A friend at our marina just bought a 1991 Hunter Legend 40; and wanted
to deliver it from St Lucie Fla up to North Carolina. A retired captain
agreed to take the boat and a few friends signed on as crew.

Unfortunately the boat was not in such great shape, more on that later.
It was a good deal but not ready for sea in many respects (more later).

We left Saturday 2-19 with nice sunny weather and 15 kt winds clocking
around from E to SE. Motorsailed up to Ft Pierce and out into the Gulf
Stream.

Day 1- departed the Ft Pierce sea bouy at about 1430. Wind ESE, seas a
little choppy & confused. We noted the wind & spray seemed quite warm
and our speed made good was higher than through the water by about 2.5
kt. We set 2 hour watches and jogged along.

Seasickness... we all five put on 1/2 a scopolamine patch about 2 hours
before heading through the inlet. The Ft Pierce inlet is basically a
straight jettied cut about 200 yards long, with a good bit of current
opposing the wind which set up sick-making lumpy breakers. Everyone was
queasy before we even got all the way past the jetties. Once out in the
open, the waves were smaller and all but 2 people felt better.

Those 2 began puking and refused to go below when off-watch. They slept
in the cockpit which was inconvenient & wet. One of these two felt much
better after a day or so (although he got sick all over again when we
hit a storm, more later).

Lesson- try your seasickness medicine *before* ...long before... getting
underway so as to know what to expect & how much to take.

Day 2 (Sunday)- Sailing sailing sailing. We adjusted course to stay in
the Gulf Stream which made it rather uncomfortable as the wind settled
down to S and the seas built up. We were on a broad reach with a
corkscrew motion, tough on the helmsman & rolling enough to make the
ride unpleasant. Seas approx 8 feet, very few breakers. A dry ride at
least. I was very careful to slather on thick sunscreen so as not to get
burnt. Practiced taking some sun sights with a sextant. The novice
sailors, who originally wanted to steer their whole watch, are sick of
it by now.

That afternoon we are all hanging around in the cockpit, talking and
occasionally singing country songs. A few are drinking beer when off
watch, I don't feel like it myself. It's like any other afternoon sail,
with a bit more wave action perhaps and juiced up by the knowledge that
we are more than 100 miles out to sea.

The wind was freshening up to about 20, building the seas more. The boat
was driving splendidly, actually it's easier to steer when hauling ass.
Before leaving, the captain & I had gone over the steering with a fine
toothed comb (along with all other systems) and done what we could to
make it dependable (although undersized for this boat to start with).
But we felt that a reef in the main would be in order & we preferred to
do it in daylight.

Note- this mainsail, which the new owner intends to replace anyway, is
OEM Hunter sail... ie cheapo crap. It's light cloth, a bit blown,
missing a batten (at least that's not Hunter's fault), only one reef point.

Under reefed sail the boat continues to drive well & is a bit easier to
steer. Unfortunately it's noisier than ever, and the motion is a bit
harder to cope with. It's necessary to hang on at all times, and crawl
from one place to another.

I took off my scopolamine patch as I was not feeling queasy anymore,
even when below navigating, but instead have a woozy headachy feeling
not unlike a tequila hangover that won't go away. A few hours after
taking off the patch I felt fine.

Day 3 (Monday)- wind & sea continue to build. Now we're driving along in
30 knots, surfing 12 footers. In our first 24 hour run we covered 140
miles, our 2nd was 230... I considered that to be splendid sailing, but
am getting tired or snatching a few hours sleep when allowed.

The crewman who has taken up residence in the V-berth, the furthest
forward in the hull, reports that it's impossible to sleep. Being far
forward exaggerates the motion and the noise of waves against the bow is
very discomforting.

The wind continued to clock around, making the seas confused. One of our
novice helmsmen gybed accidentally when a wave crest threw the stern
around, but we stayed on the new tack because it is more favorable to
get towards the western side of the Gulf Stream and close with Frying
Pan Shoals (Cape Fear NC).

Our batteries need charging so we get the engine running, which involves
jumpering the starter solenoid. Now steering is a little bit easier with
the prop stream.

During the night we watch aircraft & ship actions in shore of us, it
looks like some type of military training exercise. I can still ID most
types of US ships & planes which interests the others.

Day 4- Now we're 15 miles SE of the tip of Frying Pan Shoals, getting
out of the Gulf Stream and closing on Beaufort NC. We're still well out
to sea, about 100 miles from the nearest land.

We narrowly miss some sort of debris sticking up out of the water, a
massive set of steel pipes or possibly masts of some waterlogged
wreck... we miss it by about 1 boatlength in the dark. I was steering at
the time, and didn't see it until it was abreast of our running lights.
In staring at this menace as it disappears astern, trying to point it
out to the others, I lose our course and accidentally gybe. That's a
PITA and the captain seems a bit disgruntled with me as he helps me do a
controlled gybe back onto our course.

Soon after that, a series of squalls begin. We roll up the jib and
secure it. Wish we could take a second reef in the main.

The rain squalls worsen with wind & rain. We see a ship and call on VHF
to see if they've got a weather update. No, the mate on watch seems to
have trouble speaking English and gives us the weather forecast we've
already got (wind supposed to go light and back to the NE, no storm
warning).

Two of the crew are nervous and ask the captain to contact the Coast
Guard. "Why" he asks, seriously. We're not really in any trouble and if
we were, all the USCG could do would be to helo us off and abandon our
friend's new boat. The captain doesn't seem very sensitive to the
novice's emotional state, so I talk to the others a bit encouragingly.
Sure it's unpleasant, but we've got everything under control, we've made
great time, and will be home tomorrow.

A squall of about 40 knots begins shredding the mainsail. Luff slides
pop, the upper batten pocket is torn leach to luff, but if we take it
down then the motion in this seaway is going to go from uncomfortable &
difficult to move around, to impossible & dangerous. Besides, the bimini
(which the captain liked but I would have gotten rid of much earlier)
needs to be taken off. 4 men begin struggling to cut it down while not
going overboard (or cutting themselves or each other). I steer.

Halfway through removing the bimini, the worst squall yet hits. The boat
still answers the helm despite laying over about 60 degrees. Out of the
corner of my eye I can see the tip of of the boom skipping through the
water, and concentrate on steering by compass & by heel angle. If I let
the boat head up enough that the sail flogs, it will onle last a few
seconds. If I bear away, the cross-sea will gybe us (plus we don't want
to go that way, we want to go to Beaufort!).

The rain is so heavy that it seems possible to float the boat up into
the air on it. It stings even through layers of warm clothing & rain
jacket, and drives it's way between closed eyelids if you face into it.

We are going incredibly fast... possibly 15 knots. The transom is
throwing a rooster tail farther than I can see in the dark & rain. The
helm is incredibly responsive yet very heavy, it takes a lot of strength
to steer. 2 crew puking again.

An accidental gybe both shreds the main and rips the traveller off the
bridge deck. Now we not only have the hazard of an unrestrained boom
while trying to get the sail down, but there's a big hunk of metal
flailing around over head. I borrow a knife and cut the traveler lines &
the mainsheet & pull the bent remains of the traveler aboard. Then
another crew & I begin to painfully wrestle the sail down.

The wind is literally screaming, the waves roaring. Earlier I was
thinking, 'I've been in worse gales than this, you can converse nicely
in the cockpit, whereas I've seen wind & wave so loud you couldn't make
yourself heard even by cupping your hand over the other's ear.' Now this
is the case. I show my crewmate how to secure the sail as I haul it in
inch by inch.

After an incredibly long time, it's done. We wrap extra line around the
tattered bundle of sail, and use mooring ropes to tie the boom down so
it won't swing. Under bare poles, the boat is still heeling about 40
degrees and driving hard. Fortunately, the wind is carrying us towards
Beaufort, now about 70 miles NNE.

Day 4 (Tuesday)- Now is a long tedious time, motoring along watching the
compass course, the boat rolling wildly in the seas. If I hadn't had the
experience of the past 3 hours, I'd consider the motion unbearable. Even
under motor power alone, we can surf forward on most of the waves &
almost double our speed. As the wee hours of the morning wane & the sky
clears, the seas settle down & the motion gradually decreases.

Personally, I'm spent. The effort of steering in the squall made audible
popping noises in my arms & shoulders, and then the wrestling match with
the sail (the closest comparison I can make would be hauling in a heavy
grade tarpaulin fastened to mad bull charging in random directions), has
left me with almost no physical reserve at all. I can barely move. I
fall asleep... almost in a coma perhaps... sitting at the nav table
gripping the sides to keep in place.

2 hours later... I awake to much less rocking motion. Dawn is showing
but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your
breath. I feel very much refreshed by sleep. Some water, some pitted
dates & dry cereal (Sugar Pops), and while I feel like I've gone a few
rounds with Mike Tyson, now I can face going up on deck again.

We convince the captain to go below & rest. We see a few Navy ships
milling around in the haze on the horizon, a destroyer and an aircraft
carrier. The waves are calmer, we're putt-putting along, knowing that we
will have many hours to go but knowing that we'll be in sheltered water
today, and home later.

We talk quietly about the squall, about how any man is overmatched in a
real test against Nature, each crewman saying how great a job the others
did. We also talk about the possible worst-case scenario: dismasting the
boat, getting a line in the prop, and being disabled out of VHF range.
We don't know it yet, but the water tankage in the boat (which we
carefully filled before setting out) has mostly leaked out and is foul
anyway. I remind them of the obstruction we almost hit before the
squall, saying that this was the biggest danger we faced as it would
surely have ripped the boat like a giant can opener... simply dumb luck
that we missed it. Only one of the others had so much as glimpsed it. I
shudder to think how many other close calls we might have had, totally
unnoticed.

I can face gales & surfing at 15 knots & potential broaches and/or
dismastings, but long long hours of chilly motoring in a cross-swell
really really bugs me. Occasionally I burst out, saying things like "Why
can't the G@#&^## boat keep still for just one f*&*%# minute?" but
quickly regain self-control.

The weather has been calm but increasingly cold. We putt-putt along,
pouring our reserve fuel from jerrycans lashed on the deck into the main
fuel tank. We clean up a bit. As dawn turns into full daylight, we're
approaching the sea-channel leading out from Beaufort Inlet just
southeast of Morehead City. I expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse
any second, but we never did see it. Instead a fog bank rolled over us,
dampening everything. We ride along, keeping sharp lookout by the mast &
blowing a foghorn every two minutes. As the fog begins lifting we see
the bouys marking the channel.

Once the boat reaches sheltered water our self-appointed cook leaps into
action. The stove & oven warm the boat nicely, helping to dry things out
a bit. The first serving is a plate of hot sweet rolls. Later we have a
feast of eggs with mushrooms & onions, along with bacon and a large
helping of fancy mashed potatos. At this point we are heading up a
narrow canal from Morehead City towards the Neuse River, the exact
opposite of the open sea. The boat is so level that it's almost eerie &
unnatural.

The last hours of the trip are uneventful, more like a car ride on
uncrowded streets than sailing. We talk a while, then fall into
companionable quiet. Occasionally we tell jokes, other times one or
another of us talks a while about his personal life. We've been tested
severely and we passed.

Sometime shortly after 8 oclock that evening, we tie the boat into her
new home slip, looking the worse for wear but ready for our friend to
begin his own adventures with her. I drove home, eager for my 1st shower
in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed.