There is a belief originating from old Eastern religious tradition (Buddhist I think?): We will be presented with a lesson we need to learn over and over again until the lesson is finally learned. Apparently I am still in the process of trying to learn an ancient sailing lesson: You cannot try to outrun the weather on a sailboat. We are currently comfortably nestled in Port Royal Marina near Beaufort, SC listening to the howling wind and swapping stories with new friends. It gives me a chance to reflect back to Sunday night; the danger, the darkness, the waves over the bow, and the sense of pride in using old fashioned navigation in tough conditions to bring us, finally, into safe harbor.
We departed from Fernandino Beach, FL and out the St. Mary's inlet early Sunday morning. The forecast was partly cloudy with 50% chance of Tstorms in the afternoon. The nasty Northeaster was coming in here Monday around mid-day. We saw a window of opportunity, and decided to sail 10 to 15 miles offshore all the way to Port Royal inlet in South Carolina. This would cut off over a hundred miles of motoring in the ICW, especially the dreaded Georgia stretch. It would mean a 16-18 hour sail in the ocean, arriving in Port Royal between midnight and 2:00 AM, well before the storm. It will involve a midnight entrance into an unfamiliar but well marked channel. We have a GPS showing us the way, and the channel bouys are all lit. Let's do it!
It was a perfect sail in 4 foot rollers until around 3:00 in the afternoon - a big black line of Tstorms formed in the west, a marine weather warning came over the radio, and we got beat up a little bit by gusts, rain and some lightning. But like most summer storm lines, it settled down as we enjoyed a smooth motorsail with the sun setting behind the clouds. I noticed that K was still very much on edge. Nay, scared. She didn't know why, and I wasn't going to ask anyway. Around 10:00 PM I found out why. The still air suddenly became a wall of wind from the North, blowing 20 knots, the seas leapt to life as Senara started struggling against the wind, current, and seas, all dead on her nose. No problem, we have been in this before. Roll up the Genoa, don extra rain gear, life jackets on, secure everything, and don't get impatient. No reason to overheat the motor - just keep making slow steady progress into the wind, which was now 25 knots. Waves were beginning to crash over the bow, and the glow of lights from towns on shore disappeared. The nighttime horizon was no longer visible - just black everywhere except for quick glimpses of white water just before it hit me in the face. We finally reached the first of many markers in the 12 mile long entrance channel. As the wind and seas grew more angry I noticed that it was very difficult to see the channel markers, so I relied heavily on the GPS to show me my position relative to the next mark; when we got near it, then I could finally see it. Then the unthinkable happened. The GPS flashed the words "SATELLITE RECEPTION LOST." That was the first time I felt the tingle run up my spine. I started peering into the dark, outside of the cockpit, so that I could try to see the blinking markers better - but I could not continue because of the volume of water hitting me in the face. K had gone below and spread out the paper chart to assist in figuring out our position - then she remembered that I had packed her dad's old hand-held GPS, just in case. She pressed the on button and prayed, sure enough it came up, found a satellite and showed our Lat/Lon position. She found a plastic sandwich bag to protect it from the rain and sea spray, grabbed a pad and pencil and came up to navigate us in. Now she began continously shouting our Lat/Lon while I tried to locate it on the chart as we picked our way through the channel. Now what? I noticed the bilge pump breaker switch had popped off. K wend below and re-set the switch, it started pumping water, and popped again. So K began a routine of shouting positions and making notes in the cockpit, then crawling below to continuously re-set the bilge pump breaker. After two wrong turns (one that nearly left us aground) in the pitch black howling wind we were in the harbor. We found an old abandoned wharf, and illegally lashed Senara to it for the night. OK - now we are safe - by the way, what time is it? Maybe 1:00 or 2:00 AM? I looked at my cell phone: 5:35 AM Monday morning! As the adrenaline subsided we both collapsed in a shivering heap under the blankets. When the sun came up, I saw what caused so much of our problem. The cold air and rain had created a low layer of fog on the surface of the water. The wind was whipping the fog into an eerie smoke like layer that distorted vision and covered up most of the channel markers. What a night.
We departed from Fernandino Beach, FL and out the St. Mary's inlet early Sunday morning. The forecast was partly cloudy with 50% chance of Tstorms in the afternoon. The nasty Northeaster was coming in here Monday around mid-day. We saw a window of opportunity, and decided to sail 10 to 15 miles offshore all the way to Port Royal inlet in South Carolina. This would cut off over a hundred miles of motoring in the ICW, especially the dreaded Georgia stretch. It would mean a 16-18 hour sail in the ocean, arriving in Port Royal between midnight and 2:00 AM, well before the storm. It will involve a midnight entrance into an unfamiliar but well marked channel. We have a GPS showing us the way, and the channel bouys are all lit. Let's do it!
It was a perfect sail in 4 foot rollers until around 3:00 in the afternoon - a big black line of Tstorms formed in the west, a marine weather warning came over the radio, and we got beat up a little bit by gusts, rain and some lightning. But like most summer storm lines, it settled down as we enjoyed a smooth motorsail with the sun setting behind the clouds. I noticed that K was still very much on edge. Nay, scared. She didn't know why, and I wasn't going to ask anyway. Around 10:00 PM I found out why. The still air suddenly became a wall of wind from the North, blowing 20 knots, the seas leapt to life as Senara started struggling against the wind, current, and seas, all dead on her nose. No problem, we have been in this before. Roll up the Genoa, don extra rain gear, life jackets on, secure everything, and don't get impatient. No reason to overheat the motor - just keep making slow steady progress into the wind, which was now 25 knots. Waves were beginning to crash over the bow, and the glow of lights from towns on shore disappeared. The nighttime horizon was no longer visible - just black everywhere except for quick glimpses of white water just before it hit me in the face. We finally reached the first of many markers in the 12 mile long entrance channel. As the wind and seas grew more angry I noticed that it was very difficult to see the channel markers, so I relied heavily on the GPS to show me my position relative to the next mark; when we got near it, then I could finally see it. Then the unthinkable happened. The GPS flashed the words "SATELLITE RECEPTION LOST." That was the first time I felt the tingle run up my spine. I started peering into the dark, outside of the cockpit, so that I could try to see the blinking markers better - but I could not continue because of the volume of water hitting me in the face. K had gone below and spread out the paper chart to assist in figuring out our position - then she remembered that I had packed her dad's old hand-held GPS, just in case. She pressed the on button and prayed, sure enough it came up, found a satellite and showed our Lat/Lon position. She found a plastic sandwich bag to protect it from the rain and sea spray, grabbed a pad and pencil and came up to navigate us in. Now she began continously shouting our Lat/Lon while I tried to locate it on the chart as we picked our way through the channel. Now what? I noticed the bilge pump breaker switch had popped off. K wend below and re-set the switch, it started pumping water, and popped again. So K began a routine of shouting positions and making notes in the cockpit, then crawling below to continuously re-set the bilge pump breaker. After two wrong turns (one that nearly left us aground) in the pitch black howling wind we were in the harbor. We found an old abandoned wharf, and illegally lashed Senara to it for the night. OK - now we are safe - by the way, what time is it? Maybe 1:00 or 2:00 AM? I looked at my cell phone: 5:35 AM Monday morning! As the adrenaline subsided we both collapsed in a shivering heap under the blankets. When the sun came up, I saw what caused so much of our problem. The cold air and rain had created a low layer of fog on the surface of the water. The wind was whipping the fog into an eerie smoke like layer that distorted vision and covered up most of the channel markers. What a night.
I know that we should not have assumed the time frame in the forecast was correct. With a big storm, you just don't know how fast or slow it is really moving. But thinking back, mostly I am proud of us. K was an incredible thinker, problem solver, and navigator. I will not do long distance cruises without her aboard. We remained calm, and took what was being dished out until we were safely tied up. Lessons learned: 1) We have become sailors. 2) If a big storm is within 48 hours of arrival, don't go sailing! 
Smoke on the water. In the calm of the harbor the next morning.
1 comment:
Yowza!
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