We leave before lunch on the morning of May 13. The sun is bright, the water blue, the wind blowing warm and steady from the southeast. I can feel the butterflies, as we motor from the slip at Independent up the narrow channel to open water. But GYPSY is rock solid. A penned thoroughbred, set loose on her pasture. We round the point, raise the mizzen sail and genoa, and shut down the motor. GYPSY leans into the first gust and plunges headlong into a breaking wave. We’re off.
It is an exhilarating, at times terrifying experience, sailing a 37-foot yacht alone. The boat is a sophisticated, powerful tool. She was designed to sail the waters of the world, and in the right hands, she will perform that task flawlessly. But I’m still determining how she works—and there is no user’s manual. I learn through experience, and though she’s a forgiving teacher, we’ve had some adrenaline-inducing episodes.
My objective was to sail around St. John, a less-visited neighbor of St. Thomas. My documentation for GYPSY has taken longer than expected, and instead of waiting around until I can clear foreign waters, I thought I’d take a four-day shakedown cruise and escape the heat and monotony of the boat yard. I also realized it’s preferable to pinpoint any undiscovered problems with GYPSY now, with assistance close at hand, rather than fifty miles from nowhere.
On our voyage we do reveal some issues with GYPSY, but it turns out to be as much a test of my capabilities as hers. Our first day, we ride a 15-knot wind across Pillsbury Sound and along the southern coast of St. John. Aside from an inability to unfurl her main sail (a problem I was already advised would require some patience) we anchor at Lameshur Bay, a secluded cove ringed by steep hills, without incident. Pleased with my accomplishment, I take a long snorkel around the cove, and spend the evening pouring over the user manuals for the various boat electronics. Scintillating reading.
The next morning, the wind looks to have picked up a bit. I’ve sorted out the problems with the furling main sail, and set off after breakfast determined to challenge the crisp breeze with all four sails raised. I manage to set and trim the sails, and then settle back to admire the speed and power with which we’re slicing through the three-foot waves, heeled over about 25 degrees. According to GYPSY’s speed indicator, we’re doing better than seven knots.
As we get further from land the wind increases, and GYPSY heels over more. It’s exciting, though I do start to speculate just how far she can go. The wind increases, and GYPSY heels even further—water spilling over the lee side and gushing along the deck. For an instant I panic: “Are we going over?” but she holds course, and seems fine with our precarious angle. And then it dawns on me, we’re doing what racing sailors live for, we’re “dipping our rail.”
The four-day sail around St. John is marked by a number of similar revelations. It is a steep learning curve to go from single-handing 12-foot scows on lakes to sailing GYPSY on the ocean. It requires constant attention--to the wind, to the sails, to the charts and electronics. When everything is going well, it is pure bliss. When things aren’t going well, it can be extremely stressful. As one celebrated solo circumnavigator put it, when you sail alone, “you live in constant fear.”
I am up when the sun comes up (it gets too hot in the cabin to sleep into the morning), and I spend my day keeping GYPSY out of harm’s way as we confront buffeting winds and unfamiliar coastline. When we lay anchor, I work on her. Fixing leaks, re-assembling pumps, scrubbing decks. Then I prepare myself elaborate meals, read for a while, and tumble into my bunk, thoroughly exhausted.
But there is a strange attraction to this lifestyle. Sure, I’m worn out and emotionally drained, but I’m happy. Finally I’ve seen the rewards of all my work and sweat, and I understand the rush that makes ocean sailing so addictive.
Before I spend any more time describing the sensation of single-handed sailing, I should spend some time explaining the logistics. While I’m certainly challenged sailing GYPSY, my effort has been simplified by technology and years of accrued experience. You see, people haven’t been sailing the waters of the world alone for long. It was only at the beginning of this century that the first person sailed alone around the world, and he was an aberration. It wasn’t as if people had been trying for years to accomplish the feat--like summiting Everest or reaching the South Pole—- no one crossed oceans alone. Not that it wasn’t safe or practical (which it wasn’t), it was simply impossible. The man who finally did it, who circumnavigated alone, was Joshua Slocum.
There were ample reasons to discourage him from single-handing, but the most obvious was that there was no such thing as an autopilot. On Gypsy, I have a little box mounted to the helm, and when I’m going the direction I’d want, I push a button and GYPSY holds that course--indefinitely. That means I can go fix a sandwich, untangle a line, or, eventually, take a nap, and when I return we’ll still be heading towards our destination. If I’ve chosen my course well, we’ll also be clear of “fixed” dangers, like continents, or jagged rocks.
The problem pre-Slocum is that sailboats don’t tend to want to stick to a course without constant adjustment by someone at the rudder. Without the tinkering, they tend to sail in circles. The breakthrough for Slocum was that his boat, ‘Spray,’ held true to course. Slocum would tie the helm, and Spray would hold her position relative to the wind. Why this was possible was based on the boat’s design, but that design was serendipitous. Slocum built the boat himself, from hand-hewn logs, and he never understood why she sailed true. But when he realized that she did, he hatched his plans to circle the globe alone.
In contrast to Slocum’s adventure, single-handing GYPSY is actually not that difficult. Aside from the basic necessity of autopilot, she has furling jib and mail sail (‘furling’ means the sails roll onto a spindle controlled by lines). In principle, this means that I don’t need to leave the cockpit to raise or reef the sail. (‘Reefing’ means lowering and lashing the sail as winds increase, so she can handle the increasing force.) When I reef my sails, I crank a handle. When Slocum reefed his sails, he climbed out on deck, untangled lines, and adjusted the sail by hand. This could get messy in a brewing hurricane. [For those of you interested in reading more about Slocum’s circumnavigation, I recommend his excellent, autobiographical, Sailing Alone Around the World.]
I’ve also got an engine, which makes maneuvering in tight quarters and making headway with no wind possible. And I’ve got a depth sounder. I know exactly how much water I have under me as I navigate unfamiliar territory. I’ve got detailed charts, to keep me apprised of places I could run aground. I’ve got a GPS, which tells me my exact coordinates anywhere on the planet, within twenty yards. I’ve got means of communication—VHF and sideband radios that allow me to hail other boats or contact the coast guard. I’ve got a life raft, EPIRB (which sends a satellite distress signal when activated), and survival pack should things get really dire. And I have many of the luxuries of home—propane stove, toilet, sinks with hot water, a refrigerator, air conditioning. As a friend put it, GYPSY is a floating RV.
We returned to St. Thomas today, and I’m back at the boat yard, sorting through some mission critical problems that cropped up during our trip. The autopilot isn’t holding course, the furling jib is stuck, the windlass (the winch for the anchor) barely turns under load. But I’ve tasted life on the outside, and know now what I’m working towards. As the wind ruffles the flags in my rigging, I remember the thrill of riding GYPSY through blustery seas. I think back to the excitement of dipping her rail, all four sails taut with the wind, and can’t wait to do it again.
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May 16 - Maiden Voyage
