Single-handed ocean sailing affords a primal connection with the natural world in which you are completely dependent on yourself and your boat. Any assistance is hours or days away. I have intensely prepared myself and the boat for this experience given the significant risks. As a means of introduction I have begun to enter offshore single-handed races. These offshore events have focused my preparation through specific entry requirements. They've got me reading books, some of which scare me; networking with like-minded sailors, who generally assume I do not know what I am doing; and working with professionals who just charge a lot. Gradually I am wrapping my mind around the reality of being out in the ocean alone.
In no other sport do we personify our equipment as we do in sailing, referring to our vessels as "she." That reference acknowledges the reliance we have on our boat to carry us safely. But the safety of our boats is only as great as the thought and effort we put into preparation. An overlooked detail can cause quite a few things to unravel. Therefore our reliance is actually on ourselves, by way of how much attention we have paid to preparation of the boat. The safety of the boat is no better than the preparation we put into her, down to the last shackle. It all comes back to self reliance
The nature of racing itself is valuable because crossing a body of water quicker is safer. You are exposed to weather variables for less time.
In no other sport do we personify our equipment as we do in sailing, referring to our vessels as "she." That reference acknowledges the reliance we have on our boat to carry us safely. But the safety of our boats is only as great as the thought and effort we put into preparation. An overlooked detail can cause quite a few things to unravel. Therefore our reliance is actually on ourselves, by way of how much attention we have paid to preparation of the boat. The safety of the boat is no better than the preparation we put into her, down to the last shackle. It all comes back to self reliance
The nature of racing itself is valuable because crossing a body of water quicker is safer. You are exposed to weather variables for less time.
You either have to start off with smaller races or they'll let you do a “qualifying passage” and jump ahead. I decided to do both. There are some events that I want to do in the next year and I want to be allowed to register. The risk of only planning one qualifying event is that sailing plans don't often seem to go as planned. Indeed I, along with everyone else, dropped out of the race due to lack of wind 90 miles into it, so would not have been long enough to qualify. Even my qualifying passage almost could not be completed due to problems I will soon describe.
They probably make you do it to test your nerve as much as anything. You’re a long way out there. For my qualifier I sailed straight out, southwest into the ocean 50 miles, starting from Northeast Harbor, Maine. I turned back and came within 15 miles, near a rocky outpost with a lighthouse called Mt Desert Rock, but had to go back out again because it not only had to be 100 miles, but I had to be out 30 hours and I was back too early. At one point I was standing on the companionway ladder when I heard, before I saw, a whale come up for a rather loud breath of air less than a boat length away. He must have known about me well before I knew about him. He dove and resurfaced four more times — either that or he had four friends — before he smoothly lumbered away. The cruising guide shows silhouettes that portray how much of the whale is under water when you see them surface. This guy was probably 35’ long, or about the size of my boat.
In the morning I woke (more on sleep later) to find a large clevis pin on the deck. This pin was one-half inch in diameter and 1.75” long. Pins like this are used to attach the wires which hold up the mast so finding a loose one is bad. It was obviously used to secure something substantial, although what that was was not immediately apparent to me. The wind was thankfully light. I had an odd sense of unease, with no sight of land and a boat with something possibly very wrong. I counted the shrouds which were all there. I banged my palm on them and they were all holding. I remember thinking “Crap, if my mast comes down I am going to have to motor back and then my qualifier won’t count.” I then went downstairs to plot my position. I’m not sure why I did that, but there is something comforting about plotting position. Afterwards I have wondered if my first instinct should have been to drop the sails. Instead I was just taking it in. Then I saw it, the boom vang laying on the deck. My vang is an extendable rod and was still attached at the base of the mast, but it had fallen free of the boom. Easy fix and I was never in danger. The vang prevents the wind from lifting the boom and, close-hauled in light winds, does not come into play. However, if I had dropped the sail to relieve stress on the mast, the boom would have smashed my dodger, bending its metal frame, and jeopardized my ability to handle worse weather. Later it would settle in that whoever put my boat together missed something/ What else did they miss? It could easily have been a lot worse. I prefer a higher margin of safety.
Fast forward a few weeks and I am on underway from Somes Sound to Rockland to participate in my first single-handed race. It is 110 miles long but all within 20 miles of shore. The mast and its supports have been inspected by a different yard and I have a few new pieces of gear to play with. The trip to the start is 40 miles with light wind directly opposing me, so I am motoring, but I don’t expect to go anywhere in a sailboat without something breaking. This time the autopilot stops working. The ability to have a mechanical device steer the boat so a single person can do the litany of other tasks is vital enough to the single-hander that when I mentioned its failure to the other single-handers that night at our pre-race meeting, the story got everyone's attention. Fortunately I had saved the old, cracked electronic control unit that came with the boat after I had proactively replaced it a couple years ago. When I swapped the current one for the old, it worked. Good to save spares. And a windvane.
It became clear at the Maine Rocks Race that I need to work out sleep. For my qualifier I had set a timer, allowing myself to try and sleep for 2 hours. I had laid awake through three of these before falling asleep. For the race a seasoned competitor, who didn’t buy my argument that Mortessier seemed to let himself sleep, told me I needed to sleep in 20 min segments, in-between which I was to get up for a quick scan, not even fully awakening, then go back to sleep. Getting horizontal, he said, was essential. So beginning at sunset I started attempting rest periods in my bunk. But my mind wasn’t turning off — how could I make the boat faster, could I actually win, was it safe to have my spinnaker poled out while asleep, what was that unusual noise? If one of my alarms went off I would have to get up, but then I would reset the timer on the iPad. I eventually switched off my VHF but I am not sure I should have done that. Serenade of the Seas, the 900 for cruise ship, had probably been trying to hail me well before my AIS alarm sounded, notifying me that we were on a collision course. They turned and blew their horn in what I figured was annoyance with me.
I know I fell asleep once, but am not convinced I slept more than that. When I got tired of trying I would just get up and sail the boat.
I've rationalized that during my previous offshore passages (3 so far) I have not slept the first night, but after a while I get into a groove and sleep as soon as I hit my bunk. Hopefully I can repeat that during longer single-handed passages, but with other crew on board I get 4 hours to sleep. I am not convinced I need to or even can keep cycles as short as 20 mins. And with an alarm on my AIS transceiver, a radar guard zone and and off-course alarm on my autopilot I wonder if I have to. So sleep issues are still a work in progress.
I did feel good about my ability to prepare the boat and to sail the boat. It gave me confidence that I did not find glaring omissions in my preparation. I was a bit clumsy with the spinnaker pole, but it was brand-new to me the day before. To be extra safe I thought through my maneuvers obsessively before carrying things out, and for the most part they all went smoothly. I screwed up the gybe to put me on my final approach to Mt Desert Rock. In the dark I went to put the new spinnaker sheet on the winch and found I still had another line on it. In the moment it took to get things straightened out the big sail started to wrap around the headstay. Another time I was up on deck with my headlamp and stepped on a jib sheet and causing my foot to slide out. I was secured to the boat with a harness and tether, but still did not like landing on my butt in the dark.
I rationalize the intimidation I feel with the presumption that it would be foolish not to feel intimidated. There are no guardrails, no reliance on someone else’s liability. Out here I am completely reliant on my boat, my preparation and my presence of mind. There is ample reason to feel intimidated.
One of the wonders of sailing is getting the boat into the “groove,” in which the sails are working together to create aerodynamic lift while the water flow over the keel creates hydrodynamic lift. It’s a balanced and powerful sensation that, with skill, can be sustained. But I don’t have to go into the ocean for that. Being out on the ocean adds a sense of separation, but also connection. Out here the immersion in nature is complete, a visceral connection to a power greater than myself. The spiritual association is unavoidable.
