And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who sailed into it.
Equus Log: Destination, Tortola, BVI.
Day 1
Time of departure from Moorhead City Marina on 11/17, 1:47. Winds SE 5 to 10 knots. Gorgeous day, sunny, blue skies, temps in the high 60’s. Choppy water, no swells. Speed: 4 to 6 knots.
Even as Dan was fueling and filling our water tanks at the marina, the last task before we set off on our journey, I was frantically preparing meals in the galley. I was forewarned by the captain that the first few days were going to be a bit rough. We could expect wind around 20 knots, gusting higher. The last thing I wanted to happen was for me to get seasick trying to prepare meals below in rough weather.
Up until last night, the weather predictions forecasted the best weather window for our departure to be Sunday or Monday. I was not prepared for Dan’s statement at 8 AM this morning that the forecast changed. He wanted to be out of the harbor by noon. This bit of news caused me to go into hyperdrive as I had carefully planned when I would be making meals for the crossing and securing the cabin for rough seas. My timeline went from 2 days to 4 hours.
As soon as we finished a few loose ends with phone calls and documents that needed to be signed and mailed, we hopped on our bikes and head off down the road to buy a few last minute items we wanted for the trip.
Back on the boat, we scurried around, securing items to the deck and putting everything below in their places they lived when at sea. Items tend not to stay in place once we hit the swells unless firmly bedded in a safe place. Living at the marina for a week had left us lax in putting things away so there was quite a bit of securing to do. Just as I was frantically chopping ochre for some sausage and shrimp gumbo, Dan yelled down that we were ready to leave the dock and head to the marina for fuel and water. I still had chili to make also, as I wanted two dinners fully prepared for our first few nights. I didn’t want to do anything but heat up meals if the weather was rough. Leaving dock took precedent, so I quickly went up on deck and put out fenders and prepared lines for our arrival at the fuel dock. I calculated I had about 30 minutes to finish cooking the gumbo and chili, clean all the pots and pans and get the meals into containers and into the fridge.
By some miracle, I was cleaning up the last of pots and pans when Dan shouted down that we were ready to leave the dock. I finished up quickly and arrived up on deck just as the lines were being thrown off by the dock hand. This was it. Our preparations were complete and it was time to go. This was not the departure I pictured or planned in my mind, but I was glad it arrived rather suddenly. I’m sure I would have spent the last two nights fretting and losing sleep over little worries. This was like having a loose tooth yanked out by tying a thread to a doorknob and slamming the door shut. It went by too quickly to worry – was pain-free – and we got the job done.
As we headed out of Moorhead, lots of boats were buzzing in and out of the harbor. Shrimp boats, giant arms spread like soaring water birds, dotted the horizon. Flocks of gulls swarmed and hovered around each boat, waiting for the delightful castaways that would fill their gullets. The sun was at that perfect angle when it casts its light across the water, creating a blinding and sparkling shimmer that seems to create a path of light to the horizon. As we got the sails up, turned the motor off, the familiar sounds of the ocean surrounded our vessel. The waves slapping, the sails gently luffing, and the creak and groan of lines and halyards were music to our ears.
Day 2
Mostly cloudy, temps in the high 60’s. Winds from the South 10-15, gusts 20 to 30. Morning swells 6 to 9 ft. afternoon swells reduced to heavy chop.
We journeyed into the Gulf Stream uneventfully. When the sun finally set, the sea was still quiet. Like some type of omen, a cloud appeared on the horizon shaped like a giant submarine. It was rather ominous and sent a chill down my spine.
The beginning of my night watch, from 8 to 1 last night, winds were light and variable. No moon visible so darkness enveloped the boat like a heavy blanket until the stars began to pierce the night sky. The difference between looking at stars on land and stars at sea is immense. They are so bright and numerous, it feels as if you could reach out and touch them. The big difference is that on a dark and moonless night when there is no land in sight, the stars surround you in a 360-degree panoramic view. They begin on the horizon and as you turn and look around you, they meet the water in every direction. Instead of watching a moonrise on my watch, I witnessed the rising of the constellation Orion. Directly off our bow, the incredible armored man rose up from the depths of the ocean and placed himself high in the sky above me by the end of my watch.
There is not much to do on a night watch. I gaped at the celestial sights and ooohed and awed each time I saw a shooting star blaze across the darkened sky. It’s quiet, the sounds of the water and waves and the groaning and creaking of the boat, the only sounds. That is, until the radar alarm starts blaring that you are too close to another vessel. That was the first time I woke Dan. I failed to do a radar check and somehow let a gigantic vessel approach to within a mile of us. Part of the watch responsibility is staying clear of large ships that probably will not notice a small sailboat on their radar. Dan walked me through the procedures again and we reviewed how to use their navigation light patterns to detect if the ships are approaching and from which direction.
Back to sleep for Dan for a little while until the sails starting flapping uncontrollably with significant wind shifts. Got him up again and we decided to turn on the motor to keep us going on our route as the wind was not cooperating. When I finally woke up Dan at 1 AM for his shift, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I had attempted to watch a movie on my Kindle but mostly had to listen as watching made me slightly sea sick.
I woke at 5:30 and relieved Dan. He was ready for sleep and had been battling with shifty winds during his watch. He had to tack a few times during the night, once to avoid a large vessel. The morning brought much increased wind speeds and huge swells. We had entered the Gulf Stream during the evening – billions of gallons of water per second, traveling at 7 knots below us, a underwater river running contrary to our direction. The swells roared up, then rolled under the boat causing her to toss and bob in their wake. It was less then pleasant. Dan woke up and we killed the engine as the mainsail and stay sail were keeping us going at a steady 5 knots. Dan went below to make tea and I was reading on deck when a huge puff of wind hit us. I suddenly found myself launched into the isinglass as the world tipped sideways. We had been hit with such force, the boat was knocked almost completely sideways. She quickly righted but was still traveling heavily healed to port. I yelled down to Dan. No answer. All the contents of the boat were now in a pile on the port side. The din and clang of objects changing sides of the boat had foreshadowed this rearrangement. I momentarily panicked when Dan didn’t answer. I yelled his name louder and with relief, heard him answer from our stateroom.
Dan had been in the bathroom when we got the knockdown. He reported that everything in the bedroom was launched from its resting place. The entire contents of our bedroom were now on in a huge pile but attempting to clean up was a job for a less windy day.
As the winds moderated to a much steadier 15 knots, we put up the jib and reefed the main to about half the size. All three sails are up and we were making 7 knots even going against the current. We have 50 miles to go before we are across the Gulf Stream and we should be out by this evening. For now, we are living the history of our sailing ancestors. We are cruising across the ocean on 50 square feet of platform below us, powered by billowing sails. Strong winds are building and we should be at 20 to 30 knots by this evening. Our boat is handling it like a champ so far. She feels sturdy, true and takes a licking and keeps on sailing. While Dan is picturing himself a Viking or perhaps Columbus, I’m feeling much more like Moana.
Day 3
Very cloudy, temps in the 60’s. Winds from the South 20 pmh, gusts 20 to 30. Heavy wind and seas, wave heights starting at 10 ft., building to 15.
I was on watch when the sun began to rise. I knew we were flying through the darkness like a freight train. I was basically holding on to whatever I could and trying to just hang on through my shift. I knew the waves were large, but I couldn’t see them… until the sun finally rose above the horizon and I caught my first sight of a very large wave. I started to panic as I saw us racing toward it, but when we rose over it, the boat took it rather smoothly. I was surprised and quickly realized we had been going over waves this size for quite some time, I just couldn’t see them. I will still not comfortable with how heavy the winds were becoming and the size of the waves so I yelled down to wake up Dan.
Dan quickly dressed and came up and we looked together at the sky and building sea and knew it was not going to be a pleasant day. As we sat together and looked at the endless sea in front of us, I knew the test had begun and only time would tell if we would pass. Suddenly, Dan noticed the dingy had shifted, probably during the big wave that knocked us down earlier. He made the decision to tie into the jack lines and go on the foredeck and try and retie the dinghy. I was not happy about this decision but he insisted. I was terrified as he stepped out of the cockpit and went forward. At this point, waves were beginning to crash rather violently on the foredeck and I had visions of him being swept off the boat. Ten minutes seemed like an hour, but finally he worked his way back into the cockpit, soaked to the skin.
By noon, the waves were 10 to 15 ft. It was so frightening that to deal with the situation, I crawled into my bed and braced myself against the wall and tried to take myself to somewhere more pleasant. No bedding left, it had all been torn off so I gathered what I could and make a nest. Everything in the boat was in piles on the floor. The latches to the drawers finally gave way and they became projectiles, periodically flying dangerously across the boat. The boat was hit repeatedly by huge waves and shuddered and felt at times as if we had been submersed by the waves. Water roared past both portholes which meant the waves had to be breaking full force on the bow. My heart leapt in my throat when I heard Dan yell for me to get up on deck immediately. I knew something had gone wrong.
To my horror, Dan was preparing to go out on the deck. The last large wave had taken out our dinghy and it was dangling over the edge of the port rail. It was dragging dangerously against the side, pulling on the lifelines and loosening our bow sprit. Dan ordered me to take the wheel and “heave to”. This process involves turning into the wind, letting the mainsail tack, but leaving the staysail back winded. By keeping the rudder hard to the windward side, the boat would find a quiet spot and ease over the waves. This is one of the maneuvers we had practiced when we took our John Kretschmer heavy weather sailing course but I had never attempted it in seas such as this. I pleaded with Dan not to go out, but he said he had to, the dinghy was putting us in danger.
I followed his orders and heaved to. I watched as the first huge wave appeared and sure enough, we floated smoothly over. It was rather surreal as the sound of the wind diminished, and the boat seemed to make a temporary peace with the elements. Dan worked his way out of the cockpit, secured to the jack lines and moved forward. He made it to the dinghy and I watched with dread as he tried to wrestle the dinghy back on board. I knew immediately this was a bad idea. It is almost too heavy for the two of us, there was no way in hell he was getting it back on board by himself. Not to mention, the dinghy had been loaded with a fuel tank, our dive gear, his windsurfer and a few other items. It was then I realized, all those items were gone. They had already disappeared into the sea and only the dinghy remained. As I watched him struggle, I realized I had to make a quick decision. I grabbed the knife secured to the helm and unzipped the bimini and screamed out to Dan to come and get the knife. He had to cut our losses and let the dinghy go. We could replace the dinghy, but if he went over, there was no way I was going to be able to rescue him in waves this big. Reluctantly, he retrieved the knife, cut the lines and we watched the dinghy quickly be claimed by the sea.
I muttered a prayer of thanks when Dan arrived safely back in the cockpit. He turned the boat back into the waves and made the decision to tack and start heading west to try and get out of the storm. I concurred. There was no end in sight to this front and I didn’t’ know how much more we could take.
I went back below, crawled in bed, closed my eyes and counted every ten waves. There were still crashes and pounding and massive waves that would inundate us. I counted for hours until ten waves passed without a serious pounding sound or a wave crashing over us. It was then I knew the seas were starting to settle and went back up to see how Dan was faring. The sky had darkened and evening was approaching. Dan pointed ahead to an approaching squall. The wind was whipping furiously, it began to rain, but the new direction of the wind seemed to be tapering the size of the waves. I was quite happy to take stronger winds over the big waves. It was quite a relief.
Day 4
Some sun, temps in the 60’s. Winds from the Southeast, 10 -15. Swells 6 to 9 feet.
We made it uneventfully through the night. Early in the morning, I called my cousin Norman, also a sailor, on my satellite phone and asked him to pull up grib files and advise us on the best course to take. Dan and I made the decision not to try and get to Tortola as the weather was not conducive to a good crossing. We decided to ask Norman if he felt there was a good weather window to make the 3 day trip directly to the Bahamas, or head back to shore. Heading back meant returning just south of where we started, and the entire trip would have been in vain. Unfortunately, he advised returning to shore immediately as the weather was getting bad again in 48 hours. We had to get back across the Gulf Stream as quickly as possible.
With dismay, we turned the boat and headed back toward shore. Just then, a pod of dolphins appeared. We had not seen one single dolphin on our leg out to sea. Now, as we turned for the US, as if supporting our decision, they accompanied us and played in our wake. Suddenly, I saw a smaller fish leap out of the water in front of the dolphins. It twisted spastically and flopped back into the water. It was then I realized I was watching the playful, awkward antics of a baby dolphin. A smile creased my face for the first time in 4 days, and I felt for the first time that everything was going to be ok. As we sped downwind, the waves diminished greatly, the wind slowed down and sun came back out. It was an unexpectedly pleasant day. We both slept heavily as exhaustion had finally taken over.
Day 5
Sunshine. Temps in the 60’s. Southeast winds 10 knots, gentle swells.
I was on watch when the sun rose. Spotty clouds dotted the horizon and the sun’s rays burst through the holes in powerful beams. It reminded me of a science fiction movie where a giant spaceship was descending upon the Earth. The weather was gorgeous. We crossed the Gulf Stream in the most pleasant conditions possible. All the sails were up and we were making 8 to 9 knots on a downwind course. While we knew we had a lot of work to do repairing the damage to our bow and we had a lot of equipment to replace, there was a feeling of optimism beginning to grow. We had endured some very rough conditions and I realized we had not eaten for almost 3 days. The seas were too rough to even think about food. So much for all my careful provisioning…
We were due to arrive in Southport, NC around one in the morning. We would have to navigate into a harbor, then down a river and find an anchorage in the dark. It seemed a small task after what we had endured.
We took the sails down around dusk so we wouldn’t have to take them down in the dark. A pod of dolphins surrounded us once again, and we laughed as one of them repeatedly jumped across our bow so high in the air, we could see him over the bow. We named him Speedy. What a clown!
I slept as Dan took us into the harbor and he woke me after entering the river and we were nearing Southport. It was 12:30 when we arrived at the Fishy Café, a free dock for the night. We eased into the dock and made ourselves a dark and stormy to toast to what had indeed been a dark and stormy passage.
Current Status: Moved to a marina in Southport. Making repairs and planning to head down the coast to Florida. We will wait for a good weather window and then cross to the Bahamas. Many lessons learned from our journey which we will use to make ourselves stronger, smarter, and hopefully more prepared for our next crossing. We will send out Spot messages again when we are underway. BVI was not in the cards for us which means there must be some great adventures waiting for us in the Bahamas!