You and your vessel Ileana are denied entry into the US…..

“You might see a few scattered thunderstorms on Saturday afternoon, maybe accompanied by strong winds and heavy downpours,” said the email from Chris Parker, our weather router. “Just make sure you are off the water by Monday morning; the wind is picking up.”

The black storm clouds were racing towards us, their dark, heavy forms blotting out the sun, and the air felt thick with the promise of rain. The radar showed a long, angry band of red pulsating ominously as a dense storm rapidly approached, the swirling colors a stark warning of its intensity. With a 14-knot breeze at our starboard quarter, we sailed smoothly at 7.5 knots on that Saturday afternoon. The rhythmic creak of the boat and the sound of the wind in the sails filled the air. Small waves slapped softly against the hull, creating a soothing rhythm as the boat gently rocked, a comfortable motion that lulled her into tranquility. The sky split open with a searing flash of lightning, chased by an earth-shattering clap of thunder that vibrated through my body.

“That’s no scattered thunderstorm; listen to that deafening roar and feel the boat tremble!” I shouted to the crew. “Those shadows looked ominous, and it feels like trouble is brewing. Let’s take the sails down!”

The salty air whipped around me as the crew quickly furled the jib, its canvas stiff and heavy, before I started the engine with a satisfying roar. I turned the boat into the wind, the spray hitting my face as a 20-knot gust roared past, rattling the sails and creaking the mast. “Release the main halyard!” I yelled, my voice barely audible over the roar of the wind. With the wind howling fiercely around me, I cupped my hands and shouted, my voice strained against the gale.

The high winds whipped the sails into a frenzy, their canvas taut and straining against the gusts. I poked my head from under the bimini, the salty air filling my nostrils, and saw the sail had about ten feet to go before fully lowering.

“I need to go to the mast to pull down the rest of the mainsail,” I shouted to the crew, my words muffled by the screaming from the wind tearing through the rigging.

“Here,” Will said, his voice echoing slightly in the boat, “Put on your lifejacket and tether; you don’t want to end up swimming in these choppy waters.” The nylon of the lifejacket felt cool against my skin as I slipped it on, then I clipped my tether onto the sturdy jacklines running to the bow of the boat. Salty air filled my lungs as I crawled across the deck on my hands and knees. The waves, the spray of the ocean soaking everything tossed the boat about. Reaching the mast, I clung to it tightly, my arms wrapped around the cold metal to avoid a painful collision that could’ve chipped my teeth. With a grunt, I hauled myself up the three slippery rungs of the mast, the salt spray stinging my face. The boat’s rhythmic creak and sway of the mast as my guide, I pulled the mainsail, the canvas whispering as it slid into its bag along the boom. Heart pounding, I cautiously made my way back to the cockpit.

Making Charleston my target, I carefully turned the bow of my vessel in that general direction. And so we moved into the center, right into the heart of the approaching storm.

The wind, suddenly and swiftly, accelerated to forty knots, creating a headwind that significantly impacted our progress. Despite my efforts to increase speed by pushing the throttle to its maximum, the headwind reduced our speed to approximately 5 knots. A massive torrent of rain poured down in sheets onto the deck of the boat, rushing into the cockpit as water ran down in sheets from the deck. The four of us were completely soaked and had to grab onto anything we could find in a desperate attempt to stay on our feet and avoid being tossed off the rear of the vessel. Despite being secured to the cockpit by tethers, each of us had to maintain a firm grip as the intense storm raged around us, threatening to rip us from our hold.

Martin, who was quite new to sailing having only boarded the S/V Ileana a week prior, had a wide grin stretching across his face, a testament to his newfound enjoyment of the activity. “This is the most excitement I’ve ever had!” he shouted, his voice cracking with exhilaration. “Whoo hoo!”

Although lightning and thunder punctuated the sky every few minutes, their distance from the boat remained reassuring enough to prevent any feelings of panic among us. The radar screen clearly displayed a persistent, solid red band encircling my boat, indicating a dangerous weather condition. I didn’t expect this situation resolving itself in the short term; it seems likely to persist for quite some time. Although the radar spotted a few other courageous individuals aboard nearby boats, the intensity of the sideways rain drastically limited our visibility to only a few feet. Because I had access to both radar and AIS data, I could skillfully navigate and avoid a potential collision.

After sixty minutes of grueling punishment, the winds, which had howled like angry beasts, finally reduced to twenty knots, a gentler, more manageable speed. We approached the entrance to Charleston Harbour, the gentle rocking of the boat a steady rhythm against the sounds of the lapping waves, and followed the navigation marks to The Charleston Harbor Marina. As we anchored in the picturesque bay, the scent of salt and the distant cries of gulls filled the air, a stark contrast to the recent chaos of the storm. We dried our clothes and celebrated our hard-fought win against the thunderstorm.

I’d completed the Roam App, and now, while we waited for customs confirmation, the tantalizing aroma of grilling meats wafted from nearby restaurants, heightening our anticipation for dinner in town. The absence of a reply felt like a physical weight pressing down on us. I dialed their number on the cellphone, feeling the familiar click of each button. Reaching out to American Customs and Border Protection at 6 p.m. on a Sunday, a time with potentially reduced staffing, is ill-advised. The holiday weekend made the already questionable situation even riskier, with increased crowds and less oversight. After 30 minutes of scrolling through countless numbers on my phone, the bored and slightly irritated customs officer at the Charleston Airport finally acknowledged me. His sigh was audible even over the phone; it was clear he wasn’t happy to hear from me. Learning that Martin, possessing a German passport, lacked a tourist visa before his trip sent him into a rage.

“You may not enter the country!” he said, his voice sharp and unfriendly.

“We sought refuge in Charleston because of the severe weather; our weather router warned us of the dangerous conditions,” I explained, noting the fierce wind rattling the boat. Our journey is taking us to the Chesapeake Bay; that’s where we’re headed.

“You are going to have the same issue in Chesapeake Bay. You must remain at anchor until you leave.”

“Look,” I said, my voice carrying a note of urgency that I hoped they would heed. “Martin is a frequent visitor to the United States, having traveled there numerous times without ever needing a tourist visa. Why now?”

“There is no ambiguity; the regulations are explicit and straightforward. Were he to have entered the country using a commercial carrier, the need for a tourist visa would have been eliminated. His arrival via private watercraft necessitated the acquisition of a tourist visa as he was not arriving by commercial means.”

It proved to be futile and pointless to engage in any further argument. The United States authorities denied our entry applications, barring us from entering the country. Among the choices that were available to us were the following options:

1. Journey to Nova Scotia spanning 1023 nautical miles and anticipated to take a full ten days by sea.
2. Sail back to the Bahamas, where the turquoise waters and white sand beaches are a stark contrast to the brewing storm clouds of hurricane season.
3. Risk entering Annapolis, facing potential consequences from a new officer questioning our unauthorized sailing within US continental waters.
4. Try again first thing in the morning, when our mind is fresh and clear.

With a sigh of defeat and a frown twisting his lips, Martin furiously typed “US visa refusal” into his search engine, the rejection still stinging. The solitude, the immense responsibility, and the physical exertion of managing a large sailboat alone in the dead of night during his three-hour watch likely played a role in strengthening his confidence. The rhythmic creak of the hull and the dark, star-strewn expanse above were life-changing experiences for him. I was struck by his unwavering resolve and competence. It seemed no obstacle was too great for him to overcome.

After an hour of furious keyboard banging, punctuated by frustrated sighs, he turned to me and said, “I have a solution. A provision in the regulation allows me to sign a waiver, expediting my exit from the country; it’s a fast-track process. For a US $695 penalty, I can skip the tourist visa, dash to the airport, and catch a direct flight to Toronto before they reverse their decision.” The air seemed to crackle with urgency. We came up with a plan.

The phone rang once. Officer Shone of the Charleston CBP, who was already at his desk at 6:45 A.M. answered. Martin meticulously reviewed the small print of the tourist visa regulations, finding a loophole, and discussed his plan to circumvent it by signing a waiver and paying the associated fee. Officer Shone agreed to meet us at the gas dock, where the pungent smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air, to inspect the boat. He authorized our entry into the US, the weighty stamp a symbol of permission, allowing Martin to go to the airport, for a direct afternoon flight to Toronto.

“Not before we venture to the famous Hyman’s seafood restaurant for lunch,” I said.

We piled into the dinghy and headed across the bay to the French Quarter of Charleston for lunch.

A heavy silence hung in the air as we motored back to our anchored sailboat, the only sound the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. We will miss Martin, but felt reassured he was safe.

Chris Parker announced the new weather forecast, his email filled with a sense of urgency. “The unstable weather around Charleston will produce powerful thunderstorms over the next few days. Maybe leave on Saturday, five days from now? If you don’t mind the risk of thunderstorms, you could leave tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thunderstorms don’t scare us,” I replied. “We are prepared to set sail for tomorrow.”

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