In the galley, I strapped myself in so I wouldn’t be pitched out. Still, I needed to hang on to something while I cooked. Bruce rigged bungee-cord holders into which I placed bowls, measuring cups, jars or pans while I prepared a meal. The gimbaled stove rocked gently to keep the stove level. The stovetop’s pot restraints could be adjusted to snugly fit around any pot. My favorite pot during rough weather was our pressure cooker. I didn’t always use the pressure feature, but the lid could be secured and not fly off. I had to hold the lid of my Dutch oven closed with three clothespins, but I could work with that. Cooking a meal at sea seemed to take twice as long, and use twice the energy as on land. I frequently stepped up on deck, gasping for fresh air to quell my queasy stomach.
Finally, on the third day we had good strong northwest 18- to 20-knot winds. Our knot meter showed we’d traveled 165 miles. We were cruising at 6 knots, ideal for Impunity. The boat rolled from side to side and so did my stomach. I was so thankful that I’d prepared a hardy chicken soup the day before. Being below decks in the galley made my nausea worse, so I quickly loaded our bowls with soup, handed them up to Bruce, and we ate in the cockpit. An interesting thing about my seasickness is that even feeling nauseated, I could still eat.
A word about eating at sea: It’s not like sitting down to a meal with things at hand. We loaded up our plates and the necessary silverware and hung on to them for dear life. We couldn’t put our plates down because they would slide at the first motion of the boat. We learned to eat without a beverage nearby and to make a choice to either eat or drink. Nonskid pads were of little use in the wildly rolling ocean. A drink could be secured with a bungee cord, but in this weather salt spray was constant. As it was, we hunched over our plates to protect our meal from the spray.
The water tasted odd to my queasy stomach, but food tasted good. My stomach couldn’t tolerate coffee. We had a good supply of tea, but the water’s odd taste affected the tea, too. Wine? Forget it. We didn’t bring soft drinks—neither of us care for them, but 7-Up would have been a good addition to our supplies, though once the ice was gone it would have been warm.
Passing the Columbia River entrance which separates Washington and Oregon, we made decent time sailing under leaden, overcast skies, but constantly struggled with the rocking action of the boat. A northwest wind continued to build, climbing at times to over 40 knots.
Bruce put out a 200-foot line in a big loop behind us with a series of weights and our Danforth anchor as a drogue to prevent the stern from being pushed around into a broach. To steady the boat, we reduced sail. Each day, we ran the engine for a bit to charge the batteries, leaving the auxiliary batteries on solar charge.
Unfortunately, the anchor shackle attached to the drogue worked itself free and we lost the Danforth. Impunity had four anchors, now three, but each had its specific purpose, so losing an anchor was serious.
Bruce finally had time to chase down my complaint of foul-tasting water. He hadn’t noticed, but it seemed to me, with my seasick stomach, that I tasted oil. That was a clue to Bruce, convincing him the problem wasn’t from the water tank but in the pump. When he bought the spare fresh water pump, he had installed the new one and kept the old as a spare. He dismantled the new pump and found the manufacturer had been overly generous with a green grease around the seals. He wiped away the excess. Voila! The water tasted great.
Bruce listened to NOAA weather reports on VHF at least twice daily so he could look ahead 48 to 72 hours and plan our strategy.
We couldn’t see land at all. Going along the coast, we stayed 30 to 50 miles offshore, giving us “sea room,” a term sailors use to indicate a safe distance from land in the event storm winds push the boat toward shore.
We tried out the watermaker for the first time while we had clean offshore sea water. The desalinator could only be used when running the engine. It made about one and a half gallons of fresh water per hour. That’s not particularly fast, but we had to run the engine occasionally to charge the batteries anyway and it was good to build up our water supply at the same time.
After four days at sea, I braved a bucket bath in the galley, though in this case it should be called a bowl bath. When we served in West Africa’s Gambia with the Peace Corps, having no running water, we became used to taking bucket baths. At sea, I used the saltwater pump for washing dishes and other clean-up jobs. Now I filled a bowl with sea water and left the bowl in the sink to catch the sloshes as the boat rolled. Prell shampoo works well to bathe with salt water, both for body and hair. I filled the bowl with salt water two or three times scrubbing sections of myself, then rinsed with fresh water. All of this, while still hanging on to a railing along the edge of the counter with one hand to keep my balance on the rocking boat. My bath was satisfactory, but my skin didn’t feel as clean as it would using all fresh water. Fresh water, however, is premium at sea. A prudent sailor doesn’t waste fresh water on such frivolous tasks as bathing.
So far, our watch system was working well. Bruce was able to work in the necessary navigation during his waking hours, not that he slept much. The weather was cold and we still wore our yellow foul-weather gear. We seemed to be managing on no more than four hours of sleep at one time.
As one of us went off watch, we told the one coming on our course and anything noteworthy such as another vessel within view, or anything on the boat that seemed extraordinary.
I found that below decks my stomach was worse. Thankfully, when I lay down, I was absolutely fine.
When Bruce called me to stand my watch, it was a rush for me to get to the head, slip on my foul-weather gear over jeans and the sweatshirt I’d worn to bed, then climb up on deck. After the first couple of days in the open sea, I stopped throwing up over the side, but the nausea was still with me, though it was better when on deck where I could see the sea and breathe fresh air. Other than fixing meals, I lived in the cockpit during my waking hours.
Early in the cruise, I had tried Dramamine for seasickness, but it made me so drowsy that standing watch while fighting sleep was scary. It was less risky to put up with the seasickness. We’d also brought along Scopolamine, a patch to be placed behind an ear. But Scopolamine made my throat so dry it ached. I kept working with it until I found comfort in putting a half-patch on my butt. Finally, I had a handle on the seasickness.
Impunity’s portlights (long windows that don’t open) were clear plexiglass, but outside they were protected by a separate layer of tinted plexiglass; tinted no doubt to keep the boat cooler in the tropics. The extra layer of plexiglass offered protection from crashing waves and possible objects in the water or items from the deck that might slam into the boat. While at sea, with all the hatches closed, the tinted portlights made the cabin too dark to read. The navigation station and galley had good lighting, but to do close work like reading in the cabin or in the V-berth wasn’t possible. We had other lighting, but those fixtures used battery power and we couldn’t spare it while at sea. At night we lit the boat’s oil-burning lamp, a gimbaled wall fixture in the cabin near the main mast, which offered a soft light, enough to get around the boat.
At night, I found myself enjoying the blackness of night and took pleasure in letting my mind wander. For night watches, we used a kitchen timer and set it for every 15 minutes, a precaution in case we should fall asleep. When the timer dinged, we’d scan the horizon.
It’s important to know how to “read” ships’ lights. There are configuration rules for lighting vessels and each type—tug, cargo ship, sailboat, fishing vessel, etc —has its own light pattern. By studying a boat’s lights you can tell if they’re going away from you, crossing port (red lights) or starboard (green lights). If you see both red and green lights a boat is coming toward you, possibly on a collision course.
Sitting under the dodger, we faced the stern of the boat and leaned against the cabin. I can’t imagine life without that dodger, though many ocean-going sailboats don’t have one. During rough weather, I sat snug and dry, with frequent peeks a
round the dodger to check the horizon. Bruce was far more active than I with trimming or changing sails to coax more speed or to steady the boat.
I would never become the technical expert that Bruce was, but I could be a valuable shipmate by serving nutritious meals, keeping the boat shipshape, and standing my watches.
In rough seas we always wore our life vests. We also wore our safety harnesses which had 10-foot tethers that clipped onto various padeyes. Even in calm weather, when Bruce changed sails on the forward deck, he’d wear his safety harness.
Bruce had supplied the boat with a lot of reading material for me, boating information in a variety of magazines and books. I dutifully read that material for one hour during the day, then escaped into one of the many books of fiction I’d brought.
Bruce seemed surprised when I turned to fiction. “There’s a lot of good sailing information here.”
“I know, I’m getting through it. Remember how in Africa you turned to reading about electronics rather than reading about African culture? That’s how I feel now. I need to escape for awhile.”
I don’t think he really understood. We had worked so hard for this dream; he couldn’t understand anything less than total emersion.
On the fifth day, forty miles offshore, more than half way down the Oregon coast, the wind howled and the already boisterous seas picked up to a frantic pace. Each time we ventured on deck we wore our life vests and clipped into our safety harnesses. It was so rough while I was on watch, I couldn’t be out there more than a few minutes at a time to check the horizon. It was too strenuous trying to stay upright. Waves often broke deck-level and the salt spray covered everything in the cockpit. During that time I recall only encountering one other boat and that was a distance away. Finally, it was too rough for me to be on deck at all. I stayed below decks and Bruce took over my watch.
There was no cooking in this storm. We had the last of the cottage cheese and I peeled a couple of oranges to go with it. Neither of us could manage more.
We fought to stabilize the boat in the building storm. Winds of 35- to 45-knots screamed through the rigging. The noise was unbelievable with waves crashing, the boat slamming down only to wildly climb the next wave to do it again. Anything not secured became airborne. My nature is to have everything stowed in place, but there was always something not tied down, pencils from the navigation station, a bowl working itself loose in the galley.
I didn’t know what to do with myself so climbed into the V-berth and, lying on my back and looking up, was alarmed when green water rushed over the plexiglass overhead hatch. It was as though we were in a submarine. I had seen white water waves splash overhead, but not the deepness of green water. I mentally rehearsed what we would do if dumped overboard or if the boat capsized. It was of little comfort to know that sailboats rarely capsize, but they do “knockdown,” meaning go completely over on their side, sometimes rolling over. But a boat with appropriate ballast should right itself. Still, damage is bound to happen in a knockdown, most often a mast breaking. If nothing else, everything would be soaked.
Bruce had just gone on deck and while I quickly replaced the hatch’s interlocking boards, I heard him exclaim, “Holy shit! We’ve been pooped!” An extra large wave had crashed over the stern of the boat. Standing in the cockpit, Bruce was up to his knees in sea water. A boat can roll over from taking on that much water. But, besides the usual scuppers, which would have been inadequate in this case, Impunity had two four-inch diameter fiberglass drains on each side of the cockpit, through the transom and open to the outside of the hull. As Bruce watched the water level steadily lower, he was impressed with the efficiency of those drains. We again marveled at our boat’s endurance.
With triple-reefed main and small jib, Impunity was still overpowered. We were sailing south and the seas were also going south, but much faster than the boat. As each swell raised us up, our speed would increase as we pointed “down hill” on the front of the swell. The knotmeter showed 9, 10, 11 and even12 knots. Surfing down the face of a swell, now building to 35 feet, at 12 knots the tiller had only a slight effect on steering Impunity.
Wearing his life vest and harness with a lifeline attached to a padeye, Bruce made his way to the bow. Hooking his left arm around the forestay, he steadied himself to put up the storm jib. The boat surfed down the front of a huge wave then plunged directly into the next wave, leaving Bruce knee deep in heavy green water that filled his pant legs and boots.
Bruce conceded our best plan was to heave to so he could get some rest. With the triple-reefed main boomed out to port at around 60 degrees, he backed the storm jib to windward. Releasing the Aries wind vane from the tiller, he tied the tiller in place, then watched Impunity settle into a far calmer action. The wind still howled and the swells were just as large, but the boat stayed nearly stationary, riding up and down easily as each wave rolled under us. We no longer rolled heavily from side to side as the wind pressure, balanced on the small mainsail and tiny storm jib, held us steady. With bow pointing westward, our knot meter showed us making one to two knots as we sailed gently southward.
Bruce gave up standing watch on deck and only went up every ten minutes or so to scan the sea. A ship can go from horizon to horizon in twenty minutes, but we doubted if there was any ship traffic where we were. Still, we couldn’t take a chance.
He called the Umpqua River Coast Guard Station, gave them our dead reckoning position and told them we were hove to in rough weather and our plan was to wait it out. Not spoken was that in case our boat was lost at sea, this was our last known position.
The Coast Guardsman asked if we considered ourselves in danger. “Yes! Yes!” I mentally answered, but Bruce’s calm voice said, “No, we’re okay. We just wanted to check in.”
I climbed back into the V-berth and Bruce joined me and held me close. I was comforted by his strong arms around me. “Are you worried?”
Bruce shook his head. “Not really. This sounds worse than it is. The boat’s doing fine. I just want to be close to you. It’s fine, Mary. The boat can take it and so can we.”
Bruce estimated wind gusts of 50 knots with sustained winds around 35. Sailors call that snotty weather. I had a few stronger terms for it. The temperature was 59 degrees, but it seemed much colder to me because of the dampness.
I thought of the sacrifices we’d made to make this dream happen. Wasn’t cruising supposed to be fun? So far, it wasn’t. It seemed almost from the beginning that it had been a worry. Either we weren’t going fast enough or we were bucking a storm. Bruce was grim-faced much of the time. We hadn’t carried on a normal conversation for days. With the four-hours-on, four-hours-off watch schedule and trying to get things done in between-time, it was all we could do to survive and discuss the bare necessities. Right now it seemed like a fight for survival. We had given up our home for this? It’s cost-prohibitive to have insurance when sailing offshore and most sailors don’t have it. Nor did we. We’d heard it often enough: “You are your own insurance out there.”
I couldn’t imagine the boat surviving this beating. I finally slept, but Bruce only slept in snatches, regularly checking our surroundings.
The next morning was blessedly calmer. Bruce was right. The boat had weathered the storm in great shape. Not one thing had been damaged. As awful as that first storm was, I was grateful to have the experience. I gained confidence in the boat and in our ability to withstand nasty weather. I again appreciated Bruce’s extraordinary seamanship. Not only was I reassured, I felt more positive about our situation. I could tell that Bruce felt the same way. We were both more relaxed.
We still didn’t have smooth sailing—the weather was rough—but nothing like the wild pitching we’d endured throughout the previous day and night.
California’s Port Blanco lay 54 miles off our port beam. With a double-reefed main, we clipped along at 6 or more knots. Bruce was pleased we were making good time.
Bruce called me for my morning 6:00 watch. “Since about 3:30 I
’ve been watching a light astern of us. It seems to be staying with us. Let’s keep an eye on it.”
It seemed strange to have no one in sight for all this time and suddenly there was another boat and they seemed to be following us. It was unsettling.
At sea, Bruce prepared our breakfast, usually oatmeal. It was something he could do while still on watch and I loved getting up and getting something in my stomach right away. He cooked the oatmeal from scratch. We had a few packets of instant, but neither of us cared for it and we knew the real thing was more nutritious. Bruce added dried fruit to the oatmeal. Our milk now was powdered milk mixed with our boat’s tank water. With no refrigeration, we didn’t mix it ahead of time. It’s amazing how we got used to that.
We ate our breakfast in the cockpit and continued to watch the lights of whoever was following us. Finally, around 7:00 they called on the VHF, identified themselves as the Coast Guard Cutter Resolute. They asked who we were, the name of our boat, its documentation number, the number of crew onboard, and where we were going. Bruce answered all their questions. A long period of silence followed. Bruce wondered if something was wrong with our radio. Finally, the radio crackled to life and the Coast Guardsman asked, “On which side of the boat do you want us to board?”
To stop the boat, of course, was out of the question. The Coast Guard wouldn’t expect that, nor would it even be possible.
Bruce offered to put a boarding ladder on the port side. Within a few minutes a sixteen-foot RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat) pulled up alongside carrying four heavily armed Coast Guardsmen. Three climbed aboard and introduced themselves, very professional and thoroughly efficient.
“We need to inspect all compartments of your boat. Please don’t be alarmed, this is mostly a safety check.”
Right, I thought. I would not have wanted to be carrying illegal cargo. These guys meant business.
The officer in charge, carrying a clipboard, nodded to Bruce. “Go ahead, Sir, lead the way.” He turned to me, “Ma’am, please stay in the cockpit with Seaman Turner. Two of them went below with Bruce. One remained in their large, inflatable dinghy, keeping pace with Impunity, but never touching it. Both boats rolled with the rough seas.
Sailing with Impunity Page 4