BE PREPARED
When you’re new to ocean sailing, you need to know what you don’t know
A new ocean sailor learns that no matter how much you prepare, you don’t know how much you don’t know until you’ve untied the lines
After crewing on the 2015 Caribbean 1500 rally, I bought Gryphon, my 1993 Morris Justine 36, with a specific goal in mind—sailing from Maine to the Virgin Islands, with pit stops in Annapolis and Portsmouth, Virginia, where I would join the Caribbean 1500 for the last leg. Gryphon is not my first sailboat, but she is certainly my first ocean-worthy boat, and this would be my first serious voyage as skipper of my own boat.
The prospect of sailing 1,500 miles, up to 400 miles from land, in a boat that was new to me made me focus on my lists of proactive maintenance and system improvements every day for six months before departure. Despite this intense focus I was still not able to learn what I needed to make the voyage, until I actually made the voyage.
While my learning curve was steep in the months before the trip, it became even steeper once we left the dock. The intimate understanding of a boat that is necessary to prepare her seemed only to come to me after situations in which things were not working correctly. I read as many books as anyone could, and I asked questions until I feared I had become a pest. Still, I needed to go out there and have parts or systems fail and then fix them before I understood them sufficiently to go offshore with them. The way I would prepare for going offshore was by getting beaten up offshore.
For example, there is a tangle of wires behind the companionway concealed by a panel that takes some determination to remove. I did not appreciate what was going on in there until the autopilot and GPS quit working early into the Gulf Stream crossing. The only clue to the source of the failure was an accessory display for wind and navigation data that read “insufficient voltage.” We called Morris Yachts Service for advice; they suggested we use our multimeter (“I’m assuming you’ve got one?”) to track down a presumed short circuit. By the time we found the short, we had tracked most of the wires from that tangle to all over the boat. You could say I prepared for the GPS failure by having a handheld and buying a new fuse for the multimeter before we left, but I only began to understand that system once I had to fix it.
My system for spare parts storage had consisted of several garbage bags that were gradually getting ripped apart by their contents. On the passage from Maine to Portsmouth I accessed these so often that by end of the trip I had the parts organized into bins repurposed from my children’s onboard toy collection. Among those spares were several extra fuel filters the chief mechanic at Morris had thrust into my hand at departure. When the engine quit and we saw what looked like phlegm through the filter glass, I pulled out the books and figured out how to change a filter.
My understanding of what to do in high winds followed a similar pattern. Not until I was in them did I become convinced of what I needed. The serene waters of Maine where I had
sailed with my family most of the summer, gunkholing between Northeast Harbor and Camden, had lulled me into a sense of security with my existing sail-control systems. A sled ride from Annapolis to Portsmouth, by myself in 35-knot winds, moved a few things higher on my priority list. All summer, I had debated whether or not to install running backstays. Deploying the staysail in that much wind showed me how much the mast can pump when a force pulling at its midpoint is unsupported by running backs. At least I learned while I was still in the Chesapeake Bay.
Before those high winds I figured I could get by with “work-arounds” rather than secondary winches. Work-arounds are fine until stuff hits the fan and you need all the mechanical help you can get. I realized I couldn’t afford to save the money when I was up on the bow trying to manage the disaster created by failed workarounds. I had to turn downwind to keep the headsail blanketed by the mainsail, but as I was running out of sea-room there wasn’t enough time to set up the clunky preventer system and when I watched the boat gybe,there was nothing I could do but hold on.
I needed the ability to control lines with enough redundancy to manage multiple things at once. A situation might start with just one thing going wrong, but that can very quickly escalate into several things going awry if not brought under control.
I continued to find the need for upgrades right up to the time I departed, almost to the point where they compromised the overall management of the campaign. I had the boat hauled out of the water in Portsmouth to inspect and repair the keel because I had hit a couple of rocks hard on the way down. We launched as soon as I returned and I was back to my lists. The biggest job was installing those secondary winches and I thought I had everything set to go until people started telling me I needed backing plates, making the project complicated to the point where it almost did not get done.
Boat projects always seem to have complications and extra considerations that make them take longer. I was blessed with a crew member who could take on projects independently and I took full advantage of that. The safety inspection found some deficiencies we had to address, I needed charts and we had to provision the boat with food for twice the length of our anticipated trip. I was determined not to leave the dock with projects we still needed to do, having learned my lesson by leaving Maine with work undone.
Mechanically, I suppose things worked out alright. We got our autopilot back once we figured that the short was in the GPS antenna cable and that all we had to do was disconnect it, and we felt pretty smart. But now we were tired. For a full day we had hand-steered, one man always at the wheel, with waves the size of the sledding hills at home in Minneapolis, while the other two tried to get multimeter readings in inconvenient places. A couple days later we found the actual frayed spot on the antenna cable, which could only be seen using a mirror and a flashlight, and bypassed it so we could use our electronic navigation again. We were on a roll. We got the engine running again when it quit and I learned how to bleed fuel lines while wedged in a corner to keep from being thrown around. I kept devising various rigging experiments, like my continual improvements of the preventer system. Until the boom’s gooseneck broke we had been able to fix most things, and even then we had enough fuel in jerry cans to allow us to motor-sail the rest of the way to Nanny Cay without a mainsail.
But the challenges of open-water sailing go beyond figuring out how to control the boat and keep it going. I also needed to manage a crew. Early on, I did not appreciate how important it is to clearly communicate the way in which I wanted things done and maintained. Lines have specific uses and sometimes need to be employed immediately and I do not want those lines used for random jobs. Equipment storage is tight and moving one item can create a domino effect of other items being moved. The set-up of a sailboat is part science, but part art, too and this blend of art and science creates a system. Well-meaning deviations from that system by new crew can have repercussions that break it down.
Before I had a chance to even consider those issues—I was having a hard time just finding crew. Without crew I would not be able to sleep, so I wanted at least one person to sail with me and then decided I needed two in case someone got sick or hurt. By October four people had backed out and another turned out not to be a good fit. Each time I was down a person I was left slightly panicked about who else I could find. I was asking people to take a three-week trip out on the ocean with a captain new to ocean sailing and on a new boat. My list of friends to call was getting short.
I could certainly tell prospective crew that Gryphon was a well-built
By the time we found the short, we had tracked most of the wires from that tangle to all over the boat
boat and that I had taken every step to make her safe, but I was also aware that I might not be offering the level of modern conveniences that some people expect on a cruising boat.
My personal taste is to have more of a wilderness-out-in-nature type of experience than a pampered one. I chose and equipped Gryphon accordingly. She is a strong seagoing boat, but she is also small, which means that the area where the people live is closer to where the sharks live. There is no shelter behind which to steer without being exposed to the elements. We have an autopilot and a new electric refrigerator so we are not living primitively, but I do not have a microwave and cannot run a hair dryer, much to the surprise of some prospective crew. I crank my anchor up manually. I have an electronic navigation system but prefer to use paper charts.
Prior to departure I worried about losing crew, and became frustrated as I realized that my dependence on crew cut into my coveted independence. By the time we started I had become excessively accommodating. I would not speak up when we dropped below my standard of neatness. I did not enforce equality in cooking or cleaning. I agreed to fishing late in the day just as conditions were about to deteriorate. I let people change where things were stowed. I let myself be convinced by the crew to leave the dock when we weren’t ready, based on an assurance that we could get things done underway. As we approached Tortola I was going to risk making landfall at night, cutting through some narrow channels, because my crew had been counting the hours until our arrival. I succumbed to pressure in how much we ran the engine. I took chances with the crew, like letting someone steer with the spinnaker, which developed into a situation in which I thought we could lose the mast 400 miles from shore. Worst of all, I deviated from a safe course to one that was much more dangerous when a crew member threatened to leave the boat if I didn’t, and I was going to keep that crew even after he openly questioned my role as captain.
I am not particularly interested in being an authoritarian captain, but I can appreciate how that tradition came to be. With a new crew on board routine has to be enforced. Also, it takes a considerable amount of confidence to captain a boat. Threats to my confidence make me less able to see solutions to problems. I was already uncertain of my own ability.
Interestingly, I think a friend was trying to help me with just these aspects of preparation in the weeks before I left. He recommended some reading and I was surprised that it dealt with how to run sailing campaigns, not about actual sailing. When he talked to me about my preparation he asked me about my watch schedule, concerned about how we would get rest, maintain active roles and facilitate communication. I thought he still needed to teach me about technical stuff like the wind speeds at which I was going to reduce sail. The year before, I had noted the measured intensity with which other captains had approached the days before departure, and was aware that my busyness was making it hard to achieve that level.
We finished the Caribbean 1500 at the back of the pack, which was expected as we were the smallest boat in the fleet. But I’d thought my childhood of dinghy sailing and a more recent history of keelboat racing might help us keep up. I learned that people who have done ocean sailing know how to keep their boats moving.
People tend to assume I would feel a sense of accomplishment, but more than anything I was humbled by the experience. I needed to do all the preparation that I eventually did, and I needed the pressure of the trip to force that level of preparation. But no matter how much I prepared the boat, I was not going to be prepared for a cognitive and emotional challenge in one of the most remote places on earth until I had done it myself, in my own boat, responsible for all major decisions. I could have hired a captain, or stayed close to shore, but had I not done this trip the way I did, I would never have known how much I didn’t know. s
Charlotte Harbor, and while the wind had died the swells had not, so we decided to enter the harbor and continue on to Sanibel via the ICW. This is a well-marked and protected waterway with Captiva and Sanibel Islands to the west and Pine Island to the east.
At 1130, we entered the Okeechobee Waterway. It was really not any different from the ICW at this point as we cruised past Ft. Myers. But the farther east we went the less crowded it became until we were virtually alone. It was at this point that we started to calculate the opening hours of the bridges ahead and realized that we could not make it all the way to the lake before the bridges shut down for the night.
We did make it to the first lock (Franklin Lock) in time and even got a brief lesson in “locking through,” since we were the only boat in the lock and the lock master was able to spend some extra time with us explaining the process. By the time we got to the Ft. Denaud swing bridge, though, it was starting to get dark, and since we were feeling a little tired, we decided not to try for the La Belle bridge. Instead we anchored, fixed a light dinner and got a good night’s sleep.
The next morning, there was a slight fog on the dead flat calm water when we awoke, a beautiful sight. We had about five miles to go to the La Belle bridge and aimed to get there after its first opening. This would have been a great plan, except we forgot to read the fine print, which would have told us that the bridge was closed from 0700 to 0900 for rush hour! We also found a little six-slip dock right next to the bridge with free electricity (read A/C for the night!) that we could have used had we gone the extra five miles the night before. Oh well, next time. As it was, we tied up at a small park on the other side of the waterway to wait the hour and a half for the bridge to open.
After that we started calculating the next bridges and locks openings. From the La Belle bridge, we had the Ortona lock about eight miles ahead, then the Moore Haven bridges and lock to enter the lake 16 miles on. It was 0900 when the La Belle bridge finally opened, and it would take us five hours to make the 24 miles to the lake, which meant we’d get there at about 1400. The total lake crossing itself is about 35 miles. At 5 knots, it would therefore take us about seven hours to get to the exit lock that had a last loading at 1630, which meant we’d arrive about four hours too late.
Because we didn’t want to have to anchor overnight in the middle of the lake, we decided to stop in Clewiston, about 15 miles south of the Moore Haven lock, and made a reservation at the famous Roland Martin Marina. It turned out to be a good decision— nice floating docks, shore power (read A/C for the night!), a diesel top-off, hot showers and a great restaurant. Not surprisingly, we slept well and were up before first light to turn the boat around manually in the narrow docking channel and then set off across the lake into the sunrise.
A little note here about the lake level. It is normally about 14ft 5in above sea level (hence the locks). However, when we went through the level was at about 11ft 5in, so the Moore Haven lock at the lake entrance only had to raise us about 6in. Similarly, the lock to enter Clewiston was left completely open, making the entry and departure from the marina there very easy and fast, giving it the same level as the lake. As for the lake depths, we saw 6-7ft as a minimum along the entire marked channel.
From Clewiston, we crossed the last 20 miles of the lake in good time and entered the Port Mayaca lock at 1000. The drop in this lock was only a few inches and the pass was uneventful. Now we were at the dreaded Port Mayaca Railroad lift bridge. My research indicated that since the lake level was down about a foot, the waterway level would also be down and the clearance would be actually about 1ft more (or 50ft total). We motored slowly under the bridge, cleared it easily without even taking a deep breath (or loading a single water-filled drum) and were home free.
After that, we had about 20 miles to go to the last lock, which would lower us 12ft back to sea level. We arrived at the Port St. Lucie lock at 1430, but had to wait for a westbound boat to be lifted up the same 12ft and clear before we could enter. Because the water level changes in the lock slowly and only by gravity, it took almost an hour to lock through. Our training at the Franklin lock really came in handy here, as we had a longer drop in the lock and had to hold onto the lines more securely.
Once out of the lock all that was left was to motor the rest of the way to Stuart, although it seemed to take forever. Fifteen miles and three hours later we cleared the Green 1 mark and turned south on the ICW to Palm Beach. We had successfully transited the Okeechobee Waterway!
Upon reflection, it had been a beautiful passage through some truly fascinating country: with all types of flora and fauna, and surrounding terrain that varied from almost desert-like areas to virtual rainforests. Birds swooped, alligators lurked, fish jumped. Beautiful mansions gave way to trailer-park retirement villages. It only seemed appropriate that you make the trip at 5 knots to take it all in. Powerboats came by at times, but most of them slowed down as they passed so as not to throw us around too much. When a few big motor yachts and sportfishing boats zoomed past throwing huge wakes, all I could think was that they were missing the beauty of the waterway by going so fast.
I’m already looking forward to the next time I have an opportunity tackle this waterway. Knowing the scheduling issues as I now do, I should be able to plan a more efficient trip as I enjoy the same scenery and wildlife all over again—all at a nice leisurely pace. s