Green Ghost, Blue Ocean

by Jennifer M. Smith

  Despite the brisk conditions, an international fleet of vessels was always on the move. There were many North American sailors who had coast-hopped their way south from homes on the eastern seaboard. There were European would-be world voyagers, revelling in the accomplishment of their first ocean crossing. There were the folks who’d crossed the southern Atlantic – South Africans or perhaps Europeans who were completing their circumnavigation. There were Aussies and Kiwis with two oceans in their wake, and west coast North Americans with three oceans down and only Panama standing in the way of closing their loop. The Caribbean was a crossroads like no other.

  As we made our way north from Trinidad to Grenada, and on to Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, St. Lucia, and Martinique, we found that the fleet was not only multi-national, it was multi-directional too. Just when we’d met some terrific folks on the beach, we’d learn they were leaving the next day, heading south. The chance of seeing each other again was slim. Our globe-trotting buddies had struck out in their own directions. Moonfleet and Haven had gone west through Panama, others were headed northeast back to Europe, and some had left their boats in Trinidad and flown home for a rest. In the Caribbean, there was no defined fleet. We felt a bit lost, not because we were alone, but because we were alone in the crowd.

  “Oh my God,” I said as I surreptitiously peeked out one of our portholes, spying on a sailboat anchored next to us off Dominica. “The woman on that charter boat is rinsing her bedsheets in the sea!”

  “Oh boy. They’ll be stinky and itchy tonight,” Nik said.

  “And all that fine salt working its way into the mattress – forever damp … Ugh! How is it that people don’t know?”

  “Well, we didn’t know,” Nik reminded me. “You’ve got to remember, we’ve been at this a long time. Cut them some slack. Some charter boaters are pretty green behind the ears.”

  “Wet,” I answered.

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll hang them to dry.”

  “No, you mean wet,” I said. “As in wet behind the ears, as in just born.”

  He looked at me blankly. I was doing it again.

  “A newbie is either wet behind the ears, or they’re green, but they’re not green behind the ears. That sounds like they’re going moldy.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “You know what I mean.”

  Nik was right, we’d been at this a long time and we’d learned a lot over the years. We weren’t finished with learning either. We still made mistakes. We still accidentally dropped things off our boat, or inadvertently conversed on Channel 16, we still, on occasion, docked the boat imperfectly, or landed the dinghy poorly on a beach … Sure, we still resorted to yelling at one another now and again – we just did it a lot less often.

  Though the boisterous and demanding weather patterns surprised us, we could handle the Caribbean sailing. It was the neighbourhood that took time to get used to. We’d crossed oceans in such great company and we missed the folks who put in the hard miles, our intrepid blue water friends. For that first season in the Caribbean, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t with my people.

  I was used to boats that were full-time live aboard, not part-time holiday properties. I was used to voyaging sailors, not vacationing ones. Offshore sailors were all-in. Caribbean sailors had houses and cars and whole lives they lived back home. Their time on board was short term – a few months’ winter break. They weren’t on a ’round-the-world mission, they were mostly just hanging out. And so the vibe was quite different – the anchorages felt less like Everest base camp and more like Ever Rest trailer park. I felt like I didn’t fit in.

  I couldn’t get used to the dogs. Few long-distance cruisers travel with pets. There was the issue of quarantine in new countries, and of course the problem of bodily functions, walks, and exercise. Dogs were nearly impossible offshore, but in the Caribbean, dogs were a sailing accessory. They were everywhere.

  Dogs stood at the prow of fast dinghies, nose to the wind. Dogs barked their displeasure at passing boats, defending their spot in an anchorage. They slept on decks, they were walked on the beach, they ran for Frisbees in the surf. Doggie play-dates were arranged on the radio, sometimes in mock doggie voices. I found the new neighbourhood confounding. It was all a bit too suburban for me – the very thing we’d strived to leave behind.

  In time, I came to appreciate that Caribbean sailors had defined their own dream, their own way to enjoy life on the water. Toward the end of our first season, after exploring the Lesser Antilles from Trinidad to the British Virgin Islands and back, I settled into it. I had to, because after all, we’d become part-time vacationing sailors ourselves.

  In our second season, we cruised through the northern islands and ended in Fort Pierce, Florida, where we stored Green Ghost for the summer. On our third winter getaway, we spent the entire season in the Bahamas. Our proximity to Canadian friends and family meant multiple rendezvous each winter. We enjoyed an unprecedented amount of entertaining and a slower pace, just hanging out.

  As part-time cruisers, Green Ghost endured cyclical periods of desertion, intense maintenance, and heavy use. We left her alone in a boatyard for more than half of every year. Like closing a seasonal cottage, but much more involved, we spent days in April doing maintenance projects before storing the boat on the hardstand for the summer. Seven months later, we’d undo all the mothballing and re-establish the systems for the sailing season ahead.

  We soon noticed that our fun-to-work time ratio was way out of whack. In our part-time sailing calendar, we spent four or five weeks doing maintenance on the hardstand for every four or five months of good times on the water. It was a very different schedule to our ocean voyaging days when we hauled the boat every eighteen months for bottom painting, but otherwise kept it livable while we kept it going. It seemed to us that seasonal sailing involved more work.

  It wasn’t just the part-time schedule that was to blame. There was a backlog to address on our must-do list. This was in part because of the age of the boat and also because we’d not had access to as many goods and services in the far-flung places we’d been. Some of the work was self-inflicted, because once we were up on the hardstand, we fell victim to the while-we’re-at-it disease and took extra time to address the nice-to-do list as well. The seasonal to-dos, the must-dos, and the nice-to-dos made for some very long lists. I could sense another change coming as the maintenance fatigue wore us down.

  Nik pined to work again. He liked the idea of one more kick at the can. It was in part a longing for the relief of a paycheque and the things one could buy. But he also missed the camaraderie of work, the professional setting, and the accolades for a job well done. He figured, if he wanted another shot at it, he ought to return to the workforce before he got too old.

  Me? Although I’d often thought that having a positive closing chapter to my career would be a feel-good happy ending, I was less driven to corporate work. I didn’t long for it the way Nik did.

  To suit our changing interests, together we hashed out a plan.

  Closing the loop on a circumnavigation wasn’t in the cards for us, but we both liked the idea of closure, of some kind of suitable ending to our tale. Our solution was to bring Green Ghost home. Back in Canadian waters, we could plant the flag for completing the journey: Vancouver to Toronto – the long way around.

  “Vancouver, Canada? You’re a long way from home!” A couple approaching in their dinghy had read our port of registration on the transom.

  “We sure are!” Nik replied. We were anchored near Fernandina Beach, Florida, having started our northbound journey up the Intra-Coastal Waterway (ICW).

  “What was it like going through The Ditch?” the man asked us, referring to Panama as he stopped his dinghy to chat.

  “Oh, we didn’t come that way,” Nik answered. “We came the long way around.”

  “Around Cape Horn! That’s brave!” the woman said, impressed.

  “No, not that way,” Nik explained. “We came the long, l
ong way.”

  A look of confusion flashed on their faces, as if for a moment they’d forgotten that the earth was round.

  “You mean … ”

  “Yeah, the really long way – from Vancouver across the Pacific to New Zealand then Australia, then up through Asia, from Sumatra across the Indian to Madagascar and South Africa, around the Cape, and then finally across the Atlantic to French Guiana, up to Trinidad, then up through the Caribbean to here …,” Nik said, opening his arms in a wide gesture.

  “Wow! What a journey!” they said together.

  “Yes, it was!” I chimed in.

  “You must have a few stories,” the man said.

  “Oh yes,” we said collectively. “Yes, we do!”

  We had many similar interactions as we brought Green Ghost north, up the ICW to New York City, then on up the Hudson River, to the Mohawk River and the Erie Canal. We emerged onto Lake Ontario at Oswego, New York. From there, we sailed for Canada.

  “Will you be needing any fuel?” the young man at the fuel dock asked as he helped us with our dock lines.

  “No, thanks, I’ve just pulled in to phone Canada Customs. They told me I couldn’t declare our arrival until I was actually standing on the ground in Kingston,” Nik said.

  “Oh, okay,” the young man replied.

  Nik stepped ashore to assist with securing the boat. When he finished I could see that he was smiling broadly. He approached the young man. “It’s been seventeen years since I’ve stepped off this boat onto Canadian soil. Looks like you’re the welcoming committee!”

  The young man was speechless with surprise and he stiffened a little as Nik engulfed him in a great bear hug.

  “We’re home!”

  We hung a banner from our lifelines and flew the flags of all the countries we’d visited from our flag halyards as we made our journey west along the lake. Family members and friends celebrated our homecoming with parties in Kingston, Oshawa, and Etobicoke.

  So many years ago, we’d chosen our path. We’d chosen to live our lives in a specific way. We’d set out with a dream to sail to Australia and a belief that we would figure the rest out from there. One day at a time, we’d done it. We’d sailed the long way home.

  As we continued westbound toward Burlington I looked up at the courtesy flags fluttering in the breeze. So many memories were wrapped up in each one. I thought of all the good people: the laughing hardware shop attendant in Zihuatanejo who knew exactly what electrico ppfssst ppfssst meant, the generous Ezekiel, our fellow sailors who saved Green Ghost from drifting away in Maumere, and Port Captain Mallet and his team of volunteers who skillfully towed us in through the reefs at Rodrigues. I thought of the artistry of Polynesian tattooists and of Tongan voices raised in song. I recalled delighted greetings of “Hello, mister!” and smiling children asking, “Bonbon?” Sure, now and then, we met a bad hippo, but there were so few. As one wise Fijian marina manager had said, “People everywhere are the same, mostly good.”

  As we bounced over the wake of a passing motorboat, I thought of the difficult conditions we’d endured. So many times, I’d used my mantra, This won’t last, this won’t last, this won’t last. And it never did. We sailed through the rough moments, at times hanging on white-knuckled, but in time we always found sunshine and fair winds.

  I turned to look at Nik at the helm and I saw my familiar reflection in his sunglasses. Windblown as usual, I was still me. My core sense of self felt unaltered. All the miles hadn’t changed who I was. But I knew that in its own way the voyage had defined me. I’d become an offshore sailor, an adventurer in a steamer trunk with a mast. How acutely I felt my good fortune. I sensed that I’d set myself free. How constraining it is to be defined by others. How liberating to decide who you’ll be.

  Glossary

  Glossary definition sources are as follows:

  [1] https://www.merriam-webster.com

  [2] https://www.nauticed.org/sailingterms

  [3] Personal knowledge

  Other online sources where individually noted.

  AIS – Automatic identification system. An automated, autonomous tracking system used on ships and by vessel traffic services on shore for the exchange of navigational information. AIS-equipped terminals electronically exchange vessel information by VHF radio signal. Static information such as the vessel’s name, type, and length, as well as dynamic information such as the vessel’s position, course, and speed, can be communicated. The information can be received by other vessels or base stations within range and can be displayed on a chartplotter or computer monitor. Source: www.marinetraffic.com/hc/en-us/articles/204581828-What-is-the-Automatic-Identification-System-AIS-Accessed March 12, 2020

  amidships – In or toward the part of the ship that is halfway between the bow and the stern. [1]

  anchor bridle – A loop or length of line attached to the anchor chain by a chain hook or other method that takes the strain of the ground tackle off the windlass and redistributes it to two points, usually to deck cleats on either side of the bow (or stern cleats if the bridle is being used on a stern anchor). See also bridle. [1, 3]

  antipodean – Relating to a place diametrically opposite on the globe. [1]

  astern – Behind or toward the stern of a ship. [1]

  atoll – A ring-shaped coral reef or string of closely spaced small coral islands, enclosing or nearly enclosing a lagoon. [1, 3]

  Autohelm – The brand name of an electric autopilot marine device. [3]

  autopilot – A device for automatically steering ships. [1]

  Awlgrip – A brand name for marine paint products designed to both beautify and protect the hull of a boat above the waterline. [3]

  bare poles/running under bare poles – Travelling with the wind astern and no sails deployed. In strong wind conditions, the pressure of the wind on the hull and the mast(s) alone will generate a forward velocity. [3]

  batten – A thin narrow strip of wood or fibreglass or other rigid but flexible material which, when inserted into a fitted pocket in a sail, helps to support the sail’s shape. [1, 3]

  beam – The width of a ship at her widest part. [1]

  beam ends – Literally the ends of the beams in the deck framing, used to refer to the sides of a ship. The term is used to describe a vessel that is inclined so much on one side that the beams approach a vertical position. It may describe an extreme situation in which a vessel is about to capsize, but more often it means the vessel is heeled over forty-five degrees or more, as in the expression, “It was so rough, she was standing on her beam ends.” [1, 2, 3]

  beam reach/beam reaching – Reaching is the tack sailed by a ship with the wind coming just forward of the beam, on the beam, or aft of the beam. When reaching, the wind is striking the side of a vessel at any angle from 60 to 160 degrees. When the wind is at about 90 degrees to the vessel, the wind is striking the vessel on the beam. Therefore, a beam reach, or beam reaching, is sailing with the wind on the beam. [1, 2, 3]

  beam seas – Swells or waves that approach the vessel on the beam, a potentially dangerous situation in heavy weather. [3]

  beating – Sailing a course as close to the direction of the true wind as possible, also referred to as close-hauled. The sails are trimmed close to the centreline of the vessel. This point of sail allows the vessel to travel upwind, diagonally to the wind direction. [3]

  Beaufort scale – The Beaufort wind force scale is a scale in which the force of the wind is indicated by numbers from Force 0 to Force 12. Each number relates not only to a specific wind speed but also to observed conditions on land or at sea. [1]

  berth – (noun) Sufficient distance for maneuvering a ship, or an amount of distance needed to maintain safety; a place where a ship lies at anchor or at a wharf or dock; a bunk where a seaman sleeps. [1]

  berth – (verb) To bring a vessel into a berth. [1]

  bilge – The part of the underwater body of a ship between the flat of the bottom and the vertical topsides, the lowest part of
a ship’s inner hull where any leakage collects. [1, 3]

  binnacle – A stand or housing for the ship’s compass, usually placed where it is easily seen from the helm. [1, 3]

  block – A wooden or metal case with one or more sheaves or pulleys and having a hook, eye, or strap by which it may be attached. Used to gain mechanical advantage or as a fairlead. [1, 3]

  bommie – An Australian expression for coral reef, typically columnar in shape and rising higher from the bottom than the surrounding reef. These may be a hazard to navigation particularly at low tide. [3]

  boom – A horizontal spar that supports the bottom edge (the foot) of a sail. [1]

  bottom side – Refers to the wetted surface of a boat, the part of the hull in constant contact with water that is typically painted with anti-fouling paint to prevent marine growth. [3]

  bow – The forward part of the hull of a ship, sometimes used in plural, bows. [1]

  bridle – Any loop or length of line attached to two points to spread the force of a pull. On a sailboat, typically spreading a load of lifting or towing forces. See anchor bridle. [1, 3]

  brightwork – Varnished woodwork on a boat; may also refer to polished metalwork. [1]

  breadcrumb trail – As in a GPS breadcrumb trail, is a series of successive locations usually depicted as a dotted line on the visual display (chartplotter). The line graphically represents the course that has been taken. This allows users to keep track of their successive locations and to backtrack inbound exactly along the outbound path taken. [3]

  broach – To veer or yaw dangerously so as to lie broadside to the waves. [1]

  Cape Horn – A geographical location, but also a brand name of mechanical self-steering equipment for sailboats. [3]

  catenary – The curve assumed approximately by a heavy uniform cord or chain that is perfectly flexible but not capable of stretching and that hangs freely from two fixed points. [1]