Soper's Hole

We're just "limin" here until we get fully re-provisioned after Christmas (hopefully including at least one new cell phone, since TracFone seems to be receive only here, same as in Bermuda, unless we can access the towers from St John). It is a beautiful harbor.

No Goal is Too High if We Climb with Care and Confidence

Those were the words on a popular dorm room poster when I was in college in the mid-seventies. It showed a lone climber on an extremely exposed face. I guess I took it to heart. I spent five months preparing Alannastar, and five years reading everything I could find about sailing. There were people who tried to discourage us from heading out into the ocean, and probably a lot more who just shook their head and thought we were crazy. But we prepared as well as we could, made conservative decisions, and succeeded. Like a lot of things, ocean sailing is 90% preparation and 10% luck. I'd say we had both.

Bermuda to BVI

Even though the second leg of our trip is almost 200 miles longer, I have always expected that it will be less difficult. For one thing, we don't have the Gulf Stream to deal with. Also, we have a lot more freedom in picking our weather window from Bermuda to the Caribbean, because we don't have to worry about dodging increasingly frequent coastal nor'easters (gales), and because hurricane season is over. After quite a bit of windy weather, we see a window with a high pressure ridge filling in to the south of Bermuda, which will cause light winds for the first part of the trip. We're a little concerned about getting caught on the wrong side of it, so we leave while the wind is still blowing 25 knots from the north, with swells running 10 to 15 feet.


December 15
We depart Bermuda at 1330 local time in company with Adrian and Leslie on Lalize. We all understand that they will be traveling faster than us and will be out of VHF range within a day, but it's nice to have some company for a while. The transition to open and very choppy ocean on the other side of Towne Cut is extremely abrupt, and suddenly it is full on open ocean sailing. Fortunately, as soon as we round the sea buoy at the end of the channel, we can turn downwind so that the waves are not into us. We settle into a deep reach, heading as low as possible, but since my boat doesn't have a pole for the foresail, I can't go directly downwind. I set up a preventer line for the mainsail before we left, so that makes us feel much better about the possiblity of a jibe, and we bear of to the east of the rhumb line on a port tack.
I discover at 2000, when I attempt to contact Julia on my sat phone (as we had previously arranged), that it is not working! Fortunately, Adrian has e-mail capability on board, through short wave radio - I radio him and ask him to send her a message explaining that she won't be hearing from me, and there's no need to send weather updates. We have our last contact with Lalize at 2100, agreeing to try to contact each other at 0800 tomorrow morning.
It is a beautiful night, with the moon slightly past full, brilliant stars, and phosphorescence from our wake. The phosphorescence is nothing dramatic; it is composed of very bright and surprisingly large bits of light which are stirred by the bow wake and slide by the beam. This will continue each night of the passage. We can see the glow of Bermuda in the sky from thirty miles out. This will be our last sign of land for 800 miles.

December 16
The wind gets steadily lighter overnight, and at 0500, I start motor sailing. I can hear Lalize calling us in the morning, but I'm unable to get back to them. At 1700 we are able to sail for a few hours, until 2100, and then then the wind drops off so completely that we drop all sail and start motoring at 2200.

December 17
We continue to motor in long period swells that are becoming more regular and subsiding. Once we get used to the noise of the engine, it is actually quite relaxing. I run at 1700 rpm, which gives us a speed of 5.5 knots, and, as far as I am able to measure after repeated readings with the dip stick, only burns about 3/4 gallon per hour. Thank you, Herr Diesel. At 1645, a 1000 foot tanker passed one mile in front of us. The AIS had warned us that we were on a possible collision course, so at five miles out, I slowed down, and radioed the Front Opalia that he would leave us to starboard. He confirmed that he would maintain course and speed.



December 18
This morning the ocean looks like the warped glass windows in an old building - it is not flat, but it is smooth. The wind is very calm, and the sun is out, so it is pleasantly warm. Mid-morning we shut off the engine, coast to a stop, and go swimming in 15,000 feet of water (one at a time with a rope attached). I go in first with a mask (Marlin - aka Judy: I'll wait on the boat, while John checks for sharks) It is the clearest water I have ever been in - although there is nothing to see, the boat looks like it is tiny - it is that easy to see the length of it. Since our domestic water pump is fried again, the chance to wash feels really good. So does the opportunity to lounge about the boat without hanging on to anything (or wearing anything).
Just before sunset, Judy calls me up because she sees flying fish. I walk out on the foredeck to look (it is so calm that we don't even have to harness up), and I see what looks like a fin breaking the surface. All of a sudden, I realize that there are dolphins all around the boat! They are playing in the bow wake, zooming back and forth. I move to the bow pulpit and start jumping up and down "Judy, dolphins, dolphins, dolphins!) She comes out and joins me, one on each side on the forestay, and we watch them zoom, breach, and play for a good five minutes. THIS is why we're here. It is truly the highlight our trip.
At about 2000, the wind fills from the SW. I decide to set the main with a double reef, because I figure that the cold front which my four day old maps shows is finally approaching, and the wind will get stronger and veer to the north. It works out well, and it feels good to be sailing again.



December 19
With the wind from the NNW most of the day, we head off course to the west, going as low as possible. During mid-afternoon, the AIS shows a close convergence with a tanker. I hail him and tell him it looks like we will be OK, but I want to make sure that he sees me on his radar. To my surprise, he says the he will alter course to starboard, which he does, quite significantly. It is amazing that a large tanker will alter course for a 41 foot sailboat out here. In late afternoon, we finally reach the tropics! I take a picture of the GPS display to trecord the moment. We are going to have to jibe at some point, and since I believe that the winds will keep veering, I figure we should get it done before dark. It goes very smoothly, and we are on our final tack to the Virgin Islands.



December 20
When I look at the AIS this morning, I am quite atonished to see Lalize (they have transmit as well as receive) 10 miles to our NNW. I quickly raise them on VHF, and we are both glad to hear from each other. They didn't motor through the calm, so that is why we caught up with them. Cool. We are able to talk for most of the way to port, and it is really nice to have someone else out there. The wind is continuing to veer to the ENE, and eventually it becomes consistant in both speed and direction. We have finally made it to the trades!
Three ships pass close enough during the night to require close monitoring. One of them is going to come so close that I radio him to give him a heads up.
During the night we sail over the Puerto Rico trench, and we are over 25,000' above the bottom. So, for all my hang gliding and sailpane friends, that is my new altitude record in a glider!

December 21
Alannastar is now running with a bone in her teeth. She is on a beam reach with a full Genoa and a double reefed main. We are seeing ground speeds of over ten knots while "surfing" down swells, and we are not getting much below six knots while climbing them. Most importantly, with the seas on the port quarter, we are pounding only very occasionally, and I am able to let this girl fly. We cover 175 miles in our last 24 hour run, and we make land well before dark. Check in goes smoothly, and by sunset we are sitting on deck enjoying the scenery and the drinks. Life is good!



Passage distance: 840 nm
Passage time: 6 days, 2 hours

South to the Tropics!

We may be departing for the Virgin Islands tomorrow - stay tuned.

Out for a Walk

Judy with our new friends Leslie and Adrian, of Lalize, a beautiful Hallberg-Rassy 53.



For my golfing friends, I always told you I hate putting on Bermuda grass!




For some reason, the course is defunct. The tourist business is really hurting here.

Old St Georges

Bermuda on a Scooter

We just had to do the traditional tourist thing and tool around on a scooter yesterday. Spike was the star of the show, and definitely the coolest Dude on the road. People kept slowing down to give a thumbs up or take his picture.







This is St David's Light, which has been guiding ships into Bermuda's only entrance for over 100 years. The harbor behind Judy is where our boat is located.



The gun is this picture was used to defend Bermuda's only entrance until after WWI. It is so large, that I just had to give it some scale...




The statue is The Seafarer's Memorial, honoring those lost at sea (who are named on the monument):



Judy getting close to the edge:



I just had to eat some juicy Prickly Pear fruit. Hey, it helped the original settlers survive!

Hiking on the Old Railroad Trail

Paddling

The wind finally calmed down enough on Friday for Judy to take Spike on a paddle around the bay in her Christmas present. It is howling again today (Sunday). I don't think we'll be leaving for a while...

Swinging Peacefully on the Hook

Repairs

My Ranger friends will be glad to see that I'm getting some use out of the Rambo knife. Here I'm whittling a piece of hardwood to use in repairing a drawer which was damaged in the passage (I have a new system for securing them closed for the next trip). I've also remounted the shelves in the forward cabin, and gone through all the major electrical connections, wire brushing them clean, reconnecting, and coating them in T-9. Judy has been busy scrubbing the woodwork in order to stay ahead of the mold. We are learning why the cynics define cruising as: A series of boat repairs in exotic places!

Good Morning Bermuda!

ST. Georges Harbour

We had absolutely no expectations regarding Bermuda as a cruising site – we were just focused on getting here, as a stepping stone. But, now that we are here, we love it! This is a beautiful and extremely well protected harbor. Even though the harbor services large ships, the water is clean, and we have been swimming off the boat each day (that’s how we bathe). Anchoring is free, there is no one running out to take $25 for a mooring each night. There is a free dinghy dock with a free dumpster right next to it, and free wireless internet a short walk away. The supermarket and laundry-mat are both a very short walk from the dinghy dock, and the town is beautiful. And it’s kept immaculately clean. The people are friendly and helpful and easy to understand. The weather has been beautiful, with highs of 75 and lows of 65. We were fortunate to get a couple of good drying days after we arrived, and the boat is pretty much dried out. In the calm anchorage, Judy has been able to cook again. In short, this is cruising paradise!

Unlike in the BVI, the only people here on boats are true sailors. After all, they had to get here. Judy and I are probably the least experienced sailors in port. We have already learned a lot from picking the brains of more experienced captains – especially one in particular who has circumnavigated. There are several beautiful old wooden masted, gaff rigged schooners that made the crossing – quite impressive.

So, we may be here a while ;-)

By the way, my cell phone receives just fine here, but I can’t make outgoing calls, so give me a call any time! Don’t leave a voice message, because I can’t access it. Oh, and don’t bother to call Judy – she took her phone for a swim.

Ocean Passage: New London to Bermuda

Sunday, 11/13

We depart at the break of dawn, although we have to wait in the marina basin for about 20 minutes for the train from Nyack to pass before the bridge keeper can open the swing bridge. The air temperature is about 40, and the water temp is 49. The wind is fairly light until we round Montauk, and then we start our journey, as we watch the land fade from sight. The swells quickly increase, and with the wind about 60 degrees on our starboard bow, we get a taste of things to come. The seas increase and both Judy and Spike are feeling a touch of Mal-de-Mar. Judy gets over hers in short order, due to the use of a patch, and also the activity to follow. We are sailing with a single reef in the main and a double reef in the roller furling headsail. Shortly before dusk, out of the blue, the furling line breaks, unrolling the entire genoa. Not good. I put on the harness and crawl out onto the bounding foredeck, clipping alternate leads to the toe rail for protection after I pass the end of the jack lines. Since the sail is all the way out, I have to lay out on the bow and feed the line through and around the drum about a dozen times before leading it back. The boarding waves soak me, and at one point, I am swept a few feet down the side deck until my safety line comes tight. The good news is that it is not cold, since the air and water temps have both warmed to about 60. At this point I'm thinking that it was just a bad spot in the line, little did I know that this is only the first of five breaks we will sustain in the next three days. After getting the furling line in place, we need to bear off into a broad reach in order to shade the genoa with the main so that we can furl it, since it is now blowing 25 to 30 knots. It turns out that it will blow this hard for five days. This first manuever is when we realize how much more difficult it is to handle a boat in strong seas. We eventually figure it out, and get the headsail completely furled before dark. It makes for a inefficient night's run, trying to beat with only the main, but we are very relieved to have "tamed the monster" before dark.

Neither one of us is dialed in to moving around inside the boat in rough seas yet, and shortly after dark, we are below when suddenly Judy comes flying, airborne, from the galley into the nav station. On the way she goes through my left knee. She smacks her head hard and is moaning on the settee. I fall onto the floor in the walk through, and I'm saying "F**K, F**K, F**K". For a moment, I am not sure if I will be able to stand on it. That would be the end of our trip and the end of my boat. I know that morning will tell, and it turns out to be just an MCL sprain, which is slowly healing. When we go to bed that night, both of us are in physical pain just about everywhere. The first five days of this trip are going to show us why they call this point of sail "beating".

This first night we will be crossing the New York harbor traffic lanes, so I have to be careful to time my cat naps so that I am awake well before we approach each lane. Sure enough, we come close to a ship in both the inbound lane (first), and then very close to a ship when we are crossing the outbound lane a couple hours later. The AIS gives me plenty of warning for both of them (well before they are over the horizon). The outbound ship passes in front of me, but in the dark it is very hard for me to determine it's distance, so I start the engine just in case, and steer well clear behind it. It is the last boat we will see for four days.

After that, I settle down on the walk through floor. It is the most secure spot on the boat, and I enjoy sleeping there. It has the least amount of movement and noise, and it's close to the companionway, so I can make it to the cockpit quickly, if need be. I realize that Spike is over his seasickness when he wakes up in the middle of the night in his perch with Judy on the settee and starts barking and growling at the strange man on the floor!

Monday, 11/14

With the break of dawn, we manage to get out a nice small and manageable amount of head sail, which picks up our speed and direction dramatically, and then we settle down to our breakfast. The wind and waves are strong, requiring a great deal of care in moving around the boat. Always one hand on a hand hold. Things are going OK until - bang! The furling line parts again. You have got to be kidding me. Nothing to do but crawl out there again and replace it, taking the time to thread the new line around the drum as many times as it will fit. Of course, I quickly get soaked in this process, but I'm never cold - the wool clothes I'm wearing are more than adequate for these temperatures, and I don't have to worry about my hands not working in the cold. Of course, then we need to go through the process of bearing off to a broad reach, shortening sail, and then hardening up again. It sounds simple, but nothing is simple in 30 knot winds and lumpy seas. The second night starts out rough, with occasional pounding, but settles down nice and smooth about 3 AM. I had just returned from the cockpit and settled down when "WHAM, WHAM, WHAM", all hell breaks loose. We have hit an incredibly rough patch of sea, and it is trying to shake the boat apart. It does a pretty good job of it, too, as it rips the shelves off the walls in the forward cabin. I have to slow the boat down, and at dawn we are making very slow speed over ground, and we can't hold our course to Bermuda. On checking the water temperature (now 76), it is obvious that we are in the Gulf Stream, and that is the source of the nasty peaked waves we have been encountering. I call WRI weather routers, I give him our coordinates, and he assures me that in an hour or two I will encounter the favorable eddy we have been shooting for, with a two knot favorable current, and sure enough, a couple hours later, our ground speed picks up to 8 knots and the pounding stops.

Tuesday, 11/15

Today we are flying over very large seas (15 ft swells), but they are huge, rounded whalebacks, and we experience very little pounding. The sun is out, and it is exhilarating. We pass by low spots 20 feet below us, and then vice-versa. The boat does exactly what she is supposed to do, and handles the swells with ease. We are trying very hard to get maximum distance between us and a gale which will pass to our north in two days, crossing the track we just laid down. The down side to all this speed is that we are taking huge amounts of spray, and we are heeled fairly hard on the port side. The deck hatches are leaking significantly with each boarding wave. They did not leak at all during hurricane Irene, but this is different - this is like about 20 car wash wands on power cycle every time a wave comes over. So, the boat is wet inside The rug I was sleeping on is soaked, the cabin sole is wet and slippery, in fact, there is almost nothing on the port side of the boat which isn't wet. Above, while the cockpit canvas protects us from spray which would probably knock us down, it then leaks slowly into the cockpit, so it is wet also. It's not cold, though. In fact, we wear as few clothes as possible, since there is no sense getting more clothes soaked. We came prepared with way more warm clothes than we needed.

In fact, since we crossed the Gulf Stream, everything is different. The water is warm, the air is warm, and the water is BLUE! We could start to see it as it became light, and then when the sun came out it was striking. We are a long way from the tropics, but we are in tropical water. The water contains frequent patches of what I think is Saragasso seaweed. There are birds all the way out here, also. They seem to use dynamic soaring to stay aloft with very little flapping, but they also land on the water when they need to. It is truly beautiful to be flying along over this blue water.

However, this time of the year, the nights are much longer than the days, and tonight is going to turn out to be especially long. I check on deck shortly after midnight, and the wind has calmed down somewhat. I adjust the sails, and am feeling very good as I look out in the moonlight, when wham, I see the entire genoa deploy. The furling line has broken again. This time I get to crawl out on the bow with my head lamp and perform the operation again. After what seems like forever, we get the head sail under control again. I should say here that, yes, I have been trying to determine what is causing the failures. The first problem was rubbing on the upper edge of the furling drum due to a block which was not lead fair. It was fine if the line was feeding from the bottom of the spool, but not if it was coming out near the top, which is perhaps why it never caused problems before. I attempted to protect it with chafe gear (i.e. unlined, weeping fire hose, of which I have plenty on board). Then, it turned out the the block itself caused the chafe through the next two times due to slight misalignment due to a frozen hinge point on one axis. Obviously, I won't be heading out again until I have resolved the problem.

But, I digress, because the fun of Tuesday night is just beginning. Judy had told me that she had heard an even louder than usual pounding sound coming from the forward cabin. We went forward together, but it wasn't making the noise then. Later in the night, I was making my rounds, and when I opened up the forward cabin, I could hear the pounding - I scrambled over the bunks and opened the anchor locker and immediately heard what was obviously the anchor pounding against the port side of the boat! "Judy, you need to wake up, I have to go forward and try to get the anchor". This was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. At several points, if I was able to do so, I would have just cut it loose. But, eventually I am able to get it off the chain, around and over the bow pulpit, and onto the deck. I am then able to slide it down the pitching side deck until I come to the straps which are securing the deflated dinghy to the foredeck, at which point I have to pick up the anchor. It's only 55 lbs, but on a pitching deck in the dark, it's like wresting a bear. The bear gets in a few blows, as I fall and scrape the anchor in my shin. But, I get it into the cockpit and lash it securely, where it will spend each future ocean passage.

The bow roller sheave is not sized quite right to support the new anchor, but the forces which dislodged it caused it not to come off just the roller, but somehow ripped it all the way around the frame of the roller, while the rode and snubbing line remained tight. There were several times when the bow plunged below the surface at the bottom of a wave. An anchor doesn't belong there on a passage, and I knew better - I just didn't think I had any place to stow it. As it turns out, the cockpit will work just fine.

Anyway, I finally collapse back inside, and I hope I never have to do that again.

Wednesday, 11/16

Truthfully, the days and nights start to run into each other. All I know for sure is that I don't have to go back out on deck at night, so life is (reasonably) good! Despite the fact that the nights are long, it is quite beautiful to come above after midnight, when the three quarter moon is up, and see it shimmering off the waves.

Thursday, 11/17

The big concern today is the approaching cold front. The wind continues to blow at 30 knots with gusts as high as 38. In late afternoon I call WRI and get a detailed forecast. On that basis, I decide to heave-to for the night. It will mean not arriving until Sunday morning, but it is the safest and most comfortable option. I also call Julia to let her know what we are up to, and why we won't be making much progress overnight. For the first time on the trip, Judy shows some apprehension, but I assure her that it will smooth right out after we heave-to. We have to shorten sail, tack over, and then tack back to the heave-to position. We get done just before dark, and it's like somebody hit the mute button. Yes, the wind is still howling, but it is peaceful on board, we are actually able to share the aft bunk, and I get the best night's sleep of the entire trip. Just after dark the AIS warns of a boat approaching within a mile. It is a large luxury motor yacht, I hail him by name and ask if he can see me. He says he has me on his radar, but no visual on my masthead tricolor lamp. I turn on every outside light, and he gets a visual with no problem. He asks to make sure I’m aware of the forecast for the cold front moving through, inquires as to our ETA, then wishes us a safe passage and is soon out of sight. About 0330, the cold front moves through, and the wind veers around. At 0400 we get some very bright lightening, but no thunder that we can hear, and no visible bolts. Quite strange. At Judy's suggestion, I put all the loose electronics in the oven just in case (Farraday cage).

Friday, 11/18

It is so nice in the hove-to position that we have trouble getting the ambition to go on course again, but once we do, with just a hankerchief of a head sail, and sailing downwind, it is very enjoyable. THIS is more like it. No wonder they say that "gentlemen do not sail to windward". It is so relaxing, and plus, we know that we have passed the crux, and we are going to make it.

Saturday, 11/19

The wind veers around to the ENE sooner than they had predicted, and we are beating again, in just slightly lighter winds (25 knots). I contact Bermuda Harbor Radio on the VHF at about 25 miles out and explain that we will be approaching the harbor entrance and then standing off and waiting for a daylight entrance. This turns out to be the most uncomfortable night of the trip. We try heaving to, but the wind is lighter than it was, while the seas are still heavy, which results in slatting sails. So, I decide to take down all sail, which will make us a lot more maneuverable in case we need to avoid the ship which is standing off with us, or the other ship which Bermuda Radio informs me is going to arrive at 0300 to transfer an ill Captain to shore. We rock back and forth for hours, while drifting downwind and then motoring back up. Of course, we can see the lights of Bermuda, but a nighttime approach to a strange harbor is a really bad idea. I am truly afraid that if I fall asleep, I will wake up on the rocks. Finally, at 0400, I wake up Judy and ask her to stand watch, which she does, until daybreak. At 0700, Bermuda Radio clears us to follow the cargo ship (which has been standing off with us) into port. At 0800 (opening time), we reach the customs dock. Judy signals a couple of people standing nearby, they catch our lines, and we arrive smoothly at the dock. Eventually, the Customs Officer arrives, tells us to stay on the boat for half an hour while he checks in the ship and "have a cup of tea". I tell him "Take your time, we're just glad to be here".

Thoughts

We sailed the entire 650 nautical miles, from harbor entrance to harbor entrance. It took us exactly one week. We were on the same starboard tack for the first 500 miles. It was a good weather window, in that we avoided any storms or storm force winds. But, winds of 30 knots, and more specifically the sea state associated with them, get old after a few days. We had less than 24 hours during the entire trip when the wind blew less than 25 knots. The hardships of the passage were much easier to take because we didn’t have to worry about staying warm – I was amazed at how quickly we moved into a different climate. I’m sorry that I have very few pictures on the passage – most of the time it was too rough and wet to even think about getting a camera out.

What went right:

Both engines ran flawlessly. The generator was crucial because Raymond, hard worker that he is, used a huge amount of electricity. I ended up running the generator about four hours a day at sea, vs one or two hours at anchor. A big thanks to everyone at Yankee Boatyard.

The autopliot which I installed this summer (Raymond) ran perfectly!!! This was absolutely critical. If we had had to hand steer, exhaustion would have quickly overtaken us.

The electronics worked well - i.e. chartplotter, wind instrument, VHF radio, and, importantly, the AIS receive. Although we only encountered four ships, the AIS gave me the freedom to relax and take short naps on night watch. The alarm is loud, and it is a great system. More than once, it allowed me to hail a nearby vessel by name and determine his intentions. There were brief periods where the GPS signal dropped out on each instrument, which surprised me, but in each case it was short lived.

The crew never faltered in their determination. With all the disadvantages of a short crew, this is, I believe, a huge advantage of said short crew. Judy and I are committed to each other, we threw our lots in together, and there was no wavering or second guessing on either part.

What went wrong:

As mentioned previously: furling line lead, anchor security, leaking deck hatches.

Not mentioned: On the first night out, the domestic water system started to act up, the water was coming slower and slower until it didn't come at all. I switched to the manual pump, and that lasted for about one quart. The source of the problem was a huge amount of sand/mineral deposits from the fresh water tank which had never shown up in the water before, but, with the rocking and rolling of the open ocean, came loose and clogged our pipes. We had enough water in emergency jugs so that getting enough was never an issue, but it did make it much less convenient for things like washing dishes (didn't) and washing hands (fortunately, Judy had brought some baby wipes). I am extremely grateful that this occurred to our fresh water tank and not our fuel tank. I would like to thank all previous owners of this boat for taking care of the fuel! By the way, I have since repaired the system by replacing hose and the pump (I had onboard a brand new pump that I, fortunately, decided not to replace before we left.)

THANKS:

First of all, to my First Mate, Judy, who never faltered in her resolve, and never showed any emotional weakness, even though, at times, we both were feeling it.

To my daughter, Julia, who kept a close eye on us the whole way, and kept me updated with the latest weather forecasts.

To WRI weather routers, whose forecasts were not always welcome, but were almost 100% accurate.

To everyone at Yankee Boatyard, for all the help you gave me.

To Neptune, for allowing us to play in his yard without smacking us down.

Judy and I both agree that this passage was the greatest adventure of our lives, and the biggest challenge. Having completed it successfully gives us an immense feeling of satisfaction.