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.