Let me start the tale by saying that any activity that requires me to stay up for 24 hours straight is automatically on my superlative list. I swear I don't think I have ever done that before in my life. But I knew from the first days of planning this voyage that I might need to do that on this leg. I also knew when I left Carrabelle on Wednesday night that we were pushing the envelope on the weather. The "window" for calmer seas kept getting shorter and shorter with each new weather report. But as you know from earlier postings here, I have learned to believe everything I see in the weather report!
Also, for perspective, this passage will be the longest single one of the trip. Everyone who makes this trip knows that before they start. It will be at least 155 miles across the northeastern corner of the Gulf of Mexico, assuming you go in a straight line. For East Tennesseans, imagine
sailing your boat from Chattanooga to Morristown in a day. And think of how different the weather can be over that distance...then add water.
As described in my last post, Eric and I anchored in Shipper's Cove on the west end of Dog Island. It was a great anchorage and I scared up a mean grilled chicken dinner to fortify us for the trip.
After dinner, I confided to Eric that I was a little nervous. He said, "I know. You got spooked between Pensacola and Destin. You need to get back on the horse. We'll be fine. Besides, you can't spend the winter in Carrabelle."
Not convinced, I didn't sleep much. I was vertical at 6:00 to brew coffee and prepare Agaliha for the crossing. I stored breakable glasses in my laundry. I put cool drinks in the sink where I could reach them in rough seas without opening the fridge. I rigged the "jiffy reef" line in the mainsail. I got the storm jib out from under my bunk. I rigged a "jack line" on the deck that I could clip onto if I needed to go forward on the deck in a storm.
At 6:50, one hour before sunrise, we pulled up anchor and headed to the opening into the Gulf which we passed through at 7:30. Immediately, we set the auto pilot for 144 degrees, the heading to Clearwater Pass. The forecast said the wind would be from the south and seas would be 1 to 2 feet. Instead the wind was from the east and started out at 1-2, but quickly built to 3 feet after sunrise. No big deal. The forecast said the wind would "clock" to the west and we wanted to sail because sailing is more comfortable than motoring straight into the approaching waves.
While the wind was from the east, we raised the mainsail to boost our speed from the engine and steady our pounding into the 3-foot waves. At about 9:30 the wind started clocking, which meant we had to lower the main. I hated to lose the benefits, but I was happy to see the forecast coming true. Wind from the west would be great -- and maybe the seas would lay down as forecasted, too.
Hours clicked by and I kept setting new deadlines for when we would bear off the heading to Clearwater to ease the pounding of the head-on waves. Of course, doing this could lengthen the trip if the wind never did swing to the right. For hours, we watched the wind direction indicator as it would tease to the right and then return to head-on. As I watched the fuel gauge, I redid the math in my head about our fuel supply. We were fine, but it might be a lot closer than I had predicted.
Finally, at 5:00 p.m., the wind clocked to the right enough for us to raise the main and motor sail on the opposite side of our morning sail. Hallelujah! If the waves weren't still at 2 to 4 feet, I would have made a cocktail to celebrate. Then the wind and waves started to turn to the right at a faster pace. Just before sunset the wind was coming over the starboard rail at 90 degrees to our path through the water. Sailor's heaven. We shut off the engine (ah, no noise) and rolled out the genoa, then smiled at the GPS confirmed that we were approaching "hull speed." (For non-sailors, this is the theoretical limit of the boat's speed.) For us, that meant that we were moving at 7.5 knots. The keel actually hums at this speed in a most gratifying way. As the afterglow of the sunset faded, our eyes adjusted to the quarter moon that was already overhead. Soon we saw the sky light up with stars and I had a sense of euphoria.
When I look back on this voyage, I can't imagine there will be a moment about the sea and sailing that can top 9:00 on Thursday night. We were halfway to our destination (77 miles) and 40 miles from the nearest land. There was no man-made light in any direction. The horizon was clearly visible 360 degrees from the light of the moon and stars. The seas had finally reduced to 1-2 feet and was hitting us on the beam. With the sails full and the boat heeled at 20 degrees, they were providing a gentle roll, scarcely noticeable. I said to Eric, "This is what I came for!" As a lifelong sailor, he got it, too.
Eric got sleepy and I suggested we start trading "watches." He agreed and went below to nap. About 11:00 p.m., the wind started building to 20 knots, so I decided to reef the main. (For non-sailors, this is a way of reducing the sail area by lowering the sail and rolling up the bottom 4-feet of cloth.) Because of preparations earlier in the day, I was able to do this without leaving the cockpit and without disturbing Eric. Actually, he heard the grinding winches and come up to see if I needed help (the perfect crew). For sailors, I also roller-furled the genoa to about 1/3 of it's total area to balance the helm. We were flying.
At midnight, he came up to the cockpit and offered for me to sleep. I hated to leave the near perfect conditions, but I knew I need to shut my brain down for while in case things got wild. I don't know if I ever slept, but I did go below and close my eyes for an hour.
When I came back up to the cockpit at 1:00 a.m., Eric said, "Why don't you go sleep another hour, nothin's happening up here." I told him I wasn't really sleeping and I knew he wasn't feeling good from a bout with seasickness earlier in the day. The wind continued to build, so we rolled up the genoa and sailed under the reefed main alone. When I saw the anemometer hit 27 knots momentarily, I though about putting in a double reef, but I was afraid of going forward on the pitching deck to rig the lines.
About 3:00 a.m., the moon set. Soon thereafter, I looked behind us and saw that the horizon had disappeared into total blackness. At first, I thought it was the lack of moon. Then, as I scanned the horizon, I realized it was something else. I knew from the forecast that a cold front was approaching from the north. Maybe it was arriving early?
Over the next couple of hours the blackness slowly overcame us. The stars disappeared completely. The only feedback I could get from the environment was an occasional whitecap on the sea lit by my navigational lights. I used a red flashlight to read my instruments and turned on the red cabin lights so as not to burn my retinas. At 4:00 a.m. I smelled rain and went below to put on my foul weather jacket. (Note to self, next time, put on the pants, too!) I could feel the temperature drop on my neck and the wind started to swing to the rear of Agaliha.
At 5:00 a.m. I began to be concerned that we had sails up. The rain was steady and the blackness had completely enveloped us. The only clue I had about our whereabouts or heading was coming from my instruments. I shut off the autopilot, started the engine, and turned the boat into the wind (180 degree turn) so Eric could drop the main. The noise was terrific! When I turned back downwind, I saw that the anemometer was showing 30 knots on our butt. The seas were building and I was having trouble maintaining our heading toward Clearwater. Eric suggested that maybe the autopilot could do better than me (smart ass) and he turned out to be right. Thank god for technology.
I looked at the computer and saw that we were racing toward Clearwater at over 7 knots with the engine at half throttle and no sails up. I worried about what we would do if we arrived before sunrise. Would I be able to find my way in the black ink? Would I be able to steer the boat in these huge waves on my butt? Would I know where to steer if I could?
As a quick aside, I'd like to say something about emotional swings. At 9:00 p.m. I had the greatest sailing experience of my life. Now, a few hours later, I had moments where I feared for my life. I was running survival scenarios in my head (turn west and sail into the Gulf and deeper water...activate the satellite transponder and...pray).
Well, (denouement), at 6:30 the storm passed over us and I started to see my surroundings, little by little. My instruments were telling me we were on course for the Clearwater Pass. I told Eric that he needed to be prepared for a 180-degree bailout if I got unsure of our approach. He replied, "Whatever you say, Captain." I know it was meant to be reassuring of my authority...but I wanted to slap him.
The autopilot brought us within 100 feet of the entrance buoy. So close, that I was actually worried about hitting it. On cue, the predawn light showed us Clearwater Beach and we surfed under the highway bridge and found our way to the municipal marina.
I was learning to trust my experience and my boat. I was also learning that I have great friends who trust me and are willing to give me their precious time to fulfill my dreams.
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