Down to the Short Hairs

Ok, folks. This one is from the hip. Let's drop the vernacular and get down to some more simple conversation:

If we don't get out of here soon, I'm going to throttle every one of the rutting geese thrashing around in the creek. They are having a ball, honking their beaks off and reveling in the three warm days we've had in a row.

The water tanks are nearly completely installed. I mean that. We should be able to fill up on diesel and water by Wednesday. We also want to test out our new spinnaker, so after we fill up we'll probably let the wind push us wherever it will for an overnight. Then it's back to Scotchy's place to clean-up the cottage. You can bet your bottom dollar that Wendy Smith will perform two or three white glove inspections before we're given the go-ahead. I can't give you a departure date yet. That would assuredly make me a liar. We've got a few last items on order. Soon though, my precious...Soon.

In a quick look ahead, for the Google Earth users, our first landfall in El Carib could be Saba, a small island SE of the BVI's. It's a part of the Dutch Antilles, but we'd only be able to anchor there weather permitting.

I'll conclude with 5 Tips for Better Close-Quartered Living:

1. No questions about $$$ before 9am, or 12oz of the black stuff - whichever happens first.
2. A chess game requires zero conversation and can last hours.
3. Personal hygiene is a commodity. The less there is, the higher the demand.
4. College stories have an infinite lifespan and cannot be worn out.
[*4.5* "I've heard this one," is grounds for dismissal for the conversation.]
5. "I'm doing the dishes" is a trumps-all-get-out-of-jail-free card.

How to Move a Twenty-Two Ton Lady

She's a larger gal. S/V Obelisk weighs in at 44,000 lbs. Your typical SUV weighs about 4,000 lbs; a typical car about 2,000. Yes sir, she's one hefty lady.

I've seen her "nudge" a 2' diameter dock piling with her bow pulpit (the steel railing encircling the front of the boat). I don't have a complete explanation for the physics involved, but I can tell you it's pretty scary for a 155 lb mammal straining against the forward motion of 22 tons worth of fiberglass, metal and wood. Newton's 1st and 3rd Laws of Motion run something akin to this: "An object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force," and, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." Translation in this situation? No amount of action in my arms can produce enough force to stop this from happening.

She's a tall gal too. S/V Obelisk boasts a 70' mast, 66' of which stands above the deck. The mast is the ultimate backbone on which most all the rigging of a sailboat is measured and hung, as well as the sails. As a general rule, the taller the mast, the taller the sail; and (given a set sail shape of course), the taller the sail, the larger the sail.

The largeness of sails is the important point. Larger sails are simply more powerful than smaller sails, and you'll need a large amount of power to woo a twenty-two ton lady.

Some people might snicker a little, given that even under maximum sail power our top speed remains under 10 mph, but the power behind a sailboat is a different kind of power than the need-for-speed, combustible kind on which modern society thrives. That kind of power is removed from the earth, refined in a factory, transformed and directed by the machine; and ultimately exhausted. The power of sailing is the power of the wind itself; the balancing breath of the earth, and we catch merely the tiniest portion of its inexhaustible, ever renewing energy in the cup of our sails. The larger the cup, the more wind you can catch; and the more wind you can catch, the more power in your sails.

Remember the strongest wind you have ever experienced? For most of us, it was probably in the 40-50 mph range. You might remember leaning into it so you wouldn't fall over, or maybe you played like you did.

Now think about holding your arm out the window of a car moving down the interstate; those are 65-85 mph winds, depending on what state you're in and who's driving. The slightest cup of your hand sends your arm flying around.

In those situations, your hand and your body are acting on the wind much the way sails do. Granted, we don't go out sailing in 85 mph winds, and we'll try to avoid even 40 mph, but our sails are a little bit bigger than the average 5'9" male - let's say 10 times taller and more than 10 times wider - so even if you knock the wind down to 20 mph or so, you're talking about interrupting the path of a lot of 20 mph wind.

But there's a catch: whereas a person can compensate for the force of the wind on their body by leaning into the wind, Obelisk lacks the legs to do the same. She does, however, have 15,000 lbs (yes, 7.5 Tons) of iron sitting in the keel beneath her hull, and the base of our mast is bolted into it. The trick is to balance the 44,000 pounds of boat (most notably the 15,000 lbs in the keel), with the tremendous power generated by the wind on the sails.

Child's play, right? Maybe so. This is where the cupped-hands-out-of-windows come in.

Arms holding cupped-hands-out-of-interstate-traveling-car-windows do not like being banged against interstate-traveling-car-windowsills because cupped-hands-out-of-interstate-traveling-car-windows interrupted too much interstate-traveling-car-wind at too perpendicular an angle. Likewise, 44,000 lbs of sailboat does not like having its mast banged down into the water when the humans attached to it let too much sail interrupt too much wind at too perpendicular an angle.

So what do cupped hands and sails do? Well, they don't do anything at all, but the humans they're attached to will likely adjust their angle to the wind. And, as all cupped-hands-out-of-interstate-traveling-car-windows know, the result is a simple joy.

Sailing Obelisk is not quite so simple - she's a hefty, iron-toed and nylon clad tall drink of water with natural power in her stride - but the joy is the same.

A Womb Where Angels Tread

For all the high ideals and noble virtues (excellent stuff for keeping a crew focused), we would be on a fool's errand indeed were it not for the angels who took us in.

"Boys don't come out of the womb until they are twenty-eight!," laughed the lady from behind the counter. The room was filled with a delicious aroma and she fussed happily between the stove and the sink. The other angel chuckled in agreement from his chair by the fire. It was January 22nd 2008. There was snow in the yard and footprints down on the dock. Rob and I were newly arrived to Scotchy's Place - 'Expedition Central' - and had already spent nearly a week enjoying the hospitality of our hosts.
Herb and Wendy Smith masquerade around as mere mortals, yet they are sailing spirits tried and tested, and a pair of Godsends for our novice idea. These angelic souls opened their door and hearts to us over a year ago. We were then in need of a boat to sail upon, a sturdy roof, running water, a hot meal and a safe place to sleep. Since then we have been given all these and more.
As that winter turned to spring, and the spring to summer, we enjoyed the use of Herb's tools and workshop, his trusty old Ford pick-up, the Boston Whaler, and other innumerable little gifts without which this voyage would be impossible. And as summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, we found ourselves continuously provided for. We have lacked for nothing - least of all that most divinely inspired trait: kindness.

Now that year has come to a close and a new one is dawning. Soon it will be the time for leavetakings, farewells and departures. In about two weeks we will stow the last of our clothes aboard Obelisk and take our first steps out of the womb.
Alas!, for leaving all of this behind. Our cottage on the banks of Vaughn's creek, where angels tread.

A Novice Idea

The first cold fact of the matter was this: "We're all gonna die someday."

You don't need an epiphany to figure that out. The loss of innocence is a slow process. The epiphany, if it comes, comes as a response to the loss of innocence - not as the loss of innocence itself. Neither does the epiphany come at the realization of the loss of innocence: the understanding that we're all dying. This is but the final symptom for the loss of innocence. No, the epiphany is when an individual faces up to the first cold fact, and decides to do something about it. This is the furnace in which man's most noble virtues are hammered into thought.
This sort of epiphany has been manifest in the strong arm of righteous revolution; the pen of Shakespeare and Decartes; the brush of da Vinci and the hammer of Michaelangelo; the scales of Beethoven, Mozart and Bach, and the steady hand of Magellan and Marco Polo. It is the flame that steels the backbone of mere mortals to take themselves where angels fear to tread, and wring out the very fibers of their being in some great endeavor. It is in the blood of all people, and it is uniquely human. It is the reason I decided to go on this journey, and it arrived on the heels of a novice idea.

Seldom does someone tell you, "Hey slugger. You're gettin' closer to death by the second. Whatcha gonna do about it?" Such a comment would be ridiculous in most any situation where people are trying to be polite and civilized. No one likes a scarecrow. But there are ways of getting the same point across, perhaps an epiphany point, by posing an even more ridiculous question.
"Do you wanna buy a sailboat and circumnavigate the globe?"
"Wacko," you think. "Fool's bather and a fool's errand."
After all, Rob, the lunatic asking the question, is a novice sailor. And I'm neon green.
"Yea, let's do it," I say, without hesitation.
Twenty months later I find myself here by the shores of the Chesapeake, helping my mates (all of whom know more about sailing and the complex inner-workings of the various systems and on-board machines than I do) put the finishing touches on a year's worth of work and singular craftsmanship. We have poured blood, sweat, emptied out our hearts (not to mention our pockets) and forsaken everything in pursuit of this endeavor. We have walked where angels fear to tread, and we have held fast with our last nerve. We have known ecstatic joy, quiet accomplishment, heartache and loneliness. We have glimpsed at Triumph and Despair. We know what Jerry means when he sings, "Don't murder me."

The first cold fact. Twenty months ago we decided to do something about it.
What a novice idea.

Cold Shake for Adventurers

I always dreamed my maiden voyage would see my ship gliding smoothly across placid waters, pushed by a gentle wind under a warm evening sun. There would be lasses waving farewell from the docks, their hair streaming out with the wind. Gulls and dolphins would leap and swoop about the boat, and I would sip a cold beer, shaking my head at all the poor lubbers ashore and congratulating myself on what a capital decision I had made. Everything onboard would work perfectly. The stars would slowly appear out of the blackness above and say, "Oh, well Hello! there Willie. My what a bright competent boy you are. We're going to name the next star born in the universe after you. You have discovered the Secret o' Happiness and will soon become a Buddah. People all over the world will spend the rest of their lives giving accolades to your courage. When you die you will attain Nirvana." Then the sea and I would merge into one, like Peter Pan and his shadow, and I would discover I was actually a reincarnation of Poseidon and it was my destiny to command the sea. The mantle of Enlightenment would fall about my shoulders with the lightness of a fine dusting snow, and Time would be completed.

The reality of my maiden voyage, my first multi-day sail into the ocean, ran rather contrary to my Utopian ideals.

Our Shakedown cruise began Wednesday January 7th, 2009. It is the middle of Winter on the Chesapeake. Warm evening breezes are nowhere to be found.

We finished loading the last of our things onto Obelisk around 11:00 am. The temperature was 69 degrees on land, but the Chesapeake was holding just below 40 degrees, so we couldn't hope for a balmy day on the water. We motored south for about 5 hours, all hands on deck the entire way to Hampton Roads. That night we anchored in Hampton Creek, a tight channel for a 51' foot boat. It had been raining for the past two days. We hoped clear skies and less wind would allow a chap from North Sails to come aboard the next day to tune our rigging.

Thursday morning we got what we hoped for, and it took the two men from North Sails about 45 minutes + 45 cigarettes to get shrouds, forestay and backstay all tightened appropriately. This process is much like tuning a guitar or violin - you've got to have the right amount of tension on all the strings or else they're gonna break. And if our shrouds break, then our mast breaks, and then the whole expedition is kaput. The Marine Police paid us a visit halfway through the process, and although it is not against the law to be anchored in a channel, they 'suggested' we pull up a ways and re-anchor. Jesse obliged, and the North Sails guys suggested we go ahead and tie up to the T-head in front of their business - which actually belongs to the Hampton Yacht club. We planned to be there for only a few minutes. Due to problems caused by extra canvas around the clew, our old outhaul shackle and block wouldn't fit the eye, and we spent the next two hours waiting for Glenn to come back from a lengthy lunch break. Eventually we picked up a new outhaul block, and used a galvanized anchor shackle in place of our old, smaller shackle.

By the time we were ready to motor back out into Hampton Roads and hoist the sails the wind had picked up significantly and built up a steepish chop in the waterway. It took us nearly two hours to get sails up while we tossed about. At one point we had to send Jesse up the mast - the car on the topping lift was fouled about 50' above the deck - and nerves were a little thin shouting communication up and down in the back and forth pitch of the chop. I think it was a moderately dicey situation, what with the massive Navy ships moving about and the genny beating the hell out of our radar and Matt, but mostly it served to prove how out-of-shape and out-of-practice we were.

That afternoon we sailed across the southern end of the Bay to the Concrete Ships (a man-made anchorage fashioned from strings of old concrete WWII boats lashed bow-to-stern and sitting atop a shoal). While underway, two Blackhawk helicopters buzzed the boat at about 150', and not ten minutes after we dropped anchor they flew in for night maneuvers directly off our stern - not more than a hundred yards away! One of the choppers was completely blacked out, while the other hovered nearby and acted as a spotter. The blacked-out Blackhawk fell to about 40 feet off the deck of a Concrete ship and dropped a rope of some sort with a fluorescent light on the end. We assumed it was a night-strike or rescue drill of some kind. They hovered there for about 20 or 30 minutes, and then disappeared back across the bay.

"Absolutely incredible," I thought. "That's the sound of Democracy," said Rob.

The following day we beat North up the bay, and anchored in the Great Wicomico river. The temp had been falling since we left Mobjack Bay on Wednesday, and the land-based high was 45. That night it dipped to 28 on land - I'd wager it was 10 degrees below that on the water.

That evening we sat in the cockpit and listened to Jerry Garcia picking away at Shady Grove. He sings about roaming, and hardships, longing for home, cold winters and hard labor. I looked at the houses on the shore, warm yellow lights pushing back the freezing night, and thought of the comforts of the hearth. I wondered how the people inside would react if a stranger came to their door seeking shelter from the cold. In bygone eras the rule of hospitality ruled men's hearts, even extending to one's enemies. Would the people living their open their lives for a night? Or would suspicion and greed keep their hearts closed. I did not know, and I didn't want to sit and judge what were probably happy families and good-hearted people - but I would be lying if I said I didn't have deep-seated misgivings. Most of us are willing to turn the blind eye.

Saturday now and we weigh anchor just after 7am. We continue to sail North; North for Annapolis; North through the Chesapeake in the dead of Winter. We live in our foul weather gear, and I am beginning to feel the chill set in. We haven't really been eating as much as we should, and calories are wearing thin. We don't have any heat on the boat at night, so everyone just sleeps in their long underwear. It's too cold to take it off, and only a crazy person would try to take a shower in this weather. Three days straight sailing across sub-40 degree water. And then, mid-afternoon in the middle of a shipping lane, with fog and rain moving in, and many miles to go to reach Annapolis; we were becalmed. And then the engine quit working. There was water in the fuel lines, no wind for the sails, and we were sitting ducks.

Jesse worked like a donkey for a couple of hours draining the filters, restarting the engine, letting the engine conk, re-draining the filters, restarting the engine...etc. By the time he got it working properly again we needed to book it to Annapolis and book it we did. We motored nearly due North from about 3:00 until about 9:00, the rain spitting down from the North, everyone on deck and growing a little nervous as night fell, what with all the cargo-ship traffic running up the bay. Get too close to one of those and even their prop-wash could have sent Obelisk reeling.

That evening we picked up a mooring in a beautiful inlet directly in front of the U.S. Naval Academy, and decided we needed a night in port. Everyone was cold, and the prospect of a warm pub and a couple of pints cheered our spirits immensely. We proceeded into town, and occasioned a local joint called McGarveys. The place is decked in wood and brass, and winds around in a pleasant little labyrinth. The are two words that come to mind describing crowded old public houses in Winter - jovial and cozy. We were on solid ground, among friends unmet, and sheltered from the storm. Even the walls seemed bedecked with Goodwill.

Now, the sight of four bearded young men, looking decidedly disheveled and still wearing their foul-weather bibs and boots, arriving by sailboat after dark in the dead of winter was enough to raise more than a few eyebrows - even in Annapolis: Sailing Mecca of the Chesapeake. We were thumped on the back and brow-beaten with amiable questions all night. There was a general air of admiration among the locals, and suddenly the past three days of cold and limited hardship seemed much more bearable. Respect for another man's burden lessens his load. We spent the evening telling our stories and singing along with the jukebox, getting claps on the back and dancing around like lumberjacks in longjohns. By the time last call rolled around the rain had started back up and it was time for sleeping bags and a few hours rest. The morning, now this one in particular, would be dawning sooner than we would like.

The next day we sailed underneath the Bay Bridge, a colossal achievement of engineering, and north, ever northward to the Sassafras River, our final anchorage in the Chesapeake. It was blustery to say the least, with the NW wind topping out in 25 knot gusts and our point of sail less than desirable. We passed under the Bay Bridge around 9 am, and spent the next 5 hours tacking NNE for a few miles until the eastern coast came too close, and then losing ground on a WSW tack to position the boat for the next NNE tack. Everyone was feeling tired, and the constant beat into the wind was taking its toll.

Finally, around 2 pm we were able to make a heading that would take us nearly all the way to the Sassafras River without having to change tacks. Still, we had miles left to cover, and again we had to settle for arriving after dark, dropping anchor close to 10pm. As if to sap any warmth instilled by the previous evening, which was already long gone anyways, temperatures dropped to the low twenties. We could see from our instruments that the water temperature was 33 degrees. Fall in that business, and you'll be frozen toast in about 4 minutes.

Monday now, and we haul anchor in the Sassafras just before 7am. We motored back out into the Chesapeake, and up the last reaches of that famous bay to the C&D Canal. Here we would turn East and follow its close banks until we reached the Delaware Bay - the landing bay of the Mason/Dixon expedition; a shallow, shoaly, tidal area known for fast moving freighters and a gargantuan nuclear plant. Tempers among the crew were growing shorter as we struggled to fold up the cold-hardened rubber of our inflatable dingy, and they grew even shorter when we saw how poorly the bulky storage bag fit into our cockpit port-locker. We would soon be out in the North Atlantic - yes, I'll say it again, - in the dead of Winter, and the forecast was not looking very pleasant if it took us more than 48 hours to sail South and reach Cape Henry and Cape Charles, our re-entry point to the Chesapeake. We spent the day motoring south and figuring how to stow away everything lying about the cabin. Soon the simplier waves of inland waters would fade to the rolling swell of the sea.

Ah, here is the moment we have been waiting for. The Ocean! One has to pass through it, or be capable of surviving it, if one hopes to sail around the World. The wind was fair from the North-East around 4 pm when we past Cape May to port and I officially set sail, under spinnaker with the wind at my back, out into the Ocean. First watch was given to me; 6pm - 9pm; and I confidently accepted, feeling up to the task of watching auto-pilot take the wheel for three hours. The wind was fair, the water was settled, the open ocean lay ahead and the moon was rising in the east.

I remember being annoyed that my toes were numb and the sky was growing cloudy when I found myself screaming for Jesse after a horrible ripping sound came from the spinnaker - the seam had ripped out about halfway up along the luff clear down to the foot. Jesse raced forward to bring her down before anything else could happen, but the awful noise came again, this time magnificent in its terror, and the spinnaker ripped clean through across the middle. We put her away and then the crew grew silent. We were never in any danger from the situation. It was terrifying, yes, to see what even a little wind could do to our precious sails - but I think the main emotion we all felt was anxiety instead of fear - we all knew a new sail would costs of thousands of dollars. And then, as if to allow us room to think about exactly how much money the spinnaker would cost, we were becalmed a second time.

That first night in the ocean I got little sleep. I lay down in my sleeping bag around 11:00, utterly exhausted from the past 5 days and becoming sapped of will power from the creeping cold. I didn't put up my leeboard that night, and spent most of the night trying not to slide off my couch as Jesse, Rob and Matt took their watches and shifted tacks. The next morning I peeled myself out of my sleeping bag around 7:00 am, little rested, and an hour late, but ready to take my next watch. Jesse hadn't slept all night and after seeing that the wind was fair and I could take the helm, he went below to catch a few hours sleep.

That morning we were becalmed again, the third time during the trip and the second time it had happened on my watch. To say I was not feeling a certain Jonah at this point would be a lie. Bad things seemed to be happening every time I took the wheel. I reminded myself that I was cold and tired, and a constant hunger for warmth and a solid meal was keeping my spirits rather low. We waited for the wind, and when it arrived, just after 12 noon on Tuesday, it arrived in strength.

The Weather forecast was becoming more concrete at this point - Tuesday at midnight an Arctic air mass was going to invade the Chesapeake region, and conditions were forecast to deteriorate rapidly. We still had around 80 miles to cover between our current position, about 40 nautical miles east of Delaware, and Cape Charles. The timely shift of the wind to the S with the coming Low pressure front allowed us trim the sails close-hauled and make a beeline on a starboard tack for Cape Charles. The afternoon saw Obelisk making 8 knots in about 15 knots of wind, with a 5'-7' ocean swell which dropped to about 4' after nightfall. We were screaming towards land in darkness and not a member of the crew was feeling very easy about it. Yet we had to make the Capes before midnight. The wind was slowing veering from SW to North as the Arctic air mass descended, and the clock was ticking.

11pm. We are in sight of Cape Charles and the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, and we crank up the Perkins. We'll have to turn directly into the wind, which has now shifted to the North West and is blowing 20-25 knots and gusting to 30-35, and the temperature has fallen to the low 20s. It will fall further than that by the early morning. Bitterly cold spray showers the decks and the tide running out from the Bay slows our progress to a crawl. We are, all of us, very tired, very cold, and running out of patience with everything. The plan is to motor through the pass, and then turn Northeast to make for our anchorage of the previous Thursday - the Concrete Ships. They are less than 8 miles away, just up the eastern coast of the Chesapeake, but the forecasters were right: conditions were deteriorating badly and it was upsetting the water.

It took us until 3:30 in the morning on Wednesday, nearly 4 hours of motoring to make it 8 nautical miles and close to the Concrete Ships. The boat pitched up and down in the steep waves, burying her bow in the black water and forcing the four of us to take turns watching the blackness ahead from behind the dodger. The wind blew freezing spray all over the decks, and after a failed attempt to get the Danforth prepared at the bow as a 2nd anchor - cold and freezing water finally overcoming Rob and I - Jesse despaired that we would not be able to thread the tiny pass into the protected water behind the concrete ships. It was nearly 4 am when he decided we would have to motor into the teeth of the wind all night, and hope to make Mobjack Bay by daylight. Silent resignation followed frustrated exclamations down below.

Jesse and Matt kept watch those last 4 hours all alone. I sat up in my sleeping bag below decks, trying to keep awake in case of an emergency, but mostly just alternating between nodding off and looking over at the Nav station to read Jesse's face for signs of immediate danger in the darkness. Rob had taken the full brunt of a bow-breaking wave when we were preparing the anchors earlier in the night, and he was buried in his sleeping bag, unconscious to the world. The boat tossed side to side, the wind screamed in the rigging, and poorly stowed items banged around in the cabin. The whole world seemed turned to chaos. I was cursing my damned quest for adventure and longing for solid ground.

The next morning dawned sunny and absurdly cold. During the last few hours of the night I had slumped down on the couch, sleeping with my arm outstretched and holding onto a water jug I must have secured in a narcoleptic daze. Topsides there was ice all over the decks, coils on the mast were frozen solid, icicles hung at leeward angles from the life lines, and the wind was blowing a fine spray all over everything. The plastic windows of the dodger were covered with ice, and you had to stick your head up above the canvas hood to clearly see what was coming ahead. But we were back in Mobjack Bay, an hour from home, and still in one piece.

Jesse asked me to take the wheel and bring Obelisk into Severn River for our final anchorage. Everyone gloves were soaked, so I steered with one finger and my jacket sleeves pulled down around my hands like a third-grader at the bus stop. I couldn't take my mind off the thought of a warm shower, a hot meal, and a still bed. It had been the coldest 7 days of my life - probably the most sleep deprived - certainly the most exhaustive. I certainly didn't feel like I was much more of a sailor than I had been a week prior, nor did I feel particularly adventurous at the ordeal I had just put myself through, but I did feel a deep-seated welling of pride that the Shakedown was over, and I could rest knowing that we had been though conditions that would have given most people we know serious pause, if not downright panic.

Adventures, my friends, that's what we're after, and I guess you could say we found one.

But a word to the foolish: be prepared for unpleasantries if it's Adventure you're after. It might not seem so adventurous - at least not until it's over.