Please forgive my wordiness; it's been a big week.

Departure DAY Minus 1: It is late afternoon Thursday and we finally receive the port engine prop after 9 days of waiting. The boys waste no time and perform the delicate underwater installation as the sun is setting - David staging parts and tools and imparting instructions while Eric utilizes his well developed free diver's lung capacity, young eyes and able hands to carefully place each component. Checking the weather fax, we decide tomorrow is the day to harness the strong north winds that are blowing and start our 600 plus mile sail south to Panama. We finish cooking up passage foods - some for dinner, some to stow - and begin
readying the boat: securing lines, topping off tanks, reviewing charts.

DAY 1: After awaiting customs for the better part of the morning to return the boy's spear gear (their use illegal here) and clear out, we cast off our mooring lines and depart George Town, Grand Cayman at 11:25 am. I am already edgy. Part of it is the residual stress-induced fatigue clinging to my psyche from the wild night we experienced at anchorage two nights ago when this powerful front first went through. David attempting to comfort me claims that that tumultuous night - which I somehow endured - was far worse than we can expect on passage and, in a rare Pollyanna moment, I see the gold: perhaps this served to pre-condition my sea legs, head and stomach. One can hope. As we sail away and quickly lose the modest protection of the south shore, the winds and sea build. It is too rough to read or type, so I try to relax into the modulated movement of the choppy waves...Nothing I cannot handle....yet.

Gee, these winter days are short! Realizing we will have more night hours than day, as evening descends my uneasiness builds. Night brings in its own psychological sense of menace. And - classic - then it starts raining. We don foul weather gear as the intermittent showers soak the decks. Each squall bring its own wind shifts and the boys clip on and make the necessary sail and line adjustments on the foredeck. {They are super careful, but I still die a little each time they head up there}. Sitting side-by-side in the damp cabin, we shove down our pre-cooked dinner on plates tightly held to our laps. Random gusts hit 25 plus knots, increased knots of wind translating to increased knots in my stomach wrecking havoc with my digestion. We are only 8 hours in and I am beat. Once the guys start their night shift rotation (I am of no use yet on watch), I try dozing on the settee but find little rest in this propped-up, wedged-in position. I do however slowly become more accustomed to the variations of the built-up seas slapping, crashing, pounding, breaking over the deck and rhythmically lifting our hulls. Tuning into the cadence of Andiamo's response, I find myself less unnerved as I learn each characteristic creak, rub, vibration, snap, pop and stomp...well, until the occasional outlier rattles me once again.

At David's encouragement I pre-emptively take a Dramamine and head down below to climb into my bunk to see whether much needed sleep will come, if for no other reason than to shorten this night. Again wedged-in, propped-up, and in a near seated position, I hope the ear plugs will muffle at least some of these noises now amplified and intensified in this small chamber with my head at the water line. I self-talk: these guys can handle this, this boat can handle this, now it is up to you to handle this! Remarkably I doze off.....oh, until that starboard engine is fired up inches from my head: our 20 knots has become more like 2, as we are becalmed by the shifting rain showers and we need to motor for a while. Fine by me. With slower and calmer conditions and a giant white noise generator churning, I thankfully sleep off-and-on until daybreak. The morning brings not just one night down but the significance of a milestone past as I survived my very first overnight.

DAY 2: The day is still overcast but with 15 knot winds behind us, it is "calm" enough to read, which I do all day. I am even, dare I say it, a little bored. But I will always choose tedium over tension, not a problem. Make no mistake, it is still rough enough that whatever basic beauty regime I had tried to maintain is now reduced to a perfunctory brushing and flossing to minimize time in the heaving head. I wear these same gray salty, damp shorts; why encrust a new pair. Every movement means slowly getting your footing and always leaving one hand free for holding on. But the motion is manageable enough that we are able to grill off the back of the boat tonight (Eric's fresh mahi catch) and eat dinner in the damp but doable cockpit. Night number two, still brings rockin' and rollin' but I actually bank a subpar but full night's sleep and somewhat smugly revel in how quickly we humans can acclimate to our environments. I can do this.

DAY 3: Ah, but the seas humble. Today we are back to broadside swells, fresh 20 knot winds and an uncomfortable pitching and tossing motion that is really wearing on me after 50 plus hours in this incessant choppy surf. I am scared, uncomfortable and wondering what the heck I am doing here! Are we nuts! I am over it guys. As I jot down some thoughts for my journal, David telepathically asks in jest if I am writing my resignation letter. I am in a funk. Even Eric's remarkable spotting of a whale mere feet from our boat does not stop me from spiraling down the tunnel of mental what-ifs. In my head I review our trip itinerary and place stars next to the passages I am now considering scrapping, even if that will mean some nasty, long flights. Guiltily, I see how tired my co-captains are and wonder how they will endure passages that require weeks not days, as I know they secretly hope I can share some of this burden. As night sets in I sit with Eric in the captain's chair and try not to dwell on my mind's picture of us, a tiny spot in these vast rolling black sea, with Honduras 200 miles starboard and St Lucia 1000 miles port. I cannot do this.

DAY 4: Are my prays answered? Those ones I repeated all last night between short fitful bouts of sleep? Today is a clear day with comparatively gentler seas (or does acclimation continue on in stages). I blog away to kill time and help sort out these vacillating emotions. With less than 24 hours to landfall my spirits lift. I daydream of a long hot shower, an air conditioned cabin and a stable sleep in my near future. I "enjoy" the afternoon sail and the approaching dusk only mildly unsettles me. Can I do this?

DAY 5: Today at 12:18 pm after 4 days, 0 hours and 53 minutes (but who's counting) we pass the parade of giant tankers and cargo vessels leaving this international port and finally reach the breakwater entrance to Shelter Bay Marina in Panama. Woohoo, I have "successfully" crossed my first sea - the Caribbean Sea; 604 nm of it.

To clarify, "success" right now simply means that I held it together enough to contain my fear and handle my discomfort. Success means I didn't retch and I sustained only the usual array of minor bruises that come from a life of constant, irregular motion. Success means I endured a pretty aggressive passage (first or otherwise) equal in duration to Captain David's longest to date. What success does not mean, however, is that I was of any help to the crew, at least in a sailing sense. I know they expect that to happen eventually as I "come along" and become more accustomed to the rigors of ocean voyaging. THEY think I can do it. Right now, I cannot promise that. What I can do at a minimum is not make things worse on board by taking responsibility for managing my own concerns and not adding a "needy" passenger to the mix. I am not yet much of a sailor but I can be a companion and a galley girl, I can provide a different perspective and a cautious counterpoint. Right now, baby steps, that is success. That I can do....
.....one passage at a time.