The Curmudgeon

      My life-long passion has always been to see the world from the deck of a sailing yacht.  Ok, I may never get to see the whole world, but I will jump aboard a sailboat any chance I get to see whatever part of the world I can.

      Back in the summer of 2011, I and my family journeyed to the British Virgin Islands and chartered a sailing catamaran called the “Charisma” for a week, with yours truly as the captain.  You can read all about our adventures at this link:  http://www.viyachts.com/bareboat-trip-reviews/bvi-yacht-charters-woods.html

      But cruising a yacht around the BVIs is more about rest and relaxation than it is about sailing.  Even if you run into trouble, help is just a cell phone call away.  The truly big item on my bucket list was to sail across an ocean.  As in:  so far out that you cannot see land.  Man versus nature.  The ultimate adventure!

     It turns out that hitchhiking across the ocean is not that difficult.  All over the world, boat captains always need crew – and preferably, crewmen who are competent to handle a watch.  The Internet has numerous websites devoted to helping captains and crew hook up.  And that is how I found Terry Cantrell.

      Terry owns a 36 ft. monohull sloop called the “Curmudgeon.”  In April, he would be sailing from Galveston Bay in Texas, to Tampa, Florida, and needed crew.  Total distance:  about 680 nautical miles, down the Houston Ship Channel and then straight across the Gulf of Mexico.  Expected trip time should be about six days.  The crew would consist of just the two of us, plus a feeble old orange tabby named “Mister” who has accompanied Terry throughout his many journeys.

      At around midday on Thursday, April 12, 2012, we pulled out from the Houston Yacht Club. 

      But we never made it to Florida.  Here is the story of what happened.

Struggling against the wind

      The first day started out with a six-hour slog thru muddy Galveston Bay down the Ship Channel, on engine power with the wind dead in our face.  Night was falling as we finally cleared the jetties and made it out in the Gulf.  And then Mother Nature threw her full force and fury right at us.

       The route from Galveston to Tampa runs straight ESE.  But the wind was blowing from the SE – and hard!  Wind speed was a constant 20 knots.  A sailboat can sail, at best, about 40° into the wind.  But sailing at that wind angle is, shall we say, just this side of hell.  The waves are monstrous – some of them nearly the size of a house – and they keep coming, and coming, and coming.  The boat slams into each and every wave with horrendous, violent force.  And then sometimes a wave breaks over the bow, soaking you with icy water.

       At our first meeting back in February, Terry had asked me if I was prone to seasickness.  Naturally, I told him that I was a rough, tough, salty sailor, who had already spent an entire week at sea with nary a touch of problems.  Little had I realized that cruising around a group of little islands is NOT a valid comparison, because in the BVIs, all those islands break up the ocean swells.  And besides, each night we tied up in nice protected coves.  And we only sailed upwind about half the time.

      But here we were, with nothing for the next thousand miles to stop these waves.  And it was only day #1, and I was already in agony, wretching up my guts.  On top of that, the boat was heeled over about 45°, bucking like a bronco on steroids.  In those conditions, you cannot walk, or even stand, or do pretty much anything requiring any kind of dexterity.  Eating is impossible, as is also sleeping.

      When the sun came up after that first miserable night, I took over the helm, and serendipidly discovered the only medicine to fight it:  You take the wheel, and focus all your attention on the ocean, and the horizon.  Concentrate on sailing towards your destination.  Try to find some object to steer towards, such as an oil platform (there were lots of those).  Avoid looking at the boat, or anything on it.  When checking the instruments, try to glance at them as briefly as possible.  And do not look DOWN, ever. 

      The worst place on the boat was below, down in the cabin, because you couldn’t see the horizon or anything.  Stepping down that ladder was guaranteed to force everything right back up, even water.  Sleeping below was impossible too, because every time the boat hit a wave (and the boat hit lots of waves), the hull would creak and groan, and every item in the lockers would shake, rattle, and roll.  The noise was horrific.  And don’t even think of using the head (i.e. toilet) down there.  So I learned quickly to gather anything I might need, such as extra clothes, flashlight, etc, into a satchel bag and keep it up with me in the cockpit. 

      Night sailing was definitely the worst.  You couldn’t see the horizon, or the waves.  At least when you could see the waves, you could dodge the biggest breakers.  At night, they would just splash icy water on you with no warning - and it was cold at night.  With no horizon, I had to find something to steer towards, so to avoid looking at the instruments as much as possible.  So, stars filled the bill.  In the evening, I’d steer towards Arcturus.  Later, when Arcturus got too high, I used the twin points of Saturn and Spica, horizontally side-by-side and separated by about 4°.

       Whoever of us was NOT driving would grab a foam pad, lie flat on the cockpit bench, and try to rest.  You’d be surprised at what you can sleep thru.  When the body becomes exhausted enough, you can doze off no matter how miserable you are.

       With my guts somewhat under control, I forced myself to drink water.  Terry noticed that I was peeing with some regularity, and commented that that was a good thing.  But for four days, I didn’t eat a bite (not counting the stuff I vomited up on day #1).  Terry didn’t eat, either.    

       The weather forecast had said that a front might pass thru on Saturday or Sunday.  That would probably bring rain, of course, but it also held the chance of shifting the wind around to the south, or even better, the southwest.  And also, as we would approach the Florida peninsula, normal wind patterns should shift to a more favorable direction (any direction other than SE was favorable).  Even LESS wind would be a marked improvement.  All I could do till then was wait and hope and pray, and survive.

       I had packed up and brought all my tools for doing celestial navigation.  I had spent many hours practicing all the celestial calculations and plotting from the comfort of my desk at home, and was itching for the opportunity to actually do it for real, on a boat, at sea, with a real sextant.  But in these conditions – forget it!  Again, all I could do was wait and hope for things to get better.

       But the wind change never happened.  And each day, it kept getting worse, as things on the boat started failing.

The Curmudgeon falters

     On our first full day in the Gulf, we made our “quota” of 125 miles.  So far, so good.

     The first thing to break was the auto-pilot, on the first night.  But, that wasn’t a big deal.  As mentioned earlier, focusing the mind on sailing the boat was good anti-seasickness medicine.  However, with the other crewmember always trying to rest, having to drive the boat single-handedly meant you couldn’t turn loose of the wheel for a second.   That made it tough if, say, you need to trim an out-of-reach sheet.

      The next thing to break was the traveler.  The traveler, for the uninitiated, is a “car” set abeam between a pair of blocks, onto which the mainsail sheet is attached.  It’s one of the primary mainsail controls, although it’s not critical.  Without it, our wind efficiency was somewhat affected.   It started failing on day #1, and gave up the spirit sometime on day #2. 

       Meanwhile, down below, mayhem was happening.  It seems that supplies and other items had not exactly been stowed away with the greatest of care.  With the boat sharply heeled over, every wave-induced shudder was shaking things out of lockers and cubby-holes, off tables, or wherever they had been carelessly stacked, and were now mostly rolling around on the floor.  (More on this later.)

      At around 2 o’clock Saturday morning, we had our first failure with more serious consequences.  I was at the helm; Terry was asleep.  Suddenly, the staysail halyard snapped.  The staysail is a foresail, smaller than the jib, hanked from a shorter, inner stay.  It is optimized for sailing upwind, especially in high winds, like we were doing just now. 

       We managed to wrestle down the crippled staysail and stow it (or so we thought).  Because it was night, Terry chose to just start up the diesel to compensate for the lost sail.  But a couple of hours later, the engine suddenly froze.  And the rudder.  But there was nothing we could do about it till we had some daylight, so we just drifted downwind under mainsail only till the sun came up.

       Come sunrise, we could clearly see what had happened:  the crippled staysail had somehow managed to fall overboard, entangling itself in the prop.  We were able to start the engine in neutral, verifying that at least the engine appeared to be Ok.  I grabbed the other end of the wayward sail and pulled, while Terry put the engine in reverse.  I felt it give.  One good yank, and it was free!  Engine and rudder were again operational!

       We deployed a partially-unfurled jib to compensate for the lost staysail.  It wasn’t as efficient, but it would have to do.  But, with both the lost staysail AND traveler, we could not sail upwind nearly as well.  And due to the time we spent drifting downwind in the dark, we were also a half-day behind schedule.

       Onward to Florida we sailed.

       We sailed past huge patches of floating Sargasso seaweed.  Terry said we needed to dodge the large patches as much as possible because they sometimes contained garbage that could foul up the boat.

       Terry had plotted our course as a straight rhomb line from Galveston to Tampa - no tacks.  But each hour, our actual track was drifting further and further off-course to the north, due to the un-cooperative wind.  And now we were headed for the islands bordering the SW edge of Terrebonne Bay.  We had to tack.   As we approached the shallow Louisiana coast, one could not help but notice that the water had turned the color of chocolate milk. 

      So we tacked and headed due south for several hours.  Once back out in the deeper Gulf, the water returned to its formerly pristine clear blue color.  But this additional tack put us even further behind schedule.  The odds of actually getting to Tampa in time for my flight home Thursday was getting slimmer and slimmer.  And there was no respite from the relentless headwinds and pounding waves.

      That night (Sunday), at about 3 a.m., almost exactly 24 hours from the last serious failure, I was again at the helm.  Suddenly, the steering froze up.  I had no control.  I yelled for Terry, who had been asleep down below in the cabin.  Terry stepped out of his bunk into 6 inches of water in the cabin.  We now have two simultaneous emergencies.  In the back of my mind I’m already thinking:  Coast Guard rescue!

       Reflecting back upon the whole affair, it seems that perhaps God had sent one of his angels to watch over us that night.  As mentioned before, we both generally did all our napping up in the cockpit.  But Terry had chosen to try and sleep in the cabin that night.  If he had not, it was unlikely we would have noticed the cabin filling up with water in the darkness.

       The water in the cabin was a filthy, disgusting concoction of salt, oil, grease, garbage, spilled containers of food, detergent, spices, seasonings, a hundred cans of food with all the labels washed off, hundreds of plastic bags, books and manuals, a ton of disintegrated paper and cardboard, plus cat litter, cat food, wires, cables, dishware, pots & pans, silverware, flashlights, batteries, rolls of paper towels, toilet paper, aluminum foil, and Lord only knows what else.  Swirling around in that deadly muck was a laptop computer, cell phones, assorted electronic devices, and my duffel bag and all my gear.

       We pulled out buckets and started bailing like our life depended on it.  Well, it did!  In my current physical shape, deprived of food and rest and sacked with horrible seasickness for three days, it took every ounce of willpower I had to not faint, as I scooped up buckets and handed them up the steps to Terry.

       Everything was going overboard now, including unopened canned goods and plastic bags.  I’m sure all those plastic bags probably destroyed much marine life, but when survival was at stake, this is not the time to be an environmentalist.

       We bailed for a couple of hours, again drifting downwind, with no steering control.  Eventually, we surmised that at least the water in the cabin was not getting any deeper.  Clearly, the bilge pump had failed, and Terry hypothesized that the water was coming from the packing gland (where the prop shaft goes thru the hull).  He said it was a known problem, but was manageable so long as the bilge pump still worked.

       It was crunch time.  “What are your plans?” I asked.

       “Morgan City, Louisiana” he replied.  “It’s the closest port.”

      “How?  We have no steering.”

      “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

      Come daylight, the first order of business was to diagnose what happened to the rudder.  We couldn’t see anything obvious looking down, so there was only one way:  send in a swimmer. 

      First we deployed a sea anchor.  A sea anchor is not a true “anchor” but rather just a water parachute, designed to hold the boat as steady as possible at sea.  Terry pulled out his mask, snorkel, harness, and the swim ladder, and tied onto a tether.  Into the ocean he went.  The water was clear, but the waves remained vicious.  I stood by with boat hook in hand. 

      When his head popped up, I asked “Well?”

      “Rudder looks Ok.  I don’t see anything.”

      He climbed aboard and we fired up the diesel.  Steering:  OK!!

      We never found out what had fouled the rudder.  Our best guess was that we entangled a net or a tarp or a rope or something.  Maybe it was something stuck in a Sargasso patch.  Evidently, when we deployed the sea anchor, it took enough pressure off the rudder so that whatever it was fell away on its own.  I think it was an angel that sent it.

      But we still had to head to safer waters to fix the bilge pump and clean up the mess below.  On into Atchafalaya Bay.  Destination: Morgan City. 

      “By the way”, I asked, “how was the water back there”?

      “Refreshing.”

Calm waters at last

      It is one long, long boat ride from the south end of Atchafalaya Bay, all the way up the bay, thru the channel markers, to the mouth of the Atchafalaya River, then up the river channel to Morgan City.  Terry pulled out some manual pumps, and all along the way, we took turns pumping out water.  Eventually, we were able to gain control of the situation so at least the cabin water wasn’t getting worse.  But oh, what a mess there was down there. 

      A pod of dolphins appeared as we traversed the muddy waters of the bay.  There must have been eight to ten of them, jumping and playing in our wake.  They swam with us for several miles.     

      When we finally entered the river, we found ourselves, for the first time in days, in calm protected waters.  Then the sun went down, and we were now navigating an unfamiliar channel in the black of night, along with some serious river currents.  And we were not exactly sure of our destination. Fortunately, the channel markers were well lit.

      At around 10 o’clock, we had to admit that we would not make it to Morgan City that night; and even if we did make it, the chances of finding someplace to tie up were pretty slim.  It made sense to hole up for the night, get some food and rest, and start fresh in the morning.  So we found a wide spot in the river, out of the channel.  In about 10 feet of water, we dropped anchor.

      Monday morning, come daylight, after some good restful sleep, I could see where we were.  The river was surrounded by marsh.  Frogs, gulls, and other critters croaked, chirped, and cackled; it was actually a rather lovely spot.  The only signs of human life were occasional passing fishing boats and tug-pushed barges.  They would slow as they passed us there at anchor.  I’m sure they were thinking, “what the hell is a sailboat doing up here?”

      A quick breakfast and we were off towards Morgan City.  Terry got to work on an improvised bilge pump.  At the helm, I noticed at one point that the river maxed out at 103 feet deep.

      Based on the information from the onboard GPS system with integrated maps, our best destination in Morgan City was a downtown marina.  Supposedly, it had full services, including electrical power hookups, and that all-so-important laundry.  (All of my clothes were soaked with greasy slime.)  But as we entered the city, it became apparent that that was impossible; our path was blocked by a too-low bridge.  The Curmudgeon needed 58 feet, and the lowest bridge had a clearance of just 50. 

     There was a tugboat dock nearby; we headed there.

     The tugboat guys all turned out to be extremely helpful and friendly. The dock manager came up to us and said there was no problem at all staying tied up there for a few days while we make repairs, and was there anything at all we needed?  A ride into town, perhaps?  I mentioned that I needed to find a laundromat, but he told me I was more than welcome to use the washer and dryer aboard one of the tugs!!   I told Terry, hey, you’re in Cajun Country now, and these are my people, God’s people, the warmest and most hospitable folks you will ever meet anywhere!

       Terry found a spare working iphone somewhere, and I was able to contact my family and apprise them of the situation.  Dad & Mom said they were more than happy to drive from Lake Charles down to Morgan City on Tuesday to get me.   Having failed to make Tampa, Terry's plans were to take the ICW back to Galveston.  I considered joining him for a day or two; that sounded like a relaxed, easy journey.  But, my time aboard the Curmudgeon was up and I needed to get on home.

      That afternoon, Terry and I fixed ourselves some cocktails, and sat on the dock and visited with some locals who came there to fish.  Then we got down and dirty and started cleaning up the mess below.

      Many days later, as I write this journal, my body’s equilibrium is still out of whack.  I still feel like I’m rocking and rolling aboard the raging sea.  The last time I lived aboard a boat for a week, it took nearly two weeks for my land legs to return.

Conclusions and lessons learned

      Here is a brief tally of the tangibles that were lost:

• Terry’s original purpose for sailing to Tampa was to take part in a race from there to Cancun later that month.  He had paid a $600 non-refundable reservation fee, now forfeited.
• The onboard refrigeration system was destroyed.
• I forfeited a $200 airline ticket from Tampa to Houston.
• A brand new laptop computer, at least two cell phones, and assorted other electronics were lost to the salty muck.
• A great deal of food and other assorted supplies were destroyed.  (Some canned goods were salvaged, but the labels are gone.  What’s in them?)
• Many books and manuals.  Terry lost most of the technical manuals for all his onboard systems.  I lost a brand new 2012 Nautical Almanac.
• The wooden floor panels on the Curmudgeon will never be the same.
• The cushions and pillows are salvageable, given air and sun, but will always retain that greasy, mucky odor. 

     What did I learn?  Several things:

     Lesson Learned #1:   When planning an ocean passage, research the conditions to expect.

     Information on normal wind speed and direction is widely available.  With minimal research, I would have easily seen that an ocean passage towards the ESE at that time of year is not something one does voluntarily.  A prudent skipper would instead take the ICW the whole way.  And there are absolutely no islands or ports anywhere close by to seek shelter, or to break up the waves.  But I was blinded by the opportunity to make my long-awaiting ocean crossing where my only transportation expense was a one-way ticket home from Tampa.

     Lesson Learned #2:  Use modern pharmaceutical science to the max.

     On the open ocean, seasickness happens, and in the worst of conditions, no human is immune.  There are drugs out there to help.  Use them.

     Lesson Learned #3:  Get good sailing gear for the cold and the wet.

     I packed up the best I had, and was glad I had that, but better clothing would have made a world of difference.

     Lesson Learned #4:  Neatness and orderliness are mandatory.

     This lesson learned is for all you skippers out there, or anyone considering becoming a skipper.  This was Terry’s boat, and I was just a guest, so I had no control over this one.

      A good sea captain must be down-right ANAL about neatness, order, cleanliness, and all onboard organization, with ZERO TOLERANCE for anything out of place.  There is absolutely no excuse for things stacked on the floor, or falling off tables, off the settee, and out of lockers and cubbies when the boat heels over and hits a wave.

      Terry is probably the most knowledgeable and capable a sea captain I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.  His expertise on how to fix things, especially in the worst of conditions, never ceased to amaze me.  His boat was absolutely sea-worthy and well-maintained, stocked with every conceivable tool and spare part. I truly do trust him with my life.  But when it came to neatness and order, he failed terribly.  Among his sins was bringing supplies and provisions aboard in CARDBOARD BOXES.  Cardboard is one substance that has absolutely no place on a boat, for when it gets wet, it turns to mush, and on a boat, everything gets wet sooner or later. 

      And then there was galley.  It was filthy and unkempt, with open food containers, a greasy stove, stuff everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, and overflowing bags of trash. 

      Furthermore, when a wise and conscientious sea captain invites guests aboard, it is imperative that he provides a place for them, and their gear.  When I arrived at the marina with my neatly-packed duffle bag, and asked where I could stow my gear, I was told that there was no place for it.  I had no choice but to pile it on the floor, where it would be kicked, stepped on, tossed about, and subject to any water that came aboard.  It was at that point that I had my first doubts about choosing this journey. 

      And Terry had initially planned for THREE of us aboard.  I shudder to think of the disarray of squeezing a third person in there.  (Although, when fatigue started to overcome the two of us in the worst of conditions, a third person might have come in handy.)

      Finally, along these lines:  he needs to get rid of the cat.  Between the open half-eaten cans of cat food, the filthy litter box, and spare bags of litter, it all amounted to a disgusting mess that has no place on an ocean-going vessel.  But oh, how he loved that cat!  Every day, no matter how beat up and exhausted he was, he made time to spend with his life-long beloved companion.  I’ve rarely seen such devotion in a pet-owner.  So what should he do?  I’m clueless.

       Terry says that every sailor has “war stories”.  Whenever two or more sailors get together, and the drinks and margaritas start flowing, inevitably the topic turns to the worst, most terrifying moment each sailor has experienced.  As the evening progresses and the booze keeps coming, the war stories get scarier and scarier as the sailors try to outdo one another.  And every sailor, at his darkest, most despairing moment, has swore to God and the devil and his grandmother’s grave that he will never, EVER, no matter what, set foot again on any kind of watercraft ever again so long as he lives!!!  In all honesty, I think I made that vow a few times while I was out there watching my life flash before my eyes. 

      Larry & Lin Pardey, the husband-and-wife team who have sailed a million miles and written a mountain of books and articles about sailing, have a chapter in one of their books on this topic.  They bemoan the fact that sailors love to describe their moments of terror with such relish, but inevitably it always seems to happen within earshot of a sailing novice.  The result is always that potential sailors get the daylights scared out of them before they ever venture out of the harbor.

      But despite the terror, there were moments of joy on this trip.  When the sun was shining on my back, and I was able to quash down the queasiness in my gut, and Curmudgeon was slicing along, and the waters of the Gulf were that clear crystal blue, and there was no land in sight … life was wonderful.  As I steered the boat along, thru an ocean that was simultaneously beautiful, majestic, and scary, I’d never felt so free, so alive. 

      So will I again journey upon the ocean some day?  I don’t know.  Pass me a beer and I’ll think about it.