John Kretschmer Passage – Part 2

“I really don’t know why it is that all of us are so committed to the sea, except I think it’s because in addition to the fact that the sea changes, and the light changes, and ships change, it’s because we all came from the sea. And it is an interesting biological fact that all of us have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood, in our sweat, in our tears. We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea – whether it is to sail or to watch it – we are going back from whence we came. [Remarks at the Dinner for the America’s Cup Crews, September 14 1962]” ― John F. Kennedy

To date, my adventures in a sailboat have been confined to inland waterways, bays and sounds. The shore, never farther than a distant horizon, and a solid surface has been no more than a few meters beneath our keel.   As our ferry approached the island of Tortola from St. Thomas, I knew that the realm of my experience was about to expand profoundly. For the first time, I would be aboard a sailboat, hundreds of miles from the nearest shore, with thousands of meters of water between me and the bottom of the sea. The test I was about to take was one that would determine if fear would surmount my dreams and desires to cross oceans alone on a boat with my husband or if my exhilaration for this lifestyle would overcome the difficult life at sea. I would be on the lookout for signs, little hints from God, destiny or fate that I am indeed, heading on the right path.

The ferry docked and Dan and I cleared customs for BVI and hailed a taxi to take us to Nanny Cay Marina where John Kretschmer, our captain and his 47ft. boat Quetzal, awaited. Four male crew members and John would accompany us on the 1,000 mile round trip, 420 some miles to Grenada and the Grenadines, and 400 some miles back. It would take us approximately 3 days to complete each of the 400 mile crossings, where I would get a taste of life on an ocean passage. When we arrived at the marina, the scent of aromatic flowers and sea air, greeted us. As I took my first step onto the dock and headed half way down to the slip where Quetzal lay in wait, I felt a bit like a time traveler. I was stepping into a new way of life, so foreign from the cold, snow, ice and farm animals I had left behind in New Jersey, into a nautical setting where boats, oceans and atmospheric conditions would now be the focus of my every waking moment.

Dan and I spotted Quetzal, nestled in her slip with a flurry of activity on board. John and the first two crew mates were in the cockpit, preparing for “Captain’s Hour”. Rum punch, meats and cheeses were being brought from below to celebrate the beginning of the voyage. The men quickly rose and greeted us as we approached to join them. I was in awe of the moment, the feeling of stepping aboard the vessel that would take me across the ocean, captained by a man who had successfully crossed the Atlantic 21 times. Introductions were made, we got a brief tour of the boat and we all settled down to toast our adventure. That is when John dropped the bombshell, the news that would shake the foundation of my sailing soul.

John began, “I don’t know if you guys have ever heard of Scott and Brittney, but they are docked a few boats down. I invited them to join us for Captain’s hour.” I had to grip the side of the boat with both hands to make sure the boat was really beneath me and that I was not imagining the moment. There was only one sailing blog, called Windtraveller, that I kept up with and followed for the past 4 years. That blog is written by a young lady named Brittney and is about her and her husband Scott’s decision to sell everything and become live aboard cruisers. On all the islands, in all the harbors, in all the marinas in those harbors, what was the chance that on the evening of my arrival to test my sailing merit, Scott and Brittney would be docked a few boats away. I would be in fact meeting them.

The young couple and their daughter Isla (absent were their 8 month old twins) didn’t make it to Captain’s hour, but they did stop by to say hello the next morning. This was their first time seeing the famous Quetzal, and they were eager to get a tour of the boat. I sat, crunched in the corner of the cockpit, terrified to say a word lest I spew unintelligent babble about God knows what. What can you possibly say to people that you have admired from afar, for so many years, when you are unexpectedly graced with their presence? After the tour, introductions were made and John informed them that I was a long-time follower and admirer. I smiled, and looked down at my feet and stared at them not knowing what to say. Brittney followed my gaze to my feet and commented on the artwork painted on my big toes. I had a palm tree painted on one big toe and a sailboat on the other. Fighting the cotton and sand feeling blocking my speech, I managed to put my big toes together and say, “This if for when I am way out to sea, I can touch my toes together and say ‘landfall”. Brittney laughed, I turned bright red, and that was about all I could say at our meeting. We took a group picture and then Scott, Brittney and little Isla departed to prepare their own vessel for sailing. As they walked away down the dock, I took their presence as a concrete sign that Dan and I were on the right path and much more than luck was guiding our direction.

We cast off from Tortola after clearing customs at Road Town. Each time you sail into and out of an island governed by a new country, there is a lengthy process of checking in and out that must be followed. Deviation from this process will result in unpleasant confrontations with customs officials. John, having sailed in and out of most ports around the world, was the expert in this tradition and was quick and efficient with the needed documentation and paperwork. We passed out of the channel of Road Town and John pulled up a chart to begin the education process of charting a passage across an ocean. He showed us how to plot our course, how to ensure we would safely avoid areas of concern, and what the process would be for making sure we stayed on course during our voyage. The watch schedule was also laid out where 2 crew members would be taking 3 hour watches through the evening hours. Then, in a show of light-hearted competitiveness, John asked each of us to write down how many days, hours and minutes we thought it would take us to sail into the port in Granada, our destination. The winner would be treated to dinner by the rest of the crew. He would give us a few hours to determine our average speed, and then our guesses were to be recorded on a piece of paper and handed in by Captain’s hour. And thus, with the sparkling water of Road Town harbor lighting our way toward the far-reaching sea, we sailed away knowing the next land we would see would be the island of Grenada.

As the last bit of land faded from view, I got the first taste of sailing in an open ocean. The size of the swells had gradually increased the further we got from land, and the wind was blowing a steady 12 to 15 knots. Quetzal’s sails were up and included a full jib, a smaller staystail directly behind the jib, and then the mainsail. We were making a steady 6.5 to 7 knots of speed and Quetzal was handling the waves as if they were merely anthills in the path of striding giant. Her power and grace was immense, despite the obvious force of the sea beneath her, and I felt no fear in her ability to navigate through the building waves. As the wind began to freshen a bit, the captain made the decision to reef the main and pull the jib in a bit. By reducing the sail area, the boat would flatten and Quetzal would have more stability in the building waves. In a few hours, the waves were reaching 9 feet. At some points, I would be sitting in the cockpit and watching an approaching wave tower high above the side of the boat then meet us, at which point we would rise up and ride smoothly over the wall of water.

Each of the crew members had taken a turn at the helm steering the boat, and suddenly I was called upon to take my turn. On our own boat, Dove, a 30 ft. C&C, whenever the waves are big and the winds strong, I let Dan do all the steering. I am not comfortable handling the boat in any type of heavy weather. Now, there was no deviating from this job as the point of the passage was to experience exactly this, and I had no choice but to take the helm. Fearful at first, I grasped the large metal wheel with a death grip. I had 47 feet of boat to steer through the monstrous waves , the only consolation being… at least there was nothing I could hit or run into. At first, when a large wave broached in front of me, I fearfully steered into it causing the boat to rise fully over the wave, and plunder awkwardly down the other side. I got a few nasty looks as I lost steerage on the downward side of the wave, heading us sidelong into the next wave, causing a wash of water into the cockpit. Realizing I had to relax and find that groove, the perfect angle to merge the boat into the waves so she could ride up at a slight angle and stay in control coming down the backside, I began to find our rhythm. I pictured myself riding a horse and facing a large jump course in front of me. I kept a steady contact on my imaginary reins, and let the overturning of the wheel correct to slight adjustments. I felt the imaginary contact of my seat in the saddle, gliding smoothly over the jumps, as I felt the boat beneath me rise and fall in timing with the waves. Within minutes, the swells in front of me no longer became obstacles, they became platforms to launch from and wings to propel us forward. I watched the boat speed climb as we surfed each wave and took delight in trying to increase boat speed on the largest swells. It became a delight and game and I felt Quetzal hum in agreement and work in harmony with me, matching my enthusiasm. It was a personal victory for me feeling confident and in control in the largest seas I had yet to sail.

Captain’s hour ensued, as did dinner. We turned our bets for our arrival time into Granada to our captain. I had carefully taken our speed and distance, plus the time of the last passage the boat made to Grenada, added the two together and took the average. I calculated we would arrive in port in 3 days, 1 hour and 30 minutes. Dan calculated closely to me with 3 days, 2 hours and 30 minutes. The bets were placed and by 8 o’clock, everyone went to bed exhausted except for the first set of watchmen. Dan and I would be taking the 2:00-5:00 watch, so we had a few hours to try and get some sleep. Our berth area was about 4 feet wide and the two of us slid and had to prop ourselves against the bulkhead strategically, so I wouldn’t be crushed at each tossing and turning of the boat. It was no easy feat and I knew our first night would rough.

During the first few sailing hours of our first day at sea, John had carefully gone over the safety procedures . We discussed man overboard scenarios, sinking scenarios, and were each given a job in the unlikely event we had to abandon ship. The one cardinal rule while being on night watch was that each crew member had to wear a safety harness. That harness was also an inflatable device should we go overboard. In addition, we were tethered to the cockpit with a line that clipped to a ring that would prevent getting washed overboard or getting accidently flung out of the boat. When a sharp rap in our cabin signaled time for my first watch, I hurriedly popped out of bed, put on my lightweight jacket and secured my harness.  Dan had beaten me to get ready and on deck.  I followed shortly and emerged from the cabin into the crisp and brisk air of my first night at sea. The wind was fitful and dark clouds covered most of the sky. There was blackness to the night I had never encountered on land. My breath caught at the almost suffocating feeling of hurtling through the darkness at great speed, knowing we were but a speck, floating along on the surface of water that was thousands of feet deep.  The boat’s autopilot was on and steering a true course, so our job as night watchmen was to ensure we stayed on course and that nothing perilous crossed out path.

I got my bearings and looked up into the sky. There was one clear patch. The clouds had parted like a giant curtain, previewing a small patch of heaven. In that patch, shining brightly above, was a familiar array of stars. I had to look twice to be sure it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, but on second look I knew for sure. The only visible stars I could see on that first night, on my first watch, was the constellation of Orion. Orion is the name of our first grandchild, born into our family on January 12^th. Only a few weeks old, I thought of him as we left for the trip at 4 am only a few days prior. I had looked into the sky, seen Orion’s belt, and wondered what it would be like to see that constellation out at sea. What were the chances of the first stars I saw, on my first night watch, on my first night out at sea, to be Orion? I guess about as good as seeing my sailing idols the first night in the Caribbean.

Our watch flew by as I took in the marvels of galloping along in the dead of night, powerful, surefooted and without fear or hesitation. I had feared the unknown feeling of solitude that I thought would accompany a night watch, but solitude was not one of the emotions I felt that evening. There was a peacefulness in the sound of the wind and waves. There was a steadiness in the way the boat handled herself over waves my human eyes could not discern. There was a sense of empowerment in being a small vessel, in an immense ocean, and daring to tread across trusting that Neptune would let us pass. And before I knew it, the 3 hours has passed. Dan and I had not spoken much, just a few words because the magnitude of the evening was far greater than the words either of us could speak. Getting ready to descend the ladder back into the cabin to wake the next crew, I looked up into the sky one last time. Orion had moved on, progressing in the sky to a new vantage point, and a new constellation had taken his spot. I had to verify with Dan, but I was quite sure what I spotted was a constellation I was hoping to see as we delved closer to the Southern Hemisphere. It was one I had dreamt of, but had not yet seen. Bright in the sky, just above the horizon, was the Southern Cross. I smiled as Dan confirmed my guess, and I peered up at her, seeing the Southern Cross for the first time.

When you see the Southern Cross for the first time You understand now why you came this way ‘Cause the truth you might be runnin’ from is so small But it’s as big as the promise, the promise of a comin’ day – Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

Luck? Coincidence? I don’t think so.