The first 24 hours of the 3 day passage from St. Augustine to Spanish Wells were “festive”.

Those who know me, know that I often use the term “festive” in conjunction with other terms such as: “It was a bit blowy”, “The seas were confused and a bit peak-ed”, “There was a certain amount of spray in the air” and others similarly understated and deceptive – at least to those who have not personally experienced the reality. Those who have, get it.

For those, let me fill in the details. I left St. Augustine knowing that I had 24 hours of easting to make (120 nm), the last 12 of which traversing the core of the Gulf Stream – well offshore that far north. For two days straight prior to my departure winds along the Florida coast had been blowing hard from the Southeast. Things were well churned up. Departure was timed to coincide with their clocking through southerly and continuing to the southwest. That would give me the 24 hours needed to get across before the front powering all of this came through and turned the winds northerly. I knew the first 24 hours were not going to be fun or idyllic or any other such. However, I also knew that after that things would get much better. To me, that can be an important part of the “going to sea” decision. I like improving situations. I have, at times, gone out knowing full well that things were going to do nothing but get worse – my passage from the Cape Fear to Charleston last fall being a prime example. There are also the inevitable surprises – when the forecast just wasn’t right.

This was not my first rodeo and there were no surprises here.

I was under way at noon on Wednesday and, as it turned out, had the timing right.

By that evening, we were beam reaching in 20-25kn of wind with waves seemingly coming from all directions. The truly inspirational waves, however, were the freight trains roaring up from the southeast. It was still blowing hard from that direction farther south.

None of this is lethal – just a “bit uncomfortable” (another of those understated phrases). KR and Wilbur Windvane, my generally passive aggressive wind and water-powered helmsperson, were doing all the work. And they were having the time of their lives.

KR was launching her pretty bow off one wave or another and had an endless variety of other waves to bash back down into. Her sensuous rounded stern gave the waves from that direction the slip - ususally. Most of the time she raced across the face of one big wave or another, cheating them of a clear shot at her. It can be a great rush to see her do that. When one did connect, she took the hit, put her shoulder down and powered right back up again – a seagoing thoroughbred. Keep in mind that 12 hours of this was in really dark essentially moonless night. Neither KR nor Wilbur cared even the least about this but for me it was the Braille method of sailing – you know what is going to hit just after it already has.

Wilbur had his wind paddle flying back and forth and, always somewhat magically to me, turned that into what the wheel needed to keep KR on course. Normally almost a delicate (and to me fascinating) process, in these conditions more machismo is sometimes needed. When one of the freight trains roared through and tried to push KR’s stern around, Wilbur put some real muscle into it saying “No you won’t either, sucker” and soon had things sorted out.

What was I doing while the kids were doing all the work? Not much - other than just holding on.

My job in this team is to see to that the right sails and amount of sails are set to give KR and Wilbur the power and speed they need to do the job – without overpowering. In this case that worked out to be staysail and reefed main.

Once that was done, I had plenty of time to sit in the cockpit, listen to the wind howl and the waves crash, take the dousing from the occasional wave that KR stuck her nose into a little too deeply and feel the lurch and lunge as KR pounded her way along. The ride wasn’t bad in the cockpit, but my occasional forays to the v-berth area down below were “two hands engaged at all times” endeavors. I had never been seasick – and my record is still intact in that regard. However, my body was clearly telling me to drink lots of water, to not eat very much and to be damn careful WHAT I ate.

Also, I had plenty of time to loudly and repeatedly ask: “EXACTLY WHY THE FLIP DO I DO THIS?” (Authors Note: I wasn’t using the word “flip” at the time.)

Not an easy question to answer in any case. Not an answer that would be easy to understand – but both quite impossible while getting pasted.

By Thursday afternoon, however, it was a bit easier. The winds that were supposed to start laying down and clock to the SW, did. The seas that should have gotten more comfortable as more of the westerly winds filled in along the coast and as we exited the Gulf Stream, also did. And, I was busier again (with less time for whiny introspection) as more sail had to be added so the kids would have the power they needed to play with.

That night, the front arrived – completely killing the remaining winds and allowing the seas to rapidly start settling down. It brought some rain along, giving KR and crew a much needed rinsing, as well as a pretty and a benign (thankfully!) lightning show. The gods kept their lightning bolts in the clouds where they belonged.

Wilbur and KR got to take a night-long break as Becky Westerbeke and Otto Autohelm took over. I once again had little to do but used the time to catch up on the rest not gotten the first night. Motoring at sea is not my idea of an idyllic passage but it is not unpleasant and was a welcome respite. Also, I should note that either Becky has gotten considerably quieter (unlikely) or that one advantage of being an “older cruiser” is advancing hearing loss – at least while under power. I should have mentioned that in my previous post on that subject.

By morning, I was feeling better and was much more able and favorably disposed towards seeing the positive aspects of time at sea. When a spectacular sunrise was followed almost immediately by clear signs that the forecast NE winds (which were the whole point of taking this passage window) were filling in, I happily set the sails and put the kids back on duty – Wilbur delicately steering and KR lightly dancing along. And, they did that for the next 34 hours - with beautiful clear skies and a few white, fluffy clouds overhead and calm seas below. That is idyllic passage making!

A small land bird showed up for a visit Friday afternoon, hung around the cockpit for a while, flew down below for a quick look-about and, once again in the cockpit, landed on my knee to give me a thorough looking over. After an hour-long nap on the cabin top under the dodger, off he went – to where I don’t know. We were at that point still 100 miles from land. Birdie visits are not uncommon at sea but usually are soon after passing a ship. That wasn’t the case this time. The visit was welcome, however.

Saturday afternoon, a stowaway came out for a bit of sun from wherever he had been hiding. A small gecko – I’ve named him Fred – had apparently come aboard somewhere in Florida or Georgia and not jumped ship in time to avoid a Bahamian cruise. He first showed up on the cabin top under the dodger, at one point jumped down onto my shoulder, calmly walked down my arm to the cockpit coaming and was off on a bit of an exploration that included climbing all over Wilbur. That’s him in the picture on the windward edge of Wilbur’s wind paddle – getting quite a ride and apparently enjoying flapping back and forth with 15kn of wind blowing. He was there for quite a while. Later, he narrowly avoided getting smushed when I started to pull in the main sheet to get ready to furl the sail on making landfall. How was I to know he was hiding back there? He jumped clear in time, however, but has not been seen since. Perhaps for cocktail hour today…? Is he pissed off at me?

I don’t mind having geckos on board – and have had several in the past. There is not, however, a lot of potential gecko food aboard a boat that seldom is on a dock. I suspect that Fred has been instrumental in eliminating the spider population as well as other less noticeable insects on board KR that had put down roots aboard during her 9 months on the hard. But what will he eat now?

I digress. Getting back to the topic at hand.

“Exactly Why Do I Make Passages?”

Because, the truly dangerous is very rare, the truly uncomfortable is not really all that common and because the often-idyllic pays for all. And, because it takes me quickly to where I want to be. The journey can often be all of the destination needed – but more time at the actual destination can be good too.

I am now in the Central Bahamas poised just to the north of the core of my winter cruising grounds. I will have 5 months (ish) when I will not move very far or very fast – the barnacles will have no trouble keeping up and the jellyfish will pass me by! I’ll spend long periods of time at anchor in beautiful places and not feel any pressing need to move on. Having never spent more than 3 months in the Bahamas on any of my 4 previous visits, filling this time may take some truly creative slug-dom. Not my core competency but will do my best.

Best to all.