Trip North

I'm leaving tomorrow to fly up to Albany for John Undrill's retirement party. I'll get to visit my son and his family in Rome, NY and on Saturday Jennifer is coming down from Vermont to see me. We'll also visit my sister Marilyn.

Sorry, dear blog readers, I'm not going to take my computer with me. Probably no new blogs until next week.

Anchor Track

The other night we had a little excitement. A cold front passed through arount 2100. Libby and I were on the forward deck watching a movie on the laptop when thunder and lightning started suddenly. We scrambled to go below as a very fast moving wall cloud approached.

In the next half hour or so we got blown around pretty good. You can see on the picture from our GPS. The purple line on the GPS is the locus (track, bread crumb trail) of our motions during the storm. The locus is a circle with a radius of 100 feet. The center is where our main anchor sits. We have 80 feet of chain out. Why is the radius 100 feet rather than 80 feet? That's an exercise for the reader.

The little anchor symbol is the reference point for our anchor dragging alarm. In theory, it should be at the center of the circle and the alarm should go off if we move more than 100 feet or so from the center. In practice it's hard to get the alarm centered correctly and I allow 300 feet before alarming. Another exercise for the reader. Why 300 feet rather than 100 or 150?

We also have a second anchor out. Since we went around in circles, the two anchor rodes are now twisted around each other.

Another boat reported seeing two waterspouts over the harbor as the wall cloud passes. Wow! That's scary.

Salt

So the sea is salty. So what? Everyone knows that. I knew that too but until living on a small boat at sea I never appreciated the pervasiveness of the salt and how it affects one's life.

Upon return from Yucatan, Tarwathie's topsides were encrusted with salt. There must be nearly a kilo of salt crystals clinging to the fiberglass.

The canvas is encrusted with salt.

The portholes and hatch covers are barely transparent, being covered by a white film of salt.

Moving parts with tight tolerances jamb with salt. The button that controls engagement of the transmission is stuck. The burner knobs on the propane stove are stuck. Those knobs turn shafts that pass through bushings. The salt must crystalize in the small space between the shaft and the bushing. Imagine our West Charlton fire trucks if we tried to use them with salt water. In a short time every valve, every control lever would be firmly stuck. The design would have to be much different. I wonder how the design of fire boat equipment and controls differs from fresh water equipment.

Our clothes are saturated with salt. Some of them got soaked in salt water, but even the clothes still in the closets and the drawers somehow pick up salt from the air. Since salt is hydrophilic, wearing salt saturated clothes makes one feel damp all the time. The sale absorbs moisture from the air. The cruising books warned us about that but it is still hard to comprehend. One book suggests washing clothes in salt water then hanging them up high like a flag to dry in a stiff wind. The flapping in the wind is supposed to shake out the salt crystals from the fabric.

I better appreciate the fate of seamen, especially those from the 19th century and earlier. With their rough canvas clothes and all that salt it must have been truly uncomfortable.

All the above applied until last night. Last night we had the first rain we've seen since mid December. It was a good soaking and it washed away all the exterior salt. Fresh water is very welcome. Today however, Libby wiped her finger on the interior wood paneling and came away with, you guessed it, salt crystals.

The Net

Here is a story that the West Charlton firemen would like to tell about me at the firemen's annual banquet.

We approached the northern shore of Yucatan about 0700 after a very hard 36 hours at sea battling the wind and the currents. We came in at the nearest place on the coast that it appeared that we could approach the shore without fear of hitting offshore reefs or shoals. That turned out to be 60 miles past the northeast corner of Yucatan.

According to my maps there is nothing there. The north shore of Yucatan is essentially unpopulated for 500 miles. I wasn't expecting to encounter anything or anybody.

I decided to anchor in 15 feet of water. That would leave us about three miles out. As we approached 20 feet of depth I breathed a sigh of relief. Soon I would be able to sleep. I was slouched low in my seat to leward on the port side. That made the whole starboard side a blind spot.

I saw a styrofoam buoy in the water to port. It had a flag waving from the top. "Duh, what could that be?" I thought. My course took me close to the buoy and soon I was worried about underwater obstacles. I stood up to see more clearly. To my amazement when I stood I could see a fisherman in a small boat scrambling to pull up a fishing net and to not be run over by Tarwathie. I missed him by only 6 feet. As I looked back I could see the net draped over his boat and over the propeller of his raised outboard motor. He was yelling at me and shaking his fist.

A few minutes later we were in 15 feet of water and anchored. I could see the fisherman speeding directly toward me. Uh Oh, I thought. He'll be mad.

Sure enough he was mad. The man had a very weathered but kind face. He was angry but he didn't raise his voice. My tongue lashing was blunted by the fact that I couldn't understand what he said. I had only a little Spanish from high school. I only know a few dozen words. "Dos cervezas por favor," is an easy phrase for Americans but it wasn't very helpful in this situation. One word I did know was dinero so I said dinero? and he shook his head yes.

Now here is the part where I must admit to being totally inept at haggling. I gave him a $100 bill. The fishermen set off on another tirade. I didn't understand his words, but I eventually understood his meaning. "Only $100 for all of this net? Not enough." I tried to negotiate with him by my Spanish was too poor. I went below and fetch a paper and pencil, hoping to get him to write down what he wanted. He refused, but he did slow down enough for me to catch two key words - dos cien. Ouch! He wanted $200. I thought that was too much but I was too tired and feeling too disadvantaged to argue. Libby managed to scrape up another $100 in small bills. I paid the man and he was satisfied.

Before casting off, the fisherman looked me in the eye and gestured. He pointed to his left eye and then to his right eye. The meaning was plain as day -- "Next time keep a sharp eye out for where you're going." Si, I answered, si.

Did I get taken? I don't know for a fact how much damage I caused, if any at all. I don't know how much of his time it would take to repair the net. I wonder if I had offered $20 initially if I could have gotten away with paying less. All I know is that I was in the wrong, and that the fisherman eventually left satisfied and that with no more ado I was able to go below and get some sleep. Was I a fool? I don't know. What would you have done?

Our Life at Sea

Many famous authors can give you wonderful accounts of life at sea. One of my favorite is the classic, "Two Years Before the Mast." This blog however tells about how Libby and I experienced it.

Several times before, I wrote about exhaustion from lack of sleep. This time we were out long enough to adapt our sleep to what seemed to be a sustainable schedule. The secret was that Libby is less tolerant than Dick of not having an uninterrupted block of sleep at night. Here's our watch schedule.

0000
-----Dick
0700
-----Libby
1100
-----Dick
1400
-----Libby
1600
-----Dick
2000
-----Libby

0000

After a few days at sea I felt lonely. I realized that our two person schedule didn't allow for much togetherness. Each of us was either on watch or eating or trying to sleep. Libby and I barely got to say hello to each other as part of the situation briefing when changing watch. In retrospect I also understand that the watch schedule didn't allow me time to think through command decisions. There were two or three things I might have done differently en route that would have gotten us to Isla Mujeres or to Belize despite the weather. The point is that to make good decisions requires some time to focus on the problem and to investigate alternatives. The two person schedule doesn't leave time for that.

What can one do about the two person problem? What do single handed sailors do? One solution is to not keep watch. The boat can steer itself and the crew can stay below decks. I reject that as irresponsible in any part of the world where we may meet ship traffic. Twice on this voyage we had to alter course or speed to avoid coming dangerously close to a ship. The ships will gladly run us over. It is up to us to keep out of their way.

The other solution is to have more than two people. Libby and I talked before about getting a third crew member for long passages. Our recent experience confirms the wisdom of that. On the other hand we're reluctant to take the risk with a stranger. If we don't get along with the third person it could be a terrible experience. We're also reluctant to commit ourselves to dates and places far enough in advance to arrange for crew. We'll have to overcome our reluctance in the future; that third person is needed.

To understand our life at sea it is essential to know that things are totally different when the wind is abeam or astern than when it is forward. With a following wind and following seas boat motion is gentle and quiet. The crew can relax, and take time to cook meals or to read a book. That is why 90% of long ocean passages are planned to take routes with following winds 90% of the time.

Sailing into the wind and into the waves makes everything different. The boat is heeled over 20 to 30 degrees all the time. Boat motion is violent. One needs to hold on tightly and brace oneself every moment, especially down below. At the end of a watch, it felt that every muscle in my body was sore and aching from overuse. Only when lying in a leeward bunk can one relax the muscles. Once, poor Libby didn't hang on and she was thrown across the cabin and landed on the stove. The blow to her kidneys hurt her badly. Luckily there were no major injury.

We often hear other cruisers talking lovingly about their boats. One of the prized qualities of a cruising boat is a dry cockpit. Alas, Tarwathie has many wonderful qualities but not that one. As we sailed into the wind in the Yucatan Channel against 28 knots winds and 7-11 foot waves we were heeled 30 degrees. At that angle of heel, our rail is under the water most of the time. Worse, about every 5th wave comes over the rail and carries a flood of water all the way back to the cockpit where you're sitting. Every 30th wave slaps hard on the windward flank sending a huge shower of spray 20 feet into the air to rain down on anyone above deck. Several times per day the winds change enough so that I had to change headsails. That means going up to the bowsprit to raise, lower or to secure a sail. On the bowsprit I get dunked water up to my waist about once every 30 seconds.

As a result of all that, we were wet most of the time when sailing to windward. I developed a bad salt rash on my backside as a result of sitting too long in saltwater soaked underwear. When sitting on a rocking boat that rubbed the sore part and irritated it even more. Poor Libby changed clothes so often that she ran out of clothes after only 48 hours of windward sailing. Part of the solution is to wear foul weather jackets, pants and boots more often. That protects your clothes from salt water. However, since we don't have the expensive Gore Tex type of gear, our suits don't breath and we get soaked in sweat instead. Don't think cold and wet, we were warm and wet.

We also experienced some leaks, although not so bad as when we sailed near Cape Fear. The leaking water ruined all of our supply of pasta. Horrors, not the pasta! This week in Marathon, I'm recaulking all the stanchion bolts. I believe that's where water comes in when the rail is held underwater.

A small disaster was caused by storing oatmeal on the shelf in a cardboard container. In the rough weather the glass bottles and jars on the shelf were shaken together with the cardboard one and they battered the cardboard container out of shape until the cover came off. When I opened the shelf door I saw everything inside covered in wet oatmeal. We postponed cleaning up the mess several days until things got more gentle, but by that time the oatmeal had mildewed, making the clean-up even tougher. Food on the boat needs to be stored in rugged waterproof containers, and food accidents need to be cleaned up immediately no matter what the weather.

From now on I will appreciate it better when I hear others talking about dry cockpits.

Of course we've yet to experience a true storm while at sea; something with winds of 50 knots or more. In that case, we heave-to the boat and both of us go below decks. The person on watch maintains the lookout for ships using the radar. World cruisers report that they experience storm conditions less than 2% of their time at sea which is 0.4% of their time onboard the boat.

Horrified? Don't be. Just remember that 90% of the words go to describe the heavy weather conditions that we experience only 10% of the time at sea and only 2% of the time living onboard the boat.