To begin with, I need to clarify something. I’ve had several people ask why, in my reports, I use the first person plural. “Who is ‘we’?” they wonder. “It sounds like you’re traveling alone?” But the answer is no, I’m not alone. At least not at sea. When I’m sailing, there is always Gypsy. And given the role she plays in getting me safely from one point to the next, it doesn’t seem fair to remove her from the discourse.
She’s a good companion, and a good listener, but there are some things she just can’t do. Like the time in Great Harbor, Jost Van Dyke (the British Virgin’s) when my windlass (anchor winch) decided to call it quits one morning in a bay packed full of vessels for the wooden boat regatta. I had to pull the damn anchor and 200 feet of chain by hand, in a brisk wind, and I wanted to shout “Gypsy, could you just ease forward so I don’t have to pull your whole bloody weight as well!” Like I said, she’s a good listener, but not always super responsive.
There was also the passage we just finished from the British Virgin Islands to St. Martin. It’s one the longest non-stop sails we’ll make between here and Venezuela. But I made the same trip four weeks ago, so I knew what to expect. It had taken about 16 hours then, on a bigger boat with perfect conditions. I figured I’d just wait for the right weather window and cruise on over. I’d been holed up in St. Thomas for ten days after our maiden voyage, ordering and installing a new autopilot, and I was anxious to get a move on. So after a few brief stops in the British Virgins, I heard a favorable forecast and decided to make a run for it.
The trip starts innocently enough. We leave Virgin Gorda (named the “Fat Virgin” by Columbus himself, who thought it looked like an obese woman on her back) at four in the afternoon with a fresh breeze and a few wispy clouds in the sky. The objective is to leave before dark, sail all night, and arrive mid-day, when you can navigate the harbor. And sail is the operative word. We’ve got an engine, or course, and make good time motoring, but cruising purists scoff at motoring unless absolutely necessary. With conditions looking good I was determined to sail the entire distance.
St. Martin is almost directly upwind, so I need to beat my way over (beating means you sail as close to the wind as possible, tacking back and forth to make progress). I trim the sails, set our course on the auto pilot, and sit back to watch the miles tick off on the GPS. The sun sets spectacularly behind the Virgins, a half moon rises ahead, the sea rocks us with a tranquil two to three foot swell, and the wind propels us at a steady six knots. Things couldn’t be better as dusk turns to darkness.
At about one in the morning things take a turn for the worse. Dark clouds loom to the east, and all at once the wind picks up and the seas start to build. Gypsy heels over, so I point into the wind and reef the jib (roll in some sail). The winds increase, so I reef the jib again, and then I reef the main sail. We’re being tossed about like a leaf in a wind storm, and the effects of exhaustion and hunger start to take their toll. I’ve been up since six in the morning (I tried to nap in the afternoon, but couldn’t sleep), and haven’t eaten since a light lunch. I suddenly feel ravenous, but I don’t want to leave the cockpit given the conditions. The words from that Gordon Lightfoot song ring in my head, “At seven a.m. the old captain came in, saying fellas it’s too rough to feed you.” So I resign myself to a granola bar and jug of water, and hunker down to wait out the blow.
What I’m confronting is yet another lesson in the challenges of single-handed sailing. Sure, Gypsy is doing an admirable job holding course and handling the weather. But without another person, I’m nervous about leaving the helm or going forward on deck. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt as alone as I do at 2:30 in the morning, teetering on the bow of Gypsy trying to untangle the jib from the forestays. The wind whistles through the rigging, the sails flap in distress, waves spill across the deck, the nearest land is 40 miles away, and my flashlight stops working. It is a low point on our passage, and when I get back to the cockpit I decide purists be damned, I’m going to motor until the weather eases or the sun comes up—preferably both. I fire up the engine, furl the jib, lower the mizzen sail, reef the main even further, and set off on a slow bumpy course towards St. Martin.
We’re heading directly into the wind, and whereas before we were slicing across the waves, now we’re pounding directly through them. Every ten minutes or so we take a particularly big one over the bow, water cascading down the deck and past the cockpit. Gypsy is tossed fore and aft, her bottom slamming down against the water as we tumble our way forward. I can also see waves, BIG waves, breaking around us in the moonlight. At about four a.m. one catches us broadside and plows across the cockpit, drenching me and depositing a good foot of water on the floor. (When it gets light I also discover a flying fish, dead at my feet, its fins extended as if in mid-flight.)
I leave the steering to the autopilot and try to relax. I lay down a number of times, intending to nap, but I’m confronted by a collage of troubling visions, synchronized to the crash of the waves and tingle of spray on my face. Sleep is impossible (by the time I finally settle into my bunk in St. Martin, anchored, showered and fed the following evening, I have been awake almost 40 hours).
I have a newfound respect for the sailors of the Vendee Globe, the single-handed nonstop race around the world that culminates in France every spring. Not that I wasn’t already awestruck by the stamina and endurance the sailors exhibit, but I have a much better understanding what it takes to sail day and night, not to mention race, pushing a boat to its limits for a hundred days through the most notorious seas in the world.
This year’s Vendee was particularly riveting, pitting the celebrated French sailor Michel Desjoyeaux, against 24-year-old Brit Ellen MacArthur, a virtual newcomer to the sport. In the final leg of the race, across the Atlantic, the two traded the lead several times, and it was only when MacArthur hit a submerged shipping container and destroyed her port daggerboard that Desjoyeaux secured the lead. They both shattered the previous solo circumnavigation record by over 11 days, and Ellen set a slew of other records, including youngest to ever complete the Vendee, first woman to finish in the top three, as well as fastest woman and fastest British solo circumnavigation.
Aboard Gypsy, things get better as dawn approaches. At 4:30 the sky starts to lighten, and I can discern the surrounding water. At 5:30 the sun pokes over the horizon, and minutes later a pod of six porpoises appear along side and accompany us for a stretch. I take it as a good omen. At 7:30 I hoist the sails again, shut off the engine, and set sail across the wind—a much less bumpy ride. I’m more than half way to St. Martin, and rest of the trip doesn’t seem so daunting.
What is sobering about the experience is that the weather I encountered was nothing extraordinary. In fact, it’s what some would describe as ideal passage-making conditions. I tuned into Caribbean Weather Net, the regional report broadcast daily on the sideband radio at 8:30 a.m., and the forecast for my area remained virtually unchanged—steady 15 knot winds southeast, seas four to six feet. I have trouble believing that the waves breaking over me in the cockpit didn’t exceed six feet, or that some gusts weren’t well over 15 knots, but the truth is that once the sun came out and I could trim the sails properly we had a pleasant, if not boisterous, cruise. It was at night, in our first good blow, with a potent combination of wind, waves, and my active imagination that things seemed particularly bleak.
All of this is to say that ‘we’ are doing fine, Gypsy and I, after our passage. A little battered, a little broken, but nothing a few days rest and some repairs won’t cure. Slowly, sometimes painfully, I’m learning the ropes of singlehanding—though more through necessity than preference. What I wouldn’t give for an able bodied companion who could share deck duties and marvel at the precision of a flying fish. If you hear of anyone who fits that description, send him or her my way.
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June 1 - Alone
