My first task is to dig out all the charts we will need for the passage and figure out the course and distance to our destination. I chart course lines on the paper charts and enter the waypoints into the GPS. I double-check the course/distance information from the GPS with the paper charts to verify that they agree and that I haven't made any errors. For shorter passages, we can usually figure out roughly how long we should be at sea so we know approximately what time of day to leave. It is best to arrive at mid-day to have a good sun angle to see coral reefs, and to give enough time to check in to customs without paying overtime charges. I check the numbers for this passage: at 4 knots it will take 75 hours, 5 knots=60 hours, and 6 knots=50 hours. There is too much variation to predict an arrival time, so I decide we will leave whenever we finally get ready. That is nice, because it keeps the pre-departure stress down by not having to meet a deadline.
Once we know our departure is close, Cathy does her final provisioning: she buys fresh items like fruit, vegetables, and bread, and buys the ingredients for a hearty dinner. Then the day before, or sometimes the morning of the passage, Cathy makes sandwiches for the first day or two and pre-cooks enough dinner for the first several nights. Often she makes lasagna because re-heating doesn't require standing over the stove; this time she decided to make beef stew.
The day before the passage, we start preparing the boat: I run the jack lines for our safety harnesses, stow loose gear, uncover the mainsail, check the engine oil and coolant levels, and do a host of other small jobs. Cathy cleans up below, stows loose items, gets our harnesses out of the hanging locker, puts nets over her shelves of knick-knacks so they don't become missiles as the boat is tossed around on waves, and does whatever else needs doing. The morning of the passage we do the things that have to wait until last: we check out with customs and immigration; we take our Stugeron pills for sea-sickness; we take the outboard off the dinghy and load the dinghy on deck. Then we raise anchor, and motor over to the fuel dock to top up the tanks (usually at duty-free prices since we have just checked out).
This time, after getting fuel we motored out to the outer harbor and anchor again. The inner harbor in Rodney Bay, St. Lucia is not very clean, so we did not clean the bottom there. Anchored in the outer harbor, I dive and clean the propeller and the impeller for the knot meter. We take showers to wash the salt water off, knowing it will likely be too rough to shower during the passage. Then we get into our "passage making clothes", which for me is a pair of khaki shorts and a polo shirt. It is ironic that I am better dressed at sea where no one can see me than I am in port, but the collared shirt is more comfortable with the inflatable life vest and safety harness we wear when offshore. By the time we are showered and dressed it is nearly noon, so we eat lunch, enjoying the last time we will be able to sit and eat at a table for several days. After lunch, some friends drop by in their dinghy to say goodbye. A few minutes later, at about 1320, we start the engine and begin raising the anchor.
Once the anchor is up, we motor through the anchored boats out towards the sea. When we are clear of all the boats, Cathy turns Sovereign up into the wind as I raise the mainsail. The forecast is for east winds 10 to 15 knots and seas of six to eight feet, or east-northeast 20 knots and nine feet, or northeast 20 to 25 knots and eight to ten feet, depending on whose forecast you believe. We decide to be cautious, assume the worst, and put three reefs in the mainsail before getting out of the safety of the harbor. It is always easier to shake out a reef than to put one in, so we generally reef deeper than we think is warranted.
Once the main is set, Cathy bears off onto a starboard tack as I tidy up the halyard and reefing lines. Then we unroll the staysail and motorsail for the first hour so the engine can run the refrigeration.
The weather as we leave turns out to be winds slightly south of east, 15-18 knots, and seas of 4 feet. None of the forecasters got it exactly right, but that's no surprise. By 1500, we have shut down the engine, and we are sailing under the triple-reefed main, staysail, and yankee. We have set the Monitor windvane to steer the boat, and we are averaging 6.4 knots on a beam reach. A small pod of dolphin swims by to check us out, but they don't stay long, and we are soon alone on the ocean.
Sovereign blasting along on a broad reach
The sailing on
our first afternoon is ideal. The apparent wind indicator is stuck
at 90 degrees to starboard, like a one-armed clock which has stopped running
at exactly three o'clock. The sea is the special inky midnight-blue
color we have come to expect when deep-water sailing. Every few minutes
swarms of flying fish burst from the sea and skitter away, looking like
large aluminum dragonflies, skimming the surface of the wave tops.
The seas stay much smaller than forecast, probably because we are now in
the lee of Martinique, and we log impressive average speeds of 6.7 and
7.1 knots in the next two hours.
At 1630, the wristwatch alarm beeps, and we turn on the SSB radio to hear our afternoon weather forecast on the Caribbean Weather and Cocktail Net. We also make contact with Clive and Margot on "Revid", who are sailing from Grenada to St. Croix. They are about 75 miles west of us, and are experiencing stronger weather. We chat for a few minutes, and then shut off the SSB radio.
By 1700, the sun is getting quite low (sunset is around 1730), and Cathy goes down below to heat up the beef stew so we can eat dinner before it gets dark. She gets dinner ready while doing a balancing act, trying not to get thrown onto the stove or get the contents of the pot thrown onto her. We eat stew and saltines for dinner, nestling the bowls in our laps as we sit in the cockpit, looking out over the darkening seas.
We formally start our watches at 1900. Cathy goes below and climbs into the sea berth to sleep while I stay in the cockpit and stand watch. When on passage, we set a wristwatch so that it alarms every 15 minutes and gives an extra two beeps at the top of the hour. This watch defines our routine for as long as we are on passage. Every 15 minutes, we get up and methodically scan the horizon, and every hour we go below and record our position, log reading (the nautical equivalent of an odometer), miles-to-go reading from the GPS, and anything unusual or eventful that occurred during the previous hour. Every three hours we plot our position on the chart.
During the three hours of my first watch, I see the lights of Martinique gradually dim on our starboard quarter. The bioluminescence tonight is in the form of individual bright dots that burst into brilliance and fade quickly, like shooting stars. They remind me of Tinkerbell's pixie dust as they splash up in our quarter-wave. Like the pixie dust in the water, the stars overhead are fabulous as well, and I drop the bimini so I can see them better. I watch as a satellite rushes through the backdrop of fixed stars, and I wonder if it is one of the satellites which this very instant is sending signals down to our GPS receiver, telling us where we are.
Half way through my watch the wind lightens and veers aft, and the boom starts slamming around, threatening to gibe without warning. I rig a preventer and the boom reluctantly behaves. I sit through the rest of my watch, pondering the mysteries of the universe in one minute, and looking for the lights of ships the next. At 2200 it is Cathy's watch, and I am ready for sleep. We trade a few words about the sea conditions, sail trim, and visible lights, and then I get ready for bed.
First I try to get undressed without being thrown into any cabinetry. Down below, the boat is absent of the noise of the wind in my ears and waves whooshing past. Instead it is filled with the clanking and clattering of a million loose items being moved around by the motion of the boat. I put in earplugs, but the noises are still loud. I spend ten or fifteen minutes of precious sleep time on a treasure hunt tracking down the worst offenders: family pictures in wooden frames Cathy has spread all around the boat; spice jars in a rack slightly too big; the cassette tape drawer missing that one crucial tape; the soap dish sliding around on the head countertop. The noisy rattle of the sheet blocks is outside, and I can't do anything about that. I hope the Stugeron will help make me sleep.
I get up a few times in my three-hour off-watch to go to the bathroom (one of the side effects of Stugeron is a dry mouth, so I have been drinking a lot of water). I wake up once to the sound of sails flogging, and Cathy calls from the cockpit for help getting the windvane to set properly. The wind has increased in a squall, and the windvane is getting overpowered. I help her, then go back to my berth. At 0100, Cathy wakes me up for my second watch of the night.
Although we exchange a few words as we change watches, we are both too tired for small talk. Cathy briefs me quickly about our situation, then crawls into the berth I have just vacated. It isn't until an hour later when I go to write our position in the log, that I learn from one of Cathy's previous log entries that she has been feeling seasick. Writing in the log is the only way we have to communicate with each other, when only one of us is awake at a time.
The wind rises and falls all night, and we roll and unroll the yankee numerous times to suit the conditions. Each time I do it, I think what a good decision it was to install roller furling last year. Otherwise I would be up on the foredeck getting wet and holding on for dear life half a dozen times a night.
Sometime after 0300 a flying fish lands in the cockpit with a bang, then falls to the cockpit sole, flapping wildly. Every time I try to grab him, he slips out of my grasp. After a few minutes I finally succeed and toss him overboard. My hands are slimy and smelly, and I have to go below to wash them. At 0400 I wake Cathy. I put in my earplugs and crawl into the sea berth.
Cathy wakes me at 0700 for my round of radio schedules. Cathy stays in the cockpit while I sit below operating the SSB radio. Clive tells us that "Revid" is now west-northwest of us, about 60 miles away. I listen and take notes on the weather forecasts. "Little change" seems to be the consensus. We are now out of the lee of any islands, and for us the wind and seas are increasing.
After my radio schedules, Cathy goes below to prepare cereal for our breakfast. After eating, she is ready for some more sleep, so she goes below as I start the engine for our normal morning hour of fridge and battery charging. A little before noon, Cathy wakes up and gets a "pre-fab" lunch--the sandwiches she made before our departure--from the fridge.
Noon is an important time for navigators. In the olden days, it was time to take the noon sight of the sun to establish latitude, and was the time when you determined how far the ship ran during the last day. Though we rarely bother with a sextant any more, we do chart our position and check our progress. We have logged 131.9 miles in 22-1/2 hours, for an average speed of 5.9 knots. The current gave us an extra few miles, putting us 135 miles from our starting point. I can't wait to see the next day's noon position so I will have a full 24 hours to count.
After lunch I take a nap while Cathy stands watch. The motion of the boat, the noise, and the bright daylight conspire against me, and I can only sleep an hour or so. I get dressed and climb into the cockpit. The seas have built, and a short time later we are pooped by a big wave--the first time that has ever happened on Sovereign! The water fills the cockpit to about six inches deep, but quickly drains out the transom scuppers. We are both soaked with salt water, but at least it is warm and breezy, and we let our clothes "drip-dry" with us as the hangers!
At 1630, it is time again for our sked with Clive. He tells us he has 80 miles to go, while we have about 135. That means we are still about 55 miles from them, so we are holding roughly even with them.
For dinner, Cathy heats the last of the stew, and again we eat in the cockpit watching the sun set--this time not very spectacular, as much of the sky is covered with clouds from the numerous nearby squalls. At 1900, Cathy goes below to get some sleep, and I start my first night watch. The skies have cleared, and there is great visibility. Mars, Jupiter and Saturn are visible first, then the stars start to fill in. I am recognizing more and more constellations, and I see Orion, Taurus, The Pleiades, Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and countless more that I still can't identify. I never knew until a few weeks ago that Orion had a bow, and that Ursa Major consists of a lot more than just the big dipper and actually does look a bit like a bear sitting on his haunches.
You would think that sailing, especially at night, is really boring. After all, it is dark, you can't see to read, and there's not much to look at except the stars if they aren't obscured by clouds. Yet I'm never bored at sea. I stand for hours, hands braced on the dodger, looking into the emptiness, letting my mind, likewise, become empty. I have been much more bored waiting five minutes in a supermarket checkout line than I ever have been on a night watch. I don't know why; that's just the way it is.
Cathy later tells me that to pass time on her watches, she always thinks of her family and friends and prays for them. On this passage, she also thought of the islands to the east of us and remembered the last time we were there and the friends that we were with. She sings hymns, and this time Christmas carols, to help the time pass.
Cathy takes her 2200-0100 watch. I learn from her log entries, "lightning in distance" and "unrolled yankee". We're usually brief in the log to minimize the time we spend below decks, where we are more susceptible to seasickness.
Tonight there are no other ships anywhere on the horizon for both of my night watches. On my second watch I spot a dim light on the horizon. It is too dim and vague to be a ship, but it looks very far away, so I don't worry about it. Suddenly it is very bright, and I think for a second we are in the spotlight of a ship that I somehow missed. I jump up and look around, and see that a crescent moon, yellow as cheddar cheese, has popped from behind the clouds low on the horizon. That was the dim light I had seen, obscured by haze and clouds on the horizon.
During the night, the wind veers as much as 30 degrees, then backs again. It rises to 25 knots in the squalls, and drops to 15 in the lulls, averaging a good 20 knots. As the wind veers, the sails get blanketed, and we roll and slam downwind. When it backs, the apparent wind increases, and we charge along on a beam reach like a locomotive, ticking up into the 8's on the knot meter. Whoever wrote that trade winds are steady didn't know what they were talking about. We roll and unroll the yankee several times each watch, and change the windvane setting a dozen times each hour, compensating for the changes in the wind.
Around 0300 another flying fish tries to commit suicide by knocking himself silly on Sovereign's cabin house, and I toss him back into the water.
At 0400 I call Cathy for her watch, and plop into bed. Cathy gets a flying fish (I see from the log) between 0500 and 0600 and another between 0600 and 0700. At 0700 I'm up again for radio skeds. The engine goes on. Cathy goes down for her nap about 0900. I revel in the fine sailing, tweaking the sails and windvane. Cathy gets up to make lunch. This time the sandwiches aren't pre-fab--Cathy has to make them. She digs through the bread, looking for pieces that haven't gone moldy already. Then she rummages through the fridge to find the mayonnaise, ham, cheese, and lettuce, all the while bracing herself against the side to side motion of the boat.
I do the noon navigation: 145.1 miles logged in the last 24 hours, 150 miles made good. We average 6.2 knots the whole time. No records set today, but it's been a fast ride.
St. Croix becomes visible as a smudge on the horizon when we are about 15 miles away. It's always amazing, even with satellite navigation, to cross long distances with no sight of land, and have an island pop up just where it is supposed to be.
The last miles are always the slowest, and the 15 miles from our waypoint off St. Croix, around Buck Island, and into Christiansted seem to take forever. We roll up the staysail as we turn downwind, because on this point of sail it just blankets the yankee. Then we gibe around Buck Island, run a few more miles, and we're off the harbor entrance buoys. We roll up the yankee, Cathy turns Sovereign into the wind, and I drop the mainsail.
The sun sets just as we motor through the buoys into Christiansted Harbor, and we drop anchor just behind Revid. We get 8 fathoms of chain out, and all of a sudden the chain won't go any further. Cathy goes down to look in the chain locker and tells me there is a knot. It takes a good 10 minutes working in the chain locker, hands all slimy and muddy, before the knot comes undone. That has never happened in the 13 years we have sailed Sovereign. I let out some more chain, and use hand signals to tell Cathy to put the engine in reverse to set the anchor.
It is dark, and we know the customs offices will be closed, so we won't check in until morning. Even though we're exhausted, Cathy somehow finds enough energy to make dinner. We fall into our berth and sleep like we're dead.
The next morning, with the passage over, all that is left is the clean up. The boat looks like a disaster area down below. The quarter berth is piled high with gear, the berths' lee cloths are hanging loosely, there are dishes waiting to be washed. We clean up a little while listening to the morning radio nets, and at 0830 we start launching the dinghy so I can check in with U.S. customs. I dig out U.S. money for the first time in a year, in case there are any fees.
Old Glory flies over American soil--St. Croix, USVI
With Sovereign
officially cleared in, I dinghy back to the boat. Cathy has finished
cleaning up while I was gone, and the boat is neat as a pin. The passage
is officially over. I lower the quarantine flag. For the first
time in a year, Sovereign does not fly the courtesy flag of a foreign nation.
Looking around Sovereign, there is no evidence that she has just sailed 300 miles in two days, averaging six knots the whole time. She looks like she could do it all over again, and we know she could. We, on the other hand, need some time to rest. We are looking forward to spending a few weeks in the U.S. Virgin Islands, seeing the sights, and recuperating so we will be ready to do it all over again on our next passage…
Smooth sailing,
Jim and Cathy