Blue Water Sailing !!!

C. Weldon Mathews

June 25, 2001

The very words evoke a wild combination of reactions:  excitement, adventure, isolation, and perhaps even fear.  This was to be my first real experience at blue water sailing.  My wife and I had been privileged to join Jim and Marita aboard Wunschtraum on several occasions over the past seven and half years:  on the Chesapeake Bay during their preparation for the round the world cruise, in Tonga, and in the Solomon Islands.  Nevertheless, this time was to be different.  For the first time, I would be a member of the crew rather than a guest.  This carried an entirely different set of expectations, which I hoped I could live up to.  It also was to be my first time on a ‘crossing’, a trip across an open ocean with hundreds of miles between us and land.  We had heard and read of the varied experiences they had on crossings—most involved fascinating sights and opportunities, but many reflected the extreme stress placed on the boat and those aboard.  For the first time in my life, I would be isolated with two other people totally away from the support system we all take for granted.  

I arrived in Charlotte Amalie, U.S. Virgin Islands in mid-afternoon on May 1 and boarded Wunschtraum after a quick taxi ride.  It’s always a treat to see the boat in harbor and to get back together with Jim and Marita.  This time was even more exciting as we discussed the crossing and our time in the USVIs.  Marita had already made arrangements for me to go scuba diving the next morning with Blue Island Divers.  There were only three divers plus the dive master and the skipper of the boat.  Even though the winds were fairly high, we had an enjoyable and instructive two-tank dive.

The next day, the second member of the crew joined us aboard Wunschtraum.  Michael Schribner is a graduate student in Physics at The Ohio State University.  He had just taken, and passed, his admission to candidacy exam for the Ph.D.   As Jim and Marita then took us on a shakedown trip around the Virgin Islands, Michael and I were in awe of the vast amount of knowledge and experience we did NOT have.  We decided our primary goal, as crew, was to learn enough that Jim could be well rested so we could call on him to direct us through any really nasty problems we encountered.  Fortunately, he later said that he could rest most easily if he knew we would wake him when we encountered something we weren’t sure about.

In fact, Jim proved to be a superb mentor, both on the shakedown cruise and during the crossing.  He walked us through many of the fundamentals, and he expected us to continue to learn on our own, as we did.  When we made mistakes he let us know what went wrong, as well as his methods of minimizing those particular mistakes.  It was an excellent mix of some things to be done his way, just because that’s what he wanted, along with a lot of freedom to develop our own ways of getting the job done.   

[I suppose ‘training’ has the reputation of being hard and boring.  Our first training experience on the shakedown cruise definitely did not fit that mold!  The four of us left Charlotte Amalie for a short excursion for orientation to the boat and for an introduction to some of our hosts’ favorite sites.  We sailed to a bay on the southeastern side of Norman Island where we anchored within sight of one of our destinations:  a ‘pirate ship’ which actually was a recreation of an older sailing vessel now reputed to be a pretty good restaurant.  The pirate designation was appropriate, as many consider this island and bay to be the historic location of ‘Treasure Island’.  Our dinner was fine, but the real attraction was some snorkeling around shallow caves nearby.  We also enjoyed night snorkeling with major attractions of a mackerel, a moderate size octopus, and on the way back, a magnificent spotted ray.  All in all a delightful stopover.  The next day we sailed around the north side of St. John, then through the Windward Passage and Pillsbury Sound back to Charlotte Amalie.  That trip was impressive because of developing winds from our port quarter which gave the distinct impression that we often were sailing on the side of a mountain of water with a valley to our left.  My stomach told me we should fall off sideways, but my head convinced all parts that we were fine.  Someone on another boat later commented that he was glad he wasn’t afraid of heights! ]

When we returned to the harbor of Charlotte Amalie, we found that the wind pattern was making life very uncomfortable as it was blowing straight through the mouth of the harbor and generating rough water at the anchorage—known with some justification as ‘rock and roll’ conditions.  Even so, Marita departed by dingy to shore in order to catch her plane back to Columbus while the three of us settled down for a rough wait for a different weather pattern to develop.

We also worked out some of the standard procedures for the crossing.  As we would be sailing all the time, we adopted standard watches of four hours on and eight hours off.  This meant each of us had a particular time, morning and evening, when we had primary responsibility for the boat.  Others may be awake, but the person on watch was expected to keep everything under control and call on Jim if he needed help.  Jim would then decide whether or not to call the third person.  It worked out that each of us got a time frame we were naturally comfortable with:  Michael from midnight (0000 – 0400), Jim (0400 – 0800), and me (0800 – 1200).  The cycle then repeated itself: Michael (1200-1600), Jim (1600-2000) and me (2000 – 0000).  Each person normally also made an entry into the ship’s log at the end of each watch including position, weather and wind speed, and speed through the water.   

Finally on May 10 at 1030 we departed with winds from a more favorable direction under partly cloudy skies.  Only 1244 nautical miles almost due north to the lighthouse outside the Chesapeake Bay plus another 150 nm up the bay to Rock Hall.  A number of other sailboats were also leaving, but fanning out in different directions.   At about 1500 we said goodbye to the last land we would see for a while, Cockroach Island, and hoisted the spinnaker.  Now we really were on our way! 

Hoisting the spinnaker was a special treat for all of us.  Jim had obtained it only recently in South Africa.  It proved so useful on the Atlantic crossing he regretted not having it seven years earlier!  It is a beautiful, large sail flown with one end attached to the bow and the other end to one side of the stern of the boat via a line.  It is ‘tuned’ by controlling the sheet near the stern.  When operating properly, it puffs out like an enormous balloon with more driving force than any of the other sails.  It also has the advantage that it loves to have the wind nearly astern and usually generates no great noise with slight wind variations, unlike the other sails.  Nevertheless, it presented yet another set of skills for the new crew to learn—that enormous surface area could become very dangerous if any one of us failed to work together in raising or lowering it.  Over the next few days we would become much more proficient in handling it—even when awakened by Jim early one morning to bring it in quickly because of rapidly building winds.  It was gratifying to see that both Michael and I were able to respond quickly from deep sleep to useful awareness of Jim’s directions.  These patterns of partly cloudy skies, shifting wind patterns, interspersed with squalls, became ‘normal’ for the crossing.

The first day out of Charlotte Amalie also gave the new crew another set of important experiences to add to our skill set: maintaining a watch for other boats or ships that might intercept our path.  Our first encounter was a pleasant one with the ship ‘Too Essential”.  She was well within view, Jim talked to her crew, and they passed easily in front of us about 1940.  The concept of ‘relative bearing’ really worked!  As long as the other vessel appeared to move toward our bow or the stern, we could be assured the courses and speeds of the two vessels would not lead to a collision.  During one of my night watches a few days later, I would learn that it might take a long time to establish this pattern.  I watched the lights of a distant ship for almost an hour before they finally got close enough to start changing their relative bearing.  It then passed about two miles behind us.

I was intrigued by my own reaction to my watches and to my time off watch.  At times I was fascinated, excited, bored, and even fearful.  The watches became routine fairly quickly, but they always carried the deep-seated concern about something going wrong.  For the most part, they involved the relatively simple tasks of watching for anything unusual in the sea and checking course and trim of the sails.  On this boat sails were trimmed by monitoring the boat speed before and after any change in sail trim.  Nevertheless, most of the time was spent sitting in the cockpit watching the surrounding sea and listening to the sounds of the boat and the ocean.  I was surprised how quickly I learned to recognize a change of pattern of wind or sea from sound alone.  I think my night watches were the most fascinating because of the totally dark conditions.  The moon didn’t come up until after my watch was over; consequently, I enjoyed many nights when I could appreciate the starlit skies without interference from manmade lights or from the moon.  Needless to say, they were spectacular.  For the first several days, we did not even have airplanes flying overhead, the distance to land was much too far for those lights to be seen, and we saw no other ships.  As I usually sat on the port side of the cockpit facing the stern, my convenient view was of the skies to the south and to the west.  Mars in particular became a familiar companion because of its unusual brilliance this year and because of its location low in the sky off our stern.  It also was fascinating to watch the  patterns of fluorescence in the water from our wake, as well as from waves  around the boat.  I didn’t get to see porpoises at night with spectacular displays of lights, as described by Jim.  At least, though, early one morning I watched four porpoises play around the boat as we sailed along at about 5 knots under the spinnaker.  Unfortunately, everyone else was asleep, so I enjoyed this performance by myself.

My activities when not on watch were much more predictable.  Most of the time was spent in my berth sleeping.  I and others have noticed that we tend to spend more time sleeping aboard the boat, presumably because the sleep is much less restful.  My bunk was very comfortable, and the concept of watches works very well because you transfer totally the responsibility of the boat to the next person on watch.  Nevertheless, you remain attuned to the noises of the boat, as well as its motion.  The latter is unavoidable.  One night I was sleeping fairly well, braced as usual against the normal motion of the boat, when I was suddenly lifted and moved about a foot sideways.  The boat had been pushed a bit by a wave; nothing to be alarmed about, but definitely not conducive to a deep restful sleep.  The afternoons tended to be a time when we all three would gather and talk in the cockpit and have our evening meal—the big meal of the day.

On our third evening out, May 13, we were enjoying this customary big meal of the day while watching the approaching dusk under a uniformly cloudy sky.  Although the sea was fairly calm, we had swells that raised and lowered the boat about six feet.  At sunset, the sun popped from behind the clouds at the horizon just in time for us to see the ‘green flash’.  This flash of green light is observable only under just the right conditions, usually at sea when there is little cloud or fog at the horizon.  At the moment the sun drops completely out of sight, there is a brief flash of intense green light about one fourth the diameter of the sun.  It was a real treat to see it—and we got to see it twice!  Just as we got our glimpse of the green flash, a swell pushed the boat upward enough that we got to see it a second time!  A double treat!

This entire trip turned out to be the season for split-tailed birds for me.  First, in the USVIs, I saw a number of the magnificent frigate birds—and they really are magnificent!  We never got a really close look, and unfortunately I never got to see them puff up their air bladders for their mating calls.  Nevertheless, they were beautifully characteristic to witness.  Their enormous size, as much as four feet long with a seven-foot wingspan was impressive.  In addition, their narrow, angular wings, and characteristic long split tail feathers were unmistakable as we watched them fly near the water and soar to very high altitudes.  Later, at sea, we were visited regularly by another bird with long split tail feathers—the white tropic birds.  We watched these graceful birds as they glided over the seas searching for their food and as they rested on the seas, even with fairly high waves.   The last of the birds in this category are the smallest, but the most numerous.  Their tails have a slot, but they are not the long scissored tails of the others

 Those cloudy skies and swells were associated with a squall that delivered winds of about 25 knots over a period of about ten hours.  Near the end of that period, during Jim’s watch, the halyard of the jenny parted.  Fortunately, Jim was able to furl the Jenny without damage—but this meant we no longer had the use of that large sail until he could go up the mast and rig a new support.  We continued with the main sail and staysail, a small sail flown between the main sail and the jenny.  Much of our time involved fluctuations between strong winds and periods of relative calm.  Early on in the trip we used the diesel engine to motor sail through the calm periods in order to make better time.  We reached a point, though, when Jim decided it would not be wise to use additional diesel fuel for this luxury.  We needed a reserve of fuel for the approach to the coastline, the Gulf Stream, and the Chesapeake Bay. So for a while, we just sat back and accepted what the wind offered, which was almost nothing for about 18 hours.  During this time on my night watch, I sat in the cockpit and watched the stars in a beautifully clear sky.  Without moving, I was able to get a full view of the entire sky as the boat slowly rotated all the way around several times on an absolutely glassy sea.  This was one of those times I was relieved I didn’t have to worry about a work schedule ashore that had to be met.  Nevertheless, it was rather strange to know we were making no progress at all.  Keep in mind that good progress was about 5 knots, just over a fast walking speed!  This also reinforced my impression of the vastness and indifference of the ocean to our small boat.

When I went below after my watch ended at midnight, it was a very quiet boat.  During the night, the sensation didn’t change from the random meanderings I had experienced.  Toward morning, however, I started hearing the noise of the autopilot changing the position of the rudder.  As I went topside, it still appeared that we were making no progress, although Jim had hoisted the spinnaker.  This very light sail was hanging pretty limp that morning, but with an occasional effort to fill out.  It was not an encouraging sight!  Jim then said we had 2 knots, which was an improvement over my last observation when we barely had enough wind to keep the boat oriented toward our destination.  Then Jim clarified that the boat was making 2 knots!  I felt like we suddenly had joined the Indianapolis 500!  We were making progress at about the pace of a person crawling on all fours—but this was progress!

After another twelve hours, the spinnaker was more energetic in its filling and collapsing.  When the wind died and then came back, it was enough to make the sail crack with a sound like the report of a large gun.  Obviously the wind was building slowly but steadily.  Before Jim went below for his sleep, we discussed what I should do if the wind got stronger. His target speed for the boat was about 5.5 knots.  If it started getting faster than that, I should reduce speed by spilling wind from the spinnaker.  This watch would turn out to be one of the most impressive I stood on the boat.  Over a period of three hours, the wind steadily got stonger and stronger—and the boat speed started approaching 5.5 knots.  As the boat speed increased, it was incredible to sense how Wunschtraum changed from a rolling, uneven gait to a beautifully balanced and tuned vessel.  She just loved this kind of sailing!  I checked with Jim, and he said on this occasion we would let the speed get on up to 6 knots.  Shortly thereafter, it reached 6 knots and I let out the sheet, as instructed.  To my amazement, the speed built even more!  As I let out more sheet, it built even faster!  I got Jim up to help deal with the developing conditions, and I called Michael for the beginning of his midnight shift.  As all three of us watched, the speed moved steadily on up to 7 knots.  We really were flying now and making up for a lot of that lost time when we were becalmed. 

By the end of Michael’s watch, the wind had settled down into a steady 10 knots and we continued making about 5-6 knots.  Then, shortly before my 0800 watch, Jim issued another urgent “all hands” call.  The spinnaker had pulled loose from the top of the mast and was in the water.  All three of us had to work quickly to get it back into the boat before the lines fouled or the sail was damaged.  Our progress now would be limited to the mainsail and staysail.  Fortunately, they were all we would need. The spinnaker had served us very well during an important time.

We were now nearing the final stages of our approach to the lighthouse outside the Chesapeake Bay.  The remaining item of concern was reports of a weather front moving into our path with winds shifting around to the northeast—exactly opposite the direction of the Gulf Stream current we needed to cross.  Jim’s course had intentionally taken us almost due north from the USVIs, with the intention of turning west at an appropriate time to cross the Gulf Stream quickly and under favorable conditions of wind direction.  If we were lucky we’d be able to dart across the Gulf Stream near Cape Hatteras, then head NNW toward Cape Henry and the Chesapeake Bay.  Initial plans were for us to stop overnight in a protected cove near the bay’s entrance to make repairs on the jenny halyard for the last long leg of the trip. 

I had not appreciated the possible hazards involved in crossing the Gulf Stream.  Marita had mentioned earlier the high, steep seas that could be developed when the wind was blowing the opposite direction than the current, but I hadn’t thought about the fact that the difference in water temperature could also generate unpredictable and sometimes strong local weather patterns.  Hence the wisdom of Jim’s plan for crossing the Gulf Stream!

We were indeed very lucky. Wind speed and direction continued to be just enough for us to head the desired direction, and we also started using some of that diesel fuel that Jim had conserved for just this occasion.  As we monitored the water temperature, it went from about 73 degrees Fahrenheit with no apparent current to about 81 degrees when we seemed to be in the middle of the Gulf Stream.  As predicted, the weather changed, and the seas became choppy.  In spite of this we made the short westerly hop quickly and with no incident, and then got the bonus of a very favorable wind shift that permitted us to head directly toward the entrance to the Bay.

Entering the Chesapeake Bay was as exciting as expected!  We now had to be more watchful for other traffic, especially large ships.  We also had the advantage of numerous navigational aids, including buoys and landmarks!  Even though dusk was approaching on May 20 as we entered the navigation channels of the Bay, it was impressive to again see the lights of land.  A bit of heavy traffic led us to change plans and head directly up the Bay by motor sailing past the Bay-Tunnel Bridge.  We then sailed directly up the Bay with the wind and tide working for us for an incredibly fast trip.  The night ride felt like we were screaming along—perhaps like driving 90 mph on a freeway with no lights.  In fact, though, this was a great opportunity to actually use our onboard radar, along with the charts, buoys, and GPS to keep track of our position.  Using the radar to identify ships, and distinguish them from buoys, was especially interesting.  Our trip up the Chesapeake was completed within twenty-four hours—on the double reefed mainsail and staysail only!  Quite a feat!

Strangely enough, I especially enjoyed this part of our trip.  Progress could be measured more easily in terms of visual references.  Also, I could play with the full range of maps, GPS, radar, and visual reference techniques as we moved along.  During my day-watch for this portion of the trip, I was able to tune the boat in order to maintain our heading, while avoiding shallow waters, big ships, and big navigation buoys.  I also enjoyed playing with the autopilot to maneuver around the small marker buoys used by the watermen to mark the location of their lobster traps.  These traps were placed along a line of water at about the depth we wanted to move through.  We really weren’t disturbing them by passing near or over them, but they served as a fixed point for me to develop a sense of the response of the boat to small changes in heading.  Consequently, I increased my confidence considerably for maneuvering the boat in fairly tight quarters as we moved along at about four knots.

It’s quite a thrill to come ashore after a crossing.  Relaxing on terra firma and taking a shower in a warm room had become major luxuries to anticipate. At sea my warm showers at the stern of the boat could be a chilling open-air experience.  I also had become accustomed to moving about the boat in a rather protective manner because of the unexpected tilts and shifts of the boat.  In other words, I had acquired the essential "sea legs."  Unfortunately, the transition back to stable ground also is a slow one. The first walk along the dock was not the arm-swinging experience one would hope for.  Instead, as I walked along, the dock seemed to heave and shift exactly like the boat.  Furthermore, the shower stalls, though deliciously decadent, appeared to be extremely unstable.  Imagine if you will, stepping into the shower stall, soaping up, then unexpectedly having the showerhead bump you in the head!  The walls of the shower also seemed to sway and tilt as if some mischievous demon were twisting them.  It took a long time for all those things to resume their normal stability.  And yet, for a short time I had acquired sea legs and I had been Blue-Water Sailing!

Dedication:

I would like to dedicate my experience aboard Wunschtraum, especially this crossing, to the memory of William C. Logan.  Mr. Logan was my father-in-law for many years—and a friend and mentor for a much longer time.  In my mind he is the epitome of The Southern Gentleman.  His death on May 31 at the age of 90 came as a sad reminder that we all face a time when our experiences on this earth will come to an end.  During the crossing I thought of him often, because he was the person who really introduced me to boating and fishing with his keen interest in fishing the lakes of central Alabama.  We also shared a fascination with things mechanical and electrical.  His vast experience and highly innovative approach in these areas was a true inspiration for me at home and at work.  When my work brought me to a new system of some type, I would tell him about it.  The response I remember most vividly would be his listening closely with head cocked to one side, one eye squinting and the other eyebrow raised.  Then he would say “Really!  Do you mean to say …”.  And we were off and running for a lengthy conversation where I usually learned a whole lot more than I was able to contribute.  Mr. Logan would have been totally fascinated with the entire operation and maintenance of Wunschtraum.  He would have appreciated especially the high level of innovation needed to make unexpected repairs under unpredictable circumstances.