Tuesday, July 30, 2019

The daily update

We anchored for two nights in Rockport, the other side of the peninsula from Gloucester. The windlass brought up the anchor just fine. So far it is 1 for 1. The chain links I found were irregular on one side, not rounded like normal chain. I think I could feel a slight bump as they rode over a post inside windlass. Maybe those irregular edges will wear down. I will look for more chain. 

We are on our way to Portland. No wind. I left York at 0530 in a slack tide. Current rips through the narrows. I had difficulty rowing against it. The York harbormaster shared all sorts of knowledge. 

We are planning for some shopping, including a replacement Fortress anchor, in Portland as well as a rendezvous with a good friend who has been receiving packages for us. 

Monday, July 29, 2019

Dug in deep

We plan to spend most nights at anchor over the next year so I bought an oversized modern design and it passed its first test the other day.  The story begins with me not checking the forecast because we were almost out of data, having let the kids stream a movie  We anchored in a spot where the wind was blocked by the land but it turned (as per the forecast I had not sought) and began blowing hard from the direction of open water where it had plenty of fetch, or room to pick up speed.  A local restaurant reported a gust of 70mph.  We could gauge, by lining up buildings on shore, that our anchor was not dragging but still put out a second anchor.  The problem was that the waves were steep and fast, causing the bow to lift and dive, making my two young crew members sick.  

My focus was how I could get the kids off the boat.  Kate was right that we should not try to make it to shore the inflatable dinghy with its outboard motor.  Our current situation was uncomfortable but getting in the dinghy would be dangerous.  The kids were the most calm when I started reading a book out loud, but I would still be distracted checking to make sure we were not dragging the anchor.  A loud crashing sound jolted my mind to other concerns.  After a large wave the boat had come down on top of the rowing dinghy which had been pulled alongside so it did not damage the windvane mounted on the stern. In my haste to simplify things I just set that dinghy free.  Of course I immediately regretted that decision as I imagined it being battered by waves against the shore.  Now my mind was really a mess as I worried about the sick kids and my poor dinghy. I did not get back to reading and things began to unravel.

Kate and I decided that I would take the inflatable ashore, rescue the rowing dinghy and see about bringing Gryphon into the harbor.  It’s a good thing I did not bring the kids on that dinghy ride, but inside the breakwater it was calm.  I anchored the dinghy, waded ashore and ran back along the beach, exhausted by running on sand.  The dinghy survived, but was missing one side of the teak floor boards, an unfortunate loss.  I then visited the harbor master who did have room for me inside the harbor.  It was left to my judgement whether I could get the boat off anchor, underway and maneuver into the harbor.

As I returned to the boat in the inflatable I could see that the line tied from a post on the boat to a point 10’ down on the anchor chain had parted. This line is called a snubber and takes the tension off the windlass, the winch attached to the boat end of the anchor chain.  Ordinarily I attach this line to the chain by a hook, but that had gone missing so I had tied it on, submitting it to chafe.  The pressure put on the windlass by the parting of that line may or may not have had a bearing on what happened next.

It was now blue sky but windy with steep waves continuing to pitch the boat.  We waited for a bit of calm then, as Leif drove the boat forward I cranked our manual windlass and Kate relayed messages.  The wave we were trying to avoid then lifted the bow up and the windlass gave way, releasing about 10’ of chain.  Then it stuck in place.  After that it was jammed and would no longer crank up the chain.  I thought for a second about bringing in the chain by hand, something I had done many times before in calmer water, but wisely considered the risk of losing my fingers should another wave grab the chain before I could release it.

As I walked back from the bow to reconsider our options, I saw our inflatable drifting to shore just like our rigid dinghy had done only an hour before.  This rubber boat was going to fair even less well in the surf.  I stripped down, donned a life jacket and swam to shore.  I swam like mad, thinking about Jaws (which was filmed here), could barely stand when I reached the shore, saved our second dinghy, but could not relaunch it in the surf so could not get back out to the boat.  

Shoes full of sand, wearing only a swimsuit and a life jacket, and without a boat to get there, I was ferried over to the harbor master by the bike ferry.  The assistant harbor master now offered to go pick up the kids in their boat.  Why had I not thought of that hours ago?  But arranging that was going to be delayed, so we checked in with the Coast Guard to see if they could do it.  I was concerned at this point that the kids and Kate are on the boat with a broken windlass holding one of the two anchors and I could not get back out there.  

The harbor master did end up retrieving Kate and the kids.  But I had expressed concern about raising the anchors to the Coast Guard and they were out at the boat before I really consider solutions. Two of their guys on Gryphon, with their 47’ cutter towing, could not raise the anchor. They ended up dragging my anchor out with a shackle around my chain.  The rode to the second anchor broke as they were doing this and I lost it.

As the winds and seas settled down that evening I went looking for the dinghies. I could see two people way down the beach by the rowing dinghy. By the time I got there just the man remained, having a smoke as he sat on the boat. “Am I sittin’ on your boat?” he asked. I said I was just happy to be retrieving it and wished I could find the floor boards. It turns out he and the woman had been speculating on how the boat got there and she had seen the floor boards while walking her dog. I kept walking and caught up with Maureen, a year-round resident who avoids the grocery store during tourist season. She pointed me further down the beach and had words of encouragement for my family adventure which was feeling doomed.

The next day found me fixing the windlass on a picnic bench outside Edgartown Bike Shop. It turns out my manual windlass works via two larger than usual bicycle chains, one of which had broken. The owner was cheering me on.  He had leant me his smallest chain tool and had found some of the right size chain in his back shed. 


Looking back, the first mistake was not knowing this weather was coming. The second was releasing the rowing dinghy which started a cascade of events. The equipment issue involved not having a anchor hook for snubber line which resulted in extra strain on the windlass before it broke, too, though ironically I knew I had lost the snubber hook and had actually ordered a new one the day before. My focus on the kids’ comfort was good but I failed to realize that when I was reading to them we were safe and they were ok. I should have kept doing that while monitoring the situation. I also should have considered the option that someone else could come take the kids off the boat. It is good that I did not try to pull the anchor in by hand. That anchor was in hard. There is a steep learning curve for this adventure. Hopefully we won’t have too many punishing days like this one.

Tuesday, July 23, 2019

A little help from my friends

We are anchored off the beach where they filmed Jaws.  Thinking of that made diving off the boat yesterday a bit spooky.  It is rainy this morning and quiet while the rest of the crew sleeps. This weather will change the pace of things.  We’ll probably play a lot of games, maybe break out the musical instruments.  It would be nice if the weather allows us to get to the library and download books onto the iPads.  

The remarkable thing about the trip so far has been the generosity of people we’ve met.  Because. I did the Bermuda 1-2 race in June I needed a crew member.  Finding crew is always hard and I couldn’t find anyone from Minnesota so I reached out to another competitor which led me to Gerry Leger and the people of Ram Island Yacht Club in Noank, Connecticut.  Gerry is an electrical contractor who has started two businesses and who  employed his skills to fix all sorts of things on the boat even when I was back home in Minnesota to work.  He came out to Bermuda for a week before the return leg with his wife Amy, but spent nearly all his time helping me put the boat back together.  

Gerry introduced me to Sandy Van Zandt, a retired sailmaker who built a boat and sailed it around the world with his wife Sidney.  Somehow I made an immediate comment ion with Sandy that first day I arrived from Maine.  He noticed my drooping spreader immediately and has not stopped helping me out.  We designed a stowage shelf for the sewing machine and created a foam and metal insert for the centerboard trunk of the dinghy to prevent water from coming in while towing it.  He and Sandy picked us up from the train station with our year’s worth of stuff and continued to drive us around all week.  Sidney took Kate to the grocery store twice and anticipated our need for laundry before we even thought to ask.  And all the while they filled us with knowledge and stories about their sailing trips.  Sandy, at 87 years old and after a career in the industry, has quite a few stories to tell.

Mac Turner, along with Sandy, stepped in to do my safety check before the race after my trip down from Maine was delayed and I missed my scheduled check in Newport. The safety check is not merely an inventory but a several hour discussion and I had he not done that I would have needed to fly out east again in the midst of our preparations for this year aboard. He then found a way to get way into the binnacle and replace the piece that attaches my engine shifting cables.  He let me use his mooring while he is up in Maine for the month, has suggested stop overs for my route north and is staying in touch for my little questions underway with the plan to rendezvous when I arrive.  

Dan and Claire from the 1-2 recommended our current anchorage in Menemsha and have offered us a place to stay in New York.  Brian from the 1-2 has offered a place in Annapolis.  Gerry’s friend Brian arranged for my electronics to get replaced in record time, between the race and our departure, and he facilitated getting my outboard repair done same day.  The electronics installer, Lucas, who has started his own business Ocean state Marine and who is a family friends with the Van Zandt, could not have been more helpful.  Doug and Tony and Craig all helped redesign my Solent halyard after it chafed on the way to Bermuda.  Kristen, who recently spent a year aboard, has offered to share her connections throughout the Caribbean and ship us stuff anywhere.  She also explained the practice of calling out for other kid boats when approaching anchorages in the Caribbean.


I once asked one of the guys, maybe it was Mac, why everyone was being so helpful.  “We’ve all been there” was the reply.  I like to think of myself as self-taught and self-sufficient, but its not true.  It is people like this who have taught me how to do this and who are making it all possible    













Tuesday, July 16, 2019

Being a liveaboard

Today I introduced myself as a livaboard for the first time. Not in an ostentatious way, but merely as the most direct way to describe my situation to a mechanic. That was fun.

We have been on the boat just over 48 hrs at this point. Day 1 was hard, but 2 has been better. We flew out Sunday (day 0) after an all-nighter spent packing and preparing the house for the renters. We had 7 bags and carried on a 50 lb sewing machine. I am supposed to be taking it easy after my back injury during the Bermuda 1-2 race which was hard to do. We took a bus from Boston airport to South Station. Graciously some former liveaboards, Sandy and Sidney Van Zandt, means t us at the train station and forced some pizza into us before we passed out. 

Monday was one thwarted project after another. I couldn’t get the propane working. The sensor to detect stray gas (a big deal on boats because propane is heavier than air and will settle in the bilge until BOOM) had been flooded with salt water and I was determined to save it. The kids had a broken shelf in the V-berth. The countless smack landings after being launched off a wave in the race had broken a bracket. I glued it but it cracked a second time when I tried larger screws. The kids are stubbing their toes on floor boards that have swollen and won’t sit flat. AndvI tried to take the kids for a dinghy ride with our new outboard but it wouldn’t start. And all this “fun” is just making my back hurt.

Fast forward to today and it’s like you can’t give me a project I can’t solve. The propane works, shelf is up, the floor boards are in, the fridge works, I have a plan for building a plan for how I’ll stow and secure the sewing machine and I have figured out why the outboard won’t start. Each of these successes involved someone helping me out and I am fortunate to find such generous people. The list of repairs is still long, but making progress has buoyed my spirits. 


Sometimes fixing things on a boat involves getting into small spaces. Having little people onboard is going to prove useful!

Sunday, July 7, 2019

Field report from the Bermuda 1-2

They can’t really teach you how to sail single-handed. They can teach you how to sail, but when you’re actually single-handed, there’s no teacher. And being alone makes all the difference. It seems to completely change things having even one other person aboard. So I suppose the only way to learn is to just do it which is exactly what I am doing.

Don’t get me wrong, I have tried to learn everything I can before coming out here. From owning small boats to bigger ones, sailing lessons as a kid (alright that was just because I didn’t have my own boat) to an ASA class as an adult (so they’d let me charter), racing my own boat and crewing on passages. I’ve developed self-sufficiency by attempting many of my own boat repairs. I’ve read books on sail trim, engine repair, storm tactics, you name it. Most sailors don’t read these books.

As soon as I did my first passage as crew with 59-North I knew I wanted to do more. But I also wanted to create my own experience. I want to understand the big picture as well as the details, how everything goes together to create and manage a boat that is propelled by the wind. I wanted to understand and be responsible for decisions involving routing and weather. Of course you’ve got to own your own boat for that.  If you simply want the experience of sailing I do not recommend that you buy your own boat because there is always someone you can go sailing with or some opportunity to rent a boat. Let someone else deal with the expense and the commitment. But if there’s no way around it, you need to get your own.  So I bought one which an offshore racer and sailing coach told me was a sought after boat for the Bermuda 1-2.

The Bermuda 1-2 is a race from Newport, Rhode Island to Bermuda. You race out there single-handed and back with a partner, thus the 1-2. They hold it every other June and get around 30 crazy souls to do it. They do make it a learning experience. They have requirements in regards to how you’ve prepared your boat. They make you demonstrate that you have sailed the boat alone in the ocean. They have a safety list and an inspection which is not only an inventory review, but a long discussion about what-ifs. They have seminars on the Gulf Stream in which they discuss the eddies surrounding the stream and its meanders and how we use satellite infrared and altimetry data to predict those variables. They promote cooperation within the competition and encourage continued communication at sea. And then they set you out there.

Shortly thereafter things begin to break. For me my autopilot stopped working an hour before the start. I didn’t tell anyone for fear they’d say not to go. I’d fixed it before and I had a back up, a wind vane, a mechanical device that steers to the direction of the wind. I got it working again but my repair lasted a day into the 5 day race. And even though I had a wind vane, I had not learned to use it. Another loss was the central computer which uses GPS to position me on a computerized chart. I resorted to a hand held Garmin GPS and paper charts which, like everything else got wet so the only way I could mark my position was to dab with a sharpie. GPS was registering somewhere because the computer was able to give me speedover ground as well as speed through the water. I could no longer see other boats on AIS, a tool by which boats broadcast their position to avoid collision, though I was later reassured by another competitor that others could still see me.  I eventually found a way to get radar working again although I began to worry that messing around with things would jeopardize what electronics did work. That is the problem with all this system integration—one thing goes snd everything else follows. Besides the electronics, I have two issues with sails. I lost use of the Solent, my “lower gear” head sail for winds over 20 because the halyard on the newly arranged system chafed through. And I ripped the luff of the mainsail because I had something tied to the mast when I tried to shake out a reef, something I had told myself not to do. And I was measuring sea temperature with a cheap fish tank thermometer which I dangled in the toilet. The probe got sucked into the flushing mechanism and and I could not get it back. It went down with the next poop.  

Of all these, loss of autopilot was the most significant challenge, but it proved to be an opportunity as it forced me to learn the wind vane. The way it is with the wind vane you can’t just set your direction. You have to first set the sails, then you find the best direction to go with this sail combination. If that is not the direction you want to go, you reset the sails and once again find the groove of that sail set. Once you have found the right groove, you angle the vane directly into the wind which of course changes on its own and varies with direction and speed of the boat. The vane is also behind you so as soon as I would turn around to check if it’s angled right, I went off course. Then once I had everything lined up, I’d engage the vane. But that means getting a little metal peg into just the right hole and the holes are moving with the waves. Then when you get it in the right hole, which might take several tries, you watch and fine tune. Sometimes it is not right and you start at the beginning again. This took hours the first several times.

The vane steers according to the apparent wind.  That is the wind across the deck of the boat which is the combination of the real wind and the wind created by the boat speed. As the wind changes, the apparent wind changes and the vane has to be realigned slightly. This also means that if the boat slows down, such as when trying to accomplish sail changes, the vane cannot steer the boat well.

I had intended to use the wind vane as my steering devise this trip. If the autopilot had not failed I would have used it a lot less. In those times when it took hours, or when i set the vane but it would fall off course and start heading towards a jibe, I would have resorted to autopilot rather than work through the frustration and figure out what I was doing wrong. Human nature being what it is and given how tired I am I would have taken the easier route.

And as I am trying to figure all this out, the ocean tosses my 15,000 lb boat so that it lands with a smack and a shudder. Inside the cabin I hear the creaks and imagine it being ripped apart by the wires that hold up the mast and restrain the sails. I am always wet, soaked if I’ve recently been on the foredeck, though I still try to avoid the deluge of salt water that periodically comes flying into the cockpit. Comfort is hardly a consideration, though I do try to maintain a corner of dryness in my bunk. Outside all I can see is ocean in every direction. Nature doesn’t care if I live or die. It will just convert me to another form. It is not so much a battle with nature as cooperation with nature, doing what I can to stay on course within the limits the environment creates.

Factor into all of this the fatigue. I am trying to walk and cook and repair things on a platform that rolls, yaws, pitches, heaves, surges and sways. I have had my dinner flung threw the air and my body flung through a closed door. Something I want will be just out of reach but considering the energy it would take to muscle myself out of whatever seat I am wedged into, and the need to time my movements with those of the boat, I just look at it. 

Sleep deprivation adds to the fatigue. They say we are supposed to wake up every 20 mins to scan the horizon. Twenty minutes is how long it takes for a ship to appear from over the horizon and run us down. There are a few immortal people this 20-minute cycle seems to work for. The rest describe being dopey and stupid by the end of the trip. It seems there are a lot more bad stories from this polyphasic sleep delirium than there are of people getting run over by ships. To each his own, but poor sleep does is not going to help decision-making. I did get some sleep, more when the AIS and radar still worked, and I forced myself to stop for meals.

Combine the equipment losses, the fatigue and the challenging environment and it all begins to take an emotional toll. It’s draining and can be overwhelming. I am physically tired, sleep-deprived, bashed about and alone as they start taking my tools away.  My mind was prepared to think about sailing fast but is distracted by problems. I’m digging out manuals and spare parts, texting people on land, wedging myself into corners of the boat. Once I lost the ability to shift gears of my motor which I realized because I could not put it into reverse to feather the propeller after running the engine. Several hours later I had it figured out that I could shift by gaining access to the engine through a storage locker and manually push the transmission lever, using a hammer as a hand extender. These random problems keep coming up. The ocean is so rough on my boat that screws holding up the ceiling panels fall onto the floor. The repairs never stop.

Seven other boats have dropped out so far. I have no idea what they encountered. We each have to make our own decisions and far for me to second guess someone else’s. Most of us know every inch of our boats. We have spent over a year preparing them. I had what I considered “my team” which included professionals, who I paid, dearly, and also fellow sailors who helped because they’d once been in my shoes. Everyone on my team has been interested in my goal and invested in my success. Each helped me learn. So it is giving up a lot to turn back.

Single handed ocean sailing seems to be all about dealing with problems alone, sometimes fixing them but always accepting them. It is about dealing with very tough situations in a hostile and unrelenting environment. I find rare moments of comfort, but for the most part I’m uncomfortable . It is about knowing when to be exceedingly focused and making deliberate decisions.  It is about being safe because consequences are dire and help might not be there in time if at all.

The potential for injury is another threat. Short of a problem so severe as to require evacuation and loss of the boat, I need to keep my body going. Cuts and scrapes that are not going to heal while bathed in salt water frequently need dry bandaids and Neosporyn. After twisting my knee I was extra careful for a few days and supported it with an ace bandage. I consciously avoid risks, like going out into the cockpit unprepared during a storm, which for some reason I was foolish enough to do when I had crew onboard. 

I learned that emotions can run intense while alone out on the ocean. The highs are amazing. The lows are devastating.  Good thing is, my mind does hold onto the lows and I tend to remember the highs. The highs may be moments of contemplation when I see nothing but water around me or holding onto the dodger with both hands, watching the power of Atlantic gale as my boat rides over waves the size of small houses. At times the sailing is unreal, like gliding under stars on a smooth sea in a sensory deprivation state because I cannot see further than 5 feet off the side of the boat. And then there was the whale, who on a grey, quiet morning surfaced less than a boat length away and alerted me to his presence by his loud breath. I wonder how long he had been watching me, another sentient being but one at home in this territory.  At the other extreme the lows can be numbing. When a big problem is discovered, adding to the litany of others that I am working to solve, on top of the fatigue, I feel overwhelmed. My movements and decision making slow down. I do not feel anxious, but I am extremely methodical out of concern that any poorly thought out plan could make things worse. I have a conscious awareness that I am on my own. It’s worse when it’s all my fault, which it usually is. But even if it is something like the yard forgetting a cotter pin, I own the problem now. For little things, like having the granola I have just put in a bowl flipped across the room as I am reaching for the blueberries , my emotions come out and I’ll curse and swear. But the big problems numb my emotions. I postulate this occurs because expressing anger or feeling anxious is going to do nothing to solve the problem and is a use of energy that I cannot spare.

Many other people report experiencing voices. That did not happen to me, but I wonder if it is a similar phenomenon as my intense emotions given that hallucinations and emotions both involve the limbic area of the brain.


So here I am, continuing on with a wounded boat. Exhausted but energized. As far away from anyone, but as close to nature as I can be. Needing to communicate through writing and looking forward to the text messages from friends and my wife. I am trying to figure out single-handed sailing. I’ll have to do this race a few more times before I do. It’s test of everything you’ve got - boat, body, skills, knowledge, problem solving and emotional control.