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.

1 comment:

  1. Walter you are am amazing guy! I don't know how you went from a quiet psychiatrist to crazy single handed ocean going sailor.

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