by Kim Petersen
I considered that this was a cup of water a day. I got thirsty just thinking about the small portion. Digging further, I discovered several small packages of energy bars, vacuumed sealed, holding 6 bars each. “Instructions: Eat one bar every 6 hours. Eat in small pieces to aid digestion.” There was a fishing packet containing line, lures, and hooks; two thermal blankets, an extra inflatable lifejacket, a bailer, a radar reflector, a submersible flashlight, signal mirror, and a small parachute anchor for rough seas. Many of the items included in our ditch bag were redundant, as our life raft also contained a separate smaller ditch bag with many of the previous things including flares, repair kit, paddle, and strobe lights.
Along with a portable GPS and VHF, our EPIRB, or Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon, was also in this bag. Once activated, whether manually or upon contact with water, an EPIRB emits a unique distress signal. When picked up by the Coast Guard, it will not only give our location, but the make and model of our boat, its ownership, and how many crew members were aboard. Receiving your signal, the authorities could then send out a search and rescue party. As I turned the yellow EPIRB over in my hands, intent on figuring it out, I inadvertently pushed the “activate” button and the EPIRB emitted a deafening “beep,” startling me so that I almost fell off the couch. I frantically looked around for the “off” switch, found it, and, panting, thought that the sound alone could be heard from miles around.
Lastly, I pulled out a book entitled, Your Ultimate Guide to Liferaft Survival, that warned us to be as prepared for emergencies possible, since help could be several hours or days in coming. The book urged us to think ahead by imagining what life might be like all alone on a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Try to anticipate your needs, the book said.
Thumbing through the pages, I found helpful advice and a list of many “comfort” items that were not included in either of our ditch bags, and which I subsequently added: lip balm, sunscreen, toilet paper, duct tape, Tylenol, spare batteries, hard candy, reading material, knife/scissors, seasickness meds.
Upon further reading I found this helpful tip: if you are carrying cans of food make sure to pack a can opener as getting into a can is virtually impossible without one. Having forgotten, I stuck one in. Keeping up morale under such conditions was vital. Anticipating our needs, I added a plastic deck of playing cards, a notebook with a pen, a book of Suduko, and a couple of Dirk Pitt novels, and a large bag of chocolate turtles. What could be better to keep up morale than chocolate?
The authors continued with something like: If you can bring a towel, sunglasses, and a spare set of clothes it would be helpful. Sounded like I was packing for a vacation. Why not add a margarita mixer and really have a party? Then this: “Take only what is necessary. Pack light but with great thought.” Great advice, I thought, on abandoning ship or being born.
A few months before moving onto Chrysalis, the four of us had taken a first aid course, but I thought we could use a refresher. Lauren had recently completed her lifeguard training. Since it was fresh in her mind, I asked her if she would take over the medical aspect of our crossing. She pulled out our First Aid Manual and typed up a brief synopsis of each important chapter, then printed the pages and put them in a binder with labeled tabs for quick reference. She called us into the pilothouse one day to remind us of a few things. She went over the basics of CPR, what to do if someone broke an arm or a leg, and the proper care of a burn. Calling on Stefan, she demonstrated how to give someone the Heimlich Maneuver.
“Everything is here in this binder, so if I am the one that needs help, you won't have to ask me.” Lauren mentioned at the end of her tutorial.
She also hauled out our large medical bag, roughly 2′ × 2′ × 3′, and we went through its contents together. This bag contained several mini-kits inside one big bag. There was a wound care kit with sterile gloves, antibiotic ointment, gauze, bandages, wound closure strips, needle and thread, scalpel, several bags of cotton, syringes, Kelly clamps, and skin stapler. A burn care kit with gloves, aloe, medicated burn pads, and non-adhesive bandages. A large Fracture/Sprain kit contained several splints in varying sizes, elastic bandages with Velcro, and instant cold compresses. Also included was a large manual on how to do things like perform an appendectomy, remove a bullet, suture a wound, and set a fracture. It even described the proper way to remove a splinter.
Although I hoped to avoid the circumstances that would require the use of such instruction, I did appreciate the thoroughness, and was confident that if a medical emergency happened underway, we would have the necessary means to deal with most issues until help arrived. As we had decided not to carry any weapons on board, I tried not to envision a scenario when one of us might need to surgically remove a bullet.
Mike and Stefan prepared our parachute anchor. They took it out of its bag and made sure the lines weren't tangled and the hooks were in place. They secured it to two long lines that ran out each bow. They also rigged up a jackline, a long cable attached to the stanchions, running the length of the starboard rails. If weather was bad and we needed to launch the parachute anchor, you could open the pilothouse door and attach the clip on your life vest to this line and walk up to the bow secure in the knowledge that should a rogue 30-foot wave hit you, it wouldn't wash you overboard.
One afternoon, the four of us stood on the deck and Mike explained how the parachute anchor worked. “In heavy seas, you throw the bag overboard, like this,” he demonstrated chucking an invisible bag overboard, “and it will open, under water, into a large parachute. This should slow Chrysalis down so we won't drift too far off course. It will also keep the bows into the wind and keep us from being tossed around as much.”
Right after that, we went up to the flybridge, and reviewed how to launch the life raft. In case something happened to Mike or me, Lauren and Stefan individually needed to know what to do to get Chrysalis, or themselves, to safety. The moment was a serious one.
“Remember,” I said, “the life raft is equipped with a CO2 cartridge. When the case around the raft is opened and tossed into the water, the cartridge releases the gas, blowing up the raft automatically. The raft will be tethered to the stern so that it doesn't float away while you are attempting to get into it.” Then I went about reminding everyone how to remove the life raft container from its holder.
Chrysalis is made of foam-cored fiberglass. Even if holed and submerged, she is supposed to float. All of our survival guides tell us that if it becomes necessary to launch a life raft and abandon ship, we will have a much better chance of being found if the life raft can remain tethered to our boat. From a rescue plane or helicopter, it is easier to spot a yacht, even overturned, than a small life raft.
“It is important,” one of our guides told us, “to make sure and have a knife handy to cut your tethered line in case the yacht begins to sink, otherwise, your life raft will go down along with your ship.” This, I thought, was an important safety tip.
I found our four “man overboard” watches and made sure the batteries were working. These bulky digital watches are worn on the wrist, and on contact with water, will sound an alarm at the helm, indicating that someone had fallen overboard. The closer Chrysalis got to the overboard watch, the more beeps you would hear, enabling you find the person and pick them up. We had worn them a couple times when we first moved aboard and then they had disappeared into a drawer. The kids didn't particularly care for them, calling them, “dorky.” I told them there wasn't going to be any fashion shows in the middle of the Atlantic, and that we were going to wear them anyway. Sensing the gravity of the situation, they complied.
Mike had been accumulating spare parts to add to his collection. He told me one day he had spare parts for the spare parts. When I asked him if he thought he had everything he needed, he replied, “While underway, I could build a full scale replica of Chrysalis right here in the cockpit.”
As Mike foraged for parts, I planned out our meals. From past experience, I had learned that if se
asick, we needed small, nutritious, easy to prepare meals. I made things ahead like chicken noodle soup and sliced cheese and sausage for crackers, as well as heartier fare like lasagna and burritos. These I froze in individual portions for quick reheating in the microwave. I bought lots of energy bars, dried fruit and bottled water in case our watermaker decided to quit. I also did research into what sort of things might be difficult to obtain in Europe. From other cruisers I learned that peanut butter, brown sugar, powdered sugar, and real maple syrup, were a challenge to track down, and expensive even when found. I went with a friend to a big box store and stocked up. I organized all this in our small pantry on board, as well as the additional storage we had for dry goods in compartments under our large settee and watch berth in the pilothouse.
In between trips to the market, I went back to our family physician. He assumed I had returned to discuss my panic attacks, but I told him that since talking with my friend, I hadn't had any more, a fact he seemed both surprised and glad to hear. I explained that plans were still underway to cross the Atlantic and I requested antibiotics, pain medicine, antihistamine, and several packages of the Transderm Scop for seasickness. As I left his office with a stack of prescriptions, he said, “I am very curious to see how you do on this crossing. I would love to follow your progress.” I handed him a card.
I got us all appointments for cleanings at the dentist office. We were long overdue anyway. When our dentist heard what we were doing, she hunted around in several cupboards before finding a portable filling kit. With it, we could perform an emergency filling underway. She showed me how to mix the white paste and apply it, smoothing it over with the tool included in the kit.
“It won't be a permanent solution, but it will hold you for at least a couple of weeks until you can find a dentist,” she said. She also loaded us up with a few extra toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste.
Back on board, I consulted the websites of the countries we intended to visit to make sure we could meet their travel requirements. I made sure all of our ship's papers were in order and typed up a crew list as well as a list of provisions on board. Finally, I made copies of passports, boat insurance and registration and put everything into an organized leather attaché case.
Mike took a VHF radio course and received a license. He also found a marine weather forecaster who would update us underway of any weather changes throughout the voyage by sending a daily forecast to our satellite phone. At the end of a particularly busy day in March, Mike looked at me and said, “Well, I think we are as ready as we are ever going to be.”
Then we waited.
Every morning and evening, Mike and I checked the weather for a possible window. We had ten years of past weather history of the Atlantic stored on a disc and we had studied the months of March, April, and May for trends. It was possible to get a five day window in March, but the chances increased as the months progressed. March came and went. We were docked in a marina with a large live-aboard population who were aware of our plans, and every day we met folks on the docks who were watching the weather with us.
“You're not leaving this week, are you?” one of them would ask. “The weather looks terrible the next few days. Maybe next week?”
The next week proved a mixed weather bag. We were tempted. Something happens when you are tied up at a dock and the sun blazes and the water beckons enticingly smooth. From your vantage point in a nice, calm, marina or anchorage, you begin to feel a tad invincible. You are tired of waiting. So tired. And annoyed with a weather system which, like the Stock Market, you hope to bend to your will using what little super telepathic abilities you imagine you possess. I can only guess how many sailors without the benefit of a detailed weather forecast went out to sea on a perfectly lovely day thinking, “How bad can it be?” Pretty bad, we learn from the sad outcome of many. We have good friends who have lived aboard and sailed offshore for over twenty years. They have never been in a squall dangerous enough to invoke fear, but know many who have. They told us that in ocean passagemaking of any kind it is imperative to be patient. Wait for the window. Wait for a whole season if you have to, it will eventually present itself to you.
We tried to be patient. We ticked off the slow progression of days that blended into three months. Each one began with a grain of hope that would end up dashed after checking the latest update. We busied ourselves with work, chores, school, and community. We ate all the food I had prepared for the crossing and I had to re-supply. Lauren managed to get a job at local souvenir shop. She and Stefan made several friends at the marina and the beach. When a weather window finally opened up at the beginning of June, I wondered if this would make it more difficult for them to leave, but they seemed as genuinely excited as Mike and I.
The day before we left we dressed ship. We scrubbed Chrysalis down and strung all of our flags. We rechecked our systems. Took Chrysalis out in the Intracoastal for a few hours to see how she was running. All systems were go.
For many years after college, I would sporadically dream that I had forgotten to study for an exam. In my dream, several friends would arrive at my dorm room and ask if I had been up all night studying for the final exam and I would say “What final exam?” They would look surprised and say, “The one that is worth 35 percent of your grade! The one that is today – look at your calendar. Today is the day you have circled in red marker.” I would think “Oh no!” and panic and try to cram on my way to class, which everyone knows does little good. I would plea bargain with the professor, who would gaze at me through narrow eyes as if he had heard it all before. Then he would shake his head and hand me an exam and after reading through the first page, I wouldn't know the answer to a single question. At that point in the dream, I would wake up with a gasp.
The night before the beginning of our Atlantic crossing felt like the night before a final exam, only this time, it felt like I had been preparing, cramming, studying, for a very long time. Thinking backwards, I couldn't pinpoint when I had started preparing. I thought about sitting in the cafeteria with Mike so many years ago and flippantly writing down our list of dreams with no comprehension of the significance the moment held or how that list would pursue us through our marriage, our lives. Pushing further on in my memories, I considered Bethany's death. I thought about how I was basically a kid when she died, my adult life yet to be sculpted, and how it had altered, forever, the course of my life. How it, on the one hand, challenged me to value life and to live out what was most important, while at the same time, instilling a fear of the unknown. The two battling for supremacy ever since.
And I thought all the way back to my childhood, when I had been unafraid to explore the possibilities of living large. Where do you delineate the beginnings of a dream? Do you push further? Had it been hardwired into me from Nordic sea-faring ancestors who left everything they knew to start a new life in America?
As if it were the beginning of a school term, I had circled the supposed crossing date in red on a mental calendar months, maybe even years before. I realized that the fear I had felt back then was the result of fast forwarding my past self to this moment, and my past self hadn't been ready. She lacked the research and experience. The journey up to this point in time had prepared me. I was confident in Chrysalis, confident that we had prepared ourselves to the very best of our abilities. I was ready.
I sought out the giant woman Fear, which I had never done before because she was always seeking me out. In my imagination, she appeared domesticated. I found her sitting in an overstuffed arm chair, eating petit fours. Her feet were up on an ottoman. She wasn't as large as I remembered and she seemed more sedate and this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
“You've been quieter than usual,” I told her, “especially considering the circumstances.”
“Yes, well when you decided that you would be okay no matter what happened, I sort of lost motivation. Don't worry though, hon, I'll always be around if you need me.”
Her parting comment caused me to consider th
e fact that being a recovering fearful person is similar in some ways to being a recovering alcoholic, or a recovering anything for that matter. There is always the temptation to give in to the idea that comfort equals safety. That escape is a good substitute for wholeness. And that change can wait until tomorrow. I knew that I would forever carry the temptation to give into Fear, into letting it tempt me back to my LazyBoy, but I now recognized those patterns in my life. That, I hoped, was something.
In the morning, the four of us met in the pilothouse. I sensed the relational undercurrent of shared experiences, both difficult and inspiring, that had forged strong ties between us. We instinctively reached for each other hands.
Mike said, “This is it, guys. This is the day we have been working toward for a long time. How is everyone feeling?”
I watched Lauren and Stefan. Under the umbrella of two parents who they knew loved them and carried the responsibility to care for them no matter what, they had the freedom to be joyous. They cheered and danced, Mike and I joining in, before we sought out each other hands again. We got quiet.
“Let's pray, eh?” Mike said.
So we bowed our heads and we prayed because that is just what you do when you are about to cross 4,000 miles of open water. I had long since given up the ‘name it and claim’ view of prayer. As if God was some giant genie who had nothing better to do than decide whether or not to grant my latest wish. I really wasn't sure if prayer was even about making our requests known as much as it was about turning inward in order to turn us outward again, changing our perspectives, and encouraging us to enter in to the goodness already growing in our lives. And there was something bonding, I thought, about sharing our concerns with others who were traveling a similar faith journey. For my own part, my words had less to do with twisting God's arm into allowing us safe passage, and more to do with communicating the changes that had been going on in my life. Outside of that, I wasn't sure about the ramifications of prayer, but it was instinctual for me, so I followed through despite big doubts and banked on mercy and grace no matter the outcome. This time, as we took turns talking out loud, we asked for safety, of course, and good weather. Each of us was grateful to be embarking on the journey.