Seas life's moments.
The pun-y title and subtitle could be part of a dad joke. Dad jokes and punny sayings have punctuated our days. They have a way of lightening even the most monotonous tasks, don’t you think?
Each time I pause to write, I am astonished by the amount of time that has passed. How can it be? Last week, I sent a news piece to my kids via our family chat that spoke to this. They were together in San Diego, spending time soaking up some sun and enjoying our family’s newest addition, Ryland. We exclaimed how much Ryland changes daily and how fleeting her babyhood seems(sleepless nights aside).
According to researcher, Peter Tse, neuroscientist at Dartmouth, our brains perceive time in multiple ways. When we process lots of information, either in a joyful moment or a stressful one, time seems to slow down because our brains are paying attention and all this attention becomes the stuff of memories. On the other hand, when we engage in lots of routine tasks, Tse reports, “our sense of time retrospectively is compressed.”
https://www.npr.org/transcripts/1139781674 To reignite the joy of childhood, learn to live on 'toddler time'
I’m not sure what that means for our sense of time here in Fort Pierce. The weeks have flown, certainly a combination of novel and routine experiences. We’ve enjoyed very special visits with family and friends. I’ve punctuated most mornings the last few weeks with a yoga class at 8:30 in the morning just outside the marina gate with new marina friends and a fine yoga teacher, Virginia, I met by chance.
We have explored the local farmers’ market offerings and those at several eateries. Joe and I have exchanged boat cards with other cruisers, sometimes sharing conversations, important weather and cruising information, and not often enough, libations. We took a little time yesterday to explore the very interesting Backus Art Museum just up the street.
Above: Ellen and Dave Reynolds, from Lansing, NY drove up from Jupiter to share stories, see the boat and eat delicious key lime pie with us. Joe’s Aunt Janet(his mom’s sister) and son, cousin John, drove from Vero Beach to tour the boat, share lunch and key lime pie(yup- a theme!)
We’ve downloaded updated charts covering the Bahamas, chased down water tank leaks and venting issues, readied the water maker system for commissioning, installed tank tenders to monitor our water levels, scrubbed our teak and applied 3 coats of Semco stain to the teak on deck and in the cockpit, reorganized our stores to better reflect our needs and completed some long-term provisioning. Joe has run some electrical wires, adding outlets where they were needed. He has ‘excited’ our batteries to see if they will better hold a charge and delay replacing these.
The list of tasks could comprise the entirety of this blog post(I will spare you) so I will say this. As I’ve hung over the side of the boat to scrub or apply stain, I’ve been distracted by dolphins leaping all around me. An osprey, perched on a sign about 100 yards from the boat, surveys me while also scanning the water for fish. Egrets, crows, seagulls, pelicans and herons glide and splash around us. This is the stuff I won’t forget, don’t want to forget.
Above: Sue and John Avenall traveled from SC to visit John’s sister Patt(above right) and Carl Feurerbach and us. Sue and Joe met in 1978 and shared some crazy adventures- some on sailboats. Still friends! Carl and Patt have been amazing resources, patient Uber drivers, last-minute overnight hosts and good friends!
Besides the list of departure tasks that we are slowly but surely checking off, there are those monotonous, daily tasks. I’m putting this post together on the balcony overlooking the marina, pausing to switch laundry. Meals still have to be created and cleaned up after. The eating part never seems to feel like a chore, does it? And yet, laundry time often means a chance encounter with a fellow boater or a chance to look over the books and other items left in the free pile in the laundry room or lounge.
Dinner preparation may mean walking to the nearby bakery to grab a loaf of French bread, trying Bubba’s smoked fish spread, or making a glaze of that freshly-squeezed orange juice that needs finishing. Cold weather means trying stovetop baking in my cast iron dutch oven. Checking out equipment for offshore also means experimenting with making yogurt from milk powder in the thermos and practicing dinghy driving through the mangroves as well as making exhaustive inventories of spare parts and provisions. Pantry in Paradise app- can be used at home
My stovetop baking set up. The induction burner was too cool.the top goes on for baking.
Speaking of making memories, I left you readers in Southport, NC. We were rested and ready to depart for Charleston, SC.
11/19/22-Leaving Southport was sunny and cold. We smoothly pushed off the pier thanks to Ian, the master of the dock, a true dock-master. The space between boats could be measured in just a few feet and he knew exactly how the boat would react in the wind.
We sailed along, making progress for a time, flying both the main and jib before settling on just the jib as the winds lightened and shifted dead downwind. Porpoises leapt alongside our boat as we exited the Cape Fear River and headed offshore. The seas were about 3 feet and rolling a very tolerable amount. I cooked a hot breakfast of oatmeal with blueberries, dried apricots and little cardamom. Joe attached a lure to the fishing line and dropped it over the stern, hoping to catch some dinner as we moved along.
For a few hours we sailed merrily along, the winds and seas just as predicted.
The further south we went, though, the lumpier the seas grew. The winds kept increasing- and so did the seas. The wind and seas far exceeded the orginal forecast. Instead of up to 5% of waves at 2 meters(6 feet) we now estimate they were at 6 feet or above more than 60% of the time.
After nightfall, seas and winds did not decrease as predicted; they instead continued to increase the closer we got to Charleston. Joe reassured me that as we drew closer to land, the winds SHOULD decrease and therefore the winds. We were less than 6 miles offshore heading toward the channel and the seas grew to 7 feet or greater. The winds were gusting above 30 knots and things weren’t getting better. Shoals line the north side of the channel and in his merchant seaman days, Joe had seen sailboats aground on those rocks. Not a pretty sight.
We still had several hours before daylight. We radioed pilots to find out the actual conditions in the channel. No one seemed interested in responding to sailboaters. Literal radio silence.
We were close enough to use our cell phones to find out weather conditions inside the harbor. The wind was over twice the orginal prediction: 20 knots and gusting to 30. We were going to be heading in with all that wind on an opposing flood tide. Our guides said that more than 10 knots of wind(all of our gribs agreed that it would be 10 knots) would make a really rough ride- and perhaps a very dangerous one.
Joe looked at me a bit grimly and gravely. He knew of my impending restaurant reservations and planned culinary tour. More importantly, he was well briefed on my insistence that we only sail for 24 hours at a time until I become more experienced and confident.
He quietly but firmly said: “I am not feeling good about this. We need to go on.”
To which I queried: “ How far?”
He regarded me gravely. “Not sure. We have to look at the tides. We could go all the way to Florida and be there in about 24 more hours.”
Me: “I don’t want to tour Florida. I hate Florida. It is a state with too much pollution and too many Trumpers. Florida was just a place to leave the boat." Okay, not my finest hour.
I looked at Joe’s eyes again. I gulped. At this point, I felt like I was in a nightmare of a carnival ride: part rollercoaster, tilt-a-whirl, and one of those ride-the-bull attractions you find bars. And then, I realized, we weren’t able to get off. Waves of panic and yes-some fear. I really didn’t feel equal to this task.
Joe’s eyes were soft and full of concern mixed with a little fear of his own. Concern for our predictament. Concern for how I would feel about sailing after this leg. Would I be done? Would our adventure be “ruined?”
Yup staged photo. Survived, sense of humor intact!
The anger and fear I felt swirled together into an ugly stew that coursed through me momentarily. We have always agreed that we go with the most cautious member of the crew. So, we would not go to Charleston. Yet, the caution in me had meant that we would not sail for more than 24 hours. Now we were going to be at sea for 48 hours. Or more.
I looked at Joe resolute. “I’m ready to go on. We have to, obviously. It is the smart decision not to go to Charleston. We will find our next place.” Inside, I felt nauseous and numb. I worked to steady my breathing(thank-you, yoga practice) and recited a mental list of other “hard” things I’ve done to bolster my confidence.
With that, we went back to rocking and rolling until mid-morning when it was comfortable enough to choose the next safe harbor for which tides and entrance time were favorable.
Brunswick, Georgia was the choice.
I began to text my sister-in-law Maureen, our safety person, through our Iridium Go, advising her of change in plans, as well as my family. Maureen graciously helped me research marinas- all through satellite texts. I tried my sat phone to connect with the Brunswick Marina but they could not hear me well enough to take my reservation. We were, however, able to ascertain that there would be space.
I reached out to my friend, Teresa, who currently lives in Brunswick and she was excited to have us.
I realized that I needed to reach deep. We spent the early part of the day in the cockpit, side-by-side. I thought through all the tasks I already did at the helm. I thought of contigencies. The weather had settled somewhat and I sent Joe to sleep for a few hours. One hour passed. I was good. Another hour. Still good. Sunset. Still fine. Then past sunset, I decided I should wake him up and we should have some dinner. I was able to create sweet potato risotto with a small side salad. After dinner, I went off to sleep until I was dreaming that the whole world was shaking. Two am. Joe welcomed me back to night watch with hot coffee, warm affection and bleary eyes. He needed a few hours.
At the helm, Joe briefed me on the sails, progress, conditions and directions. I felt surprisingly okay. Alone on watch, I felt the moonlight on our stern. I watched the stars overhead and the lights of boats in the distance. I studied the gps, adjusted the sails and our course direction. I felt comfortable, munching the last two chocolate biscotti and nibbling on dried ginger as I sipped my coffee, my hands jammed in my pockets filled with handwarmers. All felt peaceful.
One hour. Two hours. Three hours. I felt serene. The boat motor sailed on, just a small bit of the jib out. We needed to make slow progress and we were. Four knots. Five knots. 3.8 knots. At dawn, I woke Joe to be sure we were on course.
I write this, sitting at Teresa’s table. Sweet potatoes and squash from Farmers Markets we’ve visited are baking in the oven. Teresa’s delicious rice is waiting, as well as a salad she has prepared from more of my market haul. Joe’s fish is thawing. Fresh tuna for dinner!
With the drama on the high seas, we forgot about the fishing line. A little tuna found the hook in the early morning. A bit of a bloody mess, but still delicious!
Joe is voyage planning across from me. Where will we go next? Stay tuned!
1/27/23-Coming back to the present moment… We are again voyage planning…