Charting the Unknown

by Kim Petersen

  Stefan: “Like if you grow any hair you'll get some?”

  Lauren (commenting on her love of bread): “I'd do really well in jail…All I need is fresh bread and water.”

  Mom: “Good to know you're thinking ahead, babe.”

  Laur: “I don't have a mirror or an alarm clock in my stateroom.”

  Dad: “That explains a lot.”

  Dad to the rest of us in exasperation: “I don't know what's worse, you guys breaking something, or you guys trying to fix it.”

  Dad said to Mom on a bad day: “Well, it's better than living in a housing project!”

  Mom muttering: “This IS a housing project!”

  Dad to the rest: “You people drive me crazy!”

  Laur: “That's a short trip.”

  Mom: “I laugh in the face of fashion.”

  Laur: “It laughs in your face, too!”

  Stefan: “Guys, you're supposed to spare the rod AND spoil the child. You've got to do both. I'm pretty sure an Xbox would be considered spoiling, so can I get one?”

  I could tell that a relational climate was beginning to develop on board Chrysalis. Seeing the same three faces day after day was ceasing to freak us out. We had started to mesh our lives together and work as a team. A simple rhythm developed to our days. We glued the whole thing together with trite sayings and practical jokes.

  And then, we began to look outward.

  25

  While at anchor, I would hear the intermittent clackety-clack of one of our sailboat neighbors hauling up their anchor. The sound would draw me to the cockpit or a porthole, where I would watch them slowly exit the bay to the south and continue down the short stretch of Intracoastal Waterway. There, I would lose sight of them. I knew that just beyond was the Lake Worth Inlet and open water.

  I had conflicting emotions. I was comfortable where we were, but there was something compelling about watching those sailboats leave the harbor. An instinctual urgency developed. We all sensed it. We began to study the weather online. At night, Mike and I sat together at the galley table with our heads bent over our charts and Waterway Guide. The plan was to head south to Miami for a few weeks. The trip down there was about four hours in open water. This, we figured, would provide a decent initial testing of our systems outside the sheltered waters of the Intracoastal Waterway. From Miami, we would wait for weather to cross the Gulf Stream to the Bahamas and a more extensive offshore maiden voyage.

  One afternoon, our own anchor came up out of the water. We made the short trek down the narrow Intracoastal towards the Inlet. As we wound our way toward the cut, I kept an eye on our depth sounder and watched it descend: 5ft…4ft…3ft…2.5ft…2ft. I was sure that at any moment we would run into a rock and it would rip a hole in the hull.

  “Well, that was it then…” I would be forced to say. “Our journey lasted all of an hour and we sank in the middle of Lake Worth.”

  In my head, I was already charting a swimming course through the water to the nearest marina, whose restaurant we had eaten at a number of times. I remembered they had good Irish coffee and thought how nice it would be to warm up with a cup after nearly drowning. Instead, the depth hovered at about 1.5 feet and then began to climb. We approached the inlet and my attention was distracted from the depth by the open water stretching out in front of us.

  The winds were from the east that day and the tide was going out, which made the waves stand up in steep four-to-five foot chop as we exited Lake Worth Inlet. Chrysalis heaved and rocked. I held on, grim, with wide eyes. The further we got into deeper water, the more things calmed down both in terms of wave height and my own heartbeat. We pushed away from land for the first time.

  With the wind whipping my hair and the rise and fall of Chrysalis, I temporarily forgot my fear. Even though I was sitting on the flybridge of a catamaran with every modern convenience, I began to feel myself part of a wild, untamed, world. There was the incredible feeling of being released. Set free. Behind me lay the land-locked life with all the things I was so familiar with; traffic, high-rise buildings, media, hurry. But out in front of me existed an expanse of unobstructed space. Who knew what lay ahead? Distant lands. Creatures unknown. Something shifted inside of me and instead of being freaked out, I found the feeling expanding. I began to imagine myself in the same league as Juan Ponce de Leon, who sailed these waters back in 1513 in search of the Fountain of Youth. I wondered what it had been like for him to push away from shore and head to foreign waters. Were thoughts of drinking from this fountain enough to motivate him to travel around the world, or was it this feeling of liberation he craved?

  Liberated as he might have been, Ponce de Leon never did find the Fountain of Youth. Instead, he landed in what is today known as St. Augustine. He named it Florida, Land of Flowers. From there, he continued south, making his way through the Florida Keys and turning around near what is now known as Charlotte Harbor. While sailing through these very seas, I knew that he had been without GPS, local knowledge, depth sounder, VHF, radar, and satellite phone. There were no buoys or charts marking shallow water. I considered what it must have been like for him and his crew to sail here all alone, so far from what was known to them, wondering, as they floated in uncharted territory, what to expect of the land and its occupants with the long journey home across the Atlantic yet to be accomplished. I changed my mind. In the bravery department, I decided Leon and his crew were a little out of my league after all.

  For four hours, as we made our way south, my body and mind attuned themselves to the cadence of the open sea. I became accustomed to the upward and downward rhythm. The slightly sideways tilting movement. The sound of the waves pulsing by our hulls. The cool air that came in gusts to drum on my face. By the time we approached Miami, I felt the smallest stab of regret to be leaving the ample, uncluttered, domain of Poseidon. We entered Governments Cut, past the numbered red and green buoys, reminding each other, “red right returning,” and kept an eye open for shallow areas. Once inside the Cut, we went to starboard and dropped anchor off Belle Island on the other side of Miami Beach. The anchorage was a busy one. We spent the first few days rocking and rolling, the result of wash created by numerous small boats and jet skiers who zoomed by within a few feet of our swim platforms.

  Miami was the first big city I had spent significant time in. The first few days we were there, I kept looking for the metropolis portrayed in the television show of my high school years, Miami Vice. I expected to see Don Johnson, as Sonny Crocket, dressed in his white suit and black t-shirt come barreling around a decrepit building, his gun out of pocket, chasing some seedy “cocaine cowboy” in between retirees in plaid shorts. But this was not the Miami Beach of the ‘80s.

  I discovered this when I needed groceries. Every few days, I took Crabcakes up a small canal, right into the throbbing heart of South Beach, and walked about three blocks to the nearest market. Beautiful people, well pecked or amply bosomed, wearing designer athletic wear, jogged by me and the numerous society castoffs sitting against the fronts of banks with their caps in hand. Everyone was tan, and from a Canadian perspective, wore very few clothes. Cars honked. I heard footsteps coming up behind me. Music blared from outdoor cafés and pimped up ancient Cadillac's. There were trendy restaurants, haute shops, and boutique hotels housed in retro art deco buildings in pastel colors. The whole place reminded me of a giant Easter egg. At night, this egg turned Faberge, with the glitz and glamour of painted people making their way to Ocean Drive and the many nightclubs that seemed to appear after dark out of nowhere.

  After a week at our original rolly anchorage, we moved Chrysalis to a more serene location. With architecturally attractive office buildings and posh apartment buildings lining the shore about one hundred yards off to port and several mega mansions across the water off to starboard, Chrysalis swung at anchor in a small, shallow bay that our charts noted had “poor holding.” Anticipating the convenience of the location, we ignored the notation on our chart and anchored there anyway. It was a
pristine spot and out of the path of most jet skiers. Although we had anchored several times back in Lake Worth, we had yet to be in a large blow, and had no idea how many rpms (revolutions per minute used to measure torque or power) from the engines it would take to set the anchor well enough to hold us in a weather system that generated a significant amount of wind. We had taken a guess, backing down in reverse, at about 600 rpms.

  Except for large ships, not many new pleasure yachts utilize the traditional kedge anchor with its cross and hook shape. In researching what kind of anchor to use for Chrysalis, we had come across several lightweight versions of different shaped anchors: the plow, claw, and fluke being the most common. We chose to go with twin Delta plow anchors mainly for their versatility in holding on different sea bottoms. When sitting on the bottom under the water, the plow, looking very much like a piece of farmyard equipment, lies on its side, but when pulled by a yacht going in reverse, it rights itself and the point is driven into the bottom until it becomes completely buried. Then, the captain or crew member will place his engines in reverse, measuring the force used in rpms and “back down” on the anchor in an effort to further bury it. In poor holdings, or if you back down too hard or fast with the engines, the anchor can pop up, requiring it to be hauled up again and re-set.

  Before moving aboard, we read several accounts of how to set an anchor and the amount of rode, or line, to let out in proportion with the depth, approximately 5-7 feet of rode to every foot of depth measured from the anchor roller. This was easy enough to remember. It was setting the anchor that proved to be an art perfected by experience and knowledge of our own vessel.

  One late afternoon in Miami, I watched with interest the approach of dark storm clouds from the north. From a distance I could see flashes of lightning. The air was warm and still, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation. When the clouds were nearly on top of us, the air stirred slightly before accelerating to over forty knots in what seemed the space of a few seconds. A prolonged gust of wind hit Chrysalis with great force and whipped her around the anchor. At the same time, sheets of rain materialized, decreasing our visibility.

  Concerned, Mike and I had been making our way from the cockpit to the pilothouse to keep an eye on our anchor alarm, when it went off. Hurrying to the helm, we could see a red line exceeding our anchor perimeter. For a split second, Mike and I looked at each other with wide eyes and a knowing look. All around us were shallows and submerged pilings and numerous docks. Running into one or more was now a possibility. While shouting to each other, the kids and I ran to put on rain coats and within seconds, Mike had the engines started, and I had made my way through the wind and rain to the flybridge. Mike showed up at the bow with Lauren and Stefan. Squinting through the blowing rain, I could tell they were attempting to bring in the anchor.

  Our roles in anchoring had only recently been decided upon. Mike and the kids had opted to take control of the anchor and windlass at the bow, and I agreed to set the anchor at the helm outside on the flybridge using the engines. I was still a little uncertain in my skills at controlling Chrysalis. I had yet to establish the intimacy that Mike had in using the throttles, but I was learning. After taking control of the engines on the flybridge, I looked down at Mike, who was yelling something up at me I couldn't distinguish due to the howling wind.

  My main objective was to keep us in the center of the bay, as near to our original anchorage as possible. This proved to be difficult as the rain was so thick I couldn't see the shoreline. I got the sense, though, that we were still dragging our way across the bay. With my heart pounding in my chest, I noted the direction of the anchor line and moved us forward in an effort to make up for the distance we had dragged. I did this while keeping a nervous eye on the depth beneath the keel which hovered around 2 feet. I also moved us several feet to starboard, remembering the red line on the anchor alarm had been veering to port.

  Lauren, looking back toward the stern from the starboard bow, suddenly turned toward me and began to point excitedly toward the stern. Turning around, I realized two things: one, I was running over the dinghy, Crabcakes, whose bow was now wedged under the swim platform and whose stern was rising off the water. This immediately made me wonder if I had run over the line holding Crabcakes and, if so, had it wrapped around my propeller? Losing the starboard prop at this stage could not only prove disastrous, it could wreck the engine as well. The second thing I noticed was that through the rain, I could clearly make out the white slats of a glamorous dock, complete with gazebo, and we were about twenty feet from ramming into it.

  While Lauren and Stefan ran to the stern to see about Crabcakes, I revved the engines and tried to move us forward in the opposite direction of the dock, but our depth reading suddenly went from two feet to zero. I felt Chrysalis give a slight shudder as she touched bottom. I backed up slightly to dislodge us, but didn't want to complicate matters with Crabcakes and was worried about not being able to see exactly what Lauren and Stefan were up to in its regard. I then became completely disoriented and uncertain what to do next. I was cold, and my whole body was quivering. From the bow, Mike turned to look at me. He must have sensed my panic, because he left the anchor, still somewhere in front of us, and came up to help steer Chrysalis. He bounded up the steps, two at a time, and I moved aside without a word, relieved to let him take over, but disappointed that I couldn't finish the job.

  I went down to check on the kids and Crabcakes. With some effort, the kids had managed to get it unstuck and the line was clear of the propeller. I went inside the pilothouse and switched on the radar, which unfortunately had yet to be installed on the flybridge, and called up sketchy directions to Mike so he could move us to the center of the bay. By that time, Crabcakes was secure, and Lauren and Stefan were back at the bow bringing in the anchor. About fifteen minutes later, the wind began to decrease and the rain stopped altogether. Chrysalis was once again in the center of the bay, and the rest of us were on the flybridge, breathing heavily, and trying to decide what to do next.

  I was a bit shaky. That is not altogether the truth. I was actually as near to a nervous breakdown as I had ever been. In that moment, all the tension from moving and adjusting to life on a boat that I had been doing so well at repressing, suddenly erupted in a spew of verbiage. I told Mike that two and a half months of change and adventure was enough for me. I was tired of living in a nautical world where I knew next to nothing. I certainly hadn't anticipated the strain of existing in the perpetual mess of living quarters yet to be completed. And it wasn't that I didn't adore my crewmates, but it was so hard to get any privacy and no one ever put away their dirty dishes.

  After over sixty days at anchor, I was worn out from wondering if we were seconds away from a shipwreck. The romance of life on the water was highly overrated. I was done with stupid dreams. I wanted to return to land and my LazyBoy. I told Mike that if I didn't get some stability in my life, like right this instant, well…I couldn't predict the outcome because I had never been in this emotional space before. Whatever happened, it wouldn't be good. I looked up from my little tirade to find Mike and the kids staring at me.

  I remembered, then, something Mike had said years earlier while he was playing university hockey. Toward the end of a game, we had watched one of Mike's teammates, a friend of ours normally cool and collected, beat a member of the opposite team, eventually getting kicked out the game. Meeting Mike outside the locker room after the game, I had asked him about it. He told me that the stress and excitement of playing hockey often brought out the issues of the athlete that were less than exemplary.

  I was not exactly thrilled with the issues that the stress and excitement of living on a boat was bringing out of me: I felt scared, emotionally weak, disappointed with my ability to act under pressure, and ready to quit. There it was. It was me exposed, and it wasn't pretty. I told myself to remember this the next time I decided to play “scientist” and experiment with my own journey by placing myself in crazy situations just
to see what would happen. My original hypothesis of: “If I immerse myself in an environment of change, I will rise to the challenges presented with wisdom, strength, and grace” was now refutable. Upon observation, my assumed conclusion would need to be altered.

  This is the thing about dreams, about change, I thought. The exertion stirs up all sorts of things lurking beneath a usually cool and calm exterior. Books and movies on following your dream, plentiful as they are, should, like a pack of cigarettes, come with a warning label: “CAUTION: Following a dream can be hazardous to your emotional health and may result in the loss of cherished illusions and ultimately coming face-to-face with the Truth. Proceed at your own risk.” Why hadn't anyone told me this? Consider yourself warned.

  After a few minutes, I calmed down. I knew enough not to make the decision to quit the boating life while in the heat of a stressed-out moment. I told Mike that before I decided to pack it in, maybe we could take a breather at a marina for a few days. Everyone thought this was a great idea. We hailed a couple of marinas in the area and found one that could take us. That night, another big storm came through, but I crawled into my berth with the comforting knowledge that we were tied up, secure, to a dock. I didn't have to keep an ear out for any anchor alarm to go off or be ready to spring into action if it did. I slept the sleep of the dead.

  Of course, in the following days my sanity gradually returned. I relented and told the crew I was committed to living aboard. The consideration to quit Chrysalis had made me realize all the things I appreciated about the lifestyle. The large amount of quality time we were spending together as a family and the proximity to nature. Most days, I did relish the learning curve. I wrote in my journal:

  “If I am going to be honest about the dirt, my weaknesses and limitations that this dream is bringing to the surface of my life, then I need to be honest about the good things in me it is bringing to the surface as well. Mainly, and perhaps most surprising, that despite my fear, weaknesses, and limitations, I am willing to keep pushing forward. Who knew I had such reserve power inside of me? And would I have ever recognized this if I hadn't placed myself under these circumstances?”