"Two Typical Days In The Life Of A Cruiser "
By Tom Nesbitt
From the January 1994 issue of TellTales Magazine
We are peacefully swinging at anchor now in the snug harbor at Isla Mujerers, Mexico. The sun is shining, the water is beautiful. We are warm, dry, clean, have a couple of rum and Cokes in us... weıre happy. Things have sure changed! The past two days (it seems like an eternity now) have been downright hellish. Let me tell you about it. It is day before yesterday and we are in the fourth day of what was to be a five-day crossing of the Gulf of Mexico from Seabrook, Texas, to Isla Muggers, on the Yucatan Peninsula -- a distance of about 650 nautical miles. Itıs late in the day and I figure we are only about halfway there; our position is somewhere near the 26 degree line. The new GPS is working fine and we could, if we really wanted to, determine our position exactly -- we would only have to read the GPS, write it down and plot it on the chart. But now we are just somewhere in the "middle of the Gulf," and we are all just seasick enough to not really give a damn about exactly where we are. After all, we know we are a long way from anywhere and have a long way to go. I realize we should be plotting our positions every four hours; but at least, I reason vaguely, if worse came to worse we could always send out a call for help on the SSB radio. We have been pelted with driving rain and sea spray and have not seen the sun except for about a one-hour period for the entire four days. The wind has been ³on the nose² (naturally) at about 35 knots since we started this miserable passage. The thought of a cruiser beating to windward for a lengthy open-water passage is nearly equivalent to pushing a big rusty nail through your leg -- real slow. The nail is about halfway through now and it shows. Mary has had to beg off her watch and we have to cover for her. Thatıs the first time this has ever happened. Our third crew, takes the news well: "Iıll take the first 1 1/2 hours and you take the second, Tom. How about that?" I nod okay. The noise is incredible. The wind, combined with the wild motion of the boat, shakes the main mast, rigging and spreaders, and sends bone-rattling vibrations through the hull in irregular, relentlessly repeating cycles. I know the throbbing motion of the boat is taking its toll on us all as I numbly watch the stern yaw out from under another "big one" in a disorienting skewing motion that takes just a little more out of me. Iıve spent the last hour under the lavatory in the aft cabin, working on the autopilot in a horrendously awkward position. The autopilot is under great strain in these sea conditions and the chain drive has jumped off the sprocket. I must reinstall it and make some sort of a jury-rig fix to prevent it from happening again. The thought of having to steer manually all the way to the Yucatan in these conditions compounds the apprehension. The entire crew (including me) just physically wouldnıt be able to take it. Wedged against the inside of the cabinet in a three-point stance, two knees and my head, Iım sweating, half from the closeness and half from nervousness. The reading spectacles I need for close work are sliding down my nose, which is well aware of my own aroma. Iıve got the flashlight in my mouth pointing at the sprocket as I work the screwdriver and the vise grips, one in each hand. I position the screwdriver and grunt out a message to Mary, who relays the instructions to Hugh to maneuver the wheel hard to port. My head and neck take the strain as the boat moves into another big roller with a particularly hard motion. I attempt to thread the chain on the sprocket but it moves too quickly for me to respond. After the third try we get the thing on and I hammer a large screwdriver under the support bracket to help with the alignment. I emerge, rubbing my head and neck, and thankfully, the fix seems to be working. But the sails, especially the jib, were flogging like crazy when we rounded up and I pray that no damage has been done. Itıs dark now and I go topside to inspect for damage. The flashlight doesnıt reveal anything except surging dark water washing the foredeck. Iım damn sure not going to go forward just to check. A few hours later, I canıt wait for Hugh to relieve me. "I think itıs calming down just a little," I repeat for the 100th time as Hugh comes topsides to start his watch. "Yeah, right," he mumbles, clipping in his harness while staring aft as he sips still another Diet Coke at 0300. Grateful to be relieved from watch, I crash, wet and fully clothed, into the lower bunk. I snap in the lee cloth and spend a noisy 2 1/2 hours rolling around with my eyes closed. At about 0530 I start thinking about what we can prepare to eat. Itıs been about 12 hours since our last semblance of a meal. The question is not what we would LIKE to eat, but rather what is the most nourishing thing we can actually physically prepare under these conditions. I extract myself from the berth and stare at the gimbaled stove, swinging erratically from about "square" with the boat to an angle of about 45 degrees. I am irritated by a wet streak on the floor; the galley hatch is leaking again, I thought I had fixed it. A dollop of cold salt water finds its way down my neck. At least weıre on a starboard tack now and if boiling water spills it should spill below me. I decide on the hot tamales and chili. It will only require that I: 1) find the frozen tamale package in the freezer; 2) make it to the stove with the package; 3) find the pot (under the sink) and put some water in it; 4)rest for a few minutes; 5) find the can of chili, the opener, and open the can; 6) plop all of it in the pot, place the pot on the stove; 7) light the burner then rest for a few minutes more; 8) wait till itıs done, then shovel it onto three plates. The three of us ate "breakfast" silently. After we finished, Mary and Hugh even complimented me on the meal. Sounds bad now, but it was pretty good then. It is about dawn and the autopilot seems to be holding its own, but when I run the engine to charge the batteries, the low-oil-pressure alarm goes off. I look below and see that the valve cover gasket is leaking copious quantities of oil. It takes several tries, and we have contingency Plans B, C and D all worked out before we finally get that one fixed. The fox, Plan B, consists of removing the old cork gasket and patching parts of it with silicone. But we used all the spare oil when Plan A didnıt work, so we are down to one quart, which I had saved in case I needed "just a little run time" in the event of an engine emergency. It seemed to be holding but, of course, we didnıt know if it would last. I was figuring how we could, if we had to, go into Isla Mujeres harbor under sail (Plan E) . . . not a happy plan. The next crisis comes shortly on the heels of the loss of oil pressure. I discover that the SSB radio is not receiving properly. A quick look topside confirms my fears: the antenna is torn loose and flapping wildly behind the boat. The flogging jibsheet, the result of the autopilot maneuvering, must have torn it loose last night. My apprehension is now thick enough to cut with a knife. The last thread of my safety net has been broken; I canıt even call for help now if I REALLY need it! I nervously grab some spare wire, chord and the trusty vice grips, and manage to hang onto the lurching side stays long enough to snap the trailing wire and make a jury-rig- fix. We fire up the radio just in time for me to make my regular daily contact with Richard Bachman at Seabrook Shipyard. Wow, what a relief to hear his familiar voice calling Carpe Diem! I report in typical formal, stolid seaman/radio talk that "everything is fine, just a few minor problems." Iım sure he, along with anyone else listening, knew the going was kind of rough. Later on, our luck changed some when we spotted the light at Contoy through the early morning haze. All we had to do was find the cut in the reef and make it to the harbor. But the horrendous last few days had taken their toll. We thought we had the poorly marked channel lined up as we dropped the main and started the engine for what should have been just a few minutes of run time. Large coral formations surrounded us on all sides. The depth read 25 then 20 then 15 feet as the 5-foot following seas lifted us quickly toward the unfamiliar reef at an alarming speed. The Shallow Alarm frazzled our taut nerves at 10 feet! The channel was supposed to be 14 feet deep, minimum. I spun the wheel around and headed back out with tears in my eyes. The oil pressure, thankfully, was holding at 40 pounds; at least we had the engine. We got a more positive fix on the channel and made it through on the second attempt. The wind and waves subsided almost instantly, and finally we reveled for a few brief minutes, relieved to be at least alive at our destination. The relief wasnıt very long-lasting. We really did not need the anchoring practice at that particular time, but the confounded 65-pound CQR just wouldnıt hold. I suppose it was the soft mud. I decided to set the second anchor, a Danforth. We launched the dinghy, no small effort in itself, and carried the second anchor out in it. That was the first mistake --- but my biggest mistake was not tying the dinghy up close enough to the boat when I got back. With all the backing and maneuvering, the dinghy painter got wrapped around the propeller. This is a rookie mistake, no other way to say it. "Well, hell," I said, "we are anchored well enough, no matter how poorly it is. Weıre here!" But there is no rest for the weary. We had to clear customs and immigration, and deal with the Mexican authorities. I left Mary and Hugh on the boat (the captain is supposed to do this) and made it in the dinghy to my first encounter with land in about a week. As it often is with sailors, the land did not seem at all steady. The sidewalk was churning up and around, and honest, I hadnıt had a drop to drink in over a week. Iım sure they thought I was looped ... I even felt like I was looped, too. Anyway, I made the first stop at the port captainıs office. He wanted a mordida (literally, a bite) of $20 when he saw that we are a 50- foot ³yacht.² I speak Spanish well enough, but I was too tired to argue. I forked over my wallet and just asked him to take whatever he wanted. My next stop was the immigration office, about three blocks away as I lurched unevenly up the street. They were actually very nice and only chided me a little for paying the captain the mordida. Next was the health department, four blocks away. Wow, what a joke. But it doesnıt cost much ... I donıt think. Actually, I really donıt remember if there was a charge, much less how much. I think the customs office was closed; anyway, I never got there. Eventually, I struggled my bones back to the boat and reported that we were "legal" in Mexico, officially declaring that our luck had changed. "Itıs time for a frozen margarita!" I mustered. It was just about then that Mary reported, "I have good news and bad news." "Please, the good news first, and just keep the bad news to yourself," I replied weakly. I feared my fragile system would succumb no matter how small the bad news was. "Well," she announced proudly, "I cut the line off the propeller --- we can use the engine now." I was so grateful and glad to know that we could now move the boat if we had to, that I was foolishly buoyed enough to consider the bad news. So I mustered my last ounce of reserve and asked for the bad news, "But make it sound not so bad," I said. "The head is plugged," she replied meekly. The sound from my throat wasnıt really a croak, it was more like a low, soulful moan trailing off into a wheeze.
