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| A pirate looks at 40 with the Orca flag flying from the backstay. |
PART 2, THE BIG OCEAN
This is a tale journaling the voyage of the sailing vessel Midnight Sun, a Nordic 44, departing Valdez, Alaska, bound for Honolulu Hawaii in 1982 with base crew of five.This part begins after a trip through the Inside Passage and nine days spent ashore in Puget Sound.
Sailing Day 21, September 29: As we depart Bellingham, it's time to introduce the crew, those five who sailed to Hawaii. The captain was Vince, who came to be called Captain Invincible as the syntax of the voyage expanded; next, me, licensed skipper and recently published author; then there were three Mikes: Mike R, the most creative mechanic I ever encountered; Mike K, a vegetarian; and Mike L, a lawyer and friend of the owner.
We tootled through the San Juan Islands to Reid Harbor. Nice day, going to Port Townsend to outfit for the crossing. Just about citied out and slowly easing back into boat life again.
Sailing Day 22, October 3: Ready to leave Port Townsend in the morning. Highlight of the stay was the tour of Neil Young's replica old-time, square-rigged sailing ship the W.N. Ragland. As could be expected, amazing sound system on board. In the evening standing in the cockpit looking down the deck of the boat and everything seems ready and anxious to go. Harbor water lay calm with no wind yet the boat seemed to move, as if surging against its mooring lines demanding its release from land. Even the halyards and other lines going aloft seemed to move in nervous anticipation of the voyage to come. Time to go.
Day 24, October 4: Finally under way for Port Angeles with the open ocean tomorrow. Boat lunged against its mooring lines again this morning and seemed to leap forward as we released them so we could leave. We made Port Angeles, but left about 14:00 even though it didn't look like we could make it out of the Strait of Juan de Fuca this day. Forecast called for winds of 25-35 knots, but lessening the next day into that evening. Made a last phone call before I would be out of contact for who knows how long. Call resulted in a disagreement with a woman I had been seeing, which was less than thrilling on the eve of what I looked forward to beginning one of the great adventures of my life. So it goes.
A brilliant red moonrise over Juan De Fuca as we ran in the dark to Neah Bay. Ate another turkey along the way. Out.
Day 25, October 5: Ready to go but waiting weather. Gale warnings for waters 60-200 miles offshore the coast of Washington. Small craft warnings for up to 60 miles offshore. Gale and storm warnings farther north, all southwesterlies which would be right on the head for our planned course. Good day to wait, several chores to do yet.
Day 26, October 6: Waiting out weather for most of the day, then took on fuel and left about 16:34. Spirits up, heading to sea. The storm was subsiding but there was still a pretty good lump. I had the helm. Turned corner to the west outside Neah Bay and set sail for Hawaii. Waves 8-11 feet going into them on a close reach. Passed Cape Flattery on a course of 270 heading west. Took gusts in the 20s and some higher, one of 34. Had some difficulty holding the helm especially when a wave would head us. Leaning over the side with the boat healed over we saw the base of the keel a time of two. Took water on deck occasionally when the bow dipped despite only using the working jib. Going straight into the squall but could see light on the horizon beyond it. Vince said come up so I brought us closer on the wind to slow us and steady us a little. Wind started shifting to the north. Came too close to it at one point and stalled. The jib backed and had to turn off until the sails filled and gave us some way so we could come about and return to our original course. Still having difficulty holding the helm. Then Mike R called out we had broken the starboard top shroud (a stay that supports the mast) and it was swinging wildly. In a guttural voice, Mike says, "We go home now." So, lessening sail to ease the strain on the mast we turned and returned to Neah Bay.
Day 27, October 7: Captain Vince was able to contact the ship yard by phone and they said they could ship a new shroud to Port Angeles for arrival the next day, so we spent the rest of the day sailing there.
Day 28, October 8: The shroud arrived early and Mike R went up the mast to remove the remnants of the old one and attach the new one. We sailed out of Port Angeles at 12:57. That fix had to be some kind of record.
Trip Log start: Loran C: 1592.6/3622.6 (This was before GPS)
Engine hours: 841.97
Barometer: 1025 rising
Weather forecast: East winds to 30k in Juan de Fuca; wind 15-25 SE. Seas 10-12, lessening overnight.
Depart 1300. I had the watch from 2000 to midnight and then 0400- 0800 on the 9th. Good sailing overnight and made 140 NM from Cape Flattery in 22 hours heading south toward Cape Mendocino 200 miles north of San Francisco.
Day 29, October 9: In the watch scheme I had the next 24 hours free. The way Captain Vince had worked out the watch schedule we had two six-hour watches during the day and three four-hour watches overnight that gave each of us a full 24 hours off every three or four days. Mine just happened to come up first. I took advantage to make my first miserable attempt at fixing our position with a sun sight. Got over the queasies I usually feel the first few hours offshore and then read and slept most of the day.
Day 30, October 10: Sea perfect. Ran wing and wing heading south. (Wing and wing refers to running before the wind with two headsails run up the forestay with one tacking on each side of the boat.) Making six knots with the boat on even keel and thinking this is what it is supposed to be like.
Days 31-32, October 11 and 12: One full day at sea. At midnight on the 10th our watch ended but we had wrapped the light-air genoa around the forestay and when the others came up we tried to bring it down but it was knotted and wouldn’t come down easily. The orange part had been ballooned by wind and kept everything else tight. We changed course to shield it with the main and planned to run the rest of the night like that. Mike R and I went to bed but before we could fall asleep all hands called on deck. Shielded from the wind the genoa had started unfurling and fearing the forestay might come loose as the balloon got bigger and put more strain on it we tried taking it down again. We ran the engine until the boat matched the speed of the wind. That took pressure off the sail and we started unwinding and yanking. It took about half an hour but the sail finally came down and we could release it from the forestay. For the time being it was packed away in the forepeak and Mike R and I went back to our berths.
Up at 0400 on the 11th and back at the wheel, but feeling good. The moon was in its last quarter and stars shown all around us. I recalled a dog musher once describing the sky away from any artificial lighting and saying "you get an idea what millions means." That's the kind of sky this night, Milky Way and all. This was also the beginning of my lesson on how the stars seem to move as the earth rotates. That night we watched Orion rise and the Big Dipper tip as the Pleiades rose over the top of the mast. All of them seeming to move to the west. It hit me that those of us who aren't up and outside all night tend to see stars in the same place night after night. But if you are there through the hours of darkness you see they rise and fall just as the sun does.
The sky began brightening in the east and as the day came we saw three or four sharks cruising down the waves behind us. Put a line out and tried to catch one but nada. Then we saw just the top of the sun coming over the horizon to the east and Mike got the stereo so we could listen to Jimmy Buffet's "mother mother ocean" in the peace of the sunrise as it lifted red and popped out of the water — we were out of sight of the land to the east.
Tried to sleep for my six hours off but the sea kept bouncing the boat around and it didn't help much when I jammed myself into the forward companionway with some seat cushions.
From 1400 Mike R and I took the helm and had ourselves a grand time on the big waves, sometimes surfing while shouting and laughing while everyone sat below wondering what kind of crazies had taken over the boat. A high pressure ridge gave us winds to 30 knots, 10-15-foot following seas and we flew, maybe 9 knots at times. I cooked a pot roast while we were going. We finished our watch and sat down to eat on top of those rolling seas. Captain Vince's beer flew off the table first followed shortly by my bowl of pot roast. About 1600 we hooked a big albacore, hauled it in and cleaned it — the decks ran red with blood.
After cleaning the cabin sole picking up the spills, we heard this loud crash on deck and Mike L screamed "JIBE." He'd jibed the main and ripped out the elastic housing on the preventer. The boom had fouled in the running backstay and we all climbed back out on deck again. Captain Vince took the wheel while we attended to the rigging, but he jibed twice in quick succession. In all the slamming and and smashing on the pitching and rolling wet deck we finally got the main down, losing a baton in the process, got the boom controlled and tied off, ran up the storm jib and ran like that through the rest of the day.
Mike R and I came up to the watch at midnight on the 12th to waves and big wind and started laughing and having fun again. But we had reached a point where we were so comfortable with each other we could have long periods without speaking as well. Another addition to the lexicon: "It's quiet out there. Yeah, too quiet." Gave up the helm at 0400 but back again at 0800 for another six hours. As we had altered course more toward the west, we took the wind on the beam which sent short choppy waves slapping against the hull. I explained my theory of snicky waves developed on a previous voyage, where you hear then coming, the tops frothy and making a snick, snick sound as they approach. Then they splash against the hull and if they hit it just right on the forward quarter they send water across the deck and into the cockpit. We took to practicing and learning how to make that happen.
When I took the wheel for the last part of the watch, Mike R stretched out on a sail bag across the stern. Mike L came up from below and stood in the companionway. He had an irritating habit of always asking what time it was when he first came up. We took to telling him the minute we saw him before he could ask. As he stood there I altered course just enough to catch the next snicky wave which came up over the foredeck and doused him. He ducked below sputtering. He stuck his head up to complain when I hit the second one and it splashed him again, but this one curled and almost seemed to stop like those waves in cartoons that hesitate for a second before crashing. This one seemed to hang over Mike R where he laid across that bench and then it unloaded on him and he came up spitting and soaked and laughing. Mike L accused us of being maniacs and ducked below again. While we got to laughing so hard I was in tears and I got salt in my eyes and couldn't see from it all through that and the laughter and the boat went out of control screaming down the face of a wave. I barely managed to catch it in time and steer off the descent. When we went off watch our stomachs hurt from laughing so much. I had trouble sleeping and just dozed off and on until 1900 when I was supposed to cook dinner. I didn't really feel like it but I prepared the albacore and a couple of side dishes. The cabin had been closed up all day and it was stuffy even before I started cooking. (You might have wondered why I mentioned Mike K was a vegetarian earlier. Here's why.) While I was standing over the stove Mike K decided he wanted to have rice and sautéed onions for dinner and he put a pan of onions and butter on the stove right under my nose. The first full breath I took when those odors rose just about killed me. I stumbled up onto the deck surprising the captain who screamed What!!! All I said was "onions." After a couple of deep clear breaths I took another deep one and ducked below, grabbed that frying pan and took it out meaning to throw the onions overboard but the handle slipped and I threw the pan with them. Behind us an albatross landed on the water and picked up a stringy piece of onion, shook his head and flung it away, then took off in search of better quarry. I spent the next watch attempting to quiet my uneasy stomach and the one after that dopey and sleepy.
Day 33, October 13: My 40th birthday. Somewhere west of Cape Mendocino. I came off watch at 0800 leaving an overcast sky, calm sea of water a slate-blue gray color and no wind. Slept an hour and a half, ate a ham sandwich and a bowl of cereal and went back to sleep. I came up again just after noon to find the cabin filled with balloons. Also they'd put out a 12-pack of Olympia beer, a jug of tomato juice (I drank red beer for a while in those days.) and my favorite mug Mike K had glued back together after it had crashed to the deck one day. On top of that I was told I had the next 24 hours off to enjoy my birthday. Turned out they had champagne on ice and a prime rib ready for the oven. Mother, mother ocean!
But it wasn't over yet. We were motoring on a calm sea, with a slight southeasterly breeze and a long northerly swell. Overcast sky with spots of cumulus mixed in. Bright spots where the sun shined through. Popped the champagne cork about 1930 and Captain Vince produced a wine glass from Key Largo (a pet name for our favorite Valdez bar. Long story for another time.) A sailing tradition I had never heard of, he said it was to be drunk from once then tossed overboard, dedicated to the deep. I raised the glass and said "May you all be as happy at 40 as I am," took a drink and tossed it. The glass landed perfectly with a loud "plock." We passed the bottle around and finished it in about 10 minutes. Then we gave Otto the helm (ottopilot, say it aloud and you will understand) and went below for a birthday dinner of prime rib, Yorkshire pudding and baked potatoes, a salad and gravy. Drinking beer and laughing a lot. I recall thinking it doesn't get any better than this: here I was sailing on a boat on the big ocean, I was a legitimate boat captain in my own right, and I had my first published book under my arm. (That left only one dream to go and today I am sitting writing this in the cabin I built myself in the Alaska woods.) Stayed out drinking beer and listening to music until I crashed around 2300. Slept until 0300, stood the last hour of my watch and crawled off to sleep another four hours.
Day 34, October 14: Up at 0800 on watch. Finally have the sails up and making more than 6 knots on a course straight for Hawaii. Approximately 37 degrees north latitude and 350 miles offshore.
Day 35, October 15: Watched the sun rise and the moon set, the latter just a shining sliver but in this light the whole moon was visible. I had tried a sun sight with the sextant the day before and planned to try for local noon today. By the time I had the sextant adjusted local noon had passed. We ran most of the afternoon on calm water and light airs with Otto driving, the rest of us reading or listening to music. Mike R caught a yellowfin tuna on his plug. By this time we had 20 to 30 pounds of tuna on board. Had a Vince-made tuna casserole for dinner.
Shared the 2000 to midnight watch with Captain Vince and we mostly discussed how ocean sailing is a good metaphor for life in general. I had realized something different though. We'd been out of sight of land for more than three days by then with who knows how many more to go. Our whole existence depended on this boat and our ability to sail it. It felt huge. Our whole cosmos. Yet if you were to take a sharpened pencil and make a dot on a chart of the Pacific Ocean, our cosmos by comparison wouldn't even be visible. We were that small, and yet that big as well. We quit at midnight and Mike L and Mike R hit a squall on the next watch and had an exciting time changing the jib sail.
Days 36 and 37, October 16-17: Back on deck at 0400 and ran through a series of squalls, calm and rough calm and rough. Even motored a bit. Used the whisker pole and broke the boat hook. Mike R starting to look like Fidel with a flop hat, reflecting sunglasses and chewing on a cinnamon stick. Back on deck again at 1400 until 2000. Sailed through squall after squall until 2000. Just before we had a discussion, Captain Vince planning what sails to set for overnight and asked us how the boat feels with the weather at that point. We had some 30-knot gusts so we took a double reef in the main and switched from the genoa to the working jib.
We came up to the watch again at midnight on the 17th, to find Mike R and Mike L had taken down the main and hoisted the trisail. (This is a small, triangular sail, barely bigger than a handkerchief in perspective, that helps maintain way and steerage in rough weather without overpowering the boat.) But even then we were overpowered. We hit speeds of 8.4, 8.5 knots several times, 8.9 once and over 9 a couple of times. Wind at 25 knots with gusts to 35 and 40 on the stern. We screamed down the faces of wind waves. At one point a gust hit us as we rode the top of a wave and it felt like the boat came out of the water flying. Driving rain at times with huge drops. So dark couldn't even see parts of the boat. The only thing you could see to orient yourself with was the red-lighted compass. We were trying to hold a course of 220, but often fell off the 265 and then a wave would drive the boat around to 210 or even 200. Mike R said it was so dark that with my dark olive Helly Hanson rain gear on he couldn't even see me at the helm. Flashes of heat lightning. After fighting the wheel as a wave drove us around, I could release the wheel and the boat would come back to surf down a wave and come back to 220. Reached a steady 9 knots for a while toward the end of the watch. For the last hour at the helm I don't remember anything except the red light of the compass, rain, an occasional flash of lightning. Difficult to hold the wheel at times. Total concentration.
Relieved at 0400 and tried to go to sleep but almost immediately came a call to change the headsail to the storm jib, so back up on the pitching rolling foredeck to make the swap. Water coming over the bow as we wrestled with the working jib taking it down. Mike R at the helm said he had surfed the boat at 10.8 knots. We finally made the change and went below about 0500. Before I fell asleep the wind died and I heard Vince say let's run on the engine for a while and see what happens before we raise any more sail.
When we came up for the 0800 watch the engine was still running. We ran with the engine for the rest of the watch as the sky slowly fell apart and the sun shined through. On a calm run the others slept soundly for the whole six hours we were up. Just before the watch change at 1400 we rigged a double headsail and began surfing the gently following sea and wind and making 7 knots. Exhausted but enjoyed the pretty sight, the genoa filled to starboard and the working jib to port, going down big long swells in the sunshine. The boat so steady you could steer with one finger laid across the top of the wheel. People in shorts. The wind died eventually and by the time we came up for the 2000 watch we were motoring again. Weather report had forecast a gale 300 miles to the northwest of us and we lived in apprehension through the night.
Day 38, October 18: Barometer had dipped below 1008 overnight but appeared to have bottomed out by morning. Sun came up to puffy clouds, a large, long swell behind us and enough wind to raise the genoa. It's going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day. Leaving watch at 0800 I slept well until almost 1400 when I took the helm first so I could cook between 1700 and 1800 and again between 1900 and 2000. Easy breezy and sailing smoothly though beating to windward and not quite making our planned course. Put a leg of lamb in the oven at 1700 made other preparations, then took the helm at 1800; nice enough to play music. The sun set yellow under a line of clouds. Told Mike K we were liable to have a real nice sunset. Listened first to Joan Jett and then Leon Russell. I love rock and roll. The turn at the wheel passed quickly and at 1900 I went below to finish making dinner. (It worked out great on this trip. Mike R liked a big breakfast so he cooked one almost every day and I like big dinners so I cooked one almost every night.) I heard somebody say sunset and popped up to look. Saw a lavender sky and knew I wanted to watch, so I went below and got all the stuff on the stove stabilized so I could leave it for a while. Popped a beer and went up joining Mikes K and R and Captain Vince.
The first sliver of the moon hung silver over a thin bank of gray clouds. Above the clouds a lavender sky backlighted the moon then evolved to a deep purple underneath the cloud bank, send a purple-gray reflection across the water. Conversation gradually faded as the colors intensified from pastel deeper. As if cued Leon Russell came on with "Back to the Island." The cockpit went absolutely silent as each of us drifted into our own thought worlds, maybe sometimes wanting to say something, but knowing where others were and restraining as the mood of the sunset, the evening on the ocean and the crossing and all it meant came over everyone — a visual emotion, we later understood and appreciated we were among the fortunate few who could feel that moment. Just as quickly the song ended and the mood passed, the sky darkened and we ate dinner, still without saying much. "And people keep asking why I make ocean crossings," Captain Vince said.
Day 39, October 19: Passed a quiet mid watch going from a double reefed main and working jib eventually to motoring.
This morning Mike K tried to kill me. We were on the foredeck getting ready to raise the trisail under winds sometimes near 30 and water sometimes over the bow and on deck. As we worked and were almost ready to go up with the sail, I noticed the strap to my safety harness was over the top of the sail. We're just getting hammered and I thought if that sail tried to climb the mast on its own or we raised it I'd be in a world of hurt. I told Mike to wait a minute I had to untangle my harness. He said he would get if for me and reached to unsnap it where it connected to the boat. If I hadn't watched him he would have cut me loose on the foredeck with the boat pitching and rolling or worse. I might not have even known I was disconnected from the boat. I screamed bloody murder and he never reached the snap. Still safely connected to the boat I untangled from the boom and sail and we raised the trisail. Done and back in the cockpit, I yelled again "don't ever unsnap another man's harness." I was so angry and maybe a little scared at what could have happened, I was actually shaking. An hour later I still hadn't calmed down much.
(A couple of days later on a night watch together, I apologized to him and in sharing watches over the rest of the trip we became much closer friends. Of course I attributed some of that to the fact that he had run out of fresh vegetables and was forced to eat tuna, and then some other meat, and his new diet mellowed him.)
(A couple of days later on a night watch together, I apologized to him and in sharing watches over the rest of the trip we became much closer friends. Of course I attributed some of that to the fact that he had run out of fresh vegetables and was forced to eat tuna, and then some other meat, and his new diet mellowed him.)
Beating to windward most of the day with the bow pounding into the waves and water coming over the port side as I started my "day off."
Riding in the forepeak trying to sleep, flying. Water visible washing over the transparent hatch cover. Bow lifts out of the water on a wave then drops slamming into the trough. Feeling at times suspended in air. Hot in the sun, too.
Beating, beating, beating. We finally hove to at 1430, but came back to the sails later and beat through the night.
(Around this time I began to realize something about Captain Vince. Each time we encountered a problem he had an idea for a fix. Beyond that if the first idea didn't work he was always ready with a second and a third and, well, I don't think we ever got past the need for more than three ideas. The idea was, that as we were attempting one fix, he was thinking ahead in case that one didn't work. It is a lesson I have carried with me through the rest of my life. Also around this time I think was when we started calling him Captain Invincible.)
Day 40, October 20: By early morning we're in a serious gale. Barometer down to 1000 millibars; winds gusting to 45; waves, some 20 feet, tops blowing off in places, and wind streamers down the troughs. Heading into clear skies. We finally gave up and hove to again at 0800 with the storm jib up the backstay and the wheel lashed in a rudder position to drive us hard to windward. Position about 32 North and 143 West and being blown sideways to the north at about 1 knot. The 130 genoa tore loose from where it was lashed on deck during the night and ripped, making it unusable. Dining table broke when Mike R came up and slammed into it with his shoulder. (That's the second table I've seen break during a storm on a Nordic boat.) We stayed hove to for 24 hours, during the day under an eerie colored silver cloud cover as squall after black squall passed with driving rain and waves that slapped us around. Some tops still blowing off waves. Sitting the watch out in it as rain drenches us and the boat as we're dragged backward by the storm jib on the backstay, first northwest, then all the way around to south. All you can do is sit there and let it happen and all you're doing is making sure nothing goes wrong. Dark night, moon waxing to a quarter. By this time Mike R and I had become so comfortable with each other we often didn't say much. After about an hour of sitting in the cockpit, seawater and rain drenching us, hunched over in our rain gear, a wave came over the foredeck and doused us. Mike looked up and said, "That sure does interrupt your reverie." I nodded. About half an hour later another one hit us both and I looked at him and said, "it sure does." As I recall that was all we said over the whole four-hour watch.
Day 41, October 21: Wind lets up and changes and in early morning we take the jib down from the backstay and we start sail by sail to pick up where we left off, first the storm jib and trisail; then working jib and tri; then main with two reefs and finally removing the reefs in the main and we're rolling down to old Maui again. Steady Northwest wind giving us a broad reach and at times we hit 8 knots. Back on watch at 2000 to 0000. Early on we took a reef in the main but an hour later the wind died and we took it all down and motored. Kind of a low point after the good sailing the day before. Moving on the engine with rain beating down on us we both went quiet. Toward the end of the third hour rain stopped, wind came up, we doused the engine and raised some sail. A steady wind drove us at 7-8 knots through the rest of the watch and the next one and ours again at 0400 to 0800. Averaging 7 knots and spirits rose again. Then the binnacle light went out. (That's the illumination for the compass we steer by.) Mike asked for a flashlight. (Now stop for a minute a consider this. We are both experienced boat operators. I have been responsible for the maintenance of the boats I ran. Mike R as I mentioned earlier is such a good mechanic that if he can't obtain a part he needs he is capable of making his own, sometimes with creativity. Keep that in mind as you watch us go through this problem.)
He's holding the wheel in one hand with the flashlight in the other while I try to go through the binnacle to find the problem. Then he tries while I drive. Finally we get a roll of duct tape and tape the flashlight to the binnacle in position to shine on the compass face so we can steer and off we go.
Day 42, October 22: As day starts breaking we are moving with the wind on the stern and lamenting the fact that our best downwind sail, the 130 genoa which we were counting on for when we hit the trade winds, is out of commission. A beautiful dawn broke and gave us an easy day of sailing although not as fast as we went during the night. There's a hurricane named Sergio somewhere off the horizon threatening but this morning he had been demoted to a tropical storm with only gale-force winds and a 35-mile radius. We expect to go south of 30 today. Food is beginning to run a little short but we do still have a lot of tuna and we've only hit the fourth of 101 ways to cook tuna. We found a small flying fish on the foredeck this morning. There's always an albatross around somewhere even in the worst of the storm. Sailed well most of the day at 6-7 knots under clear skies and long rolling waves with a little wind chop. Made barbecued chicken (from tuna) for dinner. Everybody liked it, or at least said they did. 105 ways.
Beautiful sunset, a round ball rolling along the horizon then sinking slowly. Toward the end it looked like an egg yolk. Then it was gone, so fast you wouldn't have been surprised to see steam hissing as it entered the water.
Watched a lavender sunset with a quarter moon rising brilliantly, reflecting dancing sparkles off the waves. We sailed through the night on diminishing winds. (Now you'll recall the fix we made to the binnacle light the previous night. Well, here comes the punch line.)
I was sitting in the cockpit, Mike R at the helm and focused for a moment on the flashlight we'd attached to the binnacle. A sudden thought hit me and I asked Mike, "Do you think maybe that flashlight taped to the binnacle affects the compass?" All he could say, was "oh, crap." Our solution was I would take the helm and focus on the compass while Mike removed the tape very carefully trying not to move the flashlight. Once he had the tape off it, I stared at the compass while he quickly pulled the flashlight away. Sure enough, it swung 5 degrees. So we had been running for 24 hours on a course 5 degrees off what we thought. I recalled hearing if you left Cape Flattery near Seattle and headed for Hawaii, if your course was one degree off you'd miss the islands by about 80 miles; you'd never even see them. So our plan was to change course 5 degrees the other way (10 degrees in all) and try to put in 24 hours on that course during our watches over the next few days. (It worked as you will see when I write about the landfall.) And Captain Vince was none the wiser. (In fact if he reads this I believe it will be the first time he learns about it.)
Day 43, October 23: Up at 0730 for another beautiful sunrise but motoring with almost no wind and what there was came right on the nose. Crossed 30 North sometime during the night. Captain Invincible and Mike K had contacted a passing ship and confirmed our position with them. Maybe 780 miles to go with Hawaii at 21 North. This turned into a sunny day and t-shirt weather, something we northern sailors had never experienced. I slept well after the watch and feeling pretty good all told. On checking found we were down to 45 gallons of fuel with no stations between us and Hawaii. You had to wonder about the old-time sailors who had to persevere without an engine. We had spoken during the night about stealing the boat and going on. Mike L said drop me in Hawaii. Captain Invincible said we'll drop the lightweights and go on to Tahiti, but then he added if he took the boat it wouldn't be insured and I said we'd clap him in irons for 20 minutes, then flog him once a day. "Twice if I like it," he said. Some bawdy humor on this can.
Motored all morning and then the sail went up just before 1300, then went to sleep for a couple of hours. Came up and read for a while, sailing again. Relief from making dinner this night. Mike R is making tuna enchiladas. Saw our first confirmed school of flying fish, a couple landing on the boat. Had the 2000 to midnight and 0400 to 0800 watches. Slow sailing alternating with motoring the whole time. Quiet time, for thinking. I got to planning to build that cabin in the woods.
Day 44, October 24: Falling asleep after the 0400 to 0800 watch and came up with a brochure idea for our tourist business. That, done, crashed again and woke up with breakfast cooking at at 10:30. Hot day. Another one "off." Rigged a fishing pole to troll for mahi mahi. No wind and motoring, still looking for those elusive trade winds. About 650 miles to go.
Motored and then sailed on a calm sunny day. Mike R slept in the foresail on deck and I was standing near the wheel. The breeze freshened a little and our eyes met, his with a question. He raised a thumb's up sign and I nodded affirmatively. Up went the light-air genny and off we went. Noon fix made it 600 miles into Molokai Channel. Four days of 150 miles, but we were going slower than that. Probably five and maybe six. Even calmer by late afternoon and we were making about 3.5 knots under sail. Mike R and I got to talking about how easy going it's been the last few days — since the storm. We decided we'd all been apprehensive about storms, and once we had weathered one and saw we could handle it, everything mellowed out. Had a visitation from a humpback whale on the same course just trucking down to Maui. It came up and breathed once and went down; we could see the disturbed water where it powered itself forward but it never came up again. Kidded about throwing a rope around him and letting him tow us the rest of the way. But he was here today and gone to Maui. We picked up one of those large glass fishing floats in late afternoon and also spotted a floating coconut.
Day 45, October 25: Up early, still motoring; at about 0805 the engine quit. Out of
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| This is that big glass float where it now hangs at the East Pole and a visitor who spent a night there. |
Every day now we run out of something, but that's all expected. Nothing serious yet. Mike R and I had been discussing dinner when we caught a Mahi Mahi. I fried it breaded with crushed whole wheat croutons for breading and it was great. Maybe the best fish I've ever had. Mike R made a sourdough starter and then biscuits. All in all passed a good day sailing and toward evening the wind came u and we made more than six knots overnight. Brought down the drifter, took a reef in the main then ran with a 20 knot-wind by the time I came up for the 0800 watch. By this time I had gone from tuna one night and something good the next to tuna two nights and good stuff one. One night I picked up a tuna fillet and looking at it from the large end I could see it was shaped just like a pork chop. So, I cut a bunch of "chops" off it, fried them in a pan smothered in pork flavoring stolen from several Ramen Noodles pork flavoring packages. I remember them so happy wondering where I had found pork chops. Then somebody took a bite. "Ugh this is tuna," was all he said.
Day 46, October 26: On a watch overnight with Captain Invincible he mentioned Jim and Nancy thought I'd never attempt an ocean voyage again. (These were our friends Jim and Nancy Lethcoe. The year before I had helped Jim bring their new boat north from Seattle and we encountered a storm in the Gulf of Alaska with winds more than 60 knots and seas probably higher than 50 feet. That storm story here) Strange, but I never thought that. First, I had to know that storm was not typical and there are more nice days than storm days and, too, it gave me a perspective. I knew what was possible what can be handled at sea and if I hadn't seen that, maybe I would have been unreasonably nervous during the storms we encountered on this trip, none of which even began to reach the intensity of the one the year before. In short after that experience I had a measure of confidence in myself and in the equipment.
Orion had become a great friend on this trip, always rising after midnight on the port side of the vessel except the night we were hove to and facing the opposite direction. Then the constellation arched across the sky setting on the starboard side toward morning.
Mike L came up in the morning and said, "All right, questions one through nine. You know them, what are the answers?" He was developing a sense of humor.
Took the morning watch on another clear, sunny day, but with more wind. Sailed all day in winds of 15 to 20 knots with spray over the bow now and then since we were beating into the wind on a close reach. We saw another whale; at first thought it was a killer whale but with no white markings figured it was a false killer whale. It looked kind of lethargic rising and sinking several times as we passed. Later I looked over the stern and something was following us in the water, same color and size. It might have been the same whale but we never saw it come up to breathe. It powered ahead of us then crossed under the bow and disappeared.
Sailed through the night with new craziness. During the 2000 to midnight watch we dropped the working jib and run up the storm jib which smoothed the ride tremendously. Going into 20-30-knot headwinds
Day 47, October 27: Midnight watch used the storm jib, but two hours into the 0400-0800 watch the wind all but died and turned squirrely. We raised the working jib in driving rain. Just after we did the wind shifted and we had to try to tack on a course of 180 instead of 220 (Which we were back to after Mike R and I had completed our course corrections.). Mike K took the helm the first hour of that. We were taking a lot of water over the bow and fighting the wheel. By the time I took my second helm hour at 0700 the rain had started driving into my face. Could barely hold a course of 180 and sometimes fell off to 140 all of which took a good deal of strength to hold the wheel when the boat wanted to turn into the wind. Rain drove so hard into my face it felt like it was cutting me. My glasses were all but blocked by water which also got into my eyes. The thing here was the rain wasn't cold like we always have in the north. It was like getting hit with bath water. I had no rain pants on and my pants and tennis shoes were soaked. A lot of water over the bow and even washed away one of the dorades (a funnel-shaped fitting for keeping water on deck from going into the cabin through ventilation openings.)
Captain Invincible came up around 0730 and we discussed what to do since we couldn't even make 180 for a while. When he finally took the helm strangely the wind came around and almost died. In 10 minutes we were back on 220 and moving along fine. But by the time I was crawling into a berth, the wind came up and through the foredeck over my head I heard the stomping around raising the storm jib again. Later around1100 I heard them again with the sounds of heaving to. They had taken some wind at 46 knots and hove to, but only for an hour or so. There was salt water on the cabin sole. About an hour later we were sailing again downwind in front of a northerly under the storm jib and the trisail. Position about 201 miles north of our landfall.
Day 48 October 28: Kona winds and squalls at night with lightning. Constantly being beat back with the goal so close. Rain so hard that despite having all my rain gear including a hat, still felt water trickling down my body. My last pair of dry pants getting wet. Captain Vince came up and we decided we could run off for a while until it settled down. It went like that for an hour with the rain hitting my back. Tough but the wind finally died and pretty soon we were all but motoring on our intended course. I recall standing one watch in the period with all my rain gear on but nothing underneath,
Day 49, October 29: Kona winds died. No wind. Finally got the engine running but it died again. Mike R's creativity came into play. Knowing we still had more than 20 gallons he rigged a new system. He removed the top valve on an empty propane tank and disconnected the fuel line from the engine's fuel tank. Then with bilge pump we moved fuel from the main tank into the propane tank, inserted the main fuel line into it and voila we had fuel to the engine again. The engine began drawing fuel from that rig and we motored on.
Day 50, October 30: Land ho! A strange thing went through my mind over these last couple of days. I began to feel a depression. I wanted to stay away from everyone on the boat. I packed all my gear, ready to get off. I turned sullen and almost angry. It went like that almost until we had made the dock. I figured out later the depression must have come from realizing the voyage was coming to an end. Nothing to look forward to after that.
By mid afternoon on the 29th we had sighted land and as we proceeded realized we were aimed straight down the Molokai Channel past Diamond Head. Great navigation Captain Invincible, despite Mike R and I trying to sabotage it. As the day turned dark we saw lights on the islands.
But nature wasn't done with us quite yet. I think my depression put me into a deep sleep. From what I understood the crew had a last really wild night of alternating squalls and calms, motoring and full sails, storm sails and full sails, and on and on. All hands called up on deck once because the genny wrapped around the forestay again. Back to sleep but the next thing I know the forward hatch opens over my head and they stuff the wet genoa sail down on top of me. Vince said later they had tried to wake me and warn me but they couldn't get my attention. I moved away from the wet sail and went back to sleep. Finally went back up on deck around 0400.
There were lights, navigation aids and city lights along channel. Honolulu. We moved along the channel checking position and sailing, then motoring. So close, we pumped the last drop out of the main fuel tank. We had to make it to the dock on what was left in the bucket. I stood on the bow for a long time watching the city materialize as we sailed closer. We came around Diamond Head and there was Waikiki with all its hotels. Concerned about running out of fuel Captain Invincible sent me forward to free the anchor and line in case we had to drop it in a hurry. We came through a narrow channel marked by breakers on both sides of us, still in the dark, and surfed a gentle swell into the harbor. Came into Ala Wai, calm water and tied off at 0558. No rocking, just solid and steady. Nobody really jubilant, just, we're here. Maybe the others had felt the depression too. We all shook hands. (There's a picture of us that I don't have access to right now. I will add it when I get back to my big computer.)
59 Days since we left Valdez, 50 under sail in one way or another: Distance made good: 4,221.6 nautical miles.
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Here we are in Waikiki. Me in my
trophy shirt, Mike R, Mike K and
Captain Invincible, seated.
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On the way back I stepped into the harbormaster's office, why, I can't remember now. I got to talking with a guy there and we exchanged where-you-froms. He said he had just come in from Indonesia and I told him we were from Alaska. Told him we had tried but never encountered the trade winds and his response was: "Oh, those goddamn trades are myth." I laughed with him. Behind the counter one of the harbor people overheard us and said there's a letter here for someone from Alaska. She handed me the envelope and, surprise, it was addressed to me via the boat. Remember that phone
call before we left, the one with the woman who gave me a hard time? Well, it was from her, apologizing and hoping to welcome me home soon.
call before we left, the one with the woman who gave me a hard time? Well, it was from her, apologizing and hoping to welcome me home soon.
And soon it would be. I only spent about 24 hours in Hawaii. You see I had a choice to make. There was a book release party scheduled for Fairbanks the following week. I thought long and hard about it and decided Hawaii would be here and there'd always be the chance for another trip, but I would only have a first book published once. I decided for the book party and flew home the next day.
Messing about in boats
Gretchen Small
Tim Jones
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Tim, i just finished reading your blog about the passage to Hawaii---loved it!!!! (even tho i am terrified of water). really think that should be the kernel of a larger project. it was excellent visual imagery and personal and exciting. very very good
An apppendix: I realize the narrative left the effort at celestial navigation with the sextant dangling. At the end ot the log in my notebook I found several pages of notes taken during several of my attempts. I have no idea what this means any more and I don't expect a reader to either. I am just adding the notes from one attempt to show what kind of calculations I went through trying to figure out where in the hell we were. None were definitive:
DATE OCTOBER 9
BODY SUN LL
ha 69-48.5
IC -1.4
D -2.9
ha 69-44.2
R +15.6
Ho 69-59.8
W 15 56 55
corr 00
GMT 15 56 55
gha 45 13 .2
incr 1413.8
GHA 54-27.0
4360
a2 -70.27 W
LHA 349
Dec 22-56.2
aL 41 N
Tab Hc 68-51
corr +51
Hc 69-42
Ho 69.59.8
a 17.8T
Zn 151
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