Schooner Musings - It's not all palm trees and sunsets

Sailing Vessel Denis Sullivan – January 2005

The Denis Sullivan is a 137 foot wooden three masted topsail schooner built in 1998 as the flagship of Wisconsin. She is currently operated under the auspices of Pier Wisconsin as a sailing school vessel. She spends her summers on the Great Lakes, primarily near her home port of Milwaukee, doing multi-day educational trips for middle and high school students as well as some tourist daysails.

Ship’s Company

Captain: John
First Mate: Sinker
Second Mate: Hugh
Third Mate: Dan
Other Mate: Carlos
Cook: Wendy
Engineer: Beth
Education Officer: Meredith
Deckhand: Emily
Deckhand: Kate
Deckhand: J.R.
Technologist: Chuck
Slacker: Hannes

Student Crew: Tom, Patrick, Don, Paul, Dick, Wendy, Patricia

January 21 Afternoon/Evening

Arrived at the S/V Denis Sullivan, berthed next to the American Airlines Arena in Miami. Third mate Dan greeted me and showed me to my coffin sized berth where I was to spend many a waking hour over the next week. I was coming aboard as student crew on their annual weeklong adult adventure tour. I thought ‘adult adventure’ might imply the presence of ladies of the night but the only ladies I saw at night carried rigging knives and marlinspikes. Other students straggled aboard throughout the afternoon and we slowly met each other and the crew. The captain told us we were on our own for dinner and that we would clear customs first thing in the morning and head across the Gulf Stream to the beautiful Bahamas.

I hooked up with a couple other students and had dinner at the nearby Bayside outdoor shopping mall. While munching on some mediocre fish I looked over the marina and realized that I had finally designed the Perfect Sailboat in my mind. It would have ketch rig to get under the intracoastal bridges, a pilothouse to ward off the cold and bugs on long passages, powerful engines for speed on windless days and a cabin big enough for very comfortable seating. Much to my surprise, as I later walked along the docks, I actually came upon exactly the boat I had just devised! In my mind’s eye it had wonderful proportions and excellent sailing characteristics. In reality, it was an abomination! The hull was pretty enough. It ran about 45 feet long and had high bulwarks for safety and spray deflection. The hull shape looked like a reasonable compromise given the motorsailing duality. Unfortunately, the cabin looked like it had been cut right off the hull of a Grand Banks 36 and just glued on deck. I have no idea how you reef that kind of windage. The superstructure, and it was quite super, even had a full flybridge. The main boom was set so as to clear not only the flybridge but also any tall person at the helm. This meant that the gooseneck was more than halfway up the mast! The mizzen boom was set at the same height. From the looks of it, this boat was designed from the start to do nothing well. So much for my career as yacht designer.

After an obligatory stop at Hooters (with the waitresses buried under layers of sweatpants and sweaters to ward off the cold – good thing we were only there for the chicken wings), we returned to the ship for our first exciting night aboard. It was cold. And noisy. Berthed right at the Arena, we were treated to a loudspeaker play by play of the Miami Heat’s game against some unknown team. Someone won the game eventually and they mercifully shut down the speakers. It was still cold - that damp, raw kind of cold that really makes you uncomfortable. The adventure had begun.

January 22

0800 - 1300

All hands mustered for the captain’s introduction and assignment of watches. We were told that we could participate as little or as much as we liked in the operation of the vessel. One passenger, a former first mate on the Sullivan, stated that he expected to do as little as humanely possible. To make his point, he laid back, covered his face with his hat and immediately went to sleep. Everyone else was gung ho and ready for action so the first mate assigned us to three watch teams and laid out the duties of each watch.

Watch rotation:

0800 - 1300: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, clean soles and bowls (floors and toilets), clean up after lunch

1300 - 1800: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, watch the sun set, clean up after dinner

1800 - 2300: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, take unbridled joy in waking up the next watch at 2245

2300 - 0300: Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, wish for the release from duty that only death offers, drag the next watch topside kicking and screaming at 0245

0300 - 0800 : Sail the vessel, perform hourly boat inspections, clean up after breakfast, accidentally knock overboard anyone who appeared bright and chipper in the morning

With three watch teams, you were set to be on for one watch and then off for two. That sounds like a lot of time to rest. It never seemed to turn out that way because you were either up for meals or in your berth trying to force yourself to sleep before your night watch. Fortunately, most people were able to force themselves to sleep. Unfortunately, the sleep generally came about 10 minutes before it was time to go on watch.

Of the night watches (all of which were bad), the 0300-0800 always seemed the worst. Getting up at the dying hour and functioning well IMMEDIATELY was tough enough. Watching the sun slowly creep up would seem to help but, in reality, the sun always seemed to roll over and hit the snooze button before actually rising to shine straight into your bloodshot eyes. After everyone else had eaten breakfast, you’d stumble below to find a sink full of dirty dishes and a pot with some final scrapings of cold, congealed oatmeal. Thinking it was just one more dish to clean you’d put it in the sink before realizing that it was actually your breakfast. After finally putting away the last dish, you’d stumble to your bunk. On the verge of unconsciousness, you’d devise new methods of torture to pay back those non watch standers who were practicing Irish jigs on the deck immediately above your bunk. Then the call ‘All hands!’ would ring out and you’d crawl on deck looking to do violence upon whatever fool had decided to change sails. Other than that, it was a lovely watch.

All of that knowledge was in the future. First we had to actually get under way. The crew managed to dodge all the ‘helpful’ students and get us away from the dock without incident. I got my first taste of labor as they hooked up the inflatable boat to the davits. I was standing next to the davits so I grabbed the hoisting line, took a couple turns around the davits winch (the only winch on board as it turns out) and hauled away. I immediately had one of those sweet and sour moments. Sweet reflection on my forethought to bring aboard sailing gloves. Sour realization that they were in my bag as I handled the too small line with my tender office worker paws. How heavy can an inflatable be? I’m not sure but the two big gas tanks and the 25 horses sitting on the transom sure didn’t help. By the time I was done, I was quite out of breath and I thought ‘That’s odd, I’ve been exercising so vigorously for months and a little lifting knocks me out like that?’ Hmmm...

No time to reflect on my frailty as there were ten sails to set. Outer jib, inner jib, standing jib, staysail, foresail, main, mizzen, raffee, main topsail and mizzen topsail all went up. I grabbed the foresail throat halyard and gave a mighty heave. Fire ripped through my chest as the halyard moved a foot. I held on but was mighty grateful when a bemused 90 pound deckhand came over to supply the real muscle. I helped set the remaining sails and burned more calories in 15 minutes than I had in 15 days at the gym. By the time we were done, I knew something was not right with me. I’m simply not that out of shape.

Before a moment’s rest could be had, we went through man overboard, abandon ship and fire drills. Each drill required major sail manipulations and, of course, my duty station for each drill was sail handling. Ouch.

The drills finally ended and lunch was served. My first watch came to an end an hour later and I headed below for victuals and clean up.

1300 - 1800

Off watch. Had fun watching a couple of the real crew struggle to take in all the topsails. Those guys and gals seem real comfortable in the rigging so I’m not inclined to spoil their fun by offering to go up the ratlines myself. Took longer to take in the topsails than the time we actually had them up and drawing. This is the last we’ll see of the mizzen and main topsails but the raffee isn’t quite finished with us.

Deck starts to roll in a nice, comfortable rhythm. Comfortable as long as you don’t have to move about too much. I’m happy because this is the motion I was longing for when I signed up for the cruise.

After dinner I head below to try and sleep before my 2300-0300 dogwatch. Read a bit, slept too little, time to go to work.

2300 - 0300

Beautiful, moonlit night. Nice little swell running. Wind abaft the beam. All lower sails set and drawing well. Best kind of schooner sailing you can imagine. A little cool but I’ve got plenty of warm clothes.

There are three students, a watch leader and a deckhand in my watch team. There are three duty stations: helm, bow watch, boat check. The fourth person is idle and ready to help out where needed. We switch stations every hour. An hour is a long time to stand in one place. By the end of the week, I’ll be redefining ‘long time’.

I take bow watch first and it’s wonderful. Looking for ships and making sure everything is cool. No worries. Irritating noise above me. The raffee has come loose from its bindings and must be secured before it flogs itself to pieces. I report this to the watch leader. He thanks me and heads aloft in the now dark, swinging rigging where he spends nearly an hour trying to calm the beast. It will be the end of the watch before the sail is finally put away for good.

I switch to the helm and find that the wheel gives little feel and you must constantly watch the compass. Fortunately, the compass is a nice one - large and well light with a red night light. Much better than the last time I crossed the Gulf Stream with a little bobbing white light on a tiny, bouncing compass.

Generally, you stand in front of the wheel and steer with your arms behind you. Odd at first but you learn to lean on the wheel to take the strain off your feet. Constant attention needed or you will find yourself 20 degrees off course.

Switch to boat check on the next rotation. This involves checking the five watertight bilge compartments, the engine room and all the instruments. Everything is logged. Boat check is good because you get both a chance to rest your feet and the opportunity to move around a bit. The only downside is that you have to stumble around in the dark a bit without waking the off watch crew as you check the bilges. Going into the engine room is a bit of hassle as well because it is hot and incredibly noisy. No engines on now but the generator is going full steam.

Rotate to idler. Ah, the good life. Time to partake of the fresh baked snacks the cook has left out for us. Getting tired but it’s a good tired. Start coughing a little. Odd as I haven’t had so much as a cold in three years.

0300 - 0800

Off watch. Fitful sleep. Lungs starting to fluid up a bit. No worries, just a little too much exercise and salt air.

0800 - 1300

Off watch. Breakfast feels good. Weather starts to deteriorate. Wind picks up, whitecaps all around, pretty strong swell running. Been in worse on lesser ships. Realize on this watch that there is literally no comfortable place to sit on the ship. Nowhere to lean back and ease the strain on both back and feet. Too many sharp edges and hard surfaces.

The nearly new outboard on the inflatable dinghy stopped working right before we left Miami. The captain and various other dignitaries are puzzling through the problem. I offer some sage advice that works as well as anyone’s. The outboard never runs again.

1300 - 1800

Time to go on watch already?

Trailing two fishing lines in the water, we are rewarded with simultaneous hits by smallish tuna. I’m not real comfortable with the concept of catch and release fishing but I hold my tongue. Wise choice as there is no intention to release the fish. First mate cuts them up into sushi. Tuna looks at me as if to say ‘Well *I* certainly prefer catch and release to THIS!’ Half the crew tries sushi for the first time. Half of them also try it for the last time and soon offer it back to the deep.

Rain starts, wind continues to build. Time to reef and all hands seem to have disappeared. Our watch reefs down on its own. Exhausting work. One person on a line under strain sure is a lot tougher than having three on the line. At least I’m always wearing gloves now.

After reefing, I go to bow watch and end up coughing uncontrollably for 15 minutes. Just can’t catch my breath. Soaked through with both salt and fresh water. Cold. Beginning to wonder whether I really liked sailing to begin with.

At least I have kept my feet dry. Wet feet would be too much to deal with. Just before I reach the companionway, a big wave sweeps the deck and soaks my shoes.

1800 - 2300

Off watch. Still have to clean up dishes. Feeling miserable, wet, cold. Finally make it to bunk and strip off wet clothes. Shivering. Can’t sleep. Miserable.

2300 - 0300

Off watch. Ship is rolling so bad that you have to constantly brace in the bunk to avoid being thrown out. Slamming into waves broadside six inches from my head. Wondering why captain didn’t want to power up in the afternoon for an hour and make port instead of standing off shore all the miserable night. No sleep.

0300 - 0800

Turn out for watch. Would rather turn out for own funeral. Hate sailing. Never going to do it again after this trip. No point to the stupid sport. Lungs full of fluid, wrenched knee, painful feet. Can’t bend over low enough to get through companionways. Harnesses on.

Driving, stinging rain. At least smart enough to turn out in foulies with seaboots. Wore swimsuit under pants to prevent overheating. Good idea - like I’m going to overheat in this cold. At least I stay dry and I’m not nearly as cold as others.

Worst part of the watch - and there are many horrid parts - is that we are five miles out and just tacking back and forth, marking time until sunrise. I suggest that we at least go to a broad reach on each tack to stop the slamming and help those below get some sleep. Request denied. That’s ok - I hate those who are below. And I’ll still have to clean their dishes at breakfast.

Sunrise. We strike sails and head into port. The undead appear from below. The holds reek. We reek.

We finally tie up at the ugliest port I have ever beheld. Sunken boats poke through the water, trash on shore, no facilities whatsoever. This is the beautiful island the crew has been telling us about?

Cold oatmeal for breakfast.

0800 - 1300

Off watch. Everyone off watch. Sleep for two hours. Can barely move when I wake up. Realize I am seriously ill. Heavy fluid in my lungs, shortness of breath, muscle fatigue. The coughing is incredibly painful but I feel so much better after hacking for awhile that I realize I need to keep it up, otherwise I’m not getting the oxygen I need. Vow not to lie down again because I’m seriously afraid I won’t be able to struggle through the fluid again. Shoulder and leg muscles starting to cramp severely.

1300 - 1800

Off watch. Third mate lived on Andros Island for a year two years previously as a diver and assistant at field research station. Gives us a fantastic tour of the island and its people. Andros is 100 by 60 miles but has only about 8000 residents. Nearly all residents live at subsistence level. Some sponge fish or harvest conch. Others help out at bonefishing camps. Many used to run drugs but that seems to have disappeared. Go fast boats lie rotting in the weeds.

Andros’ greatest asset should bring it riches beyond compare. It is the only significant source of fresh water in the Bahamas. Six million gallons a day are shipped to Nassau for distribution to the rest of the islands. But Andros receives nothing in return.

Islanders come primarily from two displaced peoples. A few Seminole Indians escaped the white man’s wrath by paddling over from Florida in canoes. Shortly thereafter, a few African slaves escaped from ships that had stopped on their way from Africa to freshen them up before auction. Glad they escaped. Wish they all had. None of my relatives arrived in the New World until slavery and Indians were gone. Even so, I still can’t quite shake the shame of it.

We meet some descendants of these brave escapees at the little village of Red Bays. Scrap Iron is a strapping man of 75 or so whose claim to fame is his hunting of wild boars by hand. Now he sits by the road and weaves baskets to sell to the rare tourist who might get lost and wander by. Very rare. The baskets are quite nice and our group buys quite a few. He sells a few sponges as well but then gives them away to the girls who didn’t buy one. What he’s really selling are his stories and they’re worth the price.

We walk down the street to meet Miss Jones, the town’s 86 year old matriarch and medicine woman. It’s difficult to understand her patois but our mate helps. She proudly shows off a collection of community awards for all her years of service. She used to be the midwife for the island but the new government won’t let her continue. Now there is no one. She keeps a garden of all her medicinal plants growing and offers us her 21 Gun Salute mixture if we would like. Bahamian Viagra. No one accepts but some of the women look wistful. I wonder if she has something to cure my ills but I’m a bit leery of folk medicine especially from a woman who has two grapefruit sized goiters. I’m sure some of her treatments work but I’ll tough it out.

There are more baskets, truly beautiful ones, for sale in a village common house.

As we are about to leave the village, Scrap Iron comes out and insists on giving another basket to someone he says didn’t bargain hard enough. I guess $5 was just too much to pay for a week of his time.

Red Bays is not a tourist town. There are no tourist facilities on the entire island. The town is more like an anthropologist’s dream scene. Hardscrabble life, nearly unaltered for many years. Poverty, as we define it, like you have never seen before but the people seem happy and all take time to smile and talk with us.

Next stop is the home of Henry Wallace, a woodcarver who supposedly has some pieces in the Smithsonian. The pieces we see are pretty rough and Henry’s not at home anyway.

Andros is also the site of blue holes. Some of the holes are inland and consist of a layer of fresh water on top of saltwater that is fed in through caverns that reach the sea. We stop for a swim at Uncle Charlie’s Blue Hole. It’s Uncle Charlie’s because the good uncle is still in there. He tried to SCUBA out to the ocean. He didn’t make it. Divers recovered him and his gear but his family asked them to put him back as that is where he would want to be. Not sure if Charlie agrees but that’s where he is now. Rest of the group swims while I nap in the van.

One more blue hole stop. This one is slightly offshore. The water runs two feet deep until the bottom suddenly drops out and the hole appears. Too cold for anyone to swim out there today.

Drive through a very small settlement of well kept German cottages. Germans started settling here ‘for some reason’ in 1945. Not many around permanently now but their modest cottages get some use during the winter.

Final stop for conch and beer. I let the rest of the gang eat slugs while I nap again in the van. I am not getting better.

1800 - 2300

Off watch. Back at the ship we have dinner and then watch an ocean salvage tug try to pull a fuel barge off the beach. The barge went ashore during the last hurricane and we have a nice high spring tide to help so the tug gives a mighty effort. With help from a large bulldozer, the tug finally floats the barge and secures it very close to our bowsprit. Deft hand on the wheel that put it that close without crushing us. Tug looks familiar.

Captain says he left a bonfire all ready to go last time he was here but it rained. Nice night tonight so we walk down the beach to it and have a good time drinking warm beer, roasting marshmallows and mis-singing sea chanteys. No bugs. Too cold. Fire feels good.

2300 - 0300

Off watch. Real sleep for the first time in days.

0300 - 0800

Off watch. Blessed sleep.

0800 - 1300

Back on watch and preparing to leave. Didn’t drink all the beer so captain offers it to the tug crew. They graciously accept and ask us all aboard for a tour. Tug looks really familiar.

Massive seagoing salvage tug. Three giant propellers. Winches the size of Rhode Island. Crew helps us aboard and shows us around. I had expected a bunch of rough roustabouts but they are very well spoken, polite and quite young. They seem very happy in their work and tell us all about it. We come to the bridge where a wildhaired, kind of rummy looking old man is staring at us. He roars ‘I can navigate the world with my eyes shut and pull any ship off any reef but I can never find my goddamn shoes!’ He decides to stay barefoot while telling us his story. As soon as I hear his name, I realize it’s a story I’ve read before. This is Captain Latham Smith. I’ve read a book about his exploits and he’s quite the daring mariner. He built the tug himself back in the 60s and his first mate is a neighborhood kid who wouldn’t go away when the boat was finished. The captain is not quite as gruff as he first appears and the mate is always chipper and smiling, Nonetheless, I look around and realize, not for the first time on this trip, that the mariner’s life is not for me.

Almost ready to go but three more stops remain on the island tour. We walk a short ways into the trees and find a small twin engine plane that must have come down within the last two years. The plane has been accordioned to about half its normal length. Next stop is Morgan’s Bluff where the good Captain Morgan used to lure ships onto the reefs with false lights. Final stop is his cave nearby where he kept the plundered goods.

Back on board and ready for sea. Second mate does a masterful job of taking us away from the dock with engine controls alone. There was no room to spare and he still left change behind. The first mate, second mate and one of the deckhands are all schooner captains in their own right. They are just along for this trip and perhaps another. Filling time while their boats wait for spring in Michigan, Maryland and Maine.

My watch takes us to sea again. We are the only watch that will end up on duty for each departure and arrival. Luck of the draw. We also wash more dishes than any other team. Unluck of the draw. In truth, other than the one self announced slacker aboard, everyone works whenever needed. Even the slacker, though nimble in the face of approaching work, will pitch in for any task directly requested. He’s running from something but he hasn’t figured out what yet and he tells good stories. The crew and the passengers are good - every one of them. Throughout the trip there is never an angry or short word spoken. Never. The crew is unbelievably patient and never criticizes a mistake or brushes off a suggestion. The captain, who appeared gruff at first, is actually quite jovial and sensitive to the needs of everyone aboard.

Aside from the full time schooner captains and a water taxi driver from Chicago, the rest of the crew is recently out of college with degrees ranging from marine biology to mathematics and business. They are in that wonderful stage of life trying to figure out what they want to be when they grow up or even if they want to grow up. I advise them all to be wary of The Man and stay free as long as possible.

The passengers range in age from about 23 to 65 with careers ranging from trucking to engineering to teaching to firefighting to ‘I’m retired and I don’t remember what I used to do.’ Two of the passengers came on together, the rest are alone. The ‘couple’ is a pair of retired men who bicker with each other so much that I finally ask how long they have been married to each other. ‘Longer than we have been to our wives’ is their simultaneous reply.

I would go to sea with any of these people again. A wonderful collection of good-natured, hardworking people.

Back to sea. Make sail. Lungs are regressing again but the muscles respond better to the weight of a line. I’ve lost vitality but gained muscle in just a few days.

Dishes. Always dishes.

1300 - 1800

Off watch.

We ghost offshore at less than a knot the whole afternoon until we spot several whales on the surface. The captain powers up at last and heads over for a closer look. We watch the whales spout dozens of times before we get too close and get a goodbye wave from a fluke. They have served their purpose, they caused us to start the engines. Blessed be the whales.

Catch another tuna. No more sushi. This one ends up in a casserole.

1800 - 2300

Off watch.

Feel like dying. High fever, shakes, cold sweat, fiery throat. Can barely stand. Can only croak in response to questions. Finally decide I have a duty to report my condition to the captain. I find him in conference with the first mate and a passenger who is a part time paramedic. I am already the topic of conversation which is good because I can barely croak a yes or no in response to questions. Captain offers to get me off the boat with an unscheduled stop at Nassau but I refuse and say I’ll make it the last couple days. Don’t want to let down my watchmates. Don’t want to end up dropping a spar on them either so I’m going to have to be real careful. As we are talking, the watch leader shouts ‘Ready about!’ so I excuse myself and stumble forward to help bring the jibs over. When it’s done I am nothing more than a heap of sweating, gasping former human. I wedge myself into a corner of the deck and pray for a fast passage.

Eventually I struggle below to my bunk but I can’t sleep. It’s unhealthy lying down but for an hour I cannot get the energy to even lift my head. I keep thinking that a shower would make me feel better as it has been days since I have been clean and fresh. With a half hour to go before dogwatch, I pull myself into the shower and do the best I can.

2300 - 0300

On watch.

Shower was great therapy and I’m suddenly feeling better than I have since I left Chicago. The air is fresh, the seas are calm, the wind is light and the moon colors everything in silver and shadow. I eat everything I can find and feel my strength returning. I could stand two watches.

I make the mistake of looking at the charts as I pass through the pilothouse on my way to boat check. Something doesn’t look quite right. I ask the watch leader why we are headed away from Miami and he tells me the dreadful news - we are to tack back and forth through the night holding our position east of the Gulf Stream. The next day will be more of the same until we finally start the crossing the next evening. 24 hours without a mile of course made good. By design. It saps the strength out of me.

On bow watch I think long and hard about this sailing nonsense. I am truly glad I came on the trip but I have no desire to ever do it again. I’m not sure that I ever want to sail again at all. These thoughts on a beautiful night with a comfortable ship underfoot and good crew all around. I am not a passagemaker.

Some will think I am weak and indecisive. That I don’t have the right stuff. Let them think it. As for me, I think I am being honest. Only a fool or a liar would send himself out again to do that which he knows he will not enjoy. I came on this trip for one particular feeling. I wanted the surge of the ocean swell passing under a heavy displacement schooner. The trip has been blessed with hours of that feeling and I did enjoy it. It felt exactly how I wanted it to but that’s past and there’s no desire to ever repeat it. It’s not that I hate the sailing, it’s just that I have done it and am ready for something else.

Before I came on this trip, I entered into preliminary negotiations to buy an established schooner business in Maine. I planned to bring the ship to the Great Lakes in a year or two and run it as a mostly absentee owner. This is a plan I’ve worked seriously on for years and the right ship at the right price at the right time at the right location finally became available. Everything was in place except for this last trip to really get a feel for the whole thing.

I was so fortunate to stumble onto a ship with not one but four active schooner captains. They all shared their experiences openly and told me the good and bad sides of the business. I asked each of them what made a good absentee owner and they all had the same answer: lots of money and the good sense to not tell the captain how to spend it. Perhaps they were biased.

This trip was a working passage - not a windjammer pleasure cruise. Having a professional crew take you into a snug anchorage beside a quaint little town every night and serve you gourmet meals three times a day sounds wonderful. Maybe it is and maybe the business could still work for me. I doubt it. After all, buying a schooner is fueled by passion, not logic. The passion is gone. It is good to know that before you throw away all your security, all your common sense. It could work for someone else. It could have worked for me several years ago. Not now. I am glad I found that out and I can finally close the book on that dream based on knowledge rather than frustration or disappointment at chances not taken.

It’s true that these thoughts gelled while I was suffering pneumonia at sea but they really finalized on that perfect night when I was feeling so much better. It was a point of clarity, not despair. I also realized that I was really too old for this type of trip. At 43 that is absurd so I am dedicating myself to becoming younger. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. I’ll keep up the exercise and add yoga to it in order to get myself limber again. I’ll go on the long term diet that stresses healthy eating over weight loss. I’ll come home when the workday is done and give time to my family instead of my job. I’ll sleep – oh, will I ever sleep. In return for all these good deeds to myself, I will buy myself the most comfortable easy chair I can find and read and write about my new activities. Kayaking, biking, home repair. Most of the boats will be sold. I don’t use them anyway. Besides, I have lots of good friends with nice boats.

Fresh baked raspberry granola bars left as the night snack. Yummy. Nice cook.

0300 - 0800

Off watch.

The new watch crew came on deck looking cold and tired. I offered to stand an extra watch so they could each catch an extra hour of sleep. One of the crew said I was obviously delirious and needed some serious rest.

Read a little, slept a little, rose for breakfast. No dishes - my favorite kind of meal.

0800 - 1300

Off watch.

Tacking back and forth, back and forth. Going nowhere, just waiting for nightfall.

Health started deteriorating again and coughing became very painful. Started coughing up quite a bit of junk. Wrenches, nails, spare car parts - stuff like that. Felt like I must be getting better if I was coughing. Either that or dying.

Nice day. Flying fish all over the place. Caught a wahoo, let it go.

1300 - 1800

On watch.

Motorsailing now but still no destination. Waiting for evening to start the crossing.

Homeland Security requires 48 hours notice of a vessel arrival and in a port like Miami you have to come in when you say you are going to or you’ll end up in Security Hell. We’re scheduled to arrive at 0800.

Bored to tears. Not even Twain can keep my interest. Want to endow the boat with deck chairs when I return home. Something for future crews to appreciate.

Dishes.

1800 - 2300

Off watch.

Beautiful moonrise.

Crew member shows me the sparkling lights of photoplankton.

I know the dreaded early morning watch is on the way and I need to sleep but I lay in my bunk wide eyed. Then I hear movement on deck and I slowly turn out to see if I can help. By the time I get there, all the sails are down and tucked away. There was no call for all hands as many were still on deck after dinner. This means we’re turning towards Miami.

2300 - 0300

Off watch.

Can’t sleep. Four hours spent looking at the ceiling six inches from my face. One more watch to go.

0300 - 0800

Last watch.

Tired but oh so glad this is the last watch to turn out for. Miami is off the bow and ships are zig zagging all around us. Keeps me busy as bow lookout. Busy is always good on a night watch.

Health is bad but mind feels good until a seemingly small thing intrudes. When you stand watch there are certain unwritten rules and you follow them religiously. You NEVER show up late for watch change because you know that no matter how tired you are, the guys on deck are more tired. They’ve been standing for four or five hours counting the minutes until you arrive. You simply don’t show up late and no one ever did on the trip. Likewise, on your own watch, you do whatever is necessary and you help each other without being asked. You NEVER take advantage of your watchmates. Not for a minute. Ask for help and they’ll all give it. But you HAVE to ask if it’s not offered. Like I said, a small thing but it gets under your skin. During the afternoon watch, the movie ‘Around Cape Horn’ was being shown in the galley. I immediately offered to stay on deck because I had seen it. Weather was good, nothing was going on so we went short two people on our watch for the duration of the movie. Freely offered.

After the movie, my two movie going watchmates stood around talking for awhile with others. Not unusual at all as the boat check and idle watch member have a lot of spare time. But. But I had been at the wheel well over an hour and I really could have used a rest. Then a navigation course was offered and the same two (who are truly wonderful, giving people) elected to attend. After three hours at the wheel without a moment’s rest, I am finally ready to step down when my relief says she’ll be ‘just a minute’ while she fetches some tea for herself. A small thing. A nice day. A sick me. I let it pass.

Now on the night watch I am at the wheel ready for relief. I have counted the minutes. The hardest thing of all on watch is to not look at your watch. We all do. It can’t be helped. I’m coughing, my nose is running, my legs are cramped. No matter. The ONLY thing that matters is that it is finally time for my relief. I have stood bow watch and helm in succession without a break which means someone else had idle and boat check back to back. I’m looking forward to that sequence myself. I won’t go belowdecks but at least I can sit for a few minutes.

One of the afternoon movigoers finally shows up five minutes late (a lifetime on deck at night!) and says ‘I didn’t realize how cold it was! I’ve been below so long. I’ll just run along and get a sweater.’ I try to say I’ll get it for her but I cough and she’s gone before I can say anything. Not to return for ten minutes. A small thing. I finally get ready to turn over the helm when I’m called to the bow. Again? The other watchmate has gone below for a few minutes. I’ll stand his rotation too.

I like these people, I really do. They would have stood all my watches if I had asked them too. If I had said I was sick they would have put me in my bunk for the duration without a complaint. Everyone knew I was sick but they also knew I had not once asked for relief, had never missed a sail set or a tack, had never slowed down. They knew it was my decision and not to intrude unless I spoke first. I respect that.

But on a night watch, small things get under your skin. I wonder what I did to irritate my watchmates? That’s the thought that kept the small things from coming out. I had never shown up late or taken a lazy rotation. I offered help at every turn, always tried to be aware of when they were tired and needed a break. Still, you know there was probably something I did or failed to do that annoyed them. A small thing. That they kept to themselves. As I did on this last watch.

Sunrise. No words to describe how that felt on this last watch.

We finally made the entrance marker and started up the channel. I stood on foredeck in the freezing wind wondering when the sun was going to add a little warmth. No matter, only a few minutes more.

Suddenly a port security boat comes screaming down on us and the agent has a brief heated discussion with the captain. We are religiously following all the rules and we are exactly on time. No matter, you have to exercise your power. It seems that the security gurus are convinced that terrorists will attack a cruise ship. Apparently these terrorists are so sneaky that, instead of doing it on the ocean outside the harbor where there is no protection and a high likelihood of people dying, they prefer to do it in port, next to land, under the eye of about 18 federal agencies. Probably with a wooden schooner. As I watch the exchange back at the helm, I look past the patrol boat and see tens of thousands of uninspected cargo containers on the docks. Bin Laden owns several shipping companies. To the best of my knowledge, he does not own any traditional sailing vessels manned by people from Wisconsin. We are escorted to our dock and boarded by a truly astounding number of agents. They leave disappointed in our perfect paperwork.

We are home.