A Dream Sets Sail, Part II

Our plan was to sail north to Mexico, stopping first in Bahia Ascension, and then moving on to Isla Mujeres. From there, we’d enjoy the eastern coast of Mexico, one of our favorite countries, and wait for a good weather window to jump across the Gulf of Mexico, stopping at the Dry Tortugas on our way to the west coast of Florida. Florida. Just the sound of the word brought bittersweet and ambivalent feelings to mind.

It helped to keep busy. That old familiar gnawing anxiety had snuck up on me and raised its ugly head. I had come to expect it, knowing that it often accompanied our anticipation and preparation for those likely rough offshore passages. By now, it had become sort of an unwelcome guest, something that was really more of a nuisance than a real threat. But on the other hand, there was also a large part of me that tingled with the excitement of a challenge and identified with that classic children’s story— “The Little Engine That Could.” I acknowledged the former, and embraced the latter, and that seemed to work—until Fred told me that the disturbance in the northern gulf was moving. Decisions, decisions. Would it come our way? Should we wait until it passes, or would it just be the first of a long string of expected weather patterns? Could we get to Bahia Ascension before it was upon us? The conditions at San Pedro were great. The disturbance was a long way north of us. We decided to go for it.

Lordy, lordy! Let me off this infernal contraption. We were pounding into heavy seas and strong winds right “on the nose” in one of the worst passages we had yet encountered. The waves were incredibly steep and choppy, slamming the bow and hull with terrific force as we attempted to make forward progress. Sometimes I feared such continual punishment would destroy the boat. Grace would sometimes be momentarily motionless, then shudder and groan as she plowed onward. Tons of churning, green water poured over the bow, often splashing into the cockpit, drenching the unfortunate souls who found themselves there (us!) despite the fact that it was not raining. The sound of the wind on the sails, the sea as it roared by, the impact of the water on the hull and deck—all engulfed us in the feel of nature’s power and fury. The wind vane self-steering managed to hold our course, allowing us to spend some time in the cabin, for which I was very grateful.

“I thought cruisers never went ‘to weather, (into the wind)’” I yelled to Fred over the noise in the cockpit. “Maybe it would be more comfortable and less tiring on us, if we lowered some sail and went slower.”

“We could do that,” Fred yelled back, “but then we’d likely not get to Bahia Ascension until dark tomorrow. I’m not sure I’d want to attempt that entrance then, and I sure don’t want to go on in this if we can get out of it.”

We’d already spent one night in this mess, and I dreaded the thought of two more. Both of us had been seasick, but fortunately had thrown up only once. My waterloo came after putting on my life vest, which had been so long down in the locker that it smelled horribly of sweat, mold and mildew. That was all it took.

It was my turn on the night watch, and Fred was attempting to rest on the settee in the cabin. After several minutes of checking things outside, I went below. What I found there horrified me.

“Fred, Fred!” I yelled. “There’s water on the floorboards in the aft cabin! There’s several inches of it.”

“We need to find where it’s coming from,” Fred said as he jumped up, every fiber of his being alert and in motion. Taking on water was a life-threatening problem. We both started pulling up the floorboards and checking the bilge.

“Maybe it’s the engine seacock,” I said fearing the worst.

“I bet it’s coming in from that anchor well. We’ve been taking a lot of water over the bow.”

He continued to tear up the entire boat, as he checked for all possibilities. As he suspected, he saw a wall of water streaming down from the deck through the opening for the anchor chain. Before we had left Oregon, he had made a plug for this hole for just these conditions, but it would have meant unfastening the anchor chain in order to use the plug, and we wanted to tuck into the first anchorage possible. As he considered how to “jury rig” a solution to the problem, I continued to bail like crazy. I wasn’t keen about what he decided he’d do, but we both knew it needed to be done. We went out into the dark cockpit after donning our life vests and lifeline tethers.

“Please be very careful,” I pleaded unnecessarily.

We eased the sails for a slightly less violent ride, and Fred slowly and carefully made his way to the bow of that “Buckin’ Bronco,” making sure his safety tether was attached at all times. But there were a few dangerous seconds, when he unclipped from our jack line to re-clip onto the lifeline in order to reach the bow. During that time he was not clipped on to anything secure, and thus vulnerable. The bow had more motion than anyplace else on the ship and was heaving up and down, fiercely at times. The wet deck made footing potentially slippery. I prayed mightily as I watched him from the cockpit with our large floodlight in hand. The thought of trying to fish him out of the water in these conditions at night, was simply too overwhelming to consider, but I knew that I must be ready and act should that be needed. I thanked God for the full moon that made it somewhat easier to see. Finally arriving at the anchor well, he plugged the hole with of all things—Silly Putty! It was one of those ideas we had read about as we contemplated this “dream/nightmare” adventure and fortunately it seemed to work. He had a wild ride up there in that bouncing bow, but made his way back to the cockpit safely, and we both began to breathe again.

We were no longer taking in water, so began to relax a little, only to soon find ourselves in a squall with 30 plus knots of wind. Again we went outside and wrestled to take down the jib. There truly was no rest for the weary (or maybe it really is “wicked”). By morning the seas had moderated, we put the jib back up and had a fast sail. We made it to Bahia Ascension in good time.

“Good grief,” I complained. “What timing. Another of those darn squalls, just when we want to enter through the reef.”

“Like we need some more excitement,” laughed Fred. “Maybe it’ll keep us from being seen by the guys in that Navy base here. If they board us and find we haven’t checked into Mexico, they’ll likely tell us to leave, just like they did to Susan and Doc.”

“And if they do, they’ll have a fight on their hands,” I said with righteous indignation. “I’ll say we’re claiming ‘Port of Refuge.’ After that last storm, we need to make repairs—the boat’s a disaster inside. Most of the things in the bow cabin, and a lot from the aft cabin are wet, and the jib sail has a big rip in it.” Nobody was going to tell me to leave—even if they carried automatic weapons!