Sailing Faith: The Long Way Home

This is the second chapter from my book, Sailing Faith: The Long Way Home. The introduction, and the first chapter can be found here.

The Caribbean 1500



Motoring into Hampton, we sense two things. The first is that Isabel pounded the Chesapeake Bay. The bay is full of leaves and limbs and mud and lumber, and that's only the stuff that floats. The people on boats anchored in the rivers tell of tense times, and say our move to New York was smart. The second is that it's time to get busy on last-minute preparations.

Partially to ease the fears of those close to us, but mostly to mask my misgivings, I project a confidence in our plans and abilities that is easily perceived as arrogance; it's funny how much easier this trait is perceived in others.

John and Linda, whom we met at a nearby slip, recently completed the Bluewater Rally, a twenty-two-month circumnavigation along a route not too different from what we have planned. Their British tongue is genuine, and the Union Jack on Magic Dragon gives the marina its link to the world beyond America. Her singsong lilt and his dry wit make their friendship especially enjoyable.

My confidence doesn't wane when John asks about our route to Panama. We've been telling everybody that we're leaving Hampton, sailing to Florida, then Cuba, then Panama.

A rally leaves Hampton, Virginia, for the Caribbean every year--The Caribbean 1500 Rally for Cruisers--and follows a route through the Gulfstream to the Virgin Islands. We're invited to participate and feel the seminars, safety checks, weather services, and nifty pink Caribbean 1500 flag they provide are a bargain.

When we tell John our new plans to join the rally, he looks up from his laptop and over his reading glasses to say, "You sounded so set on getting to Florida that we didn't want to say anything, but we think the rally is a better way for you to start." Linda chimes in, "Florida is a tough passage from here, and there's nowhere to go when you get there."

Sometimes Faith, by being such a nice boat, projects confidence for us. People assume we know what we're doing. One neighbor, standing outside the pilothouse of the trawler that he and his wife call home, sees me prepare to strip the varnish from our toe-rail as I carry scrapers, stripper, brushes, and a drop cloth out of the companionway. He, almost afraid, says, "So--you don't use a heat gun--but you've probably gotten accustomed to the way you're doing it."

Curiosity grips me, "What do you mean?"

He turns toward his wife, who's making sandwiches in the open pilothouse. "My heat gun is in that locker, would you hand it to me?"
She does, and he extends it over his rail to me. "Here, try this on a small area."

I give it a try, "Wow, this is a whole lot easier than what I was doing!"

"Why don't you finish your job with it? I don't need it right away."

Many people around us hold keys to valuable insights, and the only path to those keys is to minimize my arrogance and hope they can overcome their fear of condescending.

The rally organizer doesn't mind condescending, and urges us to take crew for the passage to teach us about offshore sailing. The prospect of strangers on board doesn't garner much excitement, but since it holds certain logic, plans are laid for two experienced crewmembers to join us for the trip to the British Virgin Islands.

We wake on the morning of the rally, Sunday, Nov. 2, 2003, and putt-putt to the fuel dock before opening this chapter in our lives.
The thrill of departure overwhelms us as the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel shrinks in our wake. Faith is enveloped by the freshness of ocean. Until now, our experience has been in waters of varying colors of bluish-grey to coffee, sometimes with cream when the runoff was heavy. Our trip to New York saw a grey and black sky reflected in the water. Now, with distance from land and depth of the water, we experience colors that cannot be captured on canvas or film--colors that appear by day to be illuminated from within and at night, are illuminated from within by an eerie green glow from the bow wave, along the hull, and trailing in Faith's wake to the horizon. The term phosphorescence--as millions of organisms emit this glow when disturbed--enhances the romance of this phenomenon.

During daylight, we swim and fish. Swimming is a treat when all that's inside the horizon is sky and water and when the depth is measured in miles. Fish go from hook to pan, except for tuna, where we skip the pan and eat it raw.

A marker trespasses our horizon, a marker I think might be a life raft because of too many such tales in sailing magazines. We're compelled to rescue it. When we discover it to be a fishing marker, we lose our sense of heroism and allow it to perish.

Midway through the Gulfstream, hundreds of small dolphins swim past us with purpose to reach an unknown destination beyond Faith's bow . A few linger to show off before resuming their journey.

Faith is in water conservation mode, and we take showers not as we think we need them to greet each new day, but when we know we need them in a social sense. Even with our water-maker--a high-maintenance, high-pressure-pump-and-membrane gizmo that desalinates sea-water--we treat water as finite while on passage. Greggii and I have fun on deck, dumping seawater on ourselves, with a brief lather between buckets; his five-year-old laugh and the water against the hull are the only important sounds.

We learn to ignore the hum of the engine and the trip grows peaceful. The hum necessitates a fuel stop in Bermuda, where we pay $400 to Bermuda's immigration (to account for our presence) and Customs (to account for Faith) to legally stay for the twelve hours we're here. We fuel, celebrate my forty-seventh birthday, and on my insistence, depart for Tortola amid reports of less-than-ideal weather.

Although the decision to keep moving isn't very bright, I stubbornly refuse to wait in Bermuda for better weather, fearing discouragement at our lack of progress. I know that every one of us has a stew of emotions boiling over from our departure and I believe that distance from home will lessen our imaginations of turning back; I insist we move on.

The remaining passage to Tortola is more comfortable than our trip to New York was, only because experienced crew are on board. They provide no knowledge that couldn't be learned by books. They cause the additional dynamic of strangers in our home for the duration of the passage. But knowledge is only a fraction of sailing, and witnessing their experience provides us far greater benefit than their presence costs. I sleep with knowledge that there are skilled hands and eyes at the helm, and learn to appreciate their company.

The seas quit pummeling us as we round the east side of Tortola. We anticipate a festive welcome from the rally organizers and boats that arrived before us, but it's either too late or too early, and our welcoming party is asleep. We tie up at the marina in silence.