Just returned from delivery trip from Florida
This is snipped version of the email I just sent my wife, since she
wanted to know what my last 5 days away from home (vacation?!?!?) have been like. Fresh Breezes- Doug King *** *** *** 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. 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. 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 (course of 030 which it was for most of the trip) 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. 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. 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). 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 only 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. 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. 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. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. 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 (in fact I can't believe it stayed up... BTW it's an ISOMAT rig), 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 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. We expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second. 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. 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 drive home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
Nice log. I've found that using half a patch gives people the full half dose
but a lot faster. Has something changed with these patches? I know they were pulled from the market at one point. I don't use them... gives me terrible cotton mouth, and I rarely get bad sea sickness. -- "j" ganz @@ www.sailnow.com "DSK" wrote in message . .. This is snipped version of the email I just sent my wife, since she wanted to know what my last 5 days away from home (vacation?!?!?) have been like. Fresh Breezes- Doug King *** *** *** 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. 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. 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 (course of 030 which it was for most of the trip) 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. 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. 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). 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 only 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. 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. 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. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. 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 (in fact I can't believe it stayed up... BTW it's an ISOMAT rig), 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 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. We expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second. 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. 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 drive home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
Sounds like a great time with fine memories! Great Story.. Thanks for
sharing it! CM "DSK" wrote in message . .. This is snipped version of the email I just sent my wife, since she wanted to know what my last 5 days away from home (vacation?!?!?) have been like. Fresh Breezes- Doug King *** *** *** 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. 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. 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 (course of 030 which it was for most of the trip) 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. 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. 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). 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 only 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. 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. 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. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. 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 (in fact I can't believe it stayed up... BTW it's an ISOMAT rig), 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 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. We expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second. 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. 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 drive home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
Typical tale of woe about an unseaworthy vessel and inept crew. Sell it to 'Cruising World' magazine. They adore that kind of crap. CN "DSK" wrote in message . .. This is snipped version of the email I just sent my wife, since she wanted to know what my last 5 days away from home (vacation?!?!?) have been like. Fresh Breezes- Doug King *** *** *** A friend at our marina just bought a 1991 Hunter Legend 40; and wanted to deliver it from St Lucie Fla up big snip |
Capt. Mooron wrote:
Sounds like a great time with fine memories! Great Story.. Thanks for sharing it! You're welcome, it was mostly fun and definitely fine memories... new friends too. I don't think you'd have liked it much, the un-seakindly motion of that relatively light (D/L ~180) fin-keeler would probably have given you apoplexy! But it was a lot of fun driving it like hell. Several 220+ mile days are pretty respectable IMHO, and that mast is a damn solid bit of construction! DSK |
"DSK" wrote in message . .. Capt. Mooron wrote: Sounds like a great time with fine memories! Great Story.. Thanks for sharing it! You're welcome, it was mostly fun and definitely fine memories... new friends too. I don't think you'd have liked it much, the un-seakindly motion of that relatively light (D/L ~180) fin-keeler would probably have given you apoplexy! But it was a lot of fun driving it like hell. Several 220+ mile days are pretty respectable IMHO, and that mast is a damn solid bit of construction! Naw.. I would have revelled in those kind of conditions. I love the ocean on it's roughest days.... it's a challenge and a test of your abilities and limitations. I have a an Isomat on Overproof... excellent mast! CM |
I don't think you'd have liked it much, the un-seakindly motion of that
relatively light (D/L ~180) fin-keeler would probably have given you apoplexy! Capt. Mooron wrote: Naw.. I would have revelled in those kind of conditions. I love the ocean on it's roughest days.... Shucks, we didn't see anything like the roughest days, for which I am very grateful. We had two days of great driving, but the motion of the boat was like trying to ride a basketball. If we'd had proper sails & deck layout, it would have alleviated much of the difficulty & discomfort. But that's the nature of delivery trips... you don't get to pick the boat or the timing (which is a big reason why I don't agree to do many deliveries). ... it's a challenge and a test of your abilities and limitations. The crew passed the test handsomely IMHO... even when sick & scared, those guys busted a gut working to bring the vessel through. The only thing that scared me was that obstruction we almost hit... and the discovery that if we had been dismasted & disabled, we'd have had very little water! ... I have a an Isomat on Overproof... excellent mast! I was impressed, let me tell you. DSK |
Sounds like a rather interesting trip. Hey.. at least you got there on
your own with all hand alive...thats what matters. Delivering crap is always a challenge. I kinda like it better than a new delivery. As you know..The only difference between adventure and adversity ....is attitude. Joe |
Joe wrote:
Sounds like a rather interesting trip. Hey.. at least you got there on your own with all hand alive...thats what matters. It's a problem when you return with fewer people than you left with. OTOH, different federal depts give you all kinds of headache if you return with more than you started with... picky picky picky... Delivering crap is always a challenge. I kinda like it better than a new delivery. I guess I'm just getting old & spoiled. I like sailing nice well-equipped boats. The pro captain (unlimited license, worked a variety of interesting sounding posts) and I formed an opinion of the boat while we were inspecting/repairing it prior to getting underway. He said later that he's never turned down a boat for delivery although there's times he wishes he had. He is more accustomed to bigger heavier boats and found the quick motion of this boat very difficult and aggravating... OTOH he was tickled to death to hit 14 knots while helming... I think our friend got a "deal" on this boat that Boobsprit would be bragging about; but it's going to take a heck of a lot of work. As you know..The only difference between adventure and adversity ....is attitude. Damn right. At last here's something we agree on. Fresh Breezes- Doug King |
Thank you, Doug, for telling your realistic tale of sailing....the truth is
always much more interesting than fanciful stories of perfect sails... "DSK" wrote in message . .. This is snipped version of the email I just sent my wife, since she wanted to know what my last 5 days away from home (vacation?!?!?) have been like. Fresh Breezes- Doug King *** *** *** 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. 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. 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 (course of 030 which it was for most of the trip) 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. 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. 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). 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 only 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. 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. 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. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. 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 (in fact I can't believe it stayed up... BTW it's an ISOMAT rig), 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 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. We expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second. 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. 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 drive home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
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