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#1
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Delivery trip, Florida to NC
A friend at our marina just bought a 1991 Hunter Legend 40; and wanted
to deliver it from St Lucie Fla up to North Carolina. A retired captain agreed to take the boat and a few friends signed on as crew. Unfortunately the boat was not in such great shape, more on that later. It was a good deal but not ready for sea in many respects (more later). We left Saturday 2-19 with nice sunny weather and 15 kt winds clocking around from E to SE. Motorsailed up to Ft Pierce and out into the Gulf Stream. Day 1- departed the Ft Pierce sea bouy at about 1430. Wind ESE, seas a little choppy & confused. We noted the wind & spray seemed quite warm and our speed made good was higher than through the water by about 2.5 kt. We set 2 hour watches and jogged along. Seasickness... we all five put on 1/2 a scopolamine patch about 2 hours before heading through the inlet. The Ft Pierce inlet is basically a straight jettied cut about 200 yards long, with a good bit of current opposing the wind which set up sick-making lumpy breakers. Everyone was queasy before we even got all the way past the jetties. Once out in the open, the waves were smaller and all but 2 people felt better. Those 2 began puking and refused to go below when off-watch. They slept in the cockpit which was inconvenient & wet. One of these two felt much better after a day or so (although he got sick all over again when we hit a storm, more later). Lesson- try your seasickness medicine *before* ...long before... getting underway so as to know what to expect & how much to take. Day 2 (Sunday)- Sailing sailing sailing. We adjusted course to stay in the Gulf Stream which made it rather uncomfortable as the wind settled down to S and the seas built up. We were on a broad reach with a corkscrew motion, tough on the helmsman & rolling enough to make the ride unpleasant. Seas approx 8 feet, very few breakers. A dry ride at least. I was very careful to slather on thick sunscreen so as not to get burnt. Practiced taking some sun sights with a sextant. The novice sailors, who originally wanted to steer their whole watch, are sick of it by now. That afternoon we are all hanging around in the cockpit, talking and occasionally singing country songs. A few are drinking beer when off watch, I don't feel like it myself. It's like any other afternoon sail, with a bit more wave action perhaps and juiced up by the knowledge that we are more than 100 miles out to sea. The wind was freshening up to about 20, building the seas more. The boat was driving splendidly, actually it's easier to steer when hauling ass. Before leaving, the captain & I had gone over the steering with a fine toothed comb (along with all other systems) and done what we could to make it dependable (although undersized for this boat to start with). But we felt that a reef in the main would be in order & we preferred to do it in daylight. Note- this mainsail, which the new owner intends to replace anyway, is OEM Hunter sail... ie cheapo crap. It's light cloth, a bit blown, missing a batten (at least that's not Hunter's fault), only one reef point. Under reefed sail the boat continues to drive well & is a bit easier to steer. Unfortunately it's noisier than ever, and the motion is a bit harder to cope with. It's necessary to hang on at all times, and crawl from one place to another. I took off my scopolamine patch as I was not feeling queasy anymore, even when below navigating, but instead have a woozy headachy feeling not unlike a tequila hangover that won't go away. A few hours after taking off the patch I felt fine. Day 3 (Monday)- wind & sea continue to build. Now we're driving along in 30 knots, surfing 12 footers. In our first 24 hour run we covered 140 miles, our 2nd was 230... I considered that to be splendid sailing, but am getting tired or snatching a few hours sleep when allowed. The crewman who has taken up residence in the V-berth, the furthest forward in the hull, reports that it's impossible to sleep. Being far forward exaggerates the motion and the noise of waves against the bow is very discomforting. The wind continued to clock around, making the seas confused. One of our novice helmsmen gybed accidentally when a wave crest threw the stern around, but we stayed on the new tack because it is more favorable to get towards the western side of the Gulf Stream and close with Frying Pan Shoals (Cape Fear NC). Our batteries need charging so we get the engine running, which involves jumpering the starter solenoid. Now steering is a little bit easier with the prop stream. During the night we watch aircraft & ship actions in shore of us, it looks like some type of military training exercise. I can still ID most types of US ships & planes which interests the others. Day 4- Now we're 15 miles SE of the tip of Frying Pan Shoals, getting out of the Gulf Stream and closing on Beaufort NC. We're still well out to sea, about 100 miles from the nearest land. We narrowly miss some sort of debris sticking up out of the water, a massive set of steel pipes or possibly masts of some waterlogged wreck... we miss it by about 1 boatlength in the dark. I was steering at the time, and didn't see it until it was abreast of our running lights. In staring at this menace as it disappears astern, trying to point it out to the others, I lose our course and accidentally gybe. That's a PITA and the captain seems a bit disgruntled with me as he helps me do a controlled gybe back onto our course. Soon after that, a series of squalls begin. We roll up the jib and secure it. Wish we could take a second reef in the main. The rain squalls worsen with wind & rain. We see a ship and call on VHF to see if they've got a weather update. No, the mate on watch seems to have trouble speaking English and gives us the weather forecast we've already got (wind supposed to go light and back to the NE, no storm warning). Two of the crew are nervous and ask the captain to contact the Coast Guard. "Why" he asks, seriously. We're not really in any trouble and if we were, all the USCG could do would be to helo us off and abandon our friend's new boat. The captain doesn't seem very sensitive to the novice's emotional state, so I talk to the others a bit encouragingly. Sure it's unpleasant, but we've got everything under control, we've made great time, and will be home tomorrow. A squall of about 40 knots begins shredding the mainsail. Luff slides pop, the upper batten pocket is torn leach to luff, but if we take it down then the motion in this seaway is going to go from uncomfortable & difficult to move around, to impossible & dangerous. Besides, the bimini (which the captain liked but I would have gotten rid of much earlier) needs to be taken off. 4 men begin struggling to cut it down while not going overboard (or cutting themselves or each other). I steer. Halfway through removing the bimini, the worst squall yet hits. The boat still answers the helm despite laying over about 60 degrees. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the tip of of the boom skipping through the water, and concentrate on steering by compass & by heel angle. If I let the boat head up enough that the sail flogs, it will onle last a few seconds. If I bear away, the cross-sea will gybe us (plus we don't want to go that way, we want to go to Beaufort!). The rain is so heavy that it seems possible to float the boat up into the air on it. It stings even through layers of warm clothing & rain jacket, and drives it's way between closed eyelids if you face into it. We are going incredibly fast... possibly 15 knots. The transom is throwing a rooster tail farther than I can see in the dark & rain. The helm is incredibly responsive yet very heavy, it takes a lot of strength to steer. 2 crew puking again. An accidental gybe both shreds the main and rips the traveller off the bridge deck. Now we not only have the hazard of an unrestrained boom while trying to get the sail down, but there's a big hunk of metal flailing around over head. I borrow a knife and cut the traveler lines & the mainsheet & pull the bent remains of the traveler aboard. Then another crew & I begin to painfully wrestle the sail down. The wind is literally screaming, the waves roaring. Earlier I was thinking, 'I've been in worse gales than this, you can converse nicely in the cockpit, whereas I've seen wind & wave so loud you couldn't make yourself heard even by cupping your hand over the other's ear.' Now this is the case. I show my crewmate how to secure the sail as I haul it in inch by inch. After an incredibly long time, it's done. We wrap extra line around the tattered bundle of sail, and use mooring ropes to tie the boom down so it won't swing. Under bare poles, the boat is still heeling about 40 degrees and driving hard. Fortunately, the wind is carrying us towards Beaufort, now about 70 miles NNE. Day 4 (Tuesday)- Now is a long tedious time, motoring along watching the compass course, the boat rolling wildly in the seas. If I hadn't had the experience of the past 3 hours, I'd consider the motion unbearable. Even under motor power alone, we can surf forward on most of the waves & almost double our speed. As the wee hours of the morning wane & the sky clears, the seas settle down & the motion gradually decreases. Personally, I'm spent. The effort of steering in the squall made audible popping noises in my arms & shoulders, and then the wrestling match with the sail (the closest comparison I can make would be hauling in a heavy grade tarpaulin fastened to mad bull charging in random directions), has left me with almost no physical reserve at all. I can barely move. I fall asleep... almost in a coma perhaps... sitting at the nav table gripping the sides to keep in place. 2 hours later... I awake to much less rocking motion. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. I feel very much refreshed by sleep. Some water, some pitted dates & dry cereal (Sugar Pops), and while I feel like I've gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson, now I can face going up on deck again. We convince the captain to go below & rest. We see a few Navy ships milling around in the haze on the horizon, a destroyer and an aircraft carrier. The waves are calmer, we're putt-putting along, knowing that we will have many hours to go but knowing that we'll be in sheltered water today, and home later. We talk quietly about the squall, about how any man is overmatched in a real test against Nature, each crewman saying how great a job the others did. We also talk about the possible worst-case scenario: dismasting the boat, getting a line in the prop, and being disabled out of VHF range. We don't know it yet, but the water tankage in the boat (which we carefully filled before setting out) has mostly leaked out and is foul anyway. I remind them of the obstruction we almost hit before the squall, saying that this was the biggest danger we faced as it would surely have ripped the boat like a giant can opener... simply dumb luck that we missed it. Only one of the others had so much as glimpsed it. I shudder to think how many other close calls we might have had, totally unnoticed. I can face gales & surfing at 15 knots & potential broaches and/or dismastings, but long long hours of chilly motoring in a cross-swell really really bugs me. Occasionally I burst out, saying things like "Why can't the G@#&^## boat keep still for just one f*&*%# minute?" but quickly regain self-control. The weather has been calm but increasingly cold. We putt-putt along, pouring our reserve fuel from jerrycans lashed on the deck into the main fuel tank. We clean up a bit. As dawn turns into full daylight, we're approaching the sea-channel leading out from Beaufort Inlet just southeast of Morehead City. I expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second, but we never did see it. Instead a fog bank rolled over us, dampening everything. We ride along, keeping sharp lookout by the mast & blowing a foghorn every two minutes. As the fog begins lifting we see the bouys marking the channel. Once the boat reaches sheltered water our self-appointed cook leaps into action. The stove & oven warm the boat nicely, helping to dry things out a bit. The first serving is a plate of hot sweet rolls. Later we have a feast of eggs with mushrooms & onions, along with bacon and a large helping of fancy mashed potatos. At this point we are heading up a narrow canal from Morehead City towards the Neuse River, the exact opposite of the open sea. The boat is so level that it's almost eerie & unnatural. The last hours of the trip are uneventful, more like a car ride on uncrowded streets than sailing. We talk a while, then fall into companionable quiet. Occasionally we tell jokes, other times one or another of us talks a while about his personal life. We've been tested severely and we passed. Sometime shortly after 8 oclock that evening, we tie the boat into her new home slip, looking the worse for wear but ready for our friend to begin his own adventures with her. I drove home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
#2
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On Wed, 23 Feb 2005 16:59:50 -0500, DSK wrote:
We've been tested severely and we passed. ========================== And you wuz a bit lucky... Glad to hear you made it in one piece. If you had it to do over again, would you have gone offshore or up the ICW? |
#3
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Did you ever consider reefing the sails?
Sherwin D. DSK wrote: A friend at our marina just bought a 1991 Hunter Legend 40; and wanted to deliver it from St Lucie Fla up to North Carolina. A retired captain agreed to take the boat and a few friends signed on as crew. Unfortunately the boat was not in such great shape, more on that later. It was a good deal but not ready for sea in many respects (more later). We left Saturday 2-19 with nice sunny weather and 15 kt winds clocking around from E to SE. Motorsailed up to Ft Pierce and out into the Gulf Stream. Day 1- departed the Ft Pierce sea bouy at about 1430. Wind ESE, seas a little choppy & confused. We noted the wind & spray seemed quite warm and our speed made good was higher than through the water by about 2.5 kt. We set 2 hour watches and jogged along. Seasickness... we all five put on 1/2 a scopolamine patch about 2 hours before heading through the inlet. The Ft Pierce inlet is basically a straight jettied cut about 200 yards long, with a good bit of current opposing the wind which set up sick-making lumpy breakers. Everyone was queasy before we even got all the way past the jetties. Once out in the open, the waves were smaller and all but 2 people felt better. Those 2 began puking and refused to go below when off-watch. They slept in the cockpit which was inconvenient & wet. One of these two felt much better after a day or so (although he got sick all over again when we hit a storm, more later). Lesson- try your seasickness medicine *before* ...long before... getting underway so as to know what to expect & how much to take. Day 2 (Sunday)- Sailing sailing sailing. We adjusted course to stay in the Gulf Stream which made it rather uncomfortable as the wind settled down to S and the seas built up. We were on a broad reach with a corkscrew motion, tough on the helmsman & rolling enough to make the ride unpleasant. Seas approx 8 feet, very few breakers. A dry ride at least. I was very careful to slather on thick sunscreen so as not to get burnt. Practiced taking some sun sights with a sextant. The novice sailors, who originally wanted to steer their whole watch, are sick of it by now. That afternoon we are all hanging around in the cockpit, talking and occasionally singing country songs. A few are drinking beer when off watch, I don't feel like it myself. It's like any other afternoon sail, with a bit more wave action perhaps and juiced up by the knowledge that we are more than 100 miles out to sea. The wind was freshening up to about 20, building the seas more. The boat was driving splendidly, actually it's easier to steer when hauling ass. Before leaving, the captain & I had gone over the steering with a fine toothed comb (along with all other systems) and done what we could to make it dependable (although undersized for this boat to start with). But we felt that a reef in the main would be in order & we preferred to do it in daylight. Note- this mainsail, which the new owner intends to replace anyway, is OEM Hunter sail... ie cheapo crap. It's light cloth, a bit blown, missing a batten (at least that's not Hunter's fault), only one reef point. Under reefed sail the boat continues to drive well & is a bit easier to steer. Unfortunately it's noisier than ever, and the motion is a bit harder to cope with. It's necessary to hang on at all times, and crawl from one place to another. I took off my scopolamine patch as I was not feeling queasy anymore, even when below navigating, but instead have a woozy headachy feeling not unlike a tequila hangover that won't go away. A few hours after taking off the patch I felt fine. Day 3 (Monday)- wind & sea continue to build. Now we're driving along in 30 knots, surfing 12 footers. In our first 24 hour run we covered 140 miles, our 2nd was 230... I considered that to be splendid sailing, but am getting tired or snatching a few hours sleep when allowed. The crewman who has taken up residence in the V-berth, the furthest forward in the hull, reports that it's impossible to sleep. Being far forward exaggerates the motion and the noise of waves against the bow is very discomforting. The wind continued to clock around, making the seas confused. One of our novice helmsmen gybed accidentally when a wave crest threw the stern around, but we stayed on the new tack because it is more favorable to get towards the western side of the Gulf Stream and close with Frying Pan Shoals (Cape Fear NC). Our batteries need charging so we get the engine running, which involves jumpering the starter solenoid. Now steering is a little bit easier with the prop stream. During the night we watch aircraft & ship actions in shore of us, it looks like some type of military training exercise. I can still ID most types of US ships & planes which interests the others. Day 4- Now we're 15 miles SE of the tip of Frying Pan Shoals, getting out of the Gulf Stream and closing on Beaufort NC. We're still well out to sea, about 100 miles from the nearest land. We narrowly miss some sort of debris sticking up out of the water, a massive set of steel pipes or possibly masts of some waterlogged wreck... we miss it by about 1 boatlength in the dark. I was steering at the time, and didn't see it until it was abreast of our running lights. In staring at this menace as it disappears astern, trying to point it out to the others, I lose our course and accidentally gybe. That's a PITA and the captain seems a bit disgruntled with me as he helps me do a controlled gybe back onto our course. Soon after that, a series of squalls begin. We roll up the jib and secure it. Wish we could take a second reef in the main. The rain squalls worsen with wind & rain. We see a ship and call on VHF to see if they've got a weather update. No, the mate on watch seems to have trouble speaking English and gives us the weather forecast we've already got (wind supposed to go light and back to the NE, no storm warning). Two of the crew are nervous and ask the captain to contact the Coast Guard. "Why" he asks, seriously. We're not really in any trouble and if we were, all the USCG could do would be to helo us off and abandon our friend's new boat. The captain doesn't seem very sensitive to the novice's emotional state, so I talk to the others a bit encouragingly. Sure it's unpleasant, but we've got everything under control, we've made great time, and will be home tomorrow. A squall of about 40 knots begins shredding the mainsail. Luff slides pop, the upper batten pocket is torn leach to luff, but if we take it down then the motion in this seaway is going to go from uncomfortable & difficult to move around, to impossible & dangerous. Besides, the bimini (which the captain liked but I would have gotten rid of much earlier) needs to be taken off. 4 men begin struggling to cut it down while not going overboard (or cutting themselves or each other). I steer. Halfway through removing the bimini, the worst squall yet hits. The boat still answers the helm despite laying over about 60 degrees. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the tip of of the boom skipping through the water, and concentrate on steering by compass & by heel angle. If I let the boat head up enough that the sail flogs, it will onle last a few seconds. If I bear away, the cross-sea will gybe us (plus we don't want to go that way, we want to go to Beaufort!). The rain is so heavy that it seems possible to float the boat up into the air on it. It stings even through layers of warm clothing & rain jacket, and drives it's way between closed eyelids if you face into it. We are going incredibly fast... possibly 15 knots. The transom is throwing a rooster tail farther than I can see in the dark & rain. The helm is incredibly responsive yet very heavy, it takes a lot of strength to steer. 2 crew puking again. An accidental gybe both shreds the main and rips the traveller off the bridge deck. Now we not only have the hazard of an unrestrained boom while trying to get the sail down, but there's a big hunk of metal flailing around over head. I borrow a knife and cut the traveler lines & the mainsheet & pull the bent remains of the traveler aboard. Then another crew & I begin to painfully wrestle the sail down. The wind is literally screaming, the waves roaring. Earlier I was thinking, 'I've been in worse gales than this, you can converse nicely in the cockpit, whereas I've seen wind & wave so loud you couldn't make yourself heard even by cupping your hand over the other's ear.' Now this is the case. I show my crewmate how to secure the sail as I haul it in inch by inch. After an incredibly long time, it's done. We wrap extra line around the tattered bundle of sail, and use mooring ropes to tie the boom down so it won't swing. Under bare poles, the boat is still heeling about 40 degrees and driving hard. Fortunately, the wind is carrying us towards Beaufort, now about 70 miles NNE. Day 4 (Tuesday)- Now is a long tedious time, motoring along watching the compass course, the boat rolling wildly in the seas. If I hadn't had the experience of the past 3 hours, I'd consider the motion unbearable. Even under motor power alone, we can surf forward on most of the waves & almost double our speed. As the wee hours of the morning wane & the sky clears, the seas settle down & the motion gradually decreases. Personally, I'm spent. The effort of steering in the squall made audible popping noises in my arms & shoulders, and then the wrestling match with the sail (the closest comparison I can make would be hauling in a heavy grade tarpaulin fastened to mad bull charging in random directions), has left me with almost no physical reserve at all. I can barely move. I fall asleep... almost in a coma perhaps... sitting at the nav table gripping the sides to keep in place. 2 hours later... I awake to much less rocking motion. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. I feel very much refreshed by sleep. Some water, some pitted dates & dry cereal (Sugar Pops), and while I feel like I've gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson, now I can face going up on deck again. We convince the captain to go below & rest. We see a few Navy ships milling around in the haze on the horizon, a destroyer and an aircraft carrier. The waves are calmer, we're putt-putting along, knowing that we will have many hours to go but knowing that we'll be in sheltered water today, and home later. We talk quietly about the squall, about how any man is overmatched in a real test against Nature, each crewman saying how great a job the others did. We also talk about the possible worst-case scenario: dismasting the boat, getting a line in the prop, and being disabled out of VHF range. We don't know it yet, but the water tankage in the boat (which we carefully filled before setting out) has mostly leaked out and is foul anyway. I remind them of the obstruction we almost hit before the squall, saying that this was the biggest danger we faced as it would surely have ripped the boat like a giant can opener... simply dumb luck that we missed it. Only one of the others had so much as glimpsed it. I shudder to think how many other close calls we might have had, totally unnoticed. I can face gales & surfing at 15 knots & potential broaches and/or dismastings, but long long hours of chilly motoring in a cross-swell really really bugs me. Occasionally I burst out, saying things like "Why can't the G@#&^## boat keep still for just one f*&*%# minute?" but quickly regain self-control. The weather has been calm but increasingly cold. We putt-putt along, pouring our reserve fuel from jerrycans lashed on the deck into the main fuel tank. We clean up a bit. As dawn turns into full daylight, we're approaching the sea-channel leading out from Beaufort Inlet just southeast of Morehead City. I expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second, but we never did see it. Instead a fog bank rolled over us, dampening everything. We ride along, keeping sharp lookout by the mast & blowing a foghorn every two minutes. As the fog begins lifting we see the bouys marking the channel. Once the boat reaches sheltered water our self-appointed cook leaps into action. The stove & oven warm the boat nicely, helping to dry things out a bit. The first serving is a plate of hot sweet rolls. Later we have a feast of eggs with mushrooms & onions, along with bacon and a large helping of fancy mashed potatos. At this point we are heading up a narrow canal from Morehead City towards the Neuse River, the exact opposite of the open sea. The boat is so level that it's almost eerie & unnatural. The last hours of the trip are uneventful, more like a car ride on uncrowded streets than sailing. We talk a while, then fall into companionable quiet. Occasionally we tell jokes, other times one or another of us talks a while about his personal life. We've been tested severely and we passed. Sometime shortly after 8 oclock that evening, we tie the boat into her new home slip, looking the worse for wear but ready for our friend to begin his own adventures with her. I drove home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
#4
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OK, I just re-read the message and saw that you did reef the sails. I'm
puzzled why the boat was heeling over 60 degrees, as you described it. Maybe you didn't have enough of a reef set? You might have tried heaving to, until the squal passed. Sherwin D. DSK wrote: A friend at our marina just bought a 1991 Hunter Legend 40; and wanted to deliver it from St Lucie Fla up to North Carolina. A retired captain agreed to take the boat and a few friends signed on as crew. Unfortunately the boat was not in such great shape, more on that later. It was a good deal but not ready for sea in many respects (more later). We left Saturday 2-19 with nice sunny weather and 15 kt winds clocking around from E to SE. Motorsailed up to Ft Pierce and out into the Gulf Stream. Day 1- departed the Ft Pierce sea bouy at about 1430. Wind ESE, seas a little choppy & confused. We noted the wind & spray seemed quite warm and our speed made good was higher than through the water by about 2.5 kt. We set 2 hour watches and jogged along. Seasickness... we all five put on 1/2 a scopolamine patch about 2 hours before heading through the inlet. The Ft Pierce inlet is basically a straight jettied cut about 200 yards long, with a good bit of current opposing the wind which set up sick-making lumpy breakers. Everyone was queasy before we even got all the way past the jetties. Once out in the open, the waves were smaller and all but 2 people felt better. Those 2 began puking and refused to go below when off-watch. They slept in the cockpit which was inconvenient & wet. One of these two felt much better after a day or so (although he got sick all over again when we hit a storm, more later). Lesson- try your seasickness medicine *before* ...long before... getting underway so as to know what to expect & how much to take. Day 2 (Sunday)- Sailing sailing sailing. We adjusted course to stay in the Gulf Stream which made it rather uncomfortable as the wind settled down to S and the seas built up. We were on a broad reach with a corkscrew motion, tough on the helmsman & rolling enough to make the ride unpleasant. Seas approx 8 feet, very few breakers. A dry ride at least. I was very careful to slather on thick sunscreen so as not to get burnt. Practiced taking some sun sights with a sextant. The novice sailors, who originally wanted to steer their whole watch, are sick of it by now. That afternoon we are all hanging around in the cockpit, talking and occasionally singing country songs. A few are drinking beer when off watch, I don't feel like it myself. It's like any other afternoon sail, with a bit more wave action perhaps and juiced up by the knowledge that we are more than 100 miles out to sea. The wind was freshening up to about 20, building the seas more. The boat was driving splendidly, actually it's easier to steer when hauling ass. Before leaving, the captain & I had gone over the steering with a fine toothed comb (along with all other systems) and done what we could to make it dependable (although undersized for this boat to start with). But we felt that a reef in the main would be in order & we preferred to do it in daylight. Note- this mainsail, which the new owner intends to replace anyway, is OEM Hunter sail... ie cheapo crap. It's light cloth, a bit blown, missing a batten (at least that's not Hunter's fault), only one reef point. Under reefed sail the boat continues to drive well & is a bit easier to steer. Unfortunately it's noisier than ever, and the motion is a bit harder to cope with. It's necessary to hang on at all times, and crawl from one place to another. I took off my scopolamine patch as I was not feeling queasy anymore, even when below navigating, but instead have a woozy headachy feeling not unlike a tequila hangover that won't go away. A few hours after taking off the patch I felt fine. Day 3 (Monday)- wind & sea continue to build. Now we're driving along in 30 knots, surfing 12 footers. In our first 24 hour run we covered 140 miles, our 2nd was 230... I considered that to be splendid sailing, but am getting tired or snatching a few hours sleep when allowed. The crewman who has taken up residence in the V-berth, the furthest forward in the hull, reports that it's impossible to sleep. Being far forward exaggerates the motion and the noise of waves against the bow is very discomforting. The wind continued to clock around, making the seas confused. One of our novice helmsmen gybed accidentally when a wave crest threw the stern around, but we stayed on the new tack because it is more favorable to get towards the western side of the Gulf Stream and close with Frying Pan Shoals (Cape Fear NC). Our batteries need charging so we get the engine running, which involves jumpering the starter solenoid. Now steering is a little bit easier with the prop stream. During the night we watch aircraft & ship actions in shore of us, it looks like some type of military training exercise. I can still ID most types of US ships & planes which interests the others. Day 4- Now we're 15 miles SE of the tip of Frying Pan Shoals, getting out of the Gulf Stream and closing on Beaufort NC. We're still well out to sea, about 100 miles from the nearest land. We narrowly miss some sort of debris sticking up out of the water, a massive set of steel pipes or possibly masts of some waterlogged wreck... we miss it by about 1 boatlength in the dark. I was steering at the time, and didn't see it until it was abreast of our running lights. In staring at this menace as it disappears astern, trying to point it out to the others, I lose our course and accidentally gybe. That's a PITA and the captain seems a bit disgruntled with me as he helps me do a controlled gybe back onto our course. Soon after that, a series of squalls begin. We roll up the jib and secure it. Wish we could take a second reef in the main. The rain squalls worsen with wind & rain. We see a ship and call on VHF to see if they've got a weather update. No, the mate on watch seems to have trouble speaking English and gives us the weather forecast we've already got (wind supposed to go light and back to the NE, no storm warning). Two of the crew are nervous and ask the captain to contact the Coast Guard. "Why" he asks, seriously. We're not really in any trouble and if we were, all the USCG could do would be to helo us off and abandon our friend's new boat. The captain doesn't seem very sensitive to the novice's emotional state, so I talk to the others a bit encouragingly. Sure it's unpleasant, but we've got everything under control, we've made great time, and will be home tomorrow. A squall of about 40 knots begins shredding the mainsail. Luff slides pop, the upper batten pocket is torn leach to luff, but if we take it down then the motion in this seaway is going to go from uncomfortable & difficult to move around, to impossible & dangerous. Besides, the bimini (which the captain liked but I would have gotten rid of much earlier) needs to be taken off. 4 men begin struggling to cut it down while not going overboard (or cutting themselves or each other). I steer. Halfway through removing the bimini, the worst squall yet hits. The boat still answers the helm despite laying over about 60 degrees. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the tip of of the boom skipping through the water, and concentrate on steering by compass & by heel angle. If I let the boat head up enough that the sail flogs, it will onle last a few seconds. If I bear away, the cross-sea will gybe us (plus we don't want to go that way, we want to go to Beaufort!). The rain is so heavy that it seems possible to float the boat up into the air on it. It stings even through layers of warm clothing & rain jacket, and drives it's way between closed eyelids if you face into it. We are going incredibly fast... possibly 15 knots. The transom is throwing a rooster tail farther than I can see in the dark & rain. The helm is incredibly responsive yet very heavy, it takes a lot of strength to steer. 2 crew puking again. An accidental gybe both shreds the main and rips the traveller off the bridge deck. Now we not only have the hazard of an unrestrained boom while trying to get the sail down, but there's a big hunk of metal flailing around over head. I borrow a knife and cut the traveler lines & the mainsheet & pull the bent remains of the traveler aboard. Then another crew & I begin to painfully wrestle the sail down. The wind is literally screaming, the waves roaring. Earlier I was thinking, 'I've been in worse gales than this, you can converse nicely in the cockpit, whereas I've seen wind & wave so loud you couldn't make yourself heard even by cupping your hand over the other's ear.' Now this is the case. I show my crewmate how to secure the sail as I haul it in inch by inch. After an incredibly long time, it's done. We wrap extra line around the tattered bundle of sail, and use mooring ropes to tie the boom down so it won't swing. Under bare poles, the boat is still heeling about 40 degrees and driving hard. Fortunately, the wind is carrying us towards Beaufort, now about 70 miles NNE. Day 4 (Tuesday)- Now is a long tedious time, motoring along watching the compass course, the boat rolling wildly in the seas. If I hadn't had the experience of the past 3 hours, I'd consider the motion unbearable. Even under motor power alone, we can surf forward on most of the waves & almost double our speed. As the wee hours of the morning wane & the sky clears, the seas settle down & the motion gradually decreases. Personally, I'm spent. The effort of steering in the squall made audible popping noises in my arms & shoulders, and then the wrestling match with the sail (the closest comparison I can make would be hauling in a heavy grade tarpaulin fastened to mad bull charging in random directions), has left me with almost no physical reserve at all. I can barely move. I fall asleep... almost in a coma perhaps... sitting at the nav table gripping the sides to keep in place. 2 hours later... I awake to much less rocking motion. Dawn is showing but the wind has swung to the NW and turned cold enough to see your breath. I feel very much refreshed by sleep. Some water, some pitted dates & dry cereal (Sugar Pops), and while I feel like I've gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson, now I can face going up on deck again. We convince the captain to go below & rest. We see a few Navy ships milling around in the haze on the horizon, a destroyer and an aircraft carrier. The waves are calmer, we're putt-putting along, knowing that we will have many hours to go but knowing that we'll be in sheltered water today, and home later. We talk quietly about the squall, about how any man is overmatched in a real test against Nature, each crewman saying how great a job the others did. We also talk about the possible worst-case scenario: dismasting the boat, getting a line in the prop, and being disabled out of VHF range. We don't know it yet, but the water tankage in the boat (which we carefully filled before setting out) has mostly leaked out and is foul anyway. I remind them of the obstruction we almost hit before the squall, saying that this was the biggest danger we faced as it would surely have ripped the boat like a giant can opener... simply dumb luck that we missed it. Only one of the others had so much as glimpsed it. I shudder to think how many other close calls we might have had, totally unnoticed. I can face gales & surfing at 15 knots & potential broaches and/or dismastings, but long long hours of chilly motoring in a cross-swell really really bugs me. Occasionally I burst out, saying things like "Why can't the G@#&^## boat keep still for just one f*&*%# minute?" but quickly regain self-control. The weather has been calm but increasingly cold. We putt-putt along, pouring our reserve fuel from jerrycans lashed on the deck into the main fuel tank. We clean up a bit. As dawn turns into full daylight, we're approaching the sea-channel leading out from Beaufort Inlet just southeast of Morehead City. I expect to see the Cape Lookout lighthouse any second, but we never did see it. Instead a fog bank rolled over us, dampening everything. We ride along, keeping sharp lookout by the mast & blowing a foghorn every two minutes. As the fog begins lifting we see the bouys marking the channel. Once the boat reaches sheltered water our self-appointed cook leaps into action. The stove & oven warm the boat nicely, helping to dry things out a bit. The first serving is a plate of hot sweet rolls. Later we have a feast of eggs with mushrooms & onions, along with bacon and a large helping of fancy mashed potatos. At this point we are heading up a narrow canal from Morehead City towards the Neuse River, the exact opposite of the open sea. The boat is so level that it's almost eerie & unnatural. The last hours of the trip are uneventful, more like a car ride on uncrowded streets than sailing. We talk a while, then fall into companionable quiet. Occasionally we tell jokes, other times one or another of us talks a while about his personal life. We've been tested severely and we passed. Sometime shortly after 8 oclock that evening, we tie the boat into her new home slip, looking the worse for wear but ready for our friend to begin his own adventures with her. I drove home, eager for my 1st shower in 4 days, and long long sleep in an unmoving bed. |
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WaIIy wrote in
: Most excellent story along with superb writing. Thanks I'll second that. You should submit this great story to the sailing rags. It would be a great break in between the thinly disguised advertising "stories" to move product. Very well written. Glad you're all safe. A friend and I moved another friend's Endeavour 35 from where he left it on the dock at Daytona Beach, up the ditch to Mayport, then at sea to Charleston. After a great night of excellent winds, the sun rose and we left the autopilot steering to get some breakfast. As we set chatting of our great luck, a HUGE, empty, wooden cable reel that was easily larger than the boat floated by several boatlengths away. I still shudder at the thought of ramming that damned cable reel in the total darkness of the preceding night. The Raymarine 2KW radar never made a blip. The reel was totally radar transparent, even 10 boatlengths away with the low pole-mounted antenna. Got any idea the lat/long of those pipes sticking up? Are they on the chart? |
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Wayne.B wrote:
And you wuz a bit lucky... True. If anybody had gone overboard in those squalls, it would have been hopelss to try and find them. If we had hit that debris off Frying Pan, whatever the heck it was, we'd have almost certainly sunk... most likely in moments. But, as I told my wife, mixed in there was many hours of quite enjoyable sailing. Driving a 40 foot keelboat surfing at 14 knots isn't something I get to do every day, unfortunately Glad to hear you made it in one piece. If you had it to do over again, would you have gone offshore or up the ICW? We didn't have the time. We made it in 4 days, on the ICW it would have taken closer to ten. Doing the ICW with a few short inlet-to-inlet outside hops would have been ideal (until the weather turned cold, anyway). It's in the nature of deliveries that the boat is not likely to be perfect and you have schedule constraints... two reasons why I don't like to do deliveries, most of the time. It also shows why I have chosen to "deliver" my own boats, the few times it's been an issue. Fresh Breezes- Doug King |
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DSK wrote:
Good tale, Doug, and you ended up with approximately the same number of people you started with. Two queries: 1. Why do this at this time of year? 2. What were your approximately 24-hour runs? -- Good luck and good sailing. s/v Kerry Deare of Barnegat http://kerrydeare.home.comcast.net/ |
#8
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sherwindu wrote:
OK, I just re-read the message and saw that you did reef the sails. I'm puzzled why the boat was heeling over 60 degrees, as you described it. Because there was one HECK of a lot of wind! During the peak of the worst squall, I was too busy to really gauge the wind, but it could easily have been 50+. We measured 40+ at the tail end of the first squall on my hand held Kestrel wind gage. .... Maybe you didn't have enough of a reef set? You're right, we didn't. But the sail only had a single reef. ... You might have tried heaving to, until the squal passed. We thought of that, but there are couple of issues to consider. We didn't have any foresail set, and no practical way to set any in the time allowed under the conditions prevailing (the boat's roller furler did not work very well). We did not have any familiarity with how the boat behaves when heaved-to, generally not a fin-keeler's strong suite. And the mainsail was already in the process of shredding, which is why I tried to keep from luffing up too much anyway. IMHO it would have flown apart flogging if we had brought the boat through a tack. Of course, it came apart anyway, but at least it waited until almost the end of the squall. It's a very different ball game, delivering somebody else's newly bought boat. If had been my own boat, things would have been very very different from the start! Fresh Breezes- Doug King |
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Armond Perretta wrote:
Good tale, Doug, and you ended up with approximately the same number of people you started with. Thanks, glad you enjoyed it. The authorities frown coming back with fewer, and they get downright nosy if you bring back more! ... Two queries: 1. Why do this at this time of year? 'cuz that's when my friend bought his boat! 2. What were your approximately 24-hour runs? Well, I dunno exactly, since I wasn't the captain and sort of just piddled with navigating. We made 140 miles in our first 24 hour run, and in the next 48 hours we made over 350. Once we were on the axis of the Gulf Stream, we were usually going at least 8 kt SOG and occasionally hit 13. Say what you like about Hunters, that one at least is a fast boat! Fresh Breezes- Doug King |
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Larry W4CSC wrote:
Very well written. Glad you're all safe. Thank you very much. A friend and I moved another friend's Endeavour 35 from where he left it on the dock at Daytona Beach, up the ditch to Mayport, then at sea to Charleston. After a great night of excellent winds, the sun rose and we left the autopilot steering to get some breakfast. As we set chatting of our great luck, a HUGE, empty, wooden cable reel that was easily larger than the boat floated by several boatlengths away. I still shudder at the thought of ramming that damned cable reel in the total darkness of the preceding night. The Raymarine 2KW radar never made a blip. The reel was totally radar transparent, even 10 boatlengths away with the low pole-mounted antenna. And stuff like that can be really hard to spot, what with waves & a jib in the way etc etc. One reason why I'd be interested in a boat with positive flotation and perhaps a Kevlar hull! Got any idea the lat/long of those pipes sticking up? Are they on the chart? Not on the chart, and I have no idea what it could have been. The best answer I can give as to location is that it's approx 15 nm SE of the tip of Frying Pan Shoals (Cape Fear). You're the only person (so far) to be interested in that question. It was by far the scariest moment of the trip for me! Fresh Breezes- Doug King |
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