“The pessimist complains about the wind. The optimist expects it to change. A sailor simply adjusts the sails.”
….unless there is no wind. We start the engine and drive fast…. especially when we are trying to outpace a storm!
Will G. and Will S., both weathered sailors with sun-creased faces and salt-tinged hair, arrived in Samana, Dominican Republic on Saturday. The flight from Toronto went to Montreal and connected to a flight to Samana, arriving at 1:30 p. m. Our trusty weather router, Chris Parker, had us leaving on the easterly trade winds that afternoon.
“Failing that, we are looking at June 1, the beginning of hurricane season for the next weather window,” Chris wrote with a hint of concern in an email to me.
“We’ll stay until noon,” the two customs agents announced, their voices echoing slightly in the large hall, “to finish the boat’s departure forms and stamp your passports.” The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and ink.
“They won’t get to the Marina until 3 p.m.” I said, “We have a narrow weather window. If we miss it, we might get wrapped up in the beginning of hurricane season. Is there any way you could stay for an hour or two longer?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be back on Monday. With any luck by noon,” said the pretty immigration lady with a warm smile. “No other sailors remain to get processed today, so we plan to leave early.”
There was a gap in her front teeth. I involuntarily fixated my gaze on it, trying to think of a way to convince her to stay so she could clear my crew for departure. She noticed me staring at her teeth and seemed annoyed. She went back to her video games on the computer.
Shep, the Armada agent, was on duty. His English was excellent. We had become friends over the two months I had been at the Puerto Bahia Marina. From time to time, he would drop by my boat after his shift and have a beer. We would exchange sailing stories, often share a few laughs. Sometimes I would see him at the bar chatting up a pretty female sailor. He’d give me a knowing wink, a clear sign for me to leave him alone to let him make his move….
Shep, with his gentle persistence and a warm smile, convinced her to stay until 3 p.m. The rapid-fire Spanish conversation ended with her cheeks burning a deep red, her gaze dropping to the ground shyly. The sounds of the words still echoed faintly. Whatever he said to her was clearly more effective than my lame excuse about the weather.
With the boat papers filled in and the passports stamped, we were off.
As we left the dock to begin the 1500 nautical mile journey, a nervous excitement bubbled in our chests; the salty air carried the promise of adventure, but also the unpredictable threat of a storm. The weather router warned us that the direct route to NYC meant four days of motoring straight into a violent storm, the wind howling and waves would crash violently against our hull. He recommended the longer route through the Bahamas, describing the gentle sea breeze and the sounds of the waves lapping against the shore. He predicted more wind at least for the first few days, so we could sail. We would have a chance to refuel our tanks. More importantly, the islands offered shelter from the storm’s fury, their rocky silhouettes a welcome sight against the raging sea, if we needed to.
“You can always expect something to go wrong,” I said to my crew, the salty air stinging our faces as we shoved off from the dock. “The problem is the uncertainty; we’re in the dark about when and what will occur.”
Our first problem emerged when we attempted to jibe; the following seas were heavy and confused, making the maneuver difficult and dangerous. The Code Zero sail billowed full in the 15-knot southeast breeze, its fabric taut and humming. As we approached the Turks and Caicos Islands, the turquoise water shimmered, and we altered course to circumvent the coral reefs that lay hidden beneath the surface. The first step, a crucial one, was to move the mainsail, heavy and stiff with canvas, into the center of the boat.
The next step was to carefully furl the Code Zero, rolling it onto the forestay to prevent it from becoming tangled in the rigging as we jibed. With a groan, the electric winch stopped halfway through furling the sail, leaving it bunched awkwardly around the forestay. The taut lines created a suffocating feeling, like a vise around a body. Will hurried to the front of the boat, the spray of the ocean misting his face. I joined him. The starboard sheet, a thick rope now stiff with salt spray, had wrapped itself around the sail and jammed into the hard plastic drum of the furler. Half furled, the sail was a perilous tangle around the forestay; the rope, wedged tight, sang a tight, protesting whine against the wind’s force.
“I love a challenge,” shouted Will, his voice carrying above the wind. He flashed a toothy smile at me and pulled at the tangle of embedded ropes to see if he could find a solution. With one hand on the rail to keep from falling overboard, the other sorted out what we needed to do. He leaned over board to get a better view, but remained firmly on the deck.
I looked at Will incredulously and thought. We are truly screwed now! The sail will tear to pieces and we do not have enough fuel to motor all the way back to Toronto. This is more than a challenge. We could be in big trouble!
By pulling the end of the sheet to the boat’s bow and bunching it up, he untangled the mess. Using his foot to brace himself, he undid the wedged rope. The rest of the jibe went uneventfully. Whew! Thanks to a sailor who loves a challenge!
The next problem arrived as an email from the boatyard in Albany. My original plan was in jeopardy: my mast was to be removed at Scarano Boatworks, secured for transport, and driven by truck to Oswego. I would re-step the mast and sail across Lake Ontario to Toronto. I was an exciting trip that would take me through the Erie Canal, with its charming locks and the sounds of water rushing. The smell of fresh water and the sight of old stone bridges promised a picturesque journey.
“You may want to delay taking your mast off,” he said, his email tone low and cautious. “Raging floodwaters breached Lock 17, leaving a trail of destruction. The Erie Canal will be closed for four to six weeks, halting the usual bustle of boat traffic. Many boats destined for Lake Ontario are stuck in the town of Waterford, awaiting better conditions.” Ahhh…The life of a sailor…..
I carefully considered my options, trying to visualize the outcomes of each. Sailing north to Nova Scotia and up the majestic St. Lawrence River, with its imposing cliffs and charming towns, would add 1500 nautical miles to the trip. My crew, already overworked and behind schedule, simply couldn’t spare the time for this. I could find a place to dock the boat, but the August timeframe wouldn’t allow me to get it until then. I opted to find a cool, dry spot to store it safely away on the hard drive for the summer months. With the arrival of October, launch the vessel and make my way south, leaving the coming winter behind. I would change my destination for Chesapeake Bay.
The shelter of the coming storm is 200 miles away, a distance felt in the rising wind and the darkening sky. According to the GPS, we’ll be there at 2:00 a.m., likely in the dead of night on Thursday. We’ll have to wait for the first light of dawn to enter the harbour, when the sky glows so we don’t run aground. We’re all hoping the storm will wait to unleash its fury of wind and rain until we’re safely anchored in the harbour.
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