFldyM7Q6d6lT-5-Ugp18aU4UCW1fQhlTrdzkh1M2Dgb7nFYHS7C-O15RSBM8dzOgPESwFjnNUaI_srWwpa_OQhE9FmO8TvhRmTv6E09esLX0/s1600/DSC02742.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHIf2N72FzRIAtaYHbzZgMz0ziShWUdLFldyM7Q6d6lT-5-Ugp18aU4UCW1fQhlTrdzkh1M2Dgb7nFYHS7C-O15RSBM8dzOgPESwFjnNUaI_srWwpa_OQhE9FmO8TvhRmTv6E09esLX0/s400/DSC02742.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632950362467877122" /></a><br /><br />It is April 25, 2011. We are nearing the end of our fourth year living on the boat. Looking back, I reflect on this extraordinary sailing season. Dave, Dinghy and I journeyed well over 2,000 nautical miles—sailing from northern Florida to within throwing distance of Venezuela—without major mishap. Perhaps, I gloat on this glorious day, skill and experience give one control. Maybe we can shape our destiny after all. <br /><br />This morning, we leave our anchorage in the Tobago Cays and make our way to Union Island to clear customs. We anchor, dinghy ashore, and walk several blocks to the airport. There, Dave and I meet our first customs agent turned philosopher. In the historical reality in which I live, I can’t make the man stop talking. <br /><br />Sweat pours down my face in the tropical furnace that is the airport and Mr. A. T. waxes poetically about a conglomeration of topics: God, fidelity, doctors that want to kill him, and his plans to change careers. He will not proceed with the check out until Dave guesses how old he is (answer: 52). A. takes delight in discovering via a review of our passports that he and Dave have the "same birthday"--Dave's is September 9th while A’s is September 15th. Then we consider together all of the qualities of people born in September and how no one really likes September people. “Have we noticed?” Finally, with the definitive thud of a rubber stamp, the monologue ends.<br /><br />The town of Clifton on Union Island at 11:00 this Easter Monday morning is a drunken street party. Dancing in the islands is often risqué, but couples here stop traffic by lying in the street and rhythmically, graphically humping each other to the beat of blaring music. Nothing is left to the imagination. Dave and I casually head the opposite direction to buy tomatoes.<br /><br />The vegetable market is teeming with more loud music, bare-chested men and<br />lusty, cussing young women. S of S's Produce is exhausted by it all. When I question her delicately about the origin of the street festival, she corrects, "This is no festival. This is our most holy holiday and how people celebrate. They have partied like this since Good Friday.” With emphasis she adds, “I go TO CHURCH.” Beautiful S is made weary by her lack of influence. She is disappointed in her culture. More than she will ever know, we are sisters in her pain. We purchase our tomatoes and wish her well. <br /><br />To keep sailing skills developing equally, Dave and I alternate captain and crew responsibilities each day. I am especially cheerful now because it is my turn to be captain and the conditions are extraordinary. Sixteen knots of wind blows at a right angle across the port rails, filling sails into voluptuous pillow shapes. The seas are calm so I will not grow seasick. Boat and sun are unobstructed. Tomorrow, as Dave captains us to the island of Grenada, the wind will scream with squalls at 30 knots. He and I will enjoy having our hands full. But for now, I take pleasure in giving my boat full rein, allowing her to lead me, show me what she can do. Her grace and willingness steal my breath. <br /><br />Christopher Columbus sailed these same waters. His journal entries for this stretch of sea capture his puzzlement over frustrating, invisible currents. Without warning, my compass and electronics conspire and confuse me. My destination is Ronde Island. But the inflowing current and falling tide push the boat sideways at 3 knots—that means we go 3 miles west for every 5 miles south we travel. To drive “straight” I need to crab the boat 60 degrees east on the compass from where I want to head. It is a weird sensation. Our progress is ridiculously slow. I feel unsure. The constantly flowing river of my emotions turns grumpy. I miss the way things were. As captain I can assign duties, so—rather than continuing with something that is making me irritable—I ask Dave to take us in. He is more than happy for the job. <br /><br />Uninhabited Ronde Island is remote. This rolling 2,000 acre paradise was listed for sale in 2007 for $100,000,000, making the real estate the most expensive island property in the world. It is, however, four nautical miles from an active underwater volcano named Kick-em-Jenny (thought to be named after the odd currents in the area). In 1939, Kick-em-Jenny blew her top sending steam and debris 900 feet into the air and spawning several small tsunamis. Since then, Jenny has raged at least 12 more times making our plans to anchor within the evacuation zone disquieting. <br /><br />“Don’t worry,” Dave reassures. “The heat won’t kill us, the gas will.”<br /><br />Anchoring along the protected windward shore, the Delta doesn’t want to catch. I comment on Dave’s fishing gear trailing behind the boat and he says, “O.K. Yeah, I’ll get it.” We both promptly forget about it. <br /><br />With the boat seemingly attached to the earth, Dave swims to the anchor and dives to check its hold. He reports the light colored bottom is mostly solid rock. But, there is a layer of sand covered with floating vegetation. He dives again to help burry the plow by hand. <br /><br />“Oh my God—I almost died just now” he claims while swimming back to the boat. He is shaken. “An underwater Sea Snake shot out when I jammed my hand through the vegetation. We missed each other by six inches. I would have been dead before you could get me to help.” <br /><br />On board, I scan my husband from top to bottom. He is safe and whole. Catching his eye, I raise my eyebrows in question. A smile cracks his lips as he shrugs. There is nothing to do but return to the job at hand. <br /><br />Together, we back and circle the boat in three lengthy attempts to get the anchor to catch. Dave losses his snorkel mask overboard in the activity. The fishing line wraps the prop during our maneuvers, causing us to lose the lure. After a bit I notice we left the fenders hanging off the toe rail all day. They bounced for 20 miles atop waves. One line is nearly chafed through rendering it useless until replaced. <br /><br />Dave dives under the boat to cut the fishing line from the prop. I watch his bubbles. He doesn’t come up. Time passes. Panicked that he is stuck, I grab my mask and jump in to save him. He is gone, no where to be seen. I crawl back aboard and scan surrounding waters. At a distance, I spy him checking the anchor’s hold one last time. I make plans to throttle him for scaring me. But before I can fuss, Dinghy-the-Sailor Cat balances like an elephant on a drum atop the stainless bow rail. She jumps down to the deck and acts oh-so-casual when I holler her name. <br /><br /><em>What is happening? We don't drop things overboard. We don't stick our hands in dangerous places, leave fishing line trailing behind the boat, or dangle our fenders underway. Kitty doesn't climb the bow pulpit. And we certainly don’t lose each other on a 45 foot boat. Have we learned nothing in our time at sea? </em>But then I remember, <em>Yes. I’ve learned I do not rule my dominion. I welcome chaos, relax, and enjoy the show.</em><br /><br />It is now late. I know we have a good hold on the bottom; we’re prepared for the high winds to come. I spread my feet, grip the starboard wire shroud, and arch back in the darkness to explore the galaxy with eyes and soul. There are more stars tonight than I think possible. I scour the bright stars half believing they are pinpricks in the shroud of my delusion revealing light from the ultimate dimension lying just beyond comprehension. Perhaps Kick-em-Jenny will sleep tonight, perhaps not. Relishing the mystery of it all, I resign myself to wait and see.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-22882683165204590542011-07-24T10:08:00.002-05:002011-07-24T10:57:24.095-05:00Tobago Cays<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_x-EUE9edOghmIg5AeY4Ug824oAr5mlBtzcOhwsNADDFMXPvRE8Zg84hsaiCsKtK4erBWiJYOA1Hx7xaCKMb8nkdfYW-1GgGUbE7Dft2i3qVOuB62761YaGAHH8j5tRVSWPOc0Fwrwbw/s1600/DSC02726.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_x-EUE9edOghmIg5AeY4Ug824oAr5mlBtzcOhwsNADDFMXPvRE8Zg84hsaiCsKtK4erBWiJYOA1Hx7xaCKMb8nkdfYW-1GgGUbE7Dft2i3qVOuB62761YaGAHH8j5tRVSWPOc0Fwrwbw/s400/DSC02726.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632948513829110770" /></a><br /><br />Wild Hair is floating on anchor in 8 feet of crystal water off the remote Tobago Cays. We are just 13 degrees north of the equator. We have an uninterrupted view east into the Atlantic Ocean. But, we are tucked sleepily behind a submerged reef so there is hardly a ripple in our azure sea.<br /><br />Upon our arrival tonight, a local fisherman dashed over in his handmade bright orange boat and sold us a fresh 5 lbs lobster. We tossed it into a large bucket filled with salt water, and then swam for a long time in the spa-like ocean, melting away the day's heat and tired sailing muscles. After sundowners, we broke the lobster in half and cooked it in 2 pots. It was delicious and fed us all in grand style.<br /><br />We decided the lobster was our early Easter Dinner.<br /><br />Tomorrow, we will swim to the local turtle hatchery and snorkel miles of pristine reef.<br /><br />Monday, we sail to Grenada, our final destination for this sailing season. We have about a week's worth of work to do on the boat before we can leave it on land, hoisted on stilts, for 6 months. We fly to Jacksonville, Florida on May 4th and then drive our car (stored at the boat yard of our cruising season's origin) back to Madison. I hope we remember how to drive. We should be home to Madison by Mother's Day.<br /><br />I haven't taken an indoor shower in 7 months. Likewise, I haven't watched TV once during that same period. There has been no heat or air conditioning in our life; we are never separate from the climate of our surroundings. In 7 months, I have not moved faster than about 6 miles per hour. We have not had access to internet for nearly 2 months. In many respects, Dave and I feel ill-prepared, perhaps overwhelmed, by the thought of flying home.<br /><br />Although we have not grown tired of each other's company, we are nearly giddy at the thought of seeing our Wisconsin friends. At the same time we are bewildered that this sailing season is nearly over. To where did the time slip?<br /><br />Also, how could we have sailed so far? We never move very fast and yet we traveled two thousand miles. I was here the whole time and I find it a genuine mystery.<br /><br />But then I don't know how I ended up being 51 with 2 capable and grown children.<br /><br />Life baffles.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-53380763191082181212011-07-24T10:00:00.005-05:002011-08-01T11:30:32.717-05:00The Pirates of St Vincent<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_5_dmJRHs0evWEh7jaDG3zFkkjXwLQoCdGydVhwfNZcy_579trWFNKS1QFIxbBoBSgeOOcKDhb4v1Nv7rzM06wUt0xkK8CTqLTMU2xeO80AAWAHmYcQgzka8QrY0u0RSC_3zi8Ts_vYk/s1600/DSC02549.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_5_dmJRHs0evWEh7jaDG3zFkkjXwLQoCdGydVhwfNZcy_579trWFNKS1QFIxbBoBSgeOOcKDhb4v1Nv7rzM06wUt0xkK8CTqLTMU2xeO80AAWAHmYcQgzka8QrY0u0RSC_3zi8Ts_vYk/s400/DSC02549.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632935783777195810" /></a><br />One day we were stalked by “pirates.” <br /><br />St Vincent has a reputation among sailors as the island to miss. Violent crime and boat theft are common. The police are part of the problem; if you are boarded or robbed, don’t expect justice. Nearly all cruising sailors bypass the island, traveling instead directly from St Lucia to Bequia. This is how we found ourselves nervous and alone, five miles off the Atlantic coast of St Vincent on April 21, 2011. <br /><br />There was no wind that morning. Worse, a current pushed against the boat’s nose at two to four knots, slowing our forward progress. Knowing we had many miles to travel, we motored at an aggressive 2800 RPMs. Even so, our boat speed was a measly three knots. <br /><br />At 08:30, three fishermen fell into pace alongside our starboard hull about 100 yards off. Their colorful wooden fishing vessel sported an enormous outboard motor; they easily out-powered us and could do anything they wanted to do. After five minutes, they zoomed off out of sight, only to return again about 20 minutes later. This time, they paced us for what seemed like an eternity. I went below to retrieve the pepper spray and flare gun for Dave at the helm. For myself, I hid a couple knives in handy locations and packed away the rest. I readied the fire extinguishers to blast into the pirate’s faces and cripple knee caps. I locked one of two doors in the aft stateroom, hoping I could barricade myself—if necessary--inside. <br /><br />The fishermen inched slowly toward WILD HAIR. Dave lifted the VHF radio microphone and pretended to speak into it while visually surveying the details of the wooden boat and fishermen. With that, our three pirates took off, motoring at a high speed 50 feet in front of WILD HAIR’s bow, disappearing into the morning mist. <br /><br />The only scenario to these happenings we can imagine is that we were being targeted. In the vast space of the ocean, these fishermen were practically on top of us. There is no conceivable storyline as to why they were also traveling at three knots, other than they were plotting against us. They were not fishing; they were inching along by our side like stalkers. They were up to no good.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-71898145818006323462011-07-24T09:45:00.008-05:002011-07-24T09:59:52.716-05:00Cruising St Lucia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6XwkxZMKYw-_v4fo-wBoOf3sXvuJICXnj6AXD3dYwTQFIQJVUAuPLLBlghM4OFAAo43LO6XwAEnK597-1sZ7OGMS9XstyZicpoDNGvT0IZDXQlZQHtHLnjDwhFl0P5U5jGmsPBIxQYQ/s1600/DSC02499.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI6XwkxZMKYw-_v4fo-wBoOf3sXvuJICXnj6AXD3dYwTQFIQJVUAuPLLBlghM4OFAAo43LO6XwAEnK597-1sZ7OGMS9XstyZicpoDNGvT0IZDXQlZQHtHLnjDwhFl0P5U5jGmsPBIxQYQ/s400/DSC02499.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632933037528471474" /></a><br />We had a whirlwind tour of St Lucia today.<br /><br />Last night we anchored off a beach called Anse Cochon with hundreds of swimming tourists, a day cruise destination for the local Sandal's Resort (and others). Dave jumped in to check the set of our anchor and was surrounded by a flock of 4"stinging jelly fish. This was a first for us. He climbed out quickly and unscathed. Surrounded by vendors in various floating contraptions, we purchased a conch shell (from a man in a kayak) that had the tip cut off to make it a ready-made "trumpet." Now, we can blow our horn at sundown to celebrate the end of the day, a long-standing island tradition in which we had not participated because--sadly--we had no instrument. By the end of the day, all the day cruisers and local vendors left and we had a quiet anchorage almost to ourselves.<br /><br />Knowing this was a terrific place to snorkel, and watching all the swimmers swim without incident, I felt like a weeny for being afraid of jelly fish. So this morning, with the tourists coming back in force, Dave and I hopped in.<br /><br />There were no big jelly fish around. Phew. But, after a few minutes I realized I was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of baby jellies about 1/4 inch in diameter. It was like swimming through a jello mold peppered with nasty nuts. They were that thick. They felt like needles. It was very uncomfortable with some stings being significantly worse than others. Then, the cups in my bikini top started acting like a net. Oh my. Unmentionables were suddenly on fire! This was not funny. <br /><br />I had to get out as soon as I could. Making my way back to our boat, a fellow on a day cruiser asked if the jelly fish were bad where I was too. YES! It seems they were bad everywhere in this bay. This begs the question: Why would all of the day tours bring visitors to a jelly fish incubator? Judging from my pain, I thought I would find an entire jellyfish dinner in my swimsuit top. But no, no jelly fish were harmed during this event.<br /><br />As has been the case for the past week, we continue to suffer from no wind. So, today we motored down St Lucia’s shore to Soufriere, a very pretty town at the base of the Pitons (three oddly shaped mountain peaks rising dramatically 2800 feet out of the sea). Again, we were flooded by boat vendors that wanted to do odd jobs for us and sell us things. After driving in circles and looking at the amazing scenery, we moved south along the shore again.<br /><br />Thinking we would spend the night, we anchored off a tiny fishing village called Laborie. It was a place known for charm and no tourists. Indeed, we were the only cruising boat there. We dinghied to shore and enjoyed a walk about town, stopping at the local bakery to buy bread. Farther down the street we noticed a sign for creole bread and a man coming up the side walk of the house. He encouraged us to go into the back yard and ask for bread. There we found a garage-type building with a very large concrete wood burning oven, and a wife selling lovely rolls baked by her husband. They made the bread early in the morning but the oven was still very hot! She charged us .25 EC each, or about 10 US cents per roll. They were supper delicious at our evening supper!<br /><br />Motoring back to our boat about 3 pm we decided to leave Laborie altogether. The route into the harbor was tricky as it twisted awkwardly around coral reefs. Plus, the route was littered with floats and lines attached to submerged fish pots. Tomorrow morning we intend to depart early to sail to Bequia, the northern-most island in the Grenadines. The thought of trying to navigate the exit from the harbor in the dark gave us the willies. So, we hoisted anchor and drove out of there, following our "bread crumbs" on our electronic navigation charts. SCRRRAAAAAPE--we hit the coral reef. Knowing that coral is alive and that it takes years to grow we found the sound sickening. But, WILD HAIR did not get stuck aground nor did we wrap a fish pot line around our prop. We were safely on our way again.<br /><br />Our day's final destination was Vieux Fort--the southern-most town on St Lucia. The guide book describes this location as a community without a single tourism bone. It is quite industrial and we are anchored under the flood lights of the shipping dock. But, it is quiet, safe, and we're secure. <br /><br />At sundown, we took great delight in tooting our conch horn for no one other than ourselves. Plus, I'm pretty sure I finally saw the famous "green flash," a phenomenon of the atmosphere that happens when conditions are just so as the sun dips below the horizon.<br /><br />I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed since we're getting up at 05:00 to head to Bequia for more adventures.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-3357516567049872042011-07-24T09:42:00.009-05:002011-07-25T17:31:31.436-05:00Martinique Work Boat Regatta<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1qs-SwKH8iGJUcUsDyEzPximLhc35xZFwbjXuHZ9GGqDinJld634uJhPaEVIil3ePH-xyZT087iPA7O1CsLWDjgQmMQyQQYbAnwk14ozDnp6pUlPpnbaIjeL5ohxqMPKatQSSSN0EJRw/s1600/DSC02322.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1qs-SwKH8iGJUcUsDyEzPximLhc35xZFwbjXuHZ9GGqDinJld634uJhPaEVIil3ePH-xyZT087iPA7O1CsLWDjgQmMQyQQYbAnwk14ozDnp6pUlPpnbaIjeL5ohxqMPKatQSSSN0EJRw/s400/DSC02322.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633420809390529154" /></a><br /><br />Anchored off St Pierre on the island of Martinique, this collection of native work boats assembled in the early morning hours for a race. Dave and I had never seen this rocking technique before. Crews dashed port to starboard to manufacture wind on an otherwise windless day.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-46426318003885251062011-07-24T09:30:00.002-05:002011-07-24T09:41:38.046-05:00Martinique<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCclk6a2H1mb_9dpUAKSUAgSvS37Fn4_hzs6gUd4lFMlJjslGOQhW3coXCwtBnm9WWUrV6el6V4H06VKLox8Ki3XDlFB2gB-htYdtuON-9-299neOEMop-gDONG5JtyADqfyOOnz2tkA/s1600/DSC02402.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCclk6a2H1mb_9dpUAKSUAgSvS37Fn4_hzs6gUd4lFMlJjslGOQhW3coXCwtBnm9WWUrV6el6V4H06VKLox8Ki3XDlFB2gB-htYdtuON-9-299neOEMop-gDONG5JtyADqfyOOnz2tkA/s400/DSC02402.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632928898791340706" /></a><br /><br />We have successfully navigated to Trois Islet on the French island of Martinique and the hometown of Napoleon’s Josephine. Our harbor is so quiet I had to check our depth last night to make certain we weren't sitting on the bottom. The town is sleepy, charming, silent. The only sounds last evening were roosters, dogs, and crickets (deafening like in Wisconsin on a hot July night). Morning brought the sounds of song birds--something you don't hear much on the ocean.<br /><br />Journeying through the French islands we have purchased warm baguettes in each town. I can tell these French islands are giving me a bit of extra padding around the middle. Plus, produce at the markets has been so fresh and tender--like a home garden.<br /><br />The French in France know so much more English than they do in the islands. In all our travels, we've never been THIS clumsy. We have no translation dictionary or internet. I know just a handful of French words and 10 of them are counting numbers from 1-10. Three of the remaining words are "parle vous Anglaise?" Then of course there is fromage (cheese), jambon (ham), baguette, croissant, pain (bread), and poisson (fish). I can't spell it in French, but I know the sound "ooo-ey" means "where is." To tell the deli counter lady how many slices of salami we want, I have to say "dis avec dis" (or "10 with 10," meaning 20 slices). When she says "blah blah blah?" I nod. It usually works out. <br /><br />When the bread man took our order for a morning croissant delivery, I had sudden recall of my high school French class and boldly asked "at what time in the morning?" but what I really said was "what time is it now?" Forget about knowing how many euros to pay for an item. We have to read what is written down or hold out a fist full of money for them to take the right amount. There is a lot of eye rolling. Some people are kind and will go out of their way to escort us where we need to go. Some people are simply not amused. <br /><br />Yesterday, we bought a bag of super tender butter lettuce. However, the bag was enormous and most would have spoiled in our fridge. So this morning, I created 2 small bags of lettuce to give to our boat neighbors. Of course, they spoke no English. Dave and I drove our dinghy up to the stranger’s boats, babbling some nonsense (English), and then chucked the bags of lettuce onto their deck. Have we crossed some line as the crazy people in the harbor?<br /><br />Today we took the boat into Martinique’s capital town for refueling, Fort-de-France. Arriving to the fuel dock, we couldn’t find fuel pumps or parking slips. Spotting some capable-looking folks I hollered to shore. <br /><br />“Ooo-eh le diesel?” I bellowed. Imagine the stares. I repeated with greater annunciation, “ooo-eh le diesel?” Then, a chorus of gibberish sounding words spewed from the mouths of the Frenchmen. I shook my head and held up my hands in the universal symbol of “I don’t get it.” <br /><br />Finally, a bold fellow shouted, “No diesel. All gone, one hour.” <br />My next question was unreasonably complicated, “When diesel arrives, where will… ooo-eh it be?” <br /><br />My new friends turned against me, giving me the universal gesture of “forget you.” and resumed their private conversations. <br /><br />Tomorrow we'll be heading from Martinique to St Lucia. It should be pretty straight forward. But, it is a long day so we'll raise anchor at 07:30. Our problem lately has been not enough wind so we've needed the assistance of the motor. Good old motor. It is helping us get to Grenada on time so we can make our flight home to Madison. More wind is due into the eastern Caribbean early next week. The legendary trade winds will return.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-78104157051833814132011-07-24T09:21:00.005-05:002011-08-01T11:29:17.551-05:00The French Fishing Village of Les Saints<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqz3mtilRRoj63zEqYnAkgorQZnZUwFf9hI0zjU7jCWtrF4XOUPP4aifXsC2iOdvPmFDGNKnj-B9xATFX-qVGG8fEb03zN1Pni_LhrxX2QCZNtyeMagOqgWK73JOJ19ZEZt0ki-5A_bE/s1600/DSC02246.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaqz3mtilRRoj63zEqYnAkgorQZnZUwFf9hI0zjU7jCWtrF4XOUPP4aifXsC2iOdvPmFDGNKnj-B9xATFX-qVGG8fEb03zN1Pni_LhrxX2QCZNtyeMagOqgWK73JOJ19ZEZt0ki-5A_bE/s400/DSC02246.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632925912331409042" /></a><br /><br />Oh, have we been in a fun place: Le Saints--tiny French islands off the coast of Guadeloupe. This is an authentic tropical fishing village in an early tourism phase. No one comes close to speaking English here. It is unspoiled. Quaint, quaint, quaint. It's so lovely, we didn't even mind walking for hours in the warm rain, hand in hand. Can you believe Dave and I actually slept off our lunch on a picnic table at a remote beach?! Dave slept on the table. I slept on the bench. What a couple of lazy-heads! Luckily, the feral goats left us alone while we were unconscious.<br /><br />Unless we're doing something fancy sailing-wise--I'll probably check my emails every other day. We just bought a bunch of satellite phone minutes that should last us through the end of the sailing season. But, the other day when it was important to let family know that our overnight crossing was a success, the "bars" of satellite reception kept dropping my email/call. It took 27 tries to send 1 email. That one email took hours to send and cost us $62.10. If our minutes are going to last until the end of our voyage, I'll have to go on a communication diet. But if we're doing anything risky, I'll keep family posted in a timely way. <br /><br />Tomorrow we have an 18 nautical mile sail in calm seas to Dominica. It'll take only about 4 1/2 hours. They say this is to be the most tropical and most laid back island of all. It is known for its dramatic rain forests, tropical agriculture, and 7 potentially active volcanoes (most Caribbean islands only have one potentially active volcano). Because we're moving relatively quickly, however, we're going to have to save most of our sightseeing for next cruising season. This will be just a tease!David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-5539947049415346272011-07-24T09:16:00.003-05:002011-07-24T09:20:40.968-05:00Bypassing Nevis and Montserrat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w79l3Nsh2e7IIQHXgFQmwFC9-1NkpRmffwe2A5KA0C7rhFNbSy_8EMUqzrHpAMu33A6j1758NV7w5DyqeUQ4uaAl1nV035o4b5anyFCI1IPKHk3ekngbof_EcU_34XoLUKhfBYwF6YM/s1600/DSC02008.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w79l3Nsh2e7IIQHXgFQmwFC9-1NkpRmffwe2A5KA0C7rhFNbSy_8EMUqzrHpAMu33A6j1758NV7w5DyqeUQ4uaAl1nV035o4b5anyFCI1IPKHk3ekngbof_EcU_34XoLUKhfBYwF6YM/s400/DSC02008.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632923360617045474" /></a><br /><br />It is 03:47 as I sail past the island nation of Nevis. I am alone in the cockpit. Without warning I am engulfed in the smell of a pig roast. Someone had a special party on shore and I can practically hear sizzling, dripping pig fat and see scent waves undulating toward me through the dark. I am now hungry. <br /><br />Dave sleeps below to ready himself for his shift at the helm. Our sail from St Kitts to Guadeloupe is 78 nautical miles. Traveling non-stop at five knots the trip will take us more than 15 hours. We want to arrive at our destination in daylight so we left St Kitts at 02:30. The wind blows a kindly 12-14 knots and the water slides past our hull in four foot waves. I tend to the boat’s needs. My mind wanders. Another hour passes.<br /><br />Suddenly, I am overwhelmed by the smell of baking cinnamon and butter. I look up to see the lights of a new town on Nevis Island. It is nearly 05:00 on Sunday morning. The baker is at work. I breathe heavily and wish I could thank her for her familiar smells of home. <br /><br />Mid-day Sunday, after my nap, I am back at the helm and sailing off the shore of Montserrat. In 1632, anti-catholic violence erupted in the British Island of Nevis, forcing the Irish population—many brought to Nevis as indentured servants—to flee to Montserrat. The island followed the economic development of the times, becoming a hub for a sugar industry built on the backs of slaves. When slavery was abolished and sugar production ended, island people looked next to tourism. That worked until Hurricane Hugo came for a visit in 1989 bringing 140 mph winds and damaging 90% of the island’s structures. Just about the time island residents regained their economic footing, the Soufriere Hills Volcano erupted in July of 1995, burying the capital city and forcing two-thirds of the population to flee. The volcano erupts even today so half of the island remains off limits to all and a new capital city is undergoing construction. <br /><br />I sail WILD HAIR outside the volcano’s exclusion zone. Still, ash carried by the breeze settles onto the deck. Steam emerges from the caldera; clouds stack up in the moist air as the easterly trade winds approach. Miles offshore, a sweaty-earth smell finds its way to me, bringing to my mind the harshly sour sulfur springs of Yellowstone National Park.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-84813268281111569482011-07-24T09:11:00.002-05:002011-07-24T09:15:02.384-05:00The Sharks of St. Barts<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigS8knna5_L3LGKR4pduQyhoGfQNswX_rVZRAcCBokBW4LPDuS5KaIQ-NEWKWfJomdpv9gMf_dZ62-3iPMqCjnCqv6DMcAbSdrLMJjBKGOEMafAD0iDxvVYEvCuObwcvsOOyZQNav_ZA/s1600/DSC01993.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiigS8knna5_L3LGKR4pduQyhoGfQNswX_rVZRAcCBokBW4LPDuS5KaIQ-NEWKWfJomdpv9gMf_dZ62-3iPMqCjnCqv6DMcAbSdrLMJjBKGOEMafAD0iDxvVYEvCuObwcvsOOyZQNav_ZA/s400/DSC01993.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632922080337370034" /></a><br /><br />At present, we are tied to a mooring ball here in St Bart's in a French national marine park. We will not be visiting the shore as we're moving quickly now to get the boat south. No need to bother about customs. Tomorrow (Friday) we'll depart early for St. Kitts. Then we'll sail overnight Saturday/Sunday to Guadeloupe.<br /><br />When we departed St Martin today we first had to take our dinghy into town to clear out of customs. After waiting about 5 minutes for the office to open, I investigated around the corner. The ferry dock people said that no one from customs showed up to work today. The office was closed. So, we had to visit a local mega-yacht marina office and talk them into letting us clear out using their computer system for a $22 service charge.<br /><br />Such is island life.<br /><br />Tonight's unusual food experiment incorporating new-to-us items from the St Martin market includes: Catofine--a large, pear-shapped, Kermit-the-frog green vegetable that I will slice in half longways, boil in salt water, scoop out, mix with spiced meat, and restuff into the skin to bake. Plus, I'll cook a giant white yam and serve all with a tossed salad. Tonight's special cocktail will be a repeat of last night's: a guavaberry rum white wine spritzer.<br /><br />But now it is time to snorkel this unique marine park!<br /><br />AFTER DINNER:<br />Yikes. I took a quick snorkel and visibility wasn’t great so I hopped out and showered. Dave did laps in the water for exercise only to start thrashing oddly. First, he tried to climb up the anchor chain to the bow. Then, he made a dash to the boarding ladder. It seems a very large bull head shark spotted him and turned to approach. Eerily, when Dave tried to escape the water up the anchor chain, he lost sight of the beast. He felt lucky to get out of the water alive given the fact that the creatures jaw was wider than Dave’s shoulders. <br /><br />There is something natural and unnatural about being part of the food chain.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-85971787555219734102011-07-24T09:02:00.003-05:002011-07-24T09:10:20.736-05:00The French Island of St Martin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxKkNS6gbA6ZQjtlCWwxDRzDyPNpe09PMn7TgBmB5NJX2oUB5HOcDDJ_mJQpjCr3cIa6xXogEpiurT_N-E9XndtmX79aPagfkEBIzrW-3BacvBEPQhQG8nRDlHpYrRShkkcrPaed7C0c/s1600/DSC01903.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxKkNS6gbA6ZQjtlCWwxDRzDyPNpe09PMn7TgBmB5NJX2oUB5HOcDDJ_mJQpjCr3cIa6xXogEpiurT_N-E9XndtmX79aPagfkEBIzrW-3BacvBEPQhQG8nRDlHpYrRShkkcrPaed7C0c/s400/DSC01903.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632920829687268178" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitL2chzB7tmIZU30HxeOPyLXiCwlaLMkYGpa-CA4BIfMTaWYsf1N9jfBJGYDjKnSqF5Q2NsQUVpI_wpZTatj1YZoARb53bBAiUaGxR3I0pXgVinBiiXw2LWLroY9K8sY144izhSrb6O0c/s1600/DSC01972.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitL2chzB7tmIZU30HxeOPyLXiCwlaLMkYGpa-CA4BIfMTaWYsf1N9jfBJGYDjKnSqF5Q2NsQUVpI_wpZTatj1YZoARb53bBAiUaGxR3I0pXgVinBiiXw2LWLroY9K8sY144izhSrb6O0c/s400/DSC01972.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632920332649147554" /></a><br /><br />From our anchorage under the “Witches Tit” (a hillside shapped like....you guessed it), we take the dinghy to shore for a visit to the Wednesday market in French St Martin. Here, the Dominican Farmers come a sell their produce and fish. I am determined to buy at least one of every food that is foreign to me and learn from the vendor how to cook it. I take photos, draw pictures, and take notes. So, tonight's dinner is:<br /><br /> Trigger Fish<br /> Cow Fish<br /> Dasheen<br /> and salad with island cucumber and tomatoes.<br /><br />The trigger fish was "cleaned" when we bought it (no guts, no skin). But it looked hardly appetizing, reminiscent of my brother’s childhood educational model of a human without skin. The eyes were in place on the head and the meat and fins were all present. It wasn't exactly "restaurant ready." I broiled it with butter. It had a good flavor but it was very tough. Cooked through we could hardly get it off the bone. But, kitty was happy to help clean up the remains. My conclusion: I like my trigger fish better on the reef when I'm snorkeling. They are VERY PRETTY and VERY COLORFUL when alive. I couldn't help but feel that I had done something terribly wrong to transform such beauty into...that!<br /><br />The cow fish was odd. Another wonderful fish to watch on the reef (Maggie will remember it's unique triangular shape and pointy eyebrows), the cow fish on my plate was less than satisfying. The locals call them "shell fish" because of their tough outter casing. When broiled, it smelled like lobster. Cooked, the shell easily crumbled away to reveal...actually...almost nothing. There was perhaps 4 tablespoons of meat inside the entire shell. And, what meat there was had an unpleasant bitter flavor. Kitty rejected this fish outright. Strike two.<br /><br />The Dasheen is a potato-like root vegetable that looks like a larger version of something you'd remove in a dried clump from the bottom of your boot. I was told to peel it and boil it. I was to treat it like a potato so I simply buttered and salted it to serve. Actually, it was moist and very tasty--a sweet and mellow potato flavor--but extremely filling. It seemed to grow mysteriously in volume once swallowed. I could only eat about half of my usual potato equivalent.<br /><br />The salad was delicious.<br /><br />Dinner was accompanied by a Guavaberry Rum cocktail that I bought on the Dutch side of St Martin yesterday. This sipping rum has floating guavaberries in it (native to the island) and the heady spices remind me of Swedish glug. Yet, the rum has caramel overtones. For a cocktail, you add a shot of Guavaberry Rum to a glass of white wine. <br /><br />While in town today we stopped at the real French Bakery and bought a baguette, two almond croissants for breakfast tomorrow, and a strawberry tart that I (breaking all healthy-eating rules) consumed for lunch. Who knew that my absolute favorite custard would lurk just below the strawberries? I believe today's strawberry tart was even better than the 3 chocolate dessert I consumed at the same bakery two days ago.<br /><br />My tart lunch was followed by the biggest, ripest mango I've ever eaten. Filling a dinner plate, the fruit sent juices cascading uncontrollably down my chin. Can you say bliss?<br /><br />It will be sad to say "adieu" to the French Bakery tomorrow. Our plan is to depart St Martin and head toward St Eustatius Island (Isn't that the patron saint of the inner ear?) We will likely hop from there to Nevis and then do an overnight sail to Guadeloupe. We don't want to stop in Montserrat along the way because the active volcano makes quite a spew; we will give it a wide berth so it won't trash our boat's deck! Our goal is to be in Guadeloupe (the half way mark to Grenada) by April 11. It looks like we will have cooperative weather over the next 4 days to make some tracks.<br /><br />The good news is that Guadeloupe is another French Island. The eating continues!David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-80615219353509867912011-07-24T08:54:00.010-05:002011-07-25T15:25:35.097-05:00Flamingo Beach Playground<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX-zMvQ3iV4h5dkJqS4QnVUWCSHimY5T4BaKrqzt3nn5wvt9S1zYdS7mJgTdNAHutW01oOWur6uWUa4WAn48xGJ7jvctZkYrTSdJ7HwZKt6WOjqgW96P6MUHbwQL7y9j-cHATIB5kVYY/s1600/DSC01398.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX-zMvQ3iV4h5dkJqS4QnVUWCSHimY5T4BaKrqzt3nn5wvt9S1zYdS7mJgTdNAHutW01oOWur6uWUa4WAn48xGJ7jvctZkYrTSdJ7HwZKt6WOjqgW96P6MUHbwQL7y9j-cHATIB5kVYY/s400/DSC01398.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633386535724131298" /></a><br /><br />Flamingo Beach on Culebra Island in the Spanish Virgins is rated (by someone) as the "Second Best Beach in the World" (for some reason). Dave and I liked the soft powder sand. The waves were playful, strong, and perfect for body surfing. The water was crystal clear and warm. The scenery (both human and landscape) was entertaining, beautiful. The park that surrounded the enormous crescent beach was filled with food vendors, campsites, and happy people. Hundreds of Puerto Ricans ferried to Culebra Island for a weekend holiday, joining Dave and I for our Sunday visit to Flamingo Beach. A note on scale: this photo captures only a small section of the whole.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-71825663065759338432011-07-24T08:33:00.005-05:002011-07-24T08:54:31.783-05:00A Hole in the Roof<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrD37HCIHxVaVMnppQZUSNBbY0u1ssj_YCmkFkrZk8fJLDg_i8gZzRl1YADaiBTrQsNI_KFztgndkhEEhUvZaWYIoc4575GFwiTb0Tm_oREFdUe6lE-izMmJOxhph6JaP3IfEWWfxFK4/s1600/DSC00632.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibrD37HCIHxVaVMnppQZUSNBbY0u1ssj_YCmkFkrZk8fJLDg_i8gZzRl1YADaiBTrQsNI_KFztgndkhEEhUvZaWYIoc4575GFwiTb0Tm_oREFdUe6lE-izMmJOxhph6JaP3IfEWWfxFK4/s400/DSC00632.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632916580969253634" /></a><br /><br />I have six holes in the roof of my house, but my favorite is the one over my bed. The hole is low, sitting just 30 inches above my mattress. More than two feet square, the opening is large enough for breezes to penetrate and take liberties. As I lay resting in the heat of the day, I grow intoxicated as tropical winds swirl the minute hairs on my skin and playfully caress my exposed self. <br /><br />Rain falls every night through the hole startling Dave and me into a rush to close the gaps. I spin from my pillow, drop the screen, and undo braces supporting the hole’s watertight lid. There is always a moment of revelation during this drill when I find my head through to the outside, intimate with the foreign night. Disoriented, I suffer bites from icy bugs on shoulders, face, and arms before I realize I am baptized by the rain. Stumbling upon the uncensored world while vulnerable is a holly nightly sacrament. Personal boundaries melt as I awaken and absorb the world as it is. I find union between the untamed night and my unguarded interior. For a moment, we evolve together.<br /><br />I live on a sailboat in the Caribbean Sea. Over time I have developed histories with every part of my vessel, but it is the hatch over my bed that breaches my shell provoking an altered point of view. Sometimes, it can be a portal toward peace in a state of uncertainty.<br /><br />On New Year’s Eve in the Bahamas several years ago, our vessel was disabled in a storm. Anchors would not grab to keep us safe even though we had tossed three at various angles and distances. As the wind drove, the jagged shoreline possessed gravity, drawing the boat toward sharp rocks and certain doom. My husband sat on guard; I was assigned to rest. As the boat tossed, I lay on my back looking through the opening watching the light atop our mast scratch rhythmically against Orion’s belt. The motion was hypnotic. The immensity of the universe penetrated my awareness, fears melted, and I grew calm. I saw danger and safety as two sides of the same moment. The crisis would resolve.<br /><br />I cannot always be made porous; sometimes, it is necessary to seal myself from the world. Years back, my hatch leaked miserably in a seemingly endless drizzle soaking Annapolis, prompting us to sleep among pans and under a plastic cloth. Every morning I awoke delighted I hadn’t suffocated in the improvised bedding. It took time to invent an opportunity to learn how to re-bed the hatch without splintering fiberglass and bending stainless. After many drip-filled months, we mastered the task under the tutelage of a salty Floridian; he revealed the secrets of rubber mallets, wedges, mahogany sticks, mineral spirits, and silicone.<br /><br />It is the interruption in the cocoon of the hull that breaks old habits, shifts my viewpoint, and dares me to embrace new relationships with creation.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-25870307895955009162011-07-24T08:28:00.004-05:002011-07-24T08:32:37.914-05:00My Spanish Turtle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DIgrI0zrn-9uCT7FKFrsu55iu8HVOB-IVf5LICSW9AZ5-EuX5awci6xULdx4ul8tHo4gqblSX-jCaHVG55CiVUM_obv_-vNM_DhHBf8aJ_O8c0zxHWpD6WO4D11gdjv0sAeqkekJQq0/s1600/PICT0776.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DIgrI0zrn-9uCT7FKFrsu55iu8HVOB-IVf5LICSW9AZ5-EuX5awci6xULdx4ul8tHo4gqblSX-jCaHVG55CiVUM_obv_-vNM_DhHBf8aJ_O8c0zxHWpD6WO4D11gdjv0sAeqkekJQq0/s400/PICT0776.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632910857565020866" /></a><br />Off the coast of Culebra in the Spanish Virgin Islands, I slide from the dinghy into the dim, blue scenery. I am at a place divers call “The Wall,” an uninterrupted expanse of coral that breaks the surface only to drop dramatically to a depth of 40 feet. The coral structures are gigantic, pristine. I cannot see an end to the reef. Dave and I stop swimming only when we are too cold to continue, leaving much of the reef unexplored. Heading back to the dinghy, I spy an endangered turtle. Not especially large, her shell is about 18 inches top to bottom. Despite the cold, I make her my pace car and for 20 minutes she and I circle coral clusters and pause for breaths of air at the surface. She sports a numbered tag on the trailing edge of her forward, portside fin. The tag makes me feel fortunate that she and I live in a world where some people nurture the whole of existence.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-6862687754655069012011-07-23T15:45:00.002-05:002011-07-23T15:51:51.299-05:00Buck Island Coral Reef National Monument<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfR8EgY4iqpsA-suiMLygj89JOOlO7TbFGQ6MZ_jIB9G8zP8WruQHS2p8ZAMjDaDaIWVytZDgTG67Wp0VvUVlj0rjhr83M9oFW11r-8ECT91l5ebJd4yA7om4pHKrXJ2mAapqd4CiFmI/s1600/PICT0536.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfR8EgY4iqpsA-suiMLygj89JOOlO7TbFGQ6MZ_jIB9G8zP8WruQHS2p8ZAMjDaDaIWVytZDgTG67Wp0VvUVlj0rjhr83M9oFW11r-8ECT91l5ebJd4yA7om4pHKrXJ2mAapqd4CiFmI/s400/PICT0536.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632653333631764658" /></a><br />Slithering from known to unknown through the chop of Caribbean waters, I drop into the action of an underwater world. Friend or foe, I cannot guess in advance who is poised to greet in snorkeling’s first moments. Today, only sunbeams dash below the surface with the random grace of elbowed adolescents. Staying alert for sharks, I glide toward the marked underwater trail off Buck Island—a lump of land adjacent to St. Croix in the US Virgins. I am here to visit a new friend, the legendary stretch of massive Elkhorn Coral that surrounds the place. But, I register something wrong. Everywhere, horns of coral are snapped from their base. Like the day-after carnage of a civil war battlefield, broken coral bodies rest in unnatural postures—bone white, dead. Suddenly, I am consumed in a crowd of Blue Tang. Hundreds of dark, 10-inch creatures swarm too close, riding a gust of nothing on a mission. The ghostly effect reminds me that life once teemed. I feel accused.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-87413389079669035092011-07-23T15:40:00.004-05:002011-07-25T18:14:02.376-05:00Points of Sail<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWpOMy9G5ZDTMPP2fEJq9dhAixbRwgJkSs2JEHaIjZY00nsB-nchU4paWORfJg7EnQlEGLveE8xcKQ3Q0qEeLu9EnJMcwSEgS46eonE0yz_5oGW7dKI4JWkIvtpb-ObaewLnSZOQm_Js/s1600/DSC00496.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWpOMy9G5ZDTMPP2fEJq9dhAixbRwgJkSs2JEHaIjZY00nsB-nchU4paWORfJg7EnQlEGLveE8xcKQ3Q0qEeLu9EnJMcwSEgS46eonE0yz_5oGW7dKI4JWkIvtpb-ObaewLnSZOQm_Js/s400/DSC00496.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633432072531379826" /></a><br /><br />WILD HAIR is like a magnificent animal and it gives me immediate feedback when I ask it to perform. Stronger than the human frame, the boat will do as I bid. But, if I am careless, headstrong, or too eager in my bidding, the boat will comply but I will pay a price. <br /><br />Everything related to comfort as we sail depends on the direction and strength of the wind in relation to my course heading. If a day is exceptionally mild with winds less than six knots and seas rippling at less than one foot, I can motor smoothly and confidently straight into the wind. If the wind blows in a strong breeze of 27 knots and the seas kick up to 13 feet, I can still sail peacefully, but I must sail away from the wind to be comfortable in these conditions. Were I to turn 90 degrees and sail across or into the 27 knot winds and 13 foot seas instead of away from them, the motion of the boat would be nauseating, equipment would be strained, and progress would be slow. <br /><br />As a general rule, if my destination is 30 degrees off the wind, I can motor-sail comfortably into 10 knots of wind; if I’m headed 60 degrees off the wind, I can sail into 16 knot winds; if I’m aimed 90 degrees off the wind, I can sail happily in 21 knots of wind; and if I’m pointed 120 degrees or more from the wind, I can sail smoothly in up to 27 knots of wind. <br /><br />Each day in my life as a sailor, I analyze the wind and seas in relation to my rhumb line. Some days, the heavens smile upon me and give me ideal conditions to reach my goal. More often than not, I have a choice to make: wait days or weeks for winds to subside or pick a new destination. Choices are confounded when my course circles around a point or an island causing me to experience a variety of angles to the wind. Then, I must gage the length and degree of discomfort I am willing to accept. Wild Hair’s log book is filled with miserable accounts of days we failed to heed common sense.<br /><br />I believe Dave and I have been slow to consistently evaluate our level of comfort based upon the wind’s direction, adjusting the timing or tactic of our departure, for two reasons. First, we thought of ourselves as optimistic, enthusiastic, go-anyplace sailors. Put another way, we were naïve and hadn’t been spanked enough. Second, we were hard workers with a stubborn and pride-filled puritan ethic; we thought we could or should tough it out. Time and experience have proven that this is a dangerous attitude on a sailboat that quickly transforms a lifestyle of play into one of work—hard, uncomfortable, exhausting, dangerous work. <br /> <br />So, Dave and I are doing our best to learn this lesson deep in our bones. Alternating as captains, whoever is in charge on a given day must describe for the other the compatibility of the day’s heading to wind and sea conditions. Whoever is crew for the day has the right to eject the captain’s plan.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-90305490297863803452011-07-23T15:32:00.003-05:002011-07-23T15:40:13.252-05:00Coming to Zero<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjio54teG7KYtsLrOfQ9YYqoqvHcjJYWC93-xMygXpuLpj-zPhyphenhyphenBf0c8WE2fCGIvhhoktElzf2OwNUfufvA-5qioxj5ycuPlUUXEkn14g-q6OhZCKKwSsYlpdc6ET5ZdcmSqovI3E2phlQ/s1600/DSC01229.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjio54teG7KYtsLrOfQ9YYqoqvHcjJYWC93-xMygXpuLpj-zPhyphenhyphenBf0c8WE2fCGIvhhoktElzf2OwNUfufvA-5qioxj5ycuPlUUXEkn14g-q6OhZCKKwSsYlpdc6ET5ZdcmSqovI3E2phlQ/s400/DSC01229.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632650332533569186" /></a><br />If the water would dry up and stop its runoff down the hills, if the rain would cease for just a day or two more, then the soup-green two-acre pond hidden behind beach and mangrove would turn—overnight—into a bed of salt, pure white crystals two feet thick. This is what the locals tell me about the phenomenon that happens annually around this time. But each day the squalls come. The defiant sun gleams even as clouds burst over and around us, releasing their freight into the small watershed. Rain events take only seconds, but moments of deluge dampen my hopes of harvesting salt by the shovel full. <br /><br />These are the things that captivate my imagination as I sit at anchor on our sailboat in Salt Pond Bay, St John’s—one of the US Virgin Islands. As my plan for a half-day snorkel at this anchorage is revised into a week-long stay, I realize that this time was years in the making. Since taking early retirements four years ago, Dave and I have done our best to downshift out of the fast lane, let go of all schedules, shed most of our responsibilities, and experience what life is like when we stop the frenzy and come to zero miles per hour. <br /><br />I told a few friends about our intention to “come to zero.” A beautiful place to dwell, the idea of stopping to absolute zero emerged as an outgrowth of my Buddhist meditation practice. I described zero to my friends as a state of just being, witnessing the present moment without a nervous need to fill my time. Zero is a sustained place of peace where my mind, my body and the words coming out of my mouth are connected, authentic. At zero, nothing arbitrarily happens; actions emerge by informed choice. Stopped, I participate in the world, but I don’t do more than my spirit can process. <br /><br />My friends’ responses told me how odd this idea of coming to zero was in modern western society. Thinking the benefits to be self-evident, I was stunned when one person said, “So, is it a good thing to come to zero? Why would you want to do that?” Another person said, “Don’t worry. Something new will emerge in your life, soon.” Both parties failed to grasp my intention to return my life to zero miles per hour again and again from now into the future. This is my preferred state of being.<br /> <br />Sometime during our stay at Salt Pond, Dave and I finally came to zero. Day after day our bodies were filled with energy inspiring us to hike the surrounding hillsides and swim with turtles and trunk fish in the area’s reefs. I worked the length of the boat underwater, scraping barnacles and other growth from the hull. I wrote stories to clarify and share my travel experience. Dave and I enjoyed an active social life, sharing sundowners with local cruising families and cheering our Green Bay Packer’s to their Super Bowl XLV win at a rented seaside villa with six other Wisconsinites. Dave and I dined with a reggae band leader—a fellow named Grasshopper—after his closing set. From a place of deep listening, I was able to hear the artist’s pride at touching people’s lives through music, his personal heart-break about the full spectrum of human suffering, and his hope for happiness for people in all walks of life. Were I not at zero, I would have felt too shy to talk meaningfully with Grasshopper, a man from a world so different from my own.<br /><br />It was while hiking in the hills above Salt Pond during our time at zero that Dave and I met Clause, a man from Denmark, stealing a few moments away from the group of 24 Danish young people for which he was responsible. In a venture newly launched, he and his business partner guide groups of 20- to 30-year-olds on three-month trips abroad so they might experience ecologically responsible travel, local community volunteer work, and personal growth training. Dave and I were mutually smitten by the program and the man. Although the idea is somewhat foreign in the United States, many cultures encourage young people to give back and grow through a set-aside period of community service after college. Dave and I—former professionals in medicine and business, each with histories of leadership in community nonprofits, and parents of two happy twenty-something adults—would be excellent partners in such a venture. Plus, we have the added know-how of managing a sailing vessel, a ready-made eco-friendly mode of travel. Perhaps we could swap our boat for a larger model and launch our own variation on the Dutch program.<br /><br />Stop.<br /><br />I need to practice staying at zero for I am too new at this peace to be skillful. I need to memorize my way back to zero when life speeds me up. Although everything about this program makes sense, Dave and I have agreed to take this intentional retreat from lives marked by linear tasks and measured productivity. Ours is a spiritual promise to each other. I know I have not yet learned what I came to this point to learn. I know myself. Were I to start a new venture now, I would be swept into old ways. The gas pedal in my life is still familiar and hot; if I don’t ground myself at zero, I will find myself back in the fast lane for no reason other than habit. While I want always to give something back to the world and a program like this may be the right next step, I am not ready to divide my time into scheduled segments for a seductive cause. <br /><br />So, I concern myself again with the mystery of sea salt. I write. I watch turtle heads break the surface every ten minutes or so for their requisite two breaths of air before diving to graze again on the sandy algae plains of the ocean floor. I smile as barnacles find a new toe-hold on my hull. I close hatches to the latest downpour of rain to prevent our bedding from becoming soaked. I am busy being present.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-54892815814705277452011-07-23T15:22:00.003-05:002011-07-23T15:31:34.525-05:00The Plan is No Plan<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaxgR6F_rxh9BI-GikRH2viGWFe-Qi4Zd_ODqstuKlHg9QRHue96o01KGSDT0-edSJy87HJUnTKWFJ_KGop3HJPn1repMe7GgVD2oeBVxa3IgjIhIuql8zMwPyIh2n8M2elMKeG0weZU/s1600/DSC00907.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaxgR6F_rxh9BI-GikRH2viGWFe-Qi4Zd_ODqstuKlHg9QRHue96o01KGSDT0-edSJy87HJUnTKWFJ_KGop3HJPn1repMe7GgVD2oeBVxa3IgjIhIuql8zMwPyIh2n8M2elMKeG0weZU/s400/DSC00907.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632647872734488482" /></a><br /><br />Nothing is the same after our two-week offshore journey from Jacksonville to St Thomas. Before, we rushed headlong into life’s pounding surf for fear of missing something. Up and down the east coast we hurried. Across the Gulf Stream and through the Bahamas we pushed, collecting experiences and stories like figurines for the mantel, to be enjoyed in the quiet, inevitable days of infirmary ahead. What caused us to rush? <br /><br />Twenty years of hard work and habit had its grip on us like a drooling monster that refused to be shaken lose. We had years of sleep shortages, late arrivals, middle of the night worries, going to work and coming home in the dark. Peppered into the chaos was church—a time of scheduled group reflection necessitating cleanliness and organization on Sunday mornings. Also, the stuff of life pressed down: paying bills, cleaning house, buying groceries, managing finances, shuttling kids to piano and saxophone lessons, soccer and football practices, scouts, and shopping for school supplies and well-fitting clothes for fast-growing kids. <br /><br />Without so much as a pause for a breath of air, we took this frenzied spirit aboard WILD HAIR. Thrust into the unknown we scrambled to learn faster than the mishaps could descend. There was fear in what I did not know. Suddenly, in this strange new big world, my fragile life was in my own hands. We left the safety of land and civilization. Our nerves sparked disagreements. Everything we did was to ease our insecurities: we hired captain/teachers, collected safety gear, upgraded hardware. We worked and worked on the boat with our old dogged determination and hardly a day off. We binged on improvements so we could binge big gulps of sailing. There was no equanimity in us. <br /><br />But now—after our offshore journey—I am unexpectedly at peace. We are in a beautiful place, the destination of years of effort and planning. The boat is sound. Our skills are tested. I hardly care what is around the corner. My husband’s query as to the intended shape of our cruising destinations over the next six weeks earned my response: “There is too much to see so I’m not going to try to see anything. The plan is no plan.” To my delight, he saw wisdom in these words and quickly agreed.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-41358200051639106262011-01-25T14:13:00.003-06:002011-01-25T14:27:38.511-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguz5mzZpB_9fdqfX2Q5gGhp-bbT17YswOXBJVDgrDfeaqXUOPgiX70nQdJeHo-7pkFkp4gse81Zla1wvfqEDhOCtFUAlywoI3KwF0W6-4FzyciqTxD2QdhICWL6c1wF53etLqlTl0H5aQ/s1600/DSC00494.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 88px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguz5mzZpB_9fdqfX2Q5gGhp-bbT17YswOXBJVDgrDfeaqXUOPgiX70nQdJeHo-7pkFkp4gse81Zla1wvfqEDhOCtFUAlywoI3KwF0W6-4FzyciqTxD2QdhICWL6c1wF53etLqlTl0H5aQ/s400/DSC00494.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566222812817997282" /></a><br /><strong>OFFSHORE JOURNAL</strong><br /><br />In the late fall of 2010, Dave and I sailed nonstop from Green Cove Springs in north Florida (N 29 59 30 W 81 39 65) to St Thomas in the US Virgin Islands (N 18 20 19 W 64 56 40). In total, the trip was 1,566 nautical miles. Moving at an average speed of just over 5 knots, the trip took us 15 days and 80 gallons of diesel to complete. But, the journey cannot be measured by miles and time alone; during the half-month afloat in the Atlantic—with nothing but combinations of boat, spouse, sea, and air—we took a journey of the heart. Below is the sailing journal Heather recorded during this voyage.<br /><br /><strong>THE BACKSTORY<br /></strong><br />The plan was to bounce down the coast of Florida from Jacksonville, through the Bahamas, Turks and Caicos, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, and into the US Virgin Islands. Having spent the past two winters in the Bahamas, we were all ready familiar with half the route. But when I actually charted the full course, I calculated the trip would take us a minimum of 27 sailing days. Given prevailing winter winds and the need to wait for safe weather “windows,” I realized those 27 sailing days would take four months to complete. For much of the trip we’d be forced to sit in crummy weather. Plus, the route included several potentially dangerous legs, stretches notorious for ship wrecks dating back to the Santa Maria.<br /><br />Alternatively, we could take the offshore route straight out into the Atlantic Ocean and turning south at longitude W 65, arriving in the Virgin Islands in about two weeks.<br /><br />Dave and I talked long and hard about our options. The sobering fact was that the offshore route put us days away from land or rescue should we run into serious trouble. Plus, the trip was long enough that we’d surely experience bad weather at least once along the way. We had to be completely self-sufficient on our little island: WILD HAIR. We would be alone in the middle of the ocean.<br /><br />On the flip side, we had bought a Hylas brand boat because of its reputation for offshore safety and performance. We’d spent years fine tuning her so that she’d likely hold up to the worst nature could throw. This summer alone we had the boat yard refit her with all new standing and running rigging; last year we bought offshore rated sails. We’d invested in most of the safety gear on the market and studied how to manage the vessel in heavy weather. We contracted with Chris Parker—a weather forecaster, sailor, and routing expert—to advise us via single sideband radio along the way. Most importantly, we wanted to give it a try. We had long harbored a dream of sailing to faraway places. Weighing all this, we changed plans and agreed to head offshore.<br /><br />With years of preparation one would think it a simple thing to depart. But the land itself has suction that draws sailors in. For six weeks we dwelled at the Florida boat yard knowing that easy access to our car, mechanical and rigging expertise, and boat parts was this year’s only opportunity to make things just the way we wanted. On three occasions it appeared to be time to go. The first time we were about to leave we undertook a check on our systems and discovered the battery bank was critically damaged last year when our regulator failed briefly to regulate. All the batteries had to be replaced. The second time we thought we could go, our galley range went kaput (the thermal couples rusted through) and the entire unit needed to be replaced. The third time, a shelf in the engine room suddenly gave way from age and a previously leaky water heater, folding the heater into the bilge pumps and potentially collapsing onto the refrigeration unit. Throughout this time, the Space Shuttle Discovery was experiencing a series of delays. I shared the crew’s frustration. With a growing reputation that WILD HAIR would never leave, our fourth proclamation of departure proved right.<br /><br />And so, it begins.<br /><br /><strong>SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2010—06:00 at N 29 59 30 W 81 39 65<br /></strong><br />Today, we take our departure slowly. We shower, and enjoy a big breakfast. It is Sunday and the boat yard is unusually quiet as we tuck our car in for long-term storage and return all boat yard keys. The day is sunny and clear, 72 degrees, with a light wind. The river water beneath us is silent, black, and calm. I know we are as ready as we will ever be.<br /><br />Do we remember how to do this? My mind creaks as I shift from maintenance to sailing. Having spent the hurricane season up north, Dave and I realize it has been five months since we’d hoisted the sails. We comment on the butterflies in our stomachs.<br /><br />It is my turn at the helm. To depart the pier I envision a smooth straight-back reverse and powering up into a turn to port once the bow has cleared. Naively, I don’t check the data on the river’s current this morning. Dave lets go of the dock lines, but before I get enough speed for boat control, the water and wind conspire to push us sideways into the stern davits of our neighbor’s boat, Serendipity. Embarrassingly, our friends Russ and Jane capture the moment on film. Serendipity fares well but I bend a lifeline post on WILD HAIR as we wrestle our way out of entanglement.<br /><br />I choose to believe the awkward departure is not an omen to our voyage.<br /><br />Dinghy the Sailor Cat has separation anxiety as we leave the land. She meows, circles, and paces in the cockpit on her leash. She is further disturbed by Dave’s moving about as he stows lines and lashes the dinghy to the deck. Only when Dave returns to the cockpit and brings her a blanket to sleep on does she settle. What must she make of her moving home?<br /><br />Chatter comes across the VHF radio. The Coast Guard cautions mariners to slow if they see migrating Right whales. One boat kindly asks another to slow down so they can pass on the port side. Another voice requests a bridge opening. There is life on the water you don’t hear on land. The voices are comforting, familiar. It is the sensation of coming home.<br /><br />I cannot help but feel our chosen lifestyle is something of a burden to those we love. We are absent from our friendships. Communicating with us requires odd procedures and the procedures change depending on where we are. Sailing has inherent risks creating worry. These burdens make me all the more grateful for the support we get to go adventuring. This past week I called each family member, asked them about their concerns for us, and answered their questions about how we intend to be safe. I thanked everyone for letting us go. I told family and friends that I loved them. Once completed, I reflected upon a felt kinship with departing sailors (or astronauts!) throughout time.<br /><br />Five bridges cross our path today and only one must lift on our behalf. The others—colossal architectural wonders from this perspective—span the river 175 feet over our heads. “Wa-whump, wa-whump, wa-whump” go car wheels as they bounce on the seams of the bridge work overhead.<br /><br />It feels good to be moving again on water.<br /><br />Winding down the St Johns River we pass the Jacksonville Jaguars’ waterfront stadium. Suddenly, the packed arena roars to life. Within moments, our boat floods with the smell of beer and hot dogs sent from the breath of football fans. It is nearly overpowering. There is a second roar of approval. The combination sounds like a touchdown and extra point. This I choose to believe is a good omen for our voyage.<br /><br />We pass by Jacksonville’s working ports. Soaring cranes that load and offload containers from freighters remind me of giant herons poised to feed in the shallow waters. Or, perhaps they more resemble blue brachiosaurus dinosaurs wearing tap shoes. I cannot decide.<br /><br />The now falling tide draws us, increasing our motoring speed from 5.7 knots to 7.7 knots. Our 16-year-old engine has 4,000 hours running time—the equivalent of 200,000 miles in an automobile. But with tender care, the engine hums faithfully.<br /><br />There—I spot the trip’s first dolphin.<br /><br />Tug boats like picture book characters push rusted working barges up river. They appear little heroes. Underdogs.<br /><br />At a tight bend of the river crowded with recreational and working boats, our visual navigation system freezes. I had been lazy, trusting it too much. Quickly, I scan my surroundings and mark the location and color of buoys. I pick my route for the next half mile. Loss of our electronics is a “new problem” and the only thing I can think to do is to reboot the screen. Waiting. Waiting. The image sparks to life anew and—thankfully—gives me an accurate read on our position. Unnerved by the knowledge I could lose electronic navigational support at any moment, the equipment will have to re-earn my trust. I continue down river on a defensive high alert studying and confirming our progress on the paper charts at my side.<br /><br />We are surfing out to sea now, speeding with the water at 9.1 knots. Nearing the ocean, the river widens and the waves build to 2 feet. Twenty-two knots of wind blows the tops off the waves forming white caps. The boat starts to bounce and dance in the water, a sign of things to come.<br /><br />The trees are in their fall color. How odd that Thanksgiving will be in four days. Having focused my attention on the details of our voyage, I feel detached from society and my roots. The world proceeds without us. This is unsettling. Seasonally, this is the safest time of year for us to make this trip. The ocean is most calm between the seasons of fall/winter (November/December) and spring/summer (May/June). So, now is the time to head south to the Caribbean. Spring/summer is the time to head north again due to the hurricanes. This is the rhythm of sailors. Not surprisingly, it is out of beat with the rest of the world.<br /><br />I spot two tug boats coming at me but behaving strangely. I am confused by their actions so I turn off the auto pilot and hand steer. The tugs cross over and circle through my path. Behind them I see a giant container ship charging straight for me. These tugs are its escorts. I pick up speed so as to make my intended turn into a creek portside, thereby giving them all a wide berth. On the river, there are very few “rules to the road.”So, a captain must be attentive and—above all—stay clear of commercial traffic.<br /><br />Arriving at the point where river meets ocean takes a full day. Our first major hazard will be the north flowing Gulf Stream running like a river miles off Florida’s shore. We must cross it at a time when wind and sea are favorable. Consequently, today’s destination is an anchorage up a small creek near the mouth of the river. Here we will wait for meteorologist Chris Parker to give us the all clear. Perhaps the weather will have us linger only one night, perhaps a week or more. Dave and I will fill our time with final preparations: connecting the GPS antenna to our lap top, hard boiling eggs for meals at sea, screwing down floor boards so what is stored below decks doesn’t crash on our heads should the boat roll, barrel-bolting the freezer cover for the same reason, and emailing our float plan to family. For now we are done with land until we reach St Thomas. Our journey has begun.<br /><br />With anchor set and engine cooled, we shut our engine down. Watching the sun set over the nuclear power plant, Dave notes that we motored all day with our docking fenders hanging off our hull. Classy. It is a small thing but it is evidence of how rusty we are tending to the boat’s many details.<br /><br /><strong>TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 2010—06:00 AT N 30 23 57 W 81 23 22 </strong><br /><br />Yesterday, Chris Parker said our weather window wouldn’t open until December. This morning, he said everything changed. A departure today “just might work!” Over the radio Chris outlined the strategy on a day-by-day, tack-by-tack basis. Although there was no wind now, we would motor across a calm Gulf Stream arriving on the other side before mid-day tomorrow. Then, the wind would pick up and shift north east and we could sail for days along 30 degrees north latitude. If we dropped too far south, the trade winds would take over and we could no longer sail east; our trip would abort west of our goal in the Turks or the Dominican Republic. So, our mantra is to stay north and make our way east for as long as possible. East!<br /><br />Oh My! It’s time to go. Now. I concentrate on breathing slowly, evenly. With the words it “just might work,” I felt a stress headache begin. I swallow a pair of Excedrin Migraine pills. I think I’ll burst with anxiety and excitement. Couldn’t Chris have spoken more confidently about this weather window and our chances for success? How could I stake my life on something that “might work?”<br /><br />Dave must see my anxiety, or perhaps he wrestles with his own. “We can absolutely take four months to island hop our way to the Caribbean if you want,” he offers. “I don’t mind. We can do whatever you want to do.” I don’t think he is having second thoughts. Is it kindness that makes him say that? Or, is it self-defense, anticipating that I might blame him when things get uncomfortable?<br /><br />Imitating calm I sit down with the charts and plot the forecasted winds and recommended course for each day. Low and behold, the trip looks beautiful, doable! I show my work to Dave and together we decided it is time to go. Without delay we paste anti-nausea scopolamine patches behind our ears, ready the ditch bags in case a quick escape into the life raft is required, take a few dinners out of the freezer, open the sail covers and lift the anchor. We’re off.<br /><br />With Dave at the helm, I raise the mainsail. As I climb eight feet up the mast to undo the halyard, I realize this is my first hoisting since my total hip replacement four months earlier. I feel a bit awkward, conscious of limited movement, but strong. I must remember to email my physical therapist and thank him for his creativity in balance exercises to make me well.<br /><br />Most injuries at sea—and there are many—happen to the female member of the cruising couple. Some theorize that women are proportioned differently enough so that they miss the handrails in an unexpected bounce. This nearly happened to me once, but I managed to grab hold with finger tips to avoid knocking out my front teeth on a shelf. Perhaps it is a factor of strength. No one knows for sure. I vow to be vigilant.<br /><br />Winching the sail up the last 10 feet is aerobic. It fills despite the light wind forecast and the boat springs to life. The sea is lovely this morning, friendly. It is sunny and warm; the barometer registers 1020 millibars. Perfect.<br /><br />As the shore slips into the distance, Maggie calls on my cell phone with news of college life in Wisconsin. Her roommate is moving out of the house and into a relationship with an abusive man; Maggie’s cat is pooping in her bed while another roommate’s cat is using her litter box; Christmas presents are in the works; it is snowing. Finally, we lose each other from a lack of bars. My stomach squeezes with the thought that that is the end of my cell phone.<br /><br />Jelly fish populate the water. A sea turtle ambles by. We are nearing the Gulf Stream.<br /><br />I toss my crushed soda can overboard. Everything in my being screams, “Don’t do it!” But, it is the way to manage trash at sea. Metal cans melt quickly in corrosive salt water. Paper dissolves. Glass is the stuff of sand so it returns from whence it came. The only thing that is forbidden is plastic. So, we keep two bags in the galley: one we periodically dump overboard, the other we will dispose of at our destination. This is such a difficult mindset for me. I’m certain the last time I tossed a can out a window was late in the 1960’s, well before my 5th grade science project on pollution.<br /><br />Bravely, I go below to make up the pilot berth located near the base of the mast, the most stable place on the boat to sleep. With the action of the sea, tucking sheets and lacing the restraint that holds us in the narrow berth is a nauseating venture. As quick as possible, I crawl in for a nap. Lying horizontal the motion of the boat feels as if I’m lounging on a pool raft with children constantly doing cannonballs around me. This is a calm-ish day.<br /><br />Back at the helm with Dave now napping below decks, I remember there is no flat space to sit on a boat. Sitting is exercise consuming calories because we constantly adjust to the motion of the boat. Our smartest purchase was a pair of West Marine lounge chairs; wedged into a corner against the frame of our bimini, we can at least sit and lean back on something soft.<br /><br />We are tiptoeing out to sea. It is the sensation of sneaking around the resting body of a volatile giant. I am like a tiny person in Gulliver’s Travels. Sailing out is not a time of sport or conquest. It is a time of respect and appreciation. Putting fears of the sleeping giant aside, I remind myself it is a privilege to meet this face of the world.<br /><br />My scopolamine patch is starting to ache behind my ear. The medicine must be making its way through the skin. While it does a reasonable job warding off seasickness, it comes at a price. On site discomfort, a sore throat, loss of taste, and blurred vision are standard side effects. I dislike these things, but I dislike being sick more.<br /><br />This time of year the days are evenly split between light and dark. At night, everything looms forebodingly in shadow. The ordinary elements breathe ghostly hot air down your spine. Waves, clouds, moon seem to conspire against me. I don’t mind the darkness on land. But on water, without points of reference, imagination swirls unanchored. Perhaps I will make a peace with the absence of light this trip. I will have plenty of opportunity to practice.<br /><br />Dinghy joins me at the helm. She is a social creature. But her face is strained and looks like an old man’s. She must have a touch of seasickness. Dinghy rests like a friend at my feet, springing to life when dolphin surface alongside the boat.<br /><br />In the eastern sky, as the sun sets behind me, the night creeps above the horizon. Top to bottom the sky blends color from blue to pink. But as night rises, the sky above water turns deep, dirty lavender. It is the color of light without hope. It is the bruising of promise. It is the color of goodbye. In contrast, the silk of water seems to cling to the remaining light, brightening in the face of end. Water is the color of sand as it struggles to preserve the glare. Soon, the water loses its fight and swirls in a surrender of lavender circles, welcoming a new master.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-22659040705833847142011-01-25T14:08:00.003-06:002011-01-25T14:33:23.894-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTubWRIBrdxtcRhhM-xEhSPEeAcSgwUlmvaJF38_R9FaCFK0XGT4c1FWq28rw-zPkBoqGF75dvvGC260nl97E5nNXdH48CEKDOrHTfGbkdd8d8GgOGOjRm2XQrp6M8MAlnIUUly487puA/s1600/DSC00500.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTubWRIBrdxtcRhhM-xEhSPEeAcSgwUlmvaJF38_R9FaCFK0XGT4c1FWq28rw-zPkBoqGF75dvvGC260nl97E5nNXdH48CEKDOrHTfGbkdd8d8GgOGOjRm2XQrp6M8MAlnIUUly487puA/s400/DSC00500.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566224323031783474" /></a><br /><em> <blockquote><em>“I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space.”<br /></em></blockquote></em><br /><strong>William Shakespeare<br />Hamlet<br /><br />WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 2010—0600 at N 30 41 21 W 78 49 23</strong><br /><br />It was a great night. I took my long REM sleep from midnight to 04:50 so I woke feeling refreshed and ready to relieve Dave from watch. Typically, our shifts are two to three hours. But once a day we each need a deep sleep. Dave will take his now.<br /><br />Before sleep, Dave tells me of the horror he experienced in the night. He witnessed a cruise ship come toward us over the horizon. Then, the ship burst into flames. In a few moments, with the orange colors intensifying, he figured he was watching the full moon rise. Dave’s upset ebbed as he came to understand our journey would be blessed by the light of the moon.<br /><br />The sky is lightening enough to turn off our radar, our evening eyes. The sun bursts the horizon at 07:48.<br /><br />I’ve written before that sailors don’t actually enjoy sailing offshore, but I’m not sure that is universally true. The past 24 hours have been wonderful. Perhaps with a good attitude I can rest well, move about the boat safely, and stay attune to the boat’s needs. If I get in my head about missed comforts, I will be miserable. I can ward off boredom by journaling, doing exercises, reading, charting our course, and snacking.<br /><br />Our boat is like a little space ship traveling into a non-human world. We are dependant only upon what we have brought on board: food, water, fuel, spare parts, navigation aids, communication tools, and life raft. This will be the first time in my life when it will be impossible to pull off the road and get what I need. I more fully appreciate the creativity of nomadic people supporting their existence in a harsh environment with only the items they can carry on their backs, a horse, or camel. We are loaded so heavily that the boat’s stripes have sunk below the water line. Dave and I could never carry all the supplies we have on WILD HAIR.<br /><br />It is an odd day. The fickle weather had us sailing unproductively south and west to avoid storm cells. The lap top isn’t accepting the satellite phone as its modem so I can’t send emails. Then the satellite phone speakers don’t work so Chris Parker can’t hear me when I call for the weather. The bilge pump is going on every 20 minutes so we must be slowly taking in water. We will have to troubleshoot.<br /><br />Indeed we are through the Gulf Stream and the winds have arrived. The engine is off and WILD HAIR shushes through the water. Besides the 60 gallons of fuels we started with in our tanks, we have 40 extra gallons of diesel fuel in jerry cans on deck. With relatively calm seas and a desire to keep the boat ready for anything, Dave and I pour the jerry cans into our tanks being careful not to create a toxic spill. It is supremely challenging. Heavy and smelly, the cans do their best to cause us to lose our balance and our lunch.<br /><br />At an evening shift change I learn Dave got hit by a flying fish. Or he would have if the “glass” of our cockpit enclosure hadn’t preempted the fish’s terrorist mission. Dinghy spotted it just before contact and made a leap to intercept. Like the Secret Service, she would have saved Dave. Good kitty.<br /><br /><strong>THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 25, 2010—0600 at N29 57 18 W 77 30 20 (360 nautical miles east of Cape Canaveral) </strong><br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving!<br /><br />What a struggle we have had. With winds vacillating from the east we were forced to tack and tack. In 12 hours we only made 12 nautical miles of progress. But now the winds have shifted and we are bucking like a bronco in the waves right on course.<br /><br />For dinner today I’ll make a canned turkey-stuffing-gravy casserole with canned green beans, powdered mashed potatoes, and canned cranberry sauce. I’ll top it off with pecan pie (purchased frozen by the slice). The meal doesn’t sound a thing like my traditional holiday meal. But, it is what I can manage at sea and it should recall the spirit of family, friends, and food.<br /><br />The single side band radio is a finicky creature. Successful communication depends upon the ever-changing ionosphere. But this morning, Chris Parker came through loud and clear at his 06:30 broadcast. His news wasn’t good. Tomorrow night through Saturday a cold front will overtake us with gusts to 40 knots. It will be a gale. Thankfully, the winds should be from behind. If the boat gets going too fast and are at risk of breaking rigging or tearing sails, we can hang a line of chain off the stern (known as towing a warp) to slow the boat, allowing the waves can pass. We’ve never done that before. We’ve never sailed in weather this big.<br /><br />Today is the day to make everything storm proof. We stow our coffee pot, secure sharp knives and silverware into drawers, and tie down the refrigerator lid. We double tie the dinghy, jerry cans, and all other hardware onto the deck. We re-read chapters on heavy weather sailing so all of our options are at the top of our mind. Most importantly, because the bilge pump is now cycling every five minutes, Dave will find and stop the leak.<br /><br />Dave is so smart. He just discovered the problem was with the second bilge pump, the one that would go on should the water rise to a higher level. Because the boat is healing to one side, the secondary bilge pump is actually siphoning water into the boat. To make the repair, I bring the boat about to a 225 heading so that WILD HAIR leans on its other “hip.” This raises the side that was siphoning above the water line and Dave performs surgery on the stuck valve. The good news is we no longer take in water. The bad news is that the valve couldn’t be saved so we’re going into the storm down one bilge pump. Not to worry; we still have the two electric and two more manual pumps that work. Boats are all about redundancy, especially in the life support systems.<br /><br />I wash my hair and bathe. Ahhhhh.<br /><br />Of all the travels Dave and I have done, this is by far the most unusual. Trips of the past been about a destination, sightseeing. This trip is about the journey itself.<br /><br />Our Thanksgiving dinner is sub-par, nearly inedible. We did connect with our closest family members through the satellite phone, but the conversations were necessarily quick and unsatisfying. This traveling over the holiday stinks.<br /><br /><strong>FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2010—0600 at N 30 22 21 W 75 45 28 (240 nautical miles north of the closest land: Abacos, Bahamas)<br /></strong><br />I did a cruel thing to myself. With our crazy around-the-clock schedule, I inadvertently skipped a day of my hormone medications. So yesterday, as is customary when a pill is forgotten, I took one in the morning and one in the evening. Side effects to this medicine are nausea and dizziness. In this environment, the double dose did me in. Suddenly, I was violently ill and had vertigo so bad that the entire room spun—even while lying on my back. I had been doing so well! Poor Dave. He did more than his share of watch this morning as I did the only thing I could do: sleep it off.<br /><br />It is noon and I feel human again. We must re-rig our lines into new combinations so that they will not chafe when we have tiny amounts of sail up for the strong winds. Lines chafe in a heartbeat when they touch an edge in the wind. We even lash our drink bottles and flashlight to the helm.<br /><br />We have 10 to 12 foot seas which makes moving about very difficult. I lost two mugs full of chicken soup and Dave lost the cottage cheese. All were ejected from their counters in the style of a B-grade horror film. The waves are like those experienced on a trampoline with more than one person jumps. You can anticipate the regular pattern but then you are catapulted by a Super Bounce that shoots you at great heights into an unpredictable direction. Unfortunately, Dave was In the middle of storm preparation, strapping on the life jacket and tethers that attach us to the boat, when the boat took a Super Bounce. He shot from his cockpit seat and gave himself a nasty gash above is eye. Like all head wounds, there was a lot of blood. Were we at home I would have taken him to the hospital. Here, we dress the wound with antibiotic cream, gauze, and apply pressure with a wool cap. We are grateful that he didn’t hit his temple or fall through the companionway.<br /><br />The winds are now 22 knots, gusting to 30. Dave is finally getting some rest. He is severely exhausted as he hasn’t had a deep sleep since the trip began. The sun is setting as the storm approaches. Why does the worst of it always happen at night.<br /><br />With my seasickness, the storm prep, and Dave’s injury, we didn’t email family and friends. I hope no one worries. Anyway, the lap top got stowed in its water tight case early in the day to protect its fate. Our last computer had so many concussions from bouncing onto the floor it turned “brain dead.”<br /><br />I can’t help but notice all my stories sound negative, miserable. If this is true, why do I sail? I guess I know there are downsides to living anywhere. In my land life they include standing in lines, getting caught in traffic, having nightmares about work. We don’t have those discomforts while sailing; we traded them in for a different set. Here, I get to be with my husband, my best friend. I like playing house in our tiny but fully functional space. I like living outside, learning new things, and being surprised by beauty. I like being self-employed and meeting new people. I like our sails and keel and how they make the boat go forward when the wind blows from the side. I like how nothing stays the same. Ever. I like that you never know what will be demanded of you.<br /><br />Now, the water moves so aggressively that it feels like an entire men’s basketball team is bouncing on my trampoline. I work to stay upright. Below decks, the noise is deafening. The contents of every floor board, cupboard, and cranny is flung from port to starboard over and over again. Sometimes you can make subtle adjustments in course to smooth things out. This is not one of those times. I can almost guess the contents in each hide-away by the clatter it makes.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-22709331452323017632011-01-25T14:04:00.002-06:002011-01-25T14:35:48.140-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZydUX-ptpl-WW_mqac8YZ2VzMQG5liExqXU9yX3J08zCK9pZAfNYglEesyI-ujCfmimmn-JNr_fZaNxu8gFgknpN-b8i_Ubq-p8ePEu1YcRFZQfrdn3Cci5EzbZZ5mhiIvbnF8vLuUs/s1600/DSC00496.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZydUX-ptpl-WW_mqac8YZ2VzMQG5liExqXU9yX3J08zCK9pZAfNYglEesyI-ujCfmimmn-JNr_fZaNxu8gFgknpN-b8i_Ubq-p8ePEu1YcRFZQfrdn3Cci5EzbZZ5mhiIvbnF8vLuUs/s400/DSC00496.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566224936123523874" /></a><br /><em><blockquote><em>“Security is mostly a superstition. It doesn’t exist in nature.” </em><br /></blockquote></em><br /><strong>Helen Keller<br /><br />SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2010—0600 at N 30 22 55 W 73 41 00 (325 nautical miles northeast of the closest land: Abacos, Bahamas)</strong><br /><br />The cold front arrives at 05:15. I check the radar and see that the squall is three miles away and moving fast. It is enormous on the helm’s video screen, glowing yellow and red. First the rain hits. Then the wind. Then more wind. The instruments tell me we’re experiencing a sustained 35 knot blow with gusts to 45 knots, a strong gale according to the Beaufort Wind Scale. The canvas cockpit enclosure shutters like concrete in an earthquake. The GPS tells me we are moving at a potentially dangerous 11.7 knots across the surface of the world, but the other speed indicator tells me we are only moving 7 knots through the water. This later bit is the important information and I know the boat is under control. We are running happily in the swells despite the weather’s fierce roar. There is no need to deploy the chain drogue. I watch the boat’s balance and—surprisingly—we have too much sail area behind the mast. Despite the fact that we have only the forward sail out and the main sail is completely stowed, the auto pilot struggles to maintain course. It must be that the cockpit enclosure and sail cover are providing windage and acting like a sail. I hand steer. Dave sleeps. The front passes without event and it turns into a gloomy morning.<br /><br />When the seas were roughest During Dave’s nap, the pilot berth flew out from the wall. After making the bed the other day and sliding it back into place, I missed putting the holding pins back in. It was such a tight fit I thought nothing of it. But in these violent seas, when Dave and kitty were fast asleep, the bed went sliiiiiiiide-BANG! Kitty’s eyes according to Dave were the size of quarters. First her whole world is in crazy motion, then the furniture pops out of the walls. What must she think?<br /><br />After my nap, I am back at the helm at 12:35. Another front approaches. Chris Parker told us this morning that the end of the foul weather will arrive at around noon. Now a seasoned veteran of the wild ocean, I watch nonplussed as winds climb to a mere 28 knots with a bit of rain. The seas calm. A gentler blow shifts to the north. We sail east in what grows to be a lovely day. Because I seem to be at the helm when the foul weather comes, Dave has given me the knick-name “Stormy.”<br /><br />We are always hungry but our tummies never let us eat too much. So, we eat often and we eat anything we want. Everything spills. Eating requires two hands so we can do nothing else when we eat. Further, we can only eat one thing at a time: one apple, one cup of soup, one egg. I stopped bringing food to Dave at the helm because I cannot carry food up the companionway and hold on at the same time. Kitty’s food is disappearing and there are deposits in her cat box. She is doing a good job taking care of herself.<br /><br />It is nice to have hot drinks. So, I keep a press pot of boiling water tied up in the galley with a basket of teas, hot cocoa, soups and bullions next to it. The most dangerous activity in the galley is boiling water. To avoid burns, I wear full foul weather overalls and rubber boots as I pour the water from kettle to pot. Despite my most concentrated efforts, water goes everywhere. I make myself a cup of steaming hot chocolate with the little water that made it into the container. As I wait for it to cool, I notice my arm gimbaling naturally with the wave action so that I don’t spill. My mind sings, “Hey, ho, way to go, a pirate’s life for me.” I realize that pirates don’t conduct the orchestra with their rum; they swing their mugs to keep from spilling the precious contents.<br /><br /><strong>SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2010—0530 at N 30 12 56 W 71 36 16 (385 nautical miles north-east of the closest land: Abacos, Bahamas)</strong><br /><br />In our sleep deprived and nearly robotic on-watch-off-watch state, time is a blur. For 20 minutes Dave and I deliberate on the date. Having reached agreement, Dave turns on the computer and we are wrong—way wrong.<br /><br />But, we are making magnificent progress. The skies have cleared and the waves have lain down. There is a superb wind, 12-15 knots from 030 (N/NE), allowing for a close reach toward our destination. We set the sails last night before dark and have cruised ever since at seven knots, like a Japanese Bullet Train. That’s the thing about cruising; when you get in the grove and the weather stays stable you can go for days without adjusting the sails. This is addictive.<br /><br />Below decks, everything is quiet. The contents of our cupboards are leaning to starboard. The rush of water along the hull creates a whispering, sluicing sound the full length of the boat.<br /><br />After getting some much needed rest, Dave is a bustle of activity: tossing garbage, making food, rearranging our sail plan for tonight’s predicted weather, and charting our progress. Amazingly, we are a mere six nautical miles from where Chris Parker told us we would be prior to our departure. Kitty feels better too. After days of dormancy she is feeling playful. Unfortunately, the rocking motion is still a lot for her small body so her play is limited to attacking our feet in the pilot berth. Given my bout of seasickness, I don’t yet feel a bustle of activity nor playful. I crave rest but I’m hanging in there.<br /><br />Still sporting the bloody bandage over one eye, Captain Dave turns to me and says, “would you like to see my broken toe?” Yesterday it seems he charged up the companionway in bare feet, ignoring the wisdom that bare feet are a no-no on boats. The boat took a hop and he cracked the toe on an edge. Swelled like a purple and red balloon, I have never seen a toe look worse.<br /><br />Our fresh water pump volunteered to break today. This is the pump that pushes drinking water from our tanks through our faucets. Not to worry; we have a manual foot pump in the galley that accomplishes the same thing. I am grateful again for the boat’s redundant systems. Plus, we have gallons of bottled water under the forward berth and strapped on deck. We won’t go thirsty—yet.<br /><br />On this day, with consistent winds and smoother waves, Dave and I are learning to relax and listen. We don’t need to be wed to the helm. So today we enjoy meals together below decks and take care of ourselves, reading, cooking, and writing. It feels good to relax our guard.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-55123165211475928682011-01-25T13:56:00.003-06:002011-01-25T14:38:37.806-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZQ1cqZiuyqv6MGc4dx8EUJZIpZfZcJvnhNmUYUI6YzXJKxsncw8OcEUNhObFvVZJdvdGquLvpjAOppHSgJ-IhhwYIw5jhaDWU5p5qwYR22fP-hx053CsTLUuxqf45DUg935UhcBkOX4/s1600/DSC00505.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZQ1cqZiuyqv6MGc4dx8EUJZIpZfZcJvnhNmUYUI6YzXJKxsncw8OcEUNhObFvVZJdvdGquLvpjAOppHSgJ-IhhwYIw5jhaDWU5p5qwYR22fP-hx053CsTLUuxqf45DUg935UhcBkOX4/s400/DSC00505.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566225676512494530" /></a><br /><blockquote><em>“His body resented the scene, his intellect disbelieved it, but his imagination was enthralled.”</em></blockquote><br /><strong>VS Pritchett<br /><br />MONDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 2010—0600 at N 29 04 54 W 69 19 31 (460 nautical miles northeast of the closest land: Abacos, Bahamas) </strong><br /><br />This is the pits! In the dark of night our beautiful breeze shifts and turns unexpectedly intense. We have the wrong sail combination but dread in these conditions to make a change. Some boats have all their sail controls strung to the cockpit. Our boat does not. Changes to the sail plan necessitate a crawl on deck to the point where we balance precariously in our winching and cleating. Instead, doing his best to maintain course with too much sail, Dave drives our Japanese Bullet Train headlong into big seas. It is impossible to sleep below. Everything is leaping again in the cupboards. Great waves rise and smash into our deck. The boat groans and pops. Water drizzles through port lights we hadn’t sufficiently dogged down. Our big salon windows, having flexed with the boat this trip, have lost their seals. I lay awake exhausted in the pilot berth with icy water drip, drip, dripping through the salon windows onto my body and bedding.<br /><br />All night the boat pummels forward on the edge of control. On my watch, the wild animals of surf and swell intimidate just beyond sight. Out of the black, a rogue wave attacks, plummeting from a great height, smashing with a deafening force onto the top of the cockpit enclosure. Salt water flows through every void of canvas.<br /><br />Dave does the math. Twelve 24 hour days of sailing are equivalent to an entire season sailing eight hour days between weather windows. This trip is putting a lot of wear on our vessel, and us.<br /><br />At 06:30, Chris Parker—the archangel of good news—tells us we will get additional chances to go east in the days ahead. We can stop beating ourselves up into the wind. As a fellow sailor he knows, without our telling, that we’re hammering ourselves silly. He gives us the go-ahead to turn south promising that in doing so we will not fall short of our ultimate destination. In an instant we take a right turn and the ride turns quiet. The boat rocks port to starboard like a smooth rocking chair. It hardly feels like the same day. Worn out, we re-trim the sails and both fall sound asleep.<br /><br />Mysteriously, I have lost my voice. Because I cannot talk, Dave was this morning’s radio contact with Chris Parker: long time listener, first time caller. He did a good job.<br /><br />Also, the inside of my ears itch and Doctor Dave fears I might have an early fungal infection from the sustained use of wet ear plugs. I must stop using them and accept the noise at bedtime. The ear discomfort might also be caused by the anti-nausea scopolamine patch, so I remove it, trusting that I am now acclimated to the pitching sea. Removing the patch should also help me see again; I can no longer read the charts due to blurred vision, a side-effect of the medicine.<br /><br />Waking after our simultaneous naps with the boat still cruising happily along, it dawns on us the boat stinks! To remedy the offence, we clean heads, the cat box, and dishes, and toss the trash. We bathe, wash our hair, and shave. We stow discarded clothes strewn about the cabin. What a difference; everything is made fresh again. Plus, Dave replaces the pilot berth’s screaming fan with a whispering new model; now we can keep cool as we sleep without the fan adding to the ruckus. He also fixes the fresh water pump so water flows again from our faucets. We run the engine to charge batteries drained by our electronics. Above decks, we re-lash jerry cans and equipment knocked about in last night’s turbulent dousing. We look for chafing in our lines.<br /><br />Distance wise, we are more than half way to our destination.<br /><br />As the sun sets we use the final moments of daylight to prepare again for night. Winds are increasing a bit. Even with no main sail and a tiny bit of forward sail out, we’re making six knots. We keep the sails conservatively rigged and continue a sea-kindly course south.<br /><br /><strong>TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2010—0600 at N 27 10 13 W 68 26 40 (475 nautical miles east of Abacos, Bahamas)<br /></strong><br />We departed a week ago today. 520 miles separate us from our destination.<br /><br />This is an extreme amount of sailing. Every moment we think about sailing tactics, getting the most from our boat in the given conditions. For safety’s sake, no one leaves the cockpit unless the other person is awake and watching from the cockpit. Even then we know our chances of recovery are slim if one of us were to fall overboard; a person in the trough of a 12 foot wave is invisible to a boat in the trough of another. In our desire to make an efficient passage, we change sails and trim as a team all day and all night. It is not uncommon to be woken up because the weather has shifted. With only the two of us, I am nearly hypnotized by the constant raising, lowering, reefing, furling, winching and letting out. When cruising the shore and stopping at night, our time is divided by other activities like anchoring, hiking, shopping, and socializing. Here, there is no relief. We are on an endless treadmill of sailing.<br /><br />With winds from the northeast we are making steady, settled progress. I had been on watch from 01:00-03:00 and 06:00 to 10:00. Between watches I sank into deep and restful sleeps. I woke at 13:00 dreaming I was in a hermetically sealed tube being sucked through a chute at the bank.<br /><br />There was mutiny aboard WILD HAIR at 03:00. Dave scurried about the deck changing sails in the dark as I waited drearily at the helm for my watch to end. When all essential adjustments had been made, Captain Dave announced he was going to do some non-essential tasks on the foredeck. I said, “no.” After getting an earful about how he was trying to maintain top performance to make the trip as short as possible for safety’s sake, I quipped that I was too tired to save him should his tether fail and he fall overboard. I know when I’ve reached my limit. Unfortunately, 100% of the time, it is before Dave has reached his. My job is to speak up when I believe things aren’t safe. Dave’s job is to eek out that extra mile. In the end, non-essential tasks were deferred until daylight.<br /><br />Kitty is on a busman’s holiday: If she wasn’t sleeping all day she’d be sleeping all day.<br /><br />My voice is returning as my health symptoms evolve into a cold. As an added bonus, because my hormone medication provoked seasickness and dizziness, I abandoned its use.<br /><br />I can’t remember having done anything this physically challenging before—except perhaps recovering from total hip surgery. I lay in bed with eyes shut feeling normal and rested, regretting the moment I must sit and then stand. In the wave action, every motion must be accomplished with a singularity of purpose and a concentration on balance. Holding my head on my neck takes energy. Each step must be timed with the boat’s motion requiring two hand holds for safety. Brushing my teeth necessitates two feet planted on the floor, butt pressed backwards onto the opposing wall, and left hand wedged to the basin. In this way, my right hand is free for business. I offer these comments not as a complaint. They are an explanation or reminder as to why I might think twice about doing this again. Offshore sailing is hard, hard work.<br /><br />My clothes are getting baggy as my appetite is lacking; I am always on the verge of nausea. I feel ravenous and then fill on a mere half sandwich. Nothing tastes the same. Things that taste exceptionally good include: hard boiled eggs, apples, chicken bouillon, and peanut butter. Some of the meals I prepared in advance miss the mark with curry and horseradish cream sauces. Even coffee is a traitor to my pallet. I haven’t the courage to open the jars of chili I canned this summer for our travels. We completely take a pass on liquor underway; why add that to my system when I already feel sluggish and brain dead. It wouldn’t be safe.<br /><br />But I have a Buddha in me and she won’t stop smiling. Every time I look she is there, so happy that we are able to go on this ultimate adventure.<br /><br />Watching the boat move through the waves is inspiring. Such a simple machine is our hull and keel and sails. Simple, yet the design is informed by eons of our ocean-going kin. WILD HAIR goes into, alongside of, and surfs over the waves. Our bow like a faithful hound sniffs the route while our stern swings, absorbing the shock of energy out of sync. The autopilot reads the boat’s constant adaptation and keeps us pointed properly. The autopilot job is made easy by well-balanced sails. There is intelligence in the inanimate. Of course the nose and tail of our hound are connected without benefit of a supple spine. But the resulting motion of a rigid vessel is one of compromise, grace. It accepts every twist the universe supplies and finds a path forward. Its compass is unyielding in the face of uncertainty and oppression.<br /><br />At 19:00 we are in another predicament. The cold front that blew by us with 47 knot winds and huge seas stalled; we sailed back into the old frontal boundary. Our weather oracle, Chris Parker, failed to warn us so our sail plan is not right for the 37 know winds at hand. We run downwind—heading too far to the west, of course—with everything on the boat pitching wildly again.<br /><br /><strong>WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2010—0600 at N 25 04 38 W 68 23 07 (280 nautical miles northeast of the closest land: Turks and Caicos)<br /></strong><br />06:00 finds us at the front of the front experiencing “free frontal activity.” The wind clocks, reverses, and quits. As I try and hail Parker on the radio during his morning broadcast, Dave shouts, “Enough of this! I’m sailing back and forth over the same ocean now heading north! Who cares what Chris Parker says? Let’s change the sails and point ourselves out of here!” Reconfiguring our set up, we aim the boat at the only patch of sky that seems to be clearing: south and east. We creep forward.<br /><br />With things normalizing, I reach Chris Parker via satellite phone only to discover he is actively sick with the flu. Kindly and with great effort, he manages to confirm what we know—we should continue south and east. In a few days we should be able to motor east some more when the winds die.<br /><br />Our autopilot has been munching energy like a Pac Man, causing us to run the engine for battery recharge much more often that we had originally planned, utilizing limited stores of diesel. Parker doesn’t know that “motoring east” might not be an option. Dave begins a chant that we won’t get to St Thomas; we’ll need to opt out of the journey in the Turks or Puerto Rico. My captain refuses to even initiate a fuel calculation until we are at a decision point. Either way, I hardly mind. It will have been the least efficient way to arrive at one of those destinations, but there are worse places in the world.<br /><br />Enjoying a now beautiful day, I marvel again at this boat. Here is a riddle: how can the wind blow a mere 11 knots from the 10 o’clock position left of our nose and move the boat 7 knots forward into the oncoming wind? I understand a bit of the physics surrounding airfoil dynamics and the way in which our lead keel re-routes energy into forward progress, but how does it work?<br /><br />The void that is the ocean makes it possible for memories to bubble up uninhibited into consciousness. Both Dave and I feel the presence of a number of people on this trip. Repeatedly, we are caught off guard by voices and encouragement of family and friends, some living and some dead. Presently, my childhood friend Diane is my companion at the helm. As I sit, I capture her memory in the story included below.<br /><br />Tonight, the sky is full of stars. The air is warm. The wind and water are gentle. I am feeling blue.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-53495952454785971062011-01-25T13:46:00.003-06:002011-01-25T14:41:09.955-06:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1siXrn4LmCKAyAE-X9JXYV_9LH3LDGY-yZy75QFBpfKbLX8x-ZUYp2DdLOWoNYeGZS1UPecRrJ6xiQ9vE3Cjd_HmrMMN_KJY0diCqdnprVL_gKipwnpVG9xrmg1piuTjdnRzVnvrrO4/s1600/DSC00502.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1siXrn4LmCKAyAE-X9JXYV_9LH3LDGY-yZy75QFBpfKbLX8x-ZUYp2DdLOWoNYeGZS1UPecRrJ6xiQ9vE3Cjd_HmrMMN_KJY0diCqdnprVL_gKipwnpVG9xrmg1piuTjdnRzVnvrrO4/s400/DSC00502.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566226302061022722" /></a><br /><blockquote><em>“Empty day all-around. In the entire circle there is not the furthest<br />impertinent interruption—through all the degrees there is not one fool standing in the light; and you yourself are on nobody’s horizon.”<br /></em></blockquote><strong>HM Tomlinson<br />The Sea and the Jungle</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>THURSDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2010—0600 at N 23 29 27 W 67 33 07 (235 nautical miles northeast of the closest land: Turks and Caicos) </strong><br /><br />At 04:00 the wind went kaput. Nada. It was dead with a tag tied to its toe.<br /><br />Now, we are floating in place. The boat rocks lazily to and fro. The wind indicator at the top of the mast swings with the boat’s motion sending confused signals to my electronics: swing—the wind is from port; swing—the wind is from starboard. Round and round my instruments spin as Dave repeatedly asks, “What direction is the wind coming from?” He does not accept my answer that there is no wind.<br /><br />Becalmed, I really feel like an explorer of old. I contemplate mutiny for fear of falling off the edge of the world.<br /><br />For two hours we work to suspend the sails. Captain Dave’s goal is to hoist everything we have and lasso it into place so that it won’t snap and bang with the rocking motion. We know that most equipment damage happens in light winds. But, Dave is driven to take advantage of every breath. We strapped the boom to the portside toe rail, and lashed the whisker pole with the foresail off the starboard side. We lash the wheel and rudder to hold a course toward the south and east. But, the boat doesn’t have enough forward momentum to steer. We flounder in the slop of the sea and every time we check our progress we are pointed in a different direction. Since we’re not going anywhere, our course heading really doesn’t matter.<br /><br />Seeing the futility of our effort, I mutter how happy I am not to have been in Dave’s OR for the past 20 years. He is a determined fellow, just what you’d want in a physician!<br /><br />I radio Chris Parker to find out if we can motor to a place with wind. Sunspots must be bursting today because the ionosphere is not cooperating. The radio is horribly garbled and I can hardly hear Parker’s transmission. Quickly enlisting the cooperation of boaters sailing closer to Parker’s home base in Florida, I spark a relay team. Now, we all struggle to hear and be heard. Suddenly, the heaven’s open and I hear seven words directly from our weather oracle as clear as a song: “Wait for the wind to reach you.” Got it! We get a day off!<br /><br />Pancakes, bacon, and eggs are the order of the day along with tall mugs of steaming decaf. Then sleep—precious, uninterrupted, glorious, deep, safe sleep. Dave, kitty, and I sleep all day long. After that, we sleep all night long.<br /><br /><strong>FRIDAY, DECEMBER 3, 2010—0900 at N 23 14 41 W 67 37 09 (229 nautical miles north east of the closest land: Turks and Caicos)<br /></strong><br />Chris Parker assures us the wind will arrive by noon today. But, Dave woke with new energy. Forget noon. Dave has us under sail by 07:20. There are eight knots of wind blowing consistently from the north east, so we can muster five and a half knots of boat speed heading 130 degrees on the compass. That’s not bad!<br /><br />This is a blissful moment. Gun shy about how quickly our fates change, I am no longer presumptive enough to call it a beautiful day; I can only vouch for this moment. In 20 minutes everything may be different. The sea is teaching me about the dynamic and ever changing flow of life. Nothing stands still in time. But this moment is heavenly.<br /><br />Dinghy woke with new energy, too. She and I play with her fuzzy pink worm on a fishing line for about 30 minutes. Her favorite move is to dive for it while falling into the sling of the pilot berth. She jumps and twists like a short stop. Her athleticism is brilliant.<br /><br />It was disconcerting to sleep as we floated aimlessly in the middle of the ocean. We left on our running lights and our VHF radio so a local boat could hail us if we were about to hit. We knew our radar reflector would help other boats pick up our location, too. We turned off all other instruments. Dave and I were concerned about a collision because three times this trip in the middle of the night WILD HAIR came within two miles of another boat. Twice we had to take evasive action at the helm so as not to collide. The odds surrounding such a phenomenon are incalculable, but there you are.<br /><br />Imagine a lumberjack camp. In it, a 60 foot crane lifts a ten foot log on a rope. The crane swings right and left 15 feet in each direction until the log arcs wildly. It only takes two or three strokes. This is what happened this morning as we took the whisker pole off the forward sail. Dave was standing on the bow as I cranked the sail in from a winch at the stern. I heard a strangled call and as I looked up Dave was falling backwards onto the deck. The log/whisker pole had swung wildly from the top of the rocking mast clearing him by inches as he fell. It easily could have knocked him overboard. It easily could have knocked him out. Luckily—and it was sheer luck—Dave saw it coming out of the corner of his eye and dropped. On the pole’s next pass, Dave caught it and the drama was over. Just like that. It was to date our most frightening moment and the whole event happened in less than 10 seconds on a sunny day in calm seas.<br /><br />Today we realized our next for-profit venture. We have discovered what the true off-shore sailor wears. Forget Nautica, it’s underwear under the PFD. Dave and I will start a new line for men and women to be sold by West Marine. We’ll call it Skipper’s Secret: for the non-sensual times in your life. It will feature vintage elastic and pre-stretched cotton. To draw attention to the naughty bits, where others add feathers or beads, we’ll have scales. We think we have a winner.<br /><br /><strong>SATURDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2010—0600 at N 22 11 00 W 66 25 59 (225 nautical miles north of the closest land: Puerto Rico) </strong><br /><br />I’m having odd dreams. Vividly, I dreamt of walking in tall, clean woods. I lingered in the cool shade as I woke. Later, I dreamed I was eating a scone at Starbucks.<br /><br />This morning, the world is moody. The wind moans through our canvas, waves growl past the boat, the sky is torn fibrous paper in the colors of charcoal. White caps burst into the air as they meet at cross purposes.<br /><br />Today is our last day for easting. The door called “plenty of opportunity to go east” is closing. Very soon the winds will shift and the only thing we will be able to do is go south. But east, the required direction for the next 85 miles, is uncomfortable. We are driving hard into rude waves. Press on, press on, press on.<br /><br />The chart tells me we are in 18,163 feet of water. Soon we’ll be over the Puerto<br />Rican Trench—the second deepest hole in the world.<br /><br />I’d like to paint the sky for you with words so you can see it with fresh eyes. You’ve seen this sky before. It is the sky of childhood, of endless summer days. Blue is so clear. Clouds are fuzzy and shapeless—no rabbits or turtles in them. There is a cotton-ball softness that wraps my heart in gentle warmth, a looseness that says, “Don’t be afraid.” Then, down low, clouds hang with full bellies inches above the horizon. These are satisfied clouds. These are the water-carriers going about their business. These are the clouds that give us life. Or, not us, but people far away. The blue space between clouds jumps back and forth like an Escher painting: is it a positive shape or a negative absence of shape? It matters little for the blue is the jewel in Nedra’s Net. There are so many jewels, holes. They are the way into the ultimate.<br /><br />Press on with courage into the objecting surf.<br /><br />This trip is a learning lab. There was only so much Dave and I could know about off shore sailing from books, bar conversations, and lectures. Eventually, we had to come out here and taste it. I write this journal to unravel the mystery of sailing in the great beyond for myself and for you. I can paint pictures of moments, but no one—including myself—will ever fully grasp the enormity of the surface of the world gone wide. I may suspect that here it is possible to know my place in the universe. But, no. This is not a human place. I am a mere court jester passing comically through without effecting plot.<br /><br />Knowable is our technical progress; Dave and I now have a pat drill for handling storm cells. We know what to do when we detect a change in the wind. Previously skittish about such things, we feel safe riding out squalls, the blustery downpours that make the Caribbean a lush place. Further, hoist sails confidently in the face of a blow when before we would have shrunk from intimidation.<br /><br />Press on mindlessly against the mindless surge.<br /><br />In retrospect, maybe we should have gone north to go south. Every year, the Caribbean 1500—a cruising rally open to sailors like Dave and me—departs from Hampton Virginia, traveling nonstop to the Virgin Islands. Surprisingly, that route is the same distance to the islands as a departure from Florida. But this year, Caribbean 1500 participants made the trip in only 9 days compared to our two weeks. What is the difference? Given the slope of the east coast, Hampton is located hundreds of miles east of northern Florida. Their trip is almost due south and the winds push from behind nearly the entire distance. We did the trip the hard way; northern Florida is just about as far west as you can get on the east coast. So, we had to sail 955 nautical miles east into the wind in order to reach our goal. Doable, but it is slow and hard on a body and a boat.<br /><br />There is another lesson not to be missed from the Caribbean 1500: bailing out of an off shore route for land can be dangerous. One boat in this year’s November Rally decided to veer off toward the Bahamas. Perhaps they had difficulties with their systems, maybe they were tired or made uncomfortable by the weather. Whatever the reason, the decision was fatal. The captain drove the boat in a narrow pass between the islands during a “rage sea”—a time when strong winds create violent waves as the Atlantic Ocean pushes against the Bahamian shoal. Throughout time Bahamian rage seas have slammed boats into rocks. The way I heard the story told, the boat was lost. Two passengers drowned, only the captain survived. It is common sailor’s wisdom that the deep ocean far from land is the safest place to be when things get rough.<br /><br />At 2300, under Dave’s watch, we reach our easterly target: 65 degrees west—the longitude of the US Virgin Islands. Remarkably, there is no finish line to stride across in jubilance and a final rush of athleticism. As I sleep, Dave turns the boat from east to south and the 20 knots of wind shifts from working against us to working with us, nudging us boldly from behind. The boat stretches though the waves as silent and settled as a yoga master.<br /><br /><strong>SUNDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2010—0600 at N 20 58 10 W 64 56 36 (160 nautical miles north of the closest land: St Thomas, US Virgin Islands)</strong><br /><br />I woke this morning with Captain Dave’s pronouncement that we may arrive in St Thomas tomorrow morning. Hooray! It is time to burn the Skipper’s Secret apparel and break out the bikinis. In celebration, I load a new set of electronic charts into our navigational system and study the Virgin Island cruising guides. Before now, I was afraid to hope.<br /><br />How peculiar the idea of being in civilization. It is peculiar and pleasant. I plot my first umbrella drink. I cannot wait to take kitty for a walk on land. I cannot wait to take a shower, eat a salad, and sleep in my bed instead of the pilot berth. I cannot wait to move freely without a personal floatation device and tethers literally tying me down. I cannot wait to wear something pretty and dine on something someone else has prepared for me. Wouldn’t it be nice to go for a swim in all this warm water or walk down a street window shopping, absorbing culture and the energy of others? Wouldn’t it be a delight to see green and red and yellow, to smell soil and clean people? I look forward to movable furniture and the kindness of a stranger as we help each other through the day.<br /><br />I am grateful to this boat. It teaches Dave and me how to sail. With a little smart handling, the boat finds her way through the seas. The sails capture what they can of the wind. The sails themselves are strong, light, and skillful. Bending just so, the sails fool the wind into thinking the cloth is more than it is. These strips of white thread force the wind to speed on one side and linger on the other, perfect airfoils for imperfect, tired deck hands.<br /><br />The hull, bobbing with confidence through unending assaults, takes the middle path of least resistance. WILD HAIR’s shell is our safeguard. It is a thin barrier between us and those that would consume our meat with satisfaction. The hull’s innate, engineered wisdom is our savior, delivering us from evil. The rigging soaring toward the heavens is the temple of our efforts. Forgiving, movable pawns in this chess game, every piece of rigging is a tool to harness and leverage nature toward our end. In the past two weeks I have seen a year of wear put upon our dear boat and yet it stands tall, willing, able, and ready for more.<br /><br />These are the components of a boat that sleep in a yard or marina. These qualities are hidden to the buyer that knows only to ask, “Is she strong? Can she go off shore?” The reputation says yes. Now the reality says yes and this indebted sailor says yes. Discovering the boat in this way is like meeting a lover only to discover that your lover is also your best friend.<br /><br />And speaking of best friends . . . Dave has shown me a few of his inner workings that—after 25 years of marriage—I didn’t know made him tick. His energy appears unlimited. After years of working as an operating room leader, I find him an articulate captain able to delegate jobs and describe shared outcomes prior to action. It is his habit to think 10 steps ahead. Further, Dave is incredibly kind. Concerns about my nausea and dizziness, my cold, and the fact that I was five months post-operative from a total hip replacement prompted him to manage most of the physical line and sail duties on a heaving, wet deck. Over the course of two weeks, he did 90% of the winching as I managed the less physical but more technical helming during sail changes. He also did 50% or more of the watches since he had trouble sleeping. Dave says he feels like he just spent two weeks on call; I do too but I think his efforts were more physical than mine.<br /><br />We each made certain our partner didn’t get behind in drinking fluids or eating. We spent our energy caring for the boat and each other’s wounds. While we both navigated and charted our progress, Dave was the technician overseeing WILD HAIR’S diesel and the charge of our refrigeration and batteries. I was responsible for communications with family, friends, and meteorologist Chris Parker. I prepared meals, Dave cleaned up. He is skilled at judging sail plans given predicted winds, I am skilled at trimming sails for optimal performance. With the exception of maneuvers requiring strength and balance, we split the load evenly and played to our advantages. I believe we are the perfect cruising couple.<br /><br />It is 14:00 and the wind has quit. We are becalmed again and just 152 nautical miles north of our destination. Knowing this was going to happen, we saved fuel for the final push to shore. Now it is time to start WILD HAIR’s engine.<br /><br />“Va-room!” our 63 horse power Yanmar comes to life, we strike the sails and abruptly WILD HAIR is transformed into a motoring trawler. At 2800 RPM, we will ride on smooth water at seven knots for the rest of our journey.<br /><br />But, we have no idea where in St Thomas we are going! It is time to refine our destination. Because we will fly to Arizona leaving the boat for two weeks over the holidays, we need a slip for a month at a protected marina and someone to watch the boat in our absence. Using the guide books as reference, I call several marinas using the satellite phone to check availability and make arrangements.<br /><br />Oops. I quickly am informed that this is the most popular time of year. Most marinas are fully booked. Others only rent by the night so the price for an entire month is cost-prohibitive. Given the season, we feel a bit like the biblical Mary and Joseph. At last, we find one marina run by a charter boat company that has one slip for the month at a quarter of the price of the others. Phew! What a lucky break. Who knew it would be so tough? Sometimes we feel like rank amateurs in this cruising life.<br /><br />As we motor toward our new home, I find my thoughts are rushing to the end of this trip. I’m having a hard time witnessing this sunset, this lovely placid night.<br /><br /><strong>MONDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2010—0600 at N 18 35 47 W 65 03 56 (24 nautical miles north of the closest land: St Thomas, US Virgin Islands)<br /></strong><br />I am at the helm as the sun teases the horizon at dawn. The lights of St Thomas are visible like chunky sugar crystals on a Christmas cookie in profile, gold and red. For the past several years of our sailing life, I have been acutely sensitive to the cruelty with which people treat each other. Every time Dave and I re-emerge from an extended sailing trip and come back into the US culture of media and financial markets, we are stunned by how badly people behave—spiteful politics, greedy business decisions, and selfish personal indulgences. None of this is new to the history of mankind. What is new to me is the degree to which bad behavior saturates every aspect of our collective lives. It seems to be the fascination and allure of news casts, the tantalizing plots of sitcoms, and the root of catastrophic economic loss. Constantly turning off the TV, I find it almost more than I can bare.<br /><br />But this morning, with the sugar crystal lights of St Thomas on the horizon, I saw nothing but the beauty of mankind. We take care of each other through the gift of light in the dark night. Art, literature, science, medicine, environmental protection, and education are all evidence of our nurturing higher selves. Food—the act of growing, storing, preparing, serving, and eating is a reflection of kindness one for another. All of civilization is a testament to our love. Civilization is the creative energy and celebration of our coming together.<br /><br />I am so relieved. Now, I can see the beauty that counterbalances the chaos of petty ways. Now, I have a salve for the pain. The ugliness becomes mere background noise to the greater story arch of human inspiration.<br /><br />At the helm of my ship, I sit in peace.<br /><br />It is 80 degrees as we approach the harbor in St Thomas at 06:30.<br /><br />I ask Dave if this voyage has satisfied his strong desire to “cross and ocean.” He says, “Yes. I no longer need to cross an ocean. We’ve done that.”<br /><br />There are two kinds of sailors: those who have sailed off shore and those that want to. I’ve never met a sailor that doesn’t—on some level—want to sail off into the great beyond. It is a profoundly compelling call to anyone who has experienced the power of wind and trust in their craft. For us, the idea gnawed for decades and caused us to finally rearrange our lives for the opportunity to do this, together. Today, Dave and I graduate into the first category, those that have sailed offshore.<br /><br />Now, the mystery is gone; the price of off shore travel has been named and paid. Our conclusion: off shore adventures are not glamorous or romantic. They are grueling work. But, we are so very happy to have undertaken this voyage and to have successfully completed it. Like mountain climbers and astronauts, there is no denying our sense of accomplishment. But, are we called to do it again? It is too soon to tell. For now, I look forward to skipping south from island to island through the Caribbean, perhaps voyaging all the way to South America. This is called “coastal cruising” and it too is satisfying. After all, it is the coast—the interface between people and the sea—that is the stuff of legends.<br /><br />Thank you for coming on this journey with Dave and me. We needed you. We love you.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-42337084463339252642011-01-25T13:45:00.002-06:002011-02-15T20:08:12.403-06:00Diane<em>Dave and I were not alone on our voyage. Frequently, we heard the voices of family and friends, some alive, some long gone. One night I sat at the helm with my girlfriend, Diane. It was then that I recorded this story. </em> <br /><br />My neighbor Diane’s inoperable brain tumor and unscheduled seizures made her an oddity in middle school. My elementary days of clearing aside desks and chairs as she fell, guarding that she didn’t swallow her tongue, and reassuring substitute teachers that this was normal behavior had passed. We had drifted apart. But, there was no one else around during those early summer days of 1971 and my head filled—as it always did—with new games for us to play in her built-in swimming pool, my second summertime home. So, I phoned.<br /><br />Unexpectedly, Diane said I couldn’t come over. I was no longer invited to their home. When pressed, she passed the phone to her mother. Kindly, her mother explained, “You girls haven’t played together all winter. So, your interest in coming over now seems more about the pool than about being with Diane.”<br />In a rush I remembered I had acted badly last summer. Frustrated by Diane’s increasing slowness, I twisted her name into ugly playground sayings. At least once, Diane’s older sister overheard and stormed into the house shouting, “Mah-om!”<br /><br />I sat uncomfortably with the truth. I had bullied a mentally handicapped girl, a friend. Worse, I was more interested in the pool than in Diane.<br /><br />How I wondered could her mother be kind? Did she know that her daughter had grown different from the other kids? Was she shooing me along to go be normal? The thought of leaving our friendship sickened me. I knew the truth: I was Diane’s last ordinary friend. If I abandoned Diane, I would be responsible for her lifetime of loneliness.<br /><br />Unable to sort the layers of my emotions, I simply told my mother I was banned from Diane’s. She said she knew. “No one blames you for not being Diane’s friend,” my mother volunteered. “No one is angry.”<br /><br />There it was again—kindness in the face of meanness. In that moment, I didn’t understand the world. I knew right from wrong and kindness as a response to my wrong-doing made no sense. I was at a loss for how to behave. Eventually, for lack of a different option, I filled that summer (and all my summers to come) with other pursuits.<br /><br />Four decades later, memories of Diane bubble to the surface and I wrestle anew with feelings of guilt. Like a commodity, I seek to trade guilt for someone else’s pain thinking, “If I feel badly enough about what I did perhaps you will hurt less.” Except after so many years there is no one’s pain to relieve save for my own. This is when I make my discovery; I have hurt for Diane since childhood. Sadness floods me. I remember a vibrant friend with a quick smile, generous heart, and devilish creativity. My dedication to our friendship was bought through the fare and equal trade of childhood laughter. We were the same. Then we were different. The pain is imprinted on my heart.<br /><br />Now, at the age of the adults of my youth, I understand our shared loss. Their understanding is no longer a mystery. Sadness compels kindness.David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4697945468744522638.post-90497555945411370132010-06-25T23:09:00.004-05:002010-06-27T15:01:23.465-05:00Mayday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokR8JeP1M_QEuzVRKqlyfRrsk_rd5wdN1pKfse5gmKjJwCjbU0yNjHa6ri9rbB2l_r94HselMX8vAyqKKrn_ZpcNKCnni2IbnKo-LViuNaWEig5alNJtJ7RHIjpgopJi-cA9peass_Ag/s1600/Mayday.2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487546016540885890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgokR8JeP1M_QEuzVRKqlyfRrsk_rd5wdN1pKfse5gmKjJwCjbU0yNjHa6ri9rbB2l_r94HselMX8vAyqKKrn_ZpcNKCnni2IbnKo-LViuNaWEig5alNJtJ7RHIjpgopJi-cA9peass_Ag/s400/Mayday.2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><blockquote>Dum Spiro Spero<br />While I breathe, I hope.<br /><br /><div align="right">Cicero</div></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><div align="left">I did not send a Mayday distress call into the teeth of a stormy night because our boat had slipped its anchor and was smashing into the rocky shore of an uninhabited Bahama island. It was. But I issued the cry for help because I saw my husband carried out to sea in our inflatable dinghy armed with nothing but a broken outboard motor, a plastic paddle, a PFD, and a feeble head lamp. Luckily, “out to sea” was an illusion. Beyond my line of sight and in the falling tide, my husband Dave grounded the dinghy onto a previously submerged rocky shoal, walked across the island, through the water, and back to our beached boat. This is the story of my distress call and its afterlife.<br /><br />THE CALL<br /><br />Alone on the boat that night my first thought was to trigger the 406 MHz EPRIB—an emergency satellite beacon we have registered with NOAA. By sending out a hex code specific to each unit, EPIRB distress calls immediately tell the Coast Guard where a troubled boat is located, who is likely on board, and what type of vessel rescuers should look for. EPIRBs provoke an enthusiastic response: aircraft are launched and large Coast Guard Cutter ships are diverted. I did not launch the beacon however because I did not want to bring emergency services to me. I wanted to rescue Dave. So instead I cranked up the electronics, identified WILD HAIR’s position and—at 22:05 on that brutal February night—spoke simultaneously into our VHF and Single Side Band or SSB microphones.<br /><br />“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday” I called. “This is sailing vessel WILD HAIR, WILD HAIR, WILD HAIR. Our current position is North 25 degrees 36 minutes, West 77 degrees 43 minutes. Repeat: N 25.36 W 77.43. Repeat: N 25.36 W 77.43. We are west of White Cay in the Berry Islands of the Bahamas. Our vessel is on the rocks. One person is onboard the vessel and one person has blown out to sea in an inflatable dinghy. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.”<br /><br />Silence. After 3 attempts I stayed on VHF channel 16 but changed SSB frequency, eventually trying 2.1820, 4.1250, 6.2150, and 8.2910.<br /><br />Still hearing no response, I got out our month-old satellite phone. Smartly, I had pre-programmed all of the Coast Guard emergency phone numbers for the east coast into the handset. Not so smartly, I forgot under stress how to access the numbers and make a call. Without operational knowledge, the phone was as useful to me as a paperweight. So, I repeated the sequence of calls into the SSB and VHF radios.<br /><br />At some point, I heard Dave’s voice shout his return. My attention bounced from distress calls to relief to the next emergency at hand: boat rescue. Our strategic thinking was interrupted by the crackle of the VHF. The crew of a local cruise ship—the Bahamas Celebration—had heard my VHF call and summoned their captain. His calm and experienced voice was like salve on a wound; I had been heard. It was comforting to know we were not alone. With too big of a ship to enter our snug harbor, the captain offered to contact the Bahamas Air and Sea Rescue Association or BASRA on our behalf. But, with Dave safely on board and only our boat at risk, we took his personal cell phone number, thanked him for his kindness, and said their services wouldn’t be necessary, yet.<br /><br />With a signal spot light we hailed a sailor sharing our harbor about a half mile away. His dinghy had a working outboard. That and a rising tide allowed us to kedge the boat from peril at dawn. After the frontal passage and an extra day’s rest, Dave and I discussed between us the lessons we learned from the nasty experience. Then, we started putting the nightmare behind us. We had a glorious sail 20 miles south to the populated island of Frazer Hog Cay. It was here that I started to learn the rest of the story.<br /><br />THE EMERGENCY RESPONSE<br /><br />When we arrived, everyone seemed genuinely happy to see WILD HAIR and her crew. As we snagged a mooring ball, people came out to greet us and check on our well-being. Our Mayday had prompted a buzz of speculation and theories had persisted unchecked for days. Evidently, boaters and Bahamian locals had heard my call for help but—given the storm—none felt they were in a position to lend assistance.<br /><br />Astonishingly, we learned my SSB distress call had skipped the east coast entirely. Instead, it was picked up by Joshua Bouknight, a Petty Officer at the United States Coast Guard communication station in Kodiak, Alaska. Alaska was the only Coast Guard station to copy my voice and he heard the call on 4.1250. Garbled through space, Officer Bouknight recorded only a partial position statement, figured out our approximate location, and contacted the Coast Guard District Offices in Florida. The Florida District office then briefed the Royal Bahamas Defense Force, and a local volunteer rescue boat was deployed that night in 35 knot winds and 13 foot seas. Remarkably, the rescue effort initiated from Alaska came within 20 miles of our call. But, without a full fix on our position their efforts were futile.<br /><br />Still stunned by this news, I opened our satellite email account to discover the Coast Guard’s actions hadn’t ceased. My in-box was flooded with worried emails from family and friends. It seems we had become a Coast Guard Search and Rescue or SAR Case. Procedurally, once I had initiated the Search and Rescue system it would not abate until there was resolution. SAR cases close when the Coast Guard finds who they are looking for and either renders assistance or confirms that no assistance is needed.<br /><br />In total, the Coast Guard spent three days tracking us down and Officer Bouknight personally dedicated almost an entire day of non-stop searching. Like a detective, Bouknight searched the national database and found twelve vessels registered as WILD HAIR. He used software to clean up my radio transmission and listened to it several dozen times. Hearing “One person blown out to sea and one person on board WILD HAIR,” Bouknight knew there were two persons on board. Ruling out larger commercial fishing vessels, he did an online search and found the Adventures of WILD HAIR blog. Our writings confirmed that our sailing area matched the partial position statement he had picked up. Further, the blog listed the length and type of our vessel, a Hylas 45.5 foot sloop. Bouknight cross-referenced the boat details with the vessel registration database and identified us as the boat owners. Our contact information was also listed.<br /><br />Armed with our names and addresses, Officer Bouknight attempted to call Dave, but our home phone had been disconnected. Utilizing an internet spider, Bouknight opened pages related to my husband and learned of his former employment. From there, he called Dave’s secretary in Wisconsin and she provided our cell phone number and confirmed that we were sailing. Unfortunately, our US-based cell phone did not work in the Bahamas so this proved to be a dead end.<br /><br />Knowing that our children were close friends with my husband’s partner’s kids, the secretary put Bouknight in contact with Dave’s colleague. Again, Dave’s partner confirmed we were sailing and—after a quick connection with his daughter—offered Bouknight our 21-year-old daughter’s phone number. Bravely, our daughter gave the officer our satellite email address and the phone number of my mother in Arizona. I always email my mother our current latitude and longitude. So, through my mother Bouknight was able to confirm our last known whereabouts and our travel intentions. This information correlated perfectly with our distress call.<br /><br />This detective work was the reason why my inbox was flooded with worried emails. Everyone had spent hours and days fearing the worst. Quick as I could I got on the satellite phone and started the process of easing minds.<br /><br />THE HUMAN RESPONSE<br /><br />I experience a bundle of emotions when I think back on these events. Of course, I am hugely relieved that Dave is safe and with me still. I am chagrinned that the clocking wind and simultaneously shifting tide conspired to lift our anchor and put WILD HAIR on the rocks, but I am proud that we—with a little help and a good measure of know-how—got our boat out of her predicament. I regret having prompted a rescue vessel to launch on a futile mission in horrible weather and am made nauseous by the thought that we put someone else needlessly at risk. I feel horrible about the sleepless night I caused the people I hold most dear. Not least, I feel guilty about the precious Coast Guard resources spent over the course of three days on our behalf. But Officer Bouknight would have me feel no guilt.<br /><br />In stunningly compassionate and deftly professional follow up emails, Officer Bouknight expressed nothing but relief that we were safe and sound. “It happens too often that our best is not enough,” he laments, “no matter what we do. Too much works against us … be it the ticking clock or the wrath of nature.”<br /><br />After emphatically reassuring me that I took the appropriate actions and even complementing me on a carefully articulated, clear, and calm manner during the Mayday call, Bouknight insisted that no one should hesitate to send a distress call should the need arise. He claims, “All Coast Guardsmen feel only relief when they find a vessel in distress is safe.”<br /><br />Eventually I learned that I could have resolved the SAR case more quickly by simply phoning the closest Coast Guard unit. The agency is structured on a series of ever broadening tiers so messages find their way swiftly to the right person. But Bouknight characterizes phoning in to close a SAR case as “considerate, but not overwhelmingly necessary.”<br /><br />I have a heightened respect for the individuals and organization that makes up the United States Coast Guard. Humbly refusing to accept accolades, Bouknight claims “I was trained to search for every boat like I had my own family aboard.” He goes on to say, “Everything was made possible by a chain of individuals who operated with consistency and professionalism.”<br /><br />As a reflection of his deep, personal commitment to saving lives, Bouknight ends all of his email correspondences with “Dum Spiro Spero,” while I breathe, I hope. </div></div>David and Heather:http://www.blogger.com/profile/10103109882315044267noreply@blogger.com0