The weather has certainly been keeping things interesting for me the past couple of weeks. We have had two extended periods of southwest gales that really stirred things up around Cape Cod and the Islands, so I decided that I needed to move Sirocco to a more sheltered bay. This move had to take place after I had finished my regular daytime obligations, so I missed the afternoon tide and had to move the boat at midnight, as the entrance to the little bay where I planned to shelter Sirocco from the forecast strong winds is too shallow to pass at low tide. Luckily, there was a full moon to make the move easier.
I arrived at the boat ramp nearest to where Sirocco was anchored at about 2200–just in time for it to start pouring. When I left the house it had been clear. Now bands of rain and thunderstorms were rolling through. I waited a few minutes for the rain to taper off before launching my dinghy from the beach next to the boat ramp. The wind was already blowing at 20 knots out of the SW, which caused an uncomfortable chop in the harbor and made rowing more challenging. As soon as I shoved off the rain came in again, and hard. I rowed the half-mile to Sirocco through the dark and rain with a sailbag containing my pillow and some clean, recently dry bedding on my lap to keep it out of the rising water in the bottom of the dinghy. The oars occasionally caught on my cargo, causing the blades to strike the surface of the water on the return stroke, which slowed progress and showered me with salty spray.
I made it to the boat, hauled the dinghy on deck because the anchorage was too rough to leave it snatching at its’ painter, and went below to shelter and stow my sopping bedding by the light of lightning strobing through the portholes. Luckily, the wind and rain slacked off in advance of the front that was to bring the first round of gales, which made it much easier to begin hauling up the anchors. Just as I finished hauling the first anchor the wind came up all at once to 35 knots. I worked quickly to haul the other anchor. I was only able to make progress between gusts because of the pressure of the wind pushing on Sirocco.
Once the anchors were both on deck I secured them and started motoring upwind against a rapidly building chop. I was very glad that I had taken the dinghy on deck, as the wind began to gust ever higher, and the chop in Phinney’s harbor was soon up to about two feet high, with the occasional higher wave pitching Sirocco enough to cause her propeller to suck air and lose all drive. After those waves it would take what seemed like ages before the prop would bite again and Sirocco would begin to regain momentum. At least while we were stopped dead in the water there would be no spray blowing back from the bow to cover my glasses. That gave me a chance to lick them dry enough to see for a few seconds to get my bearings relative to the channel markers before Sirocco built a little speed and sent the top of the next wave showering over the cockpit.
It took an entire hour to force the boat to windward two miles to the new anchorage. I was thankful for the light of the full moon that shone down in between low, racing clouds that moved across the sky so quickly that they reminded me of some movies where the scene is an entire day that has been sped up to fit into a couple of minutes. Only the angle of the moon’s light didn’t change quickly enough to complete the effect. When possible, my attention was focused on following an electronic trail that I had previously plotted in calm weather to lead me into the sheltered bay behind Toby’s Island through a very narrow, unmarked channel. I only had one shot at it because the wind made the island and gravel bar that guard the bay into a lee shore that night. I was thankful that I had taken the time to commit the entrance to my memory as well, because I don’t like to be overly dependent on the electronics, but I needed the GPS trail to show me exactly where to turn into the bay, as the small buoys that normally mark the entrance had already been removed for the winter.
I made it through the entrance without incident and drifted downwind about one quarter of the length of the bay before turning up and dropping anchor. I set one anchor and let out plenty of scope. I wanted that anchor to dig in deep, as the overnight wind would blow to about 40 knots, according to the forecast. I reasoned that if the single anchor held, then when I set an additional anchor later on the boat would be secure enough to ride safely without me having to stay aboard. It was almost 0300 before I went to sleep to the sounds of the wind howling in the rigging. The anchor was holding fast, though, and the bay very sheltered from waves, so it was a relatively peaceful night.
After I awoke in the light of day I set a second anchor so that it also held the bow to the strong SW wind. The boat lay very quietly to the two anchors, as they worked together to keep her bow from falling off very far to either side. It was good to have the insurance of two good anchors down because that day the wind blew at up to 47 knots–a test for any boat’s gear. Once I was satisfied that the boat was holding I got in the dinghy to return to the car. Within one minute of leaving the boat on a fast downwind ride to the boat ramp a very heavy shower passed over and threatened to completely obscure the shoreline only two hundred yards on either side of my course. The deluge was short-lived, thankfully, as it also threatened to burden the dinghy with a load of rainwater. My mile-long dinghy trip back to the boat ramp was powered by the strong wind. I had only to correct my course by occasionally dragging an oar.
I contacted the town’s harbormaster during the week for permission to stay anchored in that bay for the rest of my visit here. He granted me permission to stay, so now I don’t have to worry about where I will keep the boat for the next couple of weeks until I start my trip south. The bay where Sirocco is anchored now is protected from all directions, so I don’t have to worry so much about each new wind that comes through. That is doing very good things for my peace of mind!
I sailed to Massachusetts this summer to try to avoid the worst hurricane season. I was counting on the fact that Cape Cod hadn’t been hit by a hurricane in twenty years, and the storms are usually considerably weakened if they do hit there.
The last hurricane to hit the area was hurricane Bob, back in 1991. I was at the Beverly Yacht Club junior regatta for that storm and vividly remember many boats breaking loose from their moorings in Marion Harbor. The boats that got free were washed high up onto the lawns of the ostentatious homes around the harbor. They crashed up on breakwaters and were blown onto the grounds of Tabor Academy. Some of the boats that stayed securely moored through the storm were heavily damaged when other boats dragged down on them. Even the yards weren’t safe–I remember one row of boats toppled like dominoes after one large sailboat blew over and took out its’ neighbor, starting a chain reaction. The memories of that hurricane and the resulting aftermath have made me always very cautious about properly preparing my boat for storm season.
Since I had acquired Sirocco just before hurricane season I hadn’t yet had time to outfit her with all of the heavy anchors and rodes that I feel are necessary to feel safe riding out a storm on my own gear. My best gear was stuff that I had bought for my previous boat, a Contessa 26, which was 1/3 the displacement of Sirocco. My two bower anchors are a 33-lb Rocna anchor with its’ 90 feet of 5/16″ high-test chain and 15/16″ plaited rode; and a 35-lb CQR on about 65 feet of 1/2″ BBB chain and a 3/4″ 3-strand rode–perfectly adequate for Sirocco in normal weather and even normal bad weather (up to about 40 knots), but I didn’t feel that the gear was up to holding the boat against a hurricane, even when I figured in my extra rodes, Fortress FX-23 anchor, two additional 22-lb Rocna anchors that could be used in tandem or all separately. What was missing was at least one truly honking big anchor and rode that I could rely on as a strong-point for my storm mooring setup.
Now keep in mind that all of this gear is on a relatively low-windage 28′ boat, which may sound like a lot of gear to some. But, I actually bought those anchors (except for the CQR, which came with Sirocco) for my previous 26-foot, 6,000-pound boat, and felt that my ground tackle was comfortably sized. You could say that I am pretty close to being obsessed with anchors. The reason for my obsession is simple–anchors are what let me sleep when I am not underway at night and I do so enjoy actually being able to sleep. It makes me shiver when I see other boats out cruising, even if just for the weekend, with tiny, single anchors because I know that they might someday be anchored to windward of me and start dragging.
I want the heaviest anchoring gear that I can reasonably store and handle. I want redundancy in case of breakage, loss, or tricky situations that require multiple anchors. I want, no, need heavy ground tackle because when a front comes through in the middle of the night I want to be able to look around, see that the boat is holding fast, and then go back to sleep without worrying that I am going to wake up to the sensation of the boat sideways to the seas and drifting downwind because the anchor is not holding. I sail alone quite a lot and need to be able to count on a good night’s rest if I am in an anchorage in order to be able to make good, safe decisions on the water the next day.
Anyway, with hurricane Irene bearing down on the Buzzard’s Bay area I felt woefully under prepared with the gear that I had on board. I first tried anchoring in a small, closed bay next to Phinney’s harbor that offered good holding and limited 360-degree protection, but in a 30-knot southwest wind I could see that the waves were going to be a factor. My next thought was to run north to Maine, where I could reasonably expect the winds to stay under 45 knots. The problem with that plan was that I didn’t really know Maine that well and didn’t want to sail all of that distance north only to discover that I had chosen an anchorage that had a bad bottom, or was choked with moorings, or filled with other boats there running from the storm. There wouldn’t be enough time to explore and find a good harbor if I didn’t get lucky with some good advice found through a guide or acquaintance. With the hurricane only 48 hours away I decided to stay and secure Sirocco as best I could to a 5000+ pound mooring that was offered to me to use if I wanted.
I finally decided on using the mooring because I felt confident that Sirocco could survive the wind and wave action if properly secured to sufficiently heavy gear even though the mooring was located in an area more exposed than I would have liked, with a fetch of up to 3/4 of a mile depending on the wind direction. Eve and I removed everything from the deck including the dodger, sails, boom, spinnaker pole, and even the dorade cowls. I taped the chain pipes and hatches shut.
The next task was to secure the boat to the mooring. New 3/4″ 3-strand nylon line was used to make two new 25′ mooring pennants. With Eve’s help the ends were spliced with 12″ eyes on one end and thimbles on the other and the lines were protected with lengths of fire hose and reinforced vinyl tubing. The eyes were dropped over the mooring bitts and tied down so they couldn’t come loose. The thimbles were attached to the mooring with a 3/4″ shackle. That was my primary connection. As a backup I took 5/8″ braided nylon dock lines and led them from the forward mooring cleats to the mooring. They were several feet longer than the pennants so as not to take a load unless a pennant broke. A final safety measure consisted of two 35′ lengths of 5/16″ high-test chain shackled from the mooring to the bobstay fitting. If all of the lines broke then the boat would still be chained to the mooring. Sirocco would have to drag the mooring ashore or else she would suffer major structural failure before breaking free.
The chain was purposely longer than all of the other pennants to allow the lines to stretch to absorb the shock of waves slamming into the boat. If the load came to be on the chains I was relying on the 36″ mooring ball to absorb shock with its’ buoyancy–it would sink as more and more load was placed on the mooring system. If I had planned on staying on the boat I would have attached the chain in some way that would have allowed it to have been released under load, but since I was not going to be aboard during the hurricane I opted for seized shackles since I would not be there to release it anyway.
As the wind built it became apparent that Sirocco was still mostly riding to the current rather than to the wind. This was causing her to ride over her pennants at times. I was glad that I had protected the bobstay with vinyl hose and duct tape, and made the chafing gear on the mooring pennants as long as the bowsprit. Chafe is always the biggest enemy during a hurricane. When the wind starts getting up over 60 knots even a very small harbor can build a nasty chop that will cause the boat to pitch. The resulting motion will saw through the loaded mooring lines if proper precautions are not taken. Sirocco‘s chocks are large enough for her oversized mooring lines to be protected with many layers of chafing gear. I used vinyl hose and two layers of fire hose this time. I believe that reinforced neoprene hose would have been better than the first layer of vinyl that I used.
Irene was downgraded to a tropical storm by the time it hit Buzzard’s Bay. There were still some gusts of hurricane force recorded by nearby Massachusetts Maritime Academy, with some gusts up to 85 mph. I recorded winds over 70 mph with a handheld anemometer while standing on shore near where Sirocco was moored. Even during the height of the storm Sirocco rode quietly–not sailing about excessively or heeling very far in the gusts. Sirocco is a low boat by modern standards, and that helps reduce windage, which keeps the loads lower on her moorings. I didn’t once observe her put enough load on the mooring to sink the mooring ball.
The next day we went out to inspect Sirocco and were greeted by nothing worse than a lot of bird calling cards and some seaweed on deck. Everything else was as it had been left before the storm. On closer inspection there was some minimal chafe on the fire hoses, and a little chafe on the bobstay chafe gear, and some wear on the bottom paint at the bow where Sirocco had over-rode her mooring due to the current. There was a noticeable settling of the splices in the new mooring pennants, which showed that they had come under heavy load at some point. I was happy that all of the preparation had paid off. Sirocco had come through unscathed.
I am currently shopping around for that big honking storm anchor in case I am not lucky enough to have access to a heavy mooring next time.
–So there I was (all good stories start this way, right?) in Jacksonville one night looking at boats on the Internet with my brother. We both have this addiction and were feeding it well into the wee hours–talking and dreaming. On a whim I decided to do some searching just to see what kind of deals were available down in the Keys, as we had been talking about all of the derelict boats and people down there and how there are some very good deals to be had if a boat comes up for sale before it is totally destroyed by the combination of neglect and tropical sun that destroys boats and dreams in warm ports. People sail to the tropics to relax, but once there they can easily succumb to the mañana syndrome where nothing ever gets done. They then wither and wrinkle under the hot sun, medicating themselves at the bar every evening while their boats grow barnacles and the varnish peels.
I found an advertisement for a fiberglass William Atkin cutter that looked interesting. I immediately assumed it to be one of the derelicts, as the asking price was low and there was a “must sell quickly” line in the ad. I told my brother that this was a good example of a boat that was probably already beyond saving.
But, my interest had been piqued because it was on the lines of something that I had been thinking of for a while–namely something with a little more elbow room than Cavendysh, my 25.5-foot-long Contessa 26. Life aboard the little Contessa was starting to feel like camping. OK, it had always felt like camping, but it had begun to wear on me in the hundreds of miles between Goodland and Jacksonville–the constant need to step on the dinghy; the fact that the sails are stowed on the head (toilet); and that I could never find even one thing without moving ten others. What really got me to thinking about a change was a waterspout in Key West. I decided to put out an extra anchor for insurance against the strong winds, and my extra anchors are all stored in the hanging locker opposite the toilet because the cockpit lockers are too small to fit the anchor through the openings. I had enough time to set the extra anchor that day, but in a real emergency… Well, the little Contessa just isn’t set up for things like that to happen and can’t be easily changed without major surgery.
A little more casual research on the web that night turned up an old listing with a broker for a boat of the same description as the free ad that I had found. Hmmm… This seemed a little more legitimate, since brokers usually won’t take the real basket-cases. There were pictures and the boat didn’t look too bad, so I decided to call the number listed in the free ad, since that is where I first found the boat, and maybe it had been de-listed. The next morning I left a message and decided that if the guy called me back that it would be a good excuse for a drive down to the Keys.
The owner of the boat called back a short while later and sounded sane on the phone. He wanted to sell the boat to raise money for a business venture that he wanted to go into. He sounded knowledgeable about the boat and had bought her while working in a boatyard. I made arrangements to see the boat with him thinking it would be a fun, spontaneous weekend drive. Oh yeah, the owner of the boat was staying with a friend who lives a few hundred miles away from the boat and he would need a ride down to the boat so that he could show it to me. No problem–I could pick him up on the way.
I found a compact rental car (cheaper than driving my brother’s truck 1000 miles at 17 mpg!) and was soon heading south on I-95. I met the boat owner in a Wal-Mart parking lot just off of the highway. We had plenty of time to get acquainted during the next 6 hours. He had bought the boat to live on while working at a boatyard, and had sailed it south for the winter a couple of times, following the seasonal migration of the group of boaters know as the “snowbirds”. But, it takes a lot of time to move the boat 3500 miles each year and he was tired of it, so he was looking to move out to Colorado for a drastic change of pace. There, he would go to work with a partner (the guy who dropped him off at Wal-Mart) making decorative steel holders for clay pots for houseplants. The partner had patented a design and sales seemed good at local home shows. He showed me a couple of pictures of the pot holders on his cell-phone. We passed the rest of the time talking about the boat, motorcycles, and work. The owner had a strong feeling that I was the right person for the boat.
We arrived at the backwater marina in Boot Key harbor at about 2230 to find the 5 of the neighbors out drinking on the dock. Sirocco‘s owner (who I shall refer to as “T” from here on) was immediately welcomed back with offers of cold beer and a reminder that he hadn’t finished a painting job that he had started on a powerboat nearby, the owner of which was becoming impatient. T would address that tomorrow, he said. I could see parts of the unfinished project on the dock and in the grass… The sailboat looked pretty good from the dock, though. It sat very low in the water and had awnings to keep some of the sun off–an indication that T had cared for her. The boat looked every bit an old, salty design that had been well taken care of at some point in the past, but had recently fallen on hard times. We sat on the dock talking with the neighbors for a few hours. T enjoyed a few rounds with the neighbors while I listened to the conversation. Everyone sat around for another hour or so before the gathering began to melt away. T was energetic, though, and got out his guitar. We sat on the dock and played until almost 0300, at which time I said that I would have to get some sleep for the drive back the next day.
“No problem, man. No problem. You just crash and I’ll tidy up the boat so we can sail in the morning.”
“OK T. I’ll sleep up forward. Wake me when you’re ready.”
“Roger that.”
T woke me at 0330. He was ready to go. I thought, “Well, what’s the worst that can happen?” and got out of bed. I poked my head out of the hatch into the breezy, humid night air and surveyed the thunderstorms all around us. The engine was running minutes later and we soon loosened the lines and pulled out of the slip. We unrolled the yankee (forward sail) and cut the engine as soon as we were past the pilings. I had the helm, but no knowledge of the harbor.
“That’s OK. No problem, man. I’ll talk you out. Just stay close to the pilings. You know, close, but not too close. Not too far away either. We’re good, we’re good.”
I couldn’t see much other than the lights on shore–the sail blocked my view forward, and it was dark. There was no moon because of the overcast sky. The only other light came from occasional lightning in some not-too-distant thunderheads. We followed the row of pilings closely, but not too close.
“OK, man. OK, I’m going to set the main. I don’t know if we are going to have room, but when we are past the pilings I’ll pull up the main. Try to turn into the wind. I don’t know if there is room. We’re good. We’re good. Nah, I’ll hoist it downwind. We have to turn to starboard up here–hard to starboard. There is that mark over there (points into the dark) that we have to leave close to starboard. Close, but not too close.” At this point T went forward to loosen the sail gaskets. After struggling for a few seconds with the first one he returned to the cockpit and grabbed a knife. He then went back to the sail and cut the gaskets free. That loosened the sail so it fell all over the deck, leaving me with only a view of billowing dacron. “Ok, turn to starboard. Hard to starboard. Hard to starboard.”
I could see boats up ahead and figured that we were turning into the next section of a mooring field. Soon, though I felt the boat get sluggish as she touched the mud bottom.
“Which way, T? We’re out of water!”
“Hard to starboard, you’ve go to follow it around…(boat stops dead) Where’s the mark? No, we’re past the past the mark. Hard to port. Hard to port.”
“We’re aground”
“You’ve got to go hard to port.”
“We’re not going anywhere”.
“We got to go hard to port. I’ll set the main. It will blow us right off.”
“What’s the tide doing, T?”
Now, at this point, the sail was pulling us farther onto the shoal, so I knew that setting the main was a bad idea, but there was little harm we could do in the mud besides get more stuck, so I helped put the sail up. Once it was drawing, T came back to the cockpit to see how things were looking.
” I said hard to port, man. See? we’re past the marker.” I got a flashlight and could indeed see a marker, but still couldn’t tell where the channel went from there. I shone the light into the water and could see grass waving not far below the surface. The only deep water was behind us. “Hard to port, man. Hard to port”, T continued.
At this point T took the tiller. After a few minutes of sailing the motionless boat intently and finally realizing that we were properly stuck, he decided to start the engine. The next minutes were spent shifting the engine forward and astern; revving and idling, and all the while going nowhere and mostly using the engine to pull against the still-set sail. T cracked a fresh beer.
“What’s the tide doing, T?”, I asked. Eventually I got him to agree to take the mainsail down and find me a GPS so I could check the tide. Luckily, we had grounded near low water and would eventually float free if we didn’t drive ourselves too hard into the mud. Another 15 minutes later I convinced him to roll up the yankee, which was still pulling us onto the shoal. T continued to rev the engine and drive the boat first forward and then in reverse, carefully watching our progress against some landmark unseen to me.
“She’s moving. She wants to float free. She’s moving. Just a little more. We just got to get her turned. Hard to port. Hard to port.”
I sat in the cockpit and waited for the tide to come up. I thought of taking a nap, but T was constantly talking. After a while I convinced him to shut off the engine, turn on the radio, and wait a while. He cranked some tunes and returned with a fresh beer. We talked for a while and T kept returning to the fact that we had to turn hard to port. We located the rest of the unlit channel markers with a flashlight and I finally had a good idea of where we were. The only way to deep water was straight backwards, as we had grounded at almost 90 degrees to the channel. That would be easy enough when the water came back up.
Another half-hour passed before I could feel the boat starting to rock with the little waves in the harbor. T started the engine and went to spot the channel markers. I drove for a little while and we eventually worked the boat free in reverse. Once we were floating I gave the helm to T and went to spot markers. T put it in forward and turned hard to port, but we were still too close to the edge of the channel. We went back aground. More waiting. This time we were more parallel to the channel and after T gave up trying to power us off I was able to rock the boat forward and get us free again. I gave the helm back to T and this time we stayed in deep water. I went to spot markers with a light.
“Red marker? Where are you, red?” T called out. I lit the red with my flashlight. “Thank you, red.” It continued like this the rest of the way out of the harbor. Near the harbor mouth we passed an old man sitting on a dock beneath some florescent lights. It was about 0500. T called out to the man and asked if his store was open, even though it seemed too early on a Sunday morning. The man said to check back later. “We’ll be back for some beers when you’re open,” T replied.
After the wind calmed at Sombrero Key Reef
We got out of the harbor without further incident and set the sails again. The wind was strong, and there were some thunderstorms around. It was obvious that we were going to have more wind as we went farther from land. T wanted to sail out to a reef about 6 miles offshore and tie up to a mooring ball out there. He went below for another cold one while I steered us towards the reef. At least we were finally in waters familiar to me! I had been past here two weeks before in Cavendysh and anchored right where we were now passing. As soon as we cleared the point of Boot Key, the wind came on full-force–about 25 knots. We were overpowered with all sail set and T soon went forward to pull down a reef while I steered. The boat felt heavy in the short chop, and moved along at a good speed. As soon as the first reef was in the main and we had rolled up the yankee some, the wind increased to 30 knots and we were again overpowered, but we continued on because it was only a few miles. One of the thunderstorms overtook us and we were soaked in seconds in a driving rain. I gave the helm to T and sought cover, shivering, beneath the dodger.
We approached the mooring soon after the false dawn after some confusion about where the lit tower was (hidden in a rain shower) and struck the sails to pick up the mooring under power. T drove while I went forward with a line and a boathook. We approached the moorings, which were bobbing around on 3-4 foot waves, and T carefully lined us up with the one that he wanted to pick up and turned us into the wind. I pointed at the mooring with the boathook and T carefully, slowly brought us to within 25 feet of the tossing float. Very slowly, we inched forward. Very slowly. We sat out there for several minutes within 15 feet of the ball. It was just out of reach and we were holding station (not getting closer). I looked back at T–lots of concentration back there. I could almost see an aura of focused effort radiating from the cockpit. He was doing his best through what I was pretty sure was a pretty good buzz at this point. We held station perfectly in the sloppy chop. Finally, he pushed us forward all at once. I caught the mooring ball with the boathook, but the boat was pushed back by the strong wind before I could get a line secured. We came forward again and I was successful in looping a line through the top of of the mooring ball. I got the line through and was getting it cleated when T came forward to help. He got his hand pinched between the line and the chock somehow as he helped to pull it in. I could see a little blood on the fingers on his left hand, but it didn’t look too bad, so I didn’t say anything.
Now that we were tied up we both went below to get some sleep. I went forward while T slept on a settee in the main cabin. I would have rather not been up forward because it was a bit rough out, but I was comfortable enough to sleep thanks to Sirocco‘s easy motion. I would not have been able to stay forward on my Contessa in those conditions, for sure! Soon I heard a revving propeller nearby. Some boat had come by to check on us and ask if we needed assistance–a center-cockpit boat about 21-23 feet long crewed by three men in full orange survival suits. They looked official, but I didn’t see any markings on the boat. They weren’t fishing, that’s for sure. They must have thought that anyone out there in those conditions was having trouble. T assured them that we were OK and they left.Stopping for some beer and cigarettes after the test sail.
We prepared to head back in not long after the visit by the men in orange suits. This time we didn’t put up the mainsail, as it was still plenty windy out, even though it was calmer than on the ride out. The ride back was uneventful. T kept telling me how he felt that I was the right person for the boat and what a good boat she is. We did stop for cigarettes and beer at the store we had passed earlier. T expertly backed the boat into her place in the marina. We were moored in the slip just after noon. I poked around the boat for the next couple of hours–inspecting all of the lockers and systems. I found only little problems: nothing horrible, though neglect was taking its’ toll. The engine was dirty, but ran well. I had arrived prepared to make an offer, but now wasn’t so sure. I would be giving up some of the simplicity of the Contessa and had to think about what I really wanted to do next. I thanked T, gave him a ride to McDonald’s so he could grab some lunch, and then headed home. The drive back took almost 12 hours because of all of the traffic leaving the Keys on Sunday afternoon.
Well, I ended up buying that boat and am glad that I did! Now for the real adventure!Sirocco back in her slip after the test sail. This is how she looked as I left her to head back to my other boat back in Jacksonville, FL.
I left Garden Key at dawn in hopes of making Key West with some daylight remaining. There was a 15-knot southerly breeze blowing through the anchorage carrying the promise of a fast passage. I set the #3 genoa and full main and sailed off the anchor, following the eastern passage that I had seen the ferry taking the past few days. It looked shallow, but there was over 6 feet of water all the way through. Three other sailboats left that morning, and every one of them took the other channel, which is fair enough since the chart shows a shoal all the way across the path that I took. If I hadn’t been there observing the channel for a few days I would have chickened out and went out the way that I came in. I got a wave and a thumbs-up from one of the construction crew that was restoring the walls of Fort Jefferson as I went by.
The seas were a bit confused once I got out from behind the protection of the fringing reefs of the Dry Tortugas, but I still made very good time, mostly averaging around 5 knots. I had 70 miles to cover, so I was at about the minimum speed that I needed to make landfall before dark. I thought that I could pick up a good push from the Gulf Stream on the outside and was tempted to go that way, but the confused seas were making me sick and that was the determining factor that caused me to choose to sail north of the Marquesas Keys and enter Key West harbor from the north. The water would be smooth with the low islands and reefs to break the sea, but I was afraid that I was going to slow down.
I didn’t need to worry about my speed. The wind kept picking up through the afternoon and I soon found myself close reaching with a single-reefed main and looking for even less sail. Around 1500 I tucked in the second reef into the main and started thinking about changing down to the working jib. My speed stayed in the 6-knot range all day, which is moving right along for a Contessa 26. I let the windvane do all of the steering while I kept watch from the companionway trying to stay out of the sun as much as possible.
The entrance to the Northwest Channel to Key West harbor came into view in good time. I hardened up and was almost able to make a straight shot right into the harbor, but a little oscillation in the wind at a bad time forced me to make a couple of quick tacks–no big deal for the agile little Contessa. The wind dropped as I closed the harbor, but I kept the main reefed down to make the boat easier to handle and keep my speed down when I entered the anchorage.
I sailed deep into the mooring field to the west of Wisteria Island looking for somewhere to anchor because it was the first obvious place that I saw and from a distance I thought that there were boats anchored there. While sailing between the boats it was obvious that they were all on moorings and there was no good place to drop the hook, so I worked my way around the south of Tank Island to the turning basin just opposite from the Coast Guard base. There I found room to anchor between some other widely-spaced sailboats who had dropped their hooks in about 5-9 feet of water. While exploring the edges of the available anchorage I ran gently aground just north of the green “27” daymark. It gets shallow quickly there! It took just a minute to sail free, as I had been able to turn the boat towards deeper water before she stopped. I went back and found a spot to anchor in 8 feet of water about midway between the “27” and the southern tip of Wisteria Island with about 20 minutes of light remaining to tidy the decks.
What an uncomfortable anchorage! One of the biggest hits against Key West in my mind is the lack of a good anchorage. My spot off of Wisteria Island had decent holding because I was able to drop my anchor on a sandy spot amongst all of the weed on the bottom, and it was adequately protected from the forecast easterly winds, even though they could kick up a chop across the fetch of the turning basin. The tide runs through here at about a knot, so my boat was often sailing against the rode when the wind lined up with the current–a problem remedied by using a second anchor. There were manmade downsides to that particular anchorage, such as powerboats that cut between the anchored boats in that area at all hours. They would kick up a wake, which I could live with, but the high speeds at which they came barreling by just feet from my boat made me nervous, especially when I saw others swimming from their anchored boats. Occasional fleets of up to 24 (the most I counted one morning) waverunners would do the same thing. The seven-tenths of a mile row in to the dinghy dock could be treacherous with all of the wakes kicked up from the sportfishers who plow their way out of the harbor at speeds carefully gaged to keep them from fully planing out so that they throw an impressive half-throttle wake. Use of the dinghy dock in Key West Bight Marina costs $5 per day, with discounts for weekly or monthly passes. I dinghy-pooled with a neighbor, which halved the cost for both of us.
I decided to set a second anchor when this thunderstorm came through. This is the fourth waterspout that I saw that morning.
On the third morning that I was anchored in Key West some strong thunderstorms moved in. With the weather radio warning of strong winds I kept an eye on the developing clouds. I still had quite fresh memories of the squall that came through while I was out at the Dry Tortugas, and while I held with no problems out there I am of course always wary of strong winds when I am on the hook. The clouds kept developing and soon I saw a funnel form below one of them. A few minutes later a second funnel appeared. They were off in the distance, but a good sign of the strength of that particular storm. I decided to set a second anchor–a 33 lb (15 kg) Rocna–just to be sure that I stayed put if caught in a strong wind from the storms in the area. I set to work and soon had the anchor ready to deploy. I started the engine and was ready to lay the anchor out when I remembered my camera and took the picture above. About 5 minutes later I had the new anchor laid out in a direction that would hold Cavendysh in deep water if the wind switched onshore. Having the two anchors also meant that I had some degree of mobility and redundancy without actually having to get underway if one of the neighbors started dragging my direction.
The strong wind didn’t materialize, but I was glad that I had put out the extra gear anyway so that I didn’t have to worry about how I was swinging when the tide or wind changed.
I have wrestled with what exactly to make out of this blog and have decided that since I am on a long sailing trip this is a sailing blog at least for the time being, and so I will include more of the actual sailing part of my travels.
Sailing from the Calusa Island Yacht Club in Goodland, FL
My transit from Goodland to the Dry Tortugas started out from the Calusa Island Yacht club right at sunset on the 24th of March. I was escorted out to Coon Key Pass by Ted and Sarah on the Little Manatee with Sarah snapping pictures the whole way–something that I am grateful for because it is very difficult to get an outside perspective of the boat while underway. I had meant to leave earlier in the afternoon, but all of the last-minute chores combined to delay me late enough that I barely had adequate light to clear the pass. I motorsailed to get out into deeper water before fatigue overtook me.
Little Manatee escorted me all the way to Coon Key Pass
The tide was falling and I am sure that I touched bottom at least once where my chart showed that I should have had 5 feet. It was just a kiss between keel and mud–not even enough to really be one hundred percent sure that I had really touched, but enough to change the motion of the boat in a way that I was sure wasn’t a wave. That set me on edge for the next half hour until I had cleared the shoals at Cape Romano. It was pitch black at this point and I was barreling southward at 5.5 knots with full sails and the engine running half throttle. I sure didn’t want to get stuck in such an exposed location even in the settled weather that I was enjoying. There was supposed to be enough water, so my only thought was to keep the boat moving and try to find a route out with only 6’s or higher on the chart. Even though my boat only draws a little over 4 feet there was about a 1-foot chop running, which could be enough to make me touch in a spot that might otherwise have had just enough clearance. I don’t have a depth sounder and often joke that I never know exactly how deep the water is until my keel touches the bottom–my fiberglass “depth sounder”. On a dark night in shoal water it would be comforting to have a little digital readout telling me how much water was between my keel and the bottom, but there are also a thousand other complications that would be nice to have at one point or another…
As soon as I was past all of the shallows I cut the engine and enjoyed the velvety silence of the black, moonless night. Cavendysh‘s speed dropped to 4.5-5 knots without the rackety, sooty diesel banging away. Her masthead light eerily illuminated a swatch of water on alternate sides of the boat as she rolled. The silty water looked only inches deep in the light from the tricolor. I set the windvane to hold a southeasterly course; monitored things for a while; scanned the empty horizon; and then went below to get a quick nap.
The wind slowly dropped through the night. I napped for between 15 and 25 minutes at a stretch and each time that I awoke it seemed as if we were moving a little more slowly than the last time. Luckily the wind shifted forward of the beam as it died, increasing our apparent wind. I had to adjust the windvane 5 or 6 times during the night to keep us on course. I always have vivid dreams on those nights when I am frequently up–the division between dream and reality sometimes gets as indefinite as my bleary vision. It was a gentle night and the boat was moving well–not quite a “magic carpet ride” sort of night, but close. The best way that I can describe those nights when the boat is moving effortlessly at hull speed over a smooth sea is to use the phrase “magic carpet ride”. At those moments I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world. The best ones are on moonlit nights when the boat glides smoothly over a sea of liquid silver without any fuss or rolling–just the sound of water chuckling along the hull as miles tick away and are lost in the wake.
Light air sailing on the Gulf of Mexico
By morning I was sailing south south east closehauled on a flat sea. I can’t remember ever being on an open body of water out of sight of land where it was any flatter than the Gulf was that morning. Cavendysh didn’t roll a bit. If it weren’t for the sound of the water trickling by the bow I could close my eyes and imagine that we were still tied up somewhere. I have been in marinas and had more pitching and rolling.
By noon all of the wind had died. We were making the barest headway. If I put the helm over it would take Cavendysh almost five minutes to make a 90-degree turn. Still, the sails weren’t slatting. Normally out on open water when the wind dies there is enough sea left over to keep the boat rolling, which causes the sails to slam back and forth. This is harder on the gear than a rollicking sail in a stiff breeze because every slam of the sails causes chafe–on the outhaul, the topping lift, the sheets, the halyards–everything gets jerked from one side to the other every few seconds. Besides all of the wear on the gear the noise from slatting sails drives me nuts, so I was grateful that we were just sitting peacefully out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico that day.
I used the calm to my advantage. I caught up on sleep first because it wasn’t too hot and I felt confident that I would not be run down in the day time since I was a stationary target and quite visible with all sail set. Later on, I added a chafe patch to the #3 genoa where it sometimes contacts the spreaders. I read a book and wrote in my journal and log–things that I don’t always do as often as I would like when I am underway. And, I spent some time just appreciating this totally peaceful day out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico! It really was remarkably calm. The only ripples on the surface of the water were caused by great schools of 18-24 inch long fish–mackerel, I think. A couple of schools came close enough for me to see the fish closely–clearly suspended against a background of deep blue Gulf water, but I am not an expert in identifying fish and I had no fish guide onboard.
A little breeze came up towards sunset. It was a southwesterly, making my course closehauled. Through the night the wind veered around to the west. Since there were large numbers of fishing boats, I let Cavendysh follow the wind around until we were sailing slightly north, which kept several miles between us and the fishing fleet. At one point during the night, though, I awoke to find that we were headed north. The wind had switched all the way around to the northwest. The fishing fleet was only a loom on the horizon, so I tacked over and set the windvane on a course directly for Garden Key.
Approaching the Dry Tortugas.
The next day the wind changed back to the west, keeping us closehauled and barely laying our course. At least there was wind! We closed the final 50 miles in fine style, making 4 knots or better all the way. I spotted land about 3 hours before sunset. There isn’t much to see from seaward at the Dry Tortugas–the lighthouse on Loggerhead Key and Fort Jefferson are the only things that really stood out. The rest of the cays are barely above water and there are very few trees. I started the engine and motorsailed the final 5 miles to ensure that I would make an anchorage before dark and to replace some of the battery charge that I had used during the passage.
Fort Jefferson at sunset
I followed the well-marked channel into a wide, sandy anchorage that already held three other cruising boats. It was just getting dark as I was preparing to drop the hook and I asked one of the boats that was already there if there were any obstructions that he knew of. There weren’t, so I went off a courteous distance and dropped the hook and sails in the very last bit of twilight. As I tidied up the boat and set my anchor light a few fishing boats came in and anchored farther to the south of where I was. Soon there were 6 of them running generators and bright lights. The crews were talking, smoking, and cleaning gear. I was happy that I hadn’t anchored in that corner of the anchorage! It had taken me just over 48 hours to sail 90 short miles. It had been a relaxing passage, but I was still very much looking forward to an uninterrupted night’s sleep.
The view of Fort Jefferson from my first night’s anchorage
When I awoke the next morning my first order of business was to shift the boat over to the anchorage at Garden Key so that I could be close enough to dinghy ashore.
Inflating my dinghy in the cockpit–just enough room!
I anchored across from the ferry dock on a sandy bottom in about 25 feet of water, putting out a 10 kg Rocna anchor on 33 feet of chain and about 125 feet of nylon rode. There was plenty of swinging room with only three other boats in the anchorage and my only other concern was the federal mooring buoy, to which I had a little less 200 feet of clearance, but only when I swung directly towards it. I inflated my dinghy for use for the first time since leaving Dunkirk, NY. I couldn’t believe that I had made it this far without using the dinghy! I had only inflated it a couple of times to clean it and to play around while my boat was moored in Goodland. Other than that, it had just been something that I stepped on each time I had to get anything out of the forward cabin. I think of it as a pool toy rather than a serious dinghy, but it stows compactly, is light, and was cheap (used!)–all things that appealed to me when I set out, since I wasn’t really planning on making such a long voyage!
Cavendysh is the middle boat in the background–behind her dinghy
I was almost put off visiting the Dry Tortugas after having read an article in a Marco Island local paper that made it sound as if there were too many rules and permits for the visit to be an enjoyable experience. The article said that tenders were prohibited in the park. Well, how are visiting boaters supposed to go ashore? That didn’t sound right, so I looked up the rules on the National Park Service website. My eyes glazed over after a few minutes reading about permits and prohibitions, so I just decided to go to see how bad it really was.
My visit to the Dry Tortugas turned out to be a delightful experience–really a highlight of the trip so far. The park rangers were friendly and helpful. I was met soon after having landed my dinghy on the beach (I tied my dinghy to the sign indicating where dinghies ought to be landed) by a ranger who directed me over to the pier where the ferry lands to fill out my permit and pay a fee. The fee was only $5 per week per person–very reasonable, I thought–and the permit was filled out while a ranger told me a few of the most important rules (don’t swim in the channel, don’t anchor on coral, call a ranger before visiting the other cays) and told me the best spots to fish and snorkel. The whole process was totally painless and the rules didn’t seem nearly as onerous as the web had made them sound. Fort Jefferson was really worth the trip. It contains about 6 million bricks, which is an impressive sight to behold, and is the most modern fort of its’ type in existence–really the pinnacle of masonry-shielded fort technology. Advancements in gun technology rendered the fort obsolete before it was finished. There is a good collection of written history in the visitor’s center, which is also air-conditioned and a good place to spend the heat of the day. If one prefers to have a guided tour it is easy to tag along behind a group of ferry passengers as they get shown around the fort. Speaking of the ferry–it offers a sandwich buffet lunch for $5, which includes a make-your-own sandwich (the chicken salad is very good), fruit, cookies, chips, and a drink. The ferry is also the only place to use toilets during the day. Remember that all waste needs to be packed out of the park. There are no trash receptacles on the island.
I spent four memorable days in the Dry Tortugas–much longer than the overnight that I had originally planned. Below are some scenes from around Fort Jefferson.
The main entrance to the FortA view from the top of the Fort Jefferson wallsThe old lighthouse on the top of the wall of Fort JeffersonA view of the moat at Fort JeffersonA view of the clear waters over the moat wall at Fort Jefferson, with Loggerhead Key in the distance.
Now for the hardest part of a trip like this–leaving. I have made quite a few close friends here over the past months and it breaks my heart a little to have to let them go. I never know when I might see them again, though, so the goodbyes never seem final. I try to keep in touch with everyone, but of course some relationships will fade with time. There are equally as many that will remain bright and will continue on without skipping a beat when I meet up with the people again in some far-off time and place. I treasure those moments–the chance or planned meetings of people that I have loved and had to leave behind.
For now I have to get underway before the day fades. I want to be well offshore before I lose the light so that I can enjoy the dark and the stars rather than being nervous about unseen hazards. I will be sailing straight from here to Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas–a straight-line distance of about 120 miles. The wind looks fair and light. It should be an uneventful passage.
I have no idea what adventures may await beyond the horizon and the excitement dulls the pain of leaving. What a strong mix of emotion! There is the fresh pull of leaving mixed heavily with the temptation to stay. It all leaves me feeling very alive even through the sadness.
I hope that I leave everyone’s lives a little better for having been a part of them. I know that mine is better for having shared moments with those around me.
Yesterday the Calusa Yacht Club docks were swarmed by a group of powerboats from a Fort Meyers yacht club out for their annual week-long booze cruise down the coast. This is their opportunity to get out on the water so that they can say that they do actually use their boats.
There are all sorts of boats out there. The tall cruiser behind the offensive Fountain is 42 feet long, for some perspective.
A large, fast Fountain docked next to my boat. The couple onboard immediately kicked back in the shade with cold drinks and began poking at their smart phones. The woman asked if there was a Whole Foods market nearby because I was provisioning my boat and throwing out a few old paper bags, which she had obviously spied in my cockpit. I told her that the nearest one was in Naples, and that the nearest supermarket to the marina was the Publix about four miles away. She was disappointed because they hadn’t brought their bicycles with them and weren’t willing to walk that distance. Seizing the opportunity to be helpful, I looked up local taxis in an area guide that my neighbor had laying around and discovered that there aren’t really any taxi services on Marco Island. There are limos that make airport runs, but that is about it. I let her know what I had found, and that segued into a polite introductory conversation.
This is when my opinion of them took a nosedive. It was one question in particular that really rankled me–after being asked where I am from (born in Australia, lived here for a long time though), and where I am going (sailing up the east coast from here), the next thing out of her mouth was, “What are you–some kind of spoiled rich brat out playing with your parent’s money?” Standing on my tiny boat looking up at them on their huge, fuel-guzzling speedboat I was incredulous!
I responded politely, telling them that I had saved for a long time to be able to make this trip; that I watched my pennies and that lived on a small amount of money. I was a bit upset by the thoughtless phrasing of the Fountain lady’s question, but certainly didn’t let on. I ended the conversation there. That lady had no idea whether there may have been something else that I may have done to have made her life better, like arranging a ride to the store, or not, but she removed any possibility of that happening by uttering a few callous words.
That lady shares what seems to be a common outside view of what it takes to live on a small sailboat and go cruising. However, I am here because it is one of the least expensive ways that I can think of to live–my boat cost about the same as a good used car, and my expenses are bare-bones. I usually cook onboard and do all of my own maintenance. On a good month, that keeps my expenses to around only two hundred dollars. The Fountain in the next slip over could burn more than that in fuel in an hour of running.
I have become much more sensitive to how others feel in the past few years. This has really taken the edge off of what I will let out of my mouth when around others that I don’t think that I will ever see again. Now I treat everyone like I might be their neighbor again someday. In this boating life, that may indeed be the case. I treat this as one more reminder to always be mindful of what I say and how I treat strangers, and also as a strong reminder of how others perceive my current lifestyle.
It is with surprising frequency that a chance series of events has led to an unexpectedly favorable outcome on this trip. It was on a whim that I decided to inspect my water pump last week, for instance, and that one small decision resulted in more positive developments than I ever would have guessed when I first started to loosen the screws that hold down the engine cover.
I originally intended to change the oil in the engine on that day, but after I opened the cockpit floor and peered into the oily pool of water that had accumulated beneath the engine in the drip pan I changed my mind and decided to begin the day by emptying and cleaning the drip pan. That task accomplished with the aid of a drill-powered pump I began to realize that it really was finally time to address the leaky engine cooling water pump that had caused the buildup of water in the first place. I had known about and been ignoring the leak ever since October back on Lake Sinclair. It only leaked when the engine was running, so it wasn’t a big deal, but it is a real pain to pump out and clean the engine drip pan due to the limited access. The engine also leaks oil from everywhere (I look at it as a corrosion protection “feature”), and that oil is much easier to clean up if it isn’t floating around on a pool of water.
Water pump project as seen from the cabin
I removed the pump from the engine, a task that necessitated the removal of the secondary fuel filter mount for access to the fasteners that hold the pump to the engine due to the tight clearance between the engine and the hull. The entire removal process took almost three hours even though detaching the pump itself really only required removal of two bolts and two hoses. Tight quarters slowed the work considerably, though now I know the process and could do it again in an hour–still longer than I would like if I ever had to repair the pump under emergency conditions.
Once the pump was out and the cover removed I could see that it was a good thing that I had finally undertaken this project because I discovered the broken vane that can be seen in the first picture in this post. The pump was very close to total failure! Luckily I caught it before it lost any pieces, as broken pieces from the failed vane would have caused quick failure of the remaining vanes as they were pushed around inside the pump. They eventually would have broken into pieces small enough to pass into the engine where they could have become lodged in the cooling passages and caused further cooling problems.
I completely cleaned and rebuilt the pump, replacing the leaky shaft seals that had been the original source of concern, and also the defective impeller. That impeller was supposed to have been new when I bought the boat. The previous owner told me that he had asked a mechanic to replace it. I find it hard to believe that a new impeller only lasted 150 hours! Anyway, now I know for sure that all of the important parts of that pump are new and I will sail from here with some additional peace of mind.
So, my impulse decision to look into something that wasn’t really on the agenda for that day possibly saved me from some future disaster. That pump could have failed while I was approaching a bridge with a strong tail current, or when I was trying to leave a harbor with the wind setting me onto a deadly breakwater… I can let my imagination run wild on that one. Maybe an even happier development was the friendly group of people that I met when I took the boat out to test the repairs, but that is a whole other story!
I thought that I knew what Florida was like. I had been up and down the east coast by car as far south as Key Largo, and had made a couple of trips around the Orlando area to visit my grandmother and to go flying at Quest air park, so I thought that I had a good grip on the “feel” of Florida before starting out across Mobile Bay from Dog River to travel down the west coast of Florida on the Gulf ICW. I figured that the coast would all be low and muddy, that there would be plenty of retirement communities and trailer parks, and that the water would be shallow. I was right about most of those things, but the “feel” of the west coast of Florida is distinctly different than that of the east coast.
The east coast of Florida draws people from the east coast of the northern states, and from other big cities. It has a big-city feel. The people remind me of New England. It is bustling and commercial and filled with traffic. When I lived in Georgia and used to drive south to visit some of the coastal Florida towns on the weekend I used to think that I could go no farther south than Georgia because once I crossed the Florida border I was back up north again.
The Gulf coast, however, is a bit quieter. It seems that most of the people who winter over or vacation on the west coast of Florida come from the midwest section of the US, and bring with them their midwest mannerisms, accents, and attitudes. I feel more likely to randomly strike up a conversation with friendly strangers here on the west coast than out east. The towns are less bustling and more laid-back, which makes me feel more at ease. All in all, the west coast has been a very pleasant surprise and I hope to visit again.
Some Floridian details are the same on both coasts to remind me that I am still in Florida, such as the large back-lit street signs, and loads of retirees, or “Q-tips” (for their white hair and white sneakers), as a friend of mine likes to call the seas of oldsters in the Retirement, I mean Sunshine State.
OK, I didn’t get far on this blog before letting it languish. I started with all sorts of great intentions and grand visions of daily blog entries filled with humorous, insightful, entertaining, moving, memorable writing. I had great intentions, but not much of a plan. I wasn’t sure what exactly it was that I would write about. I just figured that ideas would come to me out of the blue and make the writing easy. That didn’t happen. I just don’t have as much material that I want to share as I thought I would.
I think that a big part of the problem is that I need to be more open. I am normally very happy keeping my thoughts to myself. That is exactly the opposite of what I need to do to succeed as a writer! The best writers seem to open themselves up and pour their being into their work. I find it very difficult to do that. It’s not that I don’t have observations, emotions, and stories to tell, it’s just that now that I am presented with an easy way to make my thoughts public I find that I am a more private person than I had realized!
Now that I have learned something new about myself I can begin the process of change. Sailing into the sunset is easier work than personality reconstruction. More to come soon…
