Trans-Atlantic Crossing

[Billy]

Ahoy Fellow Com-Pac'ers!
Well I am about 95% certain that I will begin the new year with a flight to France for a delivery of a boat back to the good ole USofA.
And I know what you are thinking. It is not a Com-Pac.

I will be making this exciting Voyage in a BRAND NEW 44' Fountaine Pajot Helia. It just rolled off the assembly line today! Here is a link...

http://www.fountainepajot.com.au/sail-range/helia-44/

Two other guys and I will be the crew. So far the plan is that once we arrive, we will spend 2-3 provisioning the boat (or however much time it takes). And then we will depart La Rochelle for the initial shake down cruise. We will be cruising in the Bay of Biscay down and along the Northern Coast of Spain where we will have the required 50 hour engine service. Once all the bugs are figured out, we will head south to Lisbond, Portugal where we will jump off and head to the Azores.

After a quick 2-3 day stop and the tanks topped off, we will continue South West until we reach about 25-30 degrees north. At that point we hope to find enough wind to push us all the way to the Southern edge of the Bahamas, just north of Turks & Caicaos. Then we will head back north and up the gulf stream into Miami just in time for the Miami Boat show at the end of February!

I am anticipating the voyage will take about 4-5 weeks. The 1st leg will be about as cold as I can stand. I am from Florida after all! And hopefully by the last leg I will have shed all my layers and gotten back into the sunshine state lifestyle.

I won't lie, this trip has me scared. I really don't know what to expect. But I am also extremly excited and feel that this will be an experience that will help me to persevere through anything I may come accross later in life. I don't really have any offshore sailing experience, but I have been out of site of land often, have my Coast Guard OUPV (6PAC) license, and am an ASA certified sailing instructor. So I am not completely inexperienced, but I still do have a lot to learn.

A few of the things I am looking forward to....
1. Seeing the stars unobstructed, no light polution. I have been to some dark places before, west Texas, the Caribean, and Hawaii, but I still think this will be better. I read tht night sailing in the middle of the ocean is like flying through outer space! It is soo dark that you cannot see the horizon and the sky seems to completely envelop the world around and underneath you.
2. Racing down a 20' swell!
3. The overall experience.
4. watching the moon rise.
5. 1st sight of land after each leg.
6. Seeing the Azores

A few of the things I am NOT looking forward to...
1. Being away from my wife
2. Not being able to "turn off" those 20' swells
3. the COLD
4. not taking a shower for 2-3 weeks.
5. the food

I am sure there is much more, but I don't want to ramble on to too much longer. I plan on keeping a log, that I will post upon my return, with pictures. Also, the Captain does have a yellow brick tracker that will post updates to a website so anyone who is interested can follow our progress. I will post the link as soon as I get it.

And lastly, if any of you have any advice, or reccomendations for me that would be great. I welcome any information you may have to give, gear, books, locations, tips, receipes, etc.....

Thanks again, and I will post again before I depart New Years Eve!

Fair Winds!
Billy

[skip1930]

Fair winds ... I'm sorry. I don't have the **** to cross the Atlantic in a catamaran.
I'd need a deep draft mono hull. Or maybe a ETAP.
35 days in the Atlantic on a East-West route without a storm seems improbable.
See ya back on shore.

"I'm not a serious gambler – I'm too gutless for that!"



skip.

Salty19 Says, " Way to pump a guy with confidence there, skip. "

Well there is a reason why the rental fleets of catamarans have those shortened masts in the Caribbean.

Reading EVERY book that William F. Buckley has written about open water sailing in his ketch, and toss in Ross's book [who I met in person before his death] Two On A Big Ocean and a book shelve full of other sailing books, I'm just whispering in the man's ear to be a realist. The glory is exhilarating, the reality is horrific.

My parents neighbor, a Navy man, survived the loss of the bow off a U.S. Navy destroyer in an Atlantic storm, trusting a bulkhead at frame 14 to hold back the sea.
Believe it. Once your wet, cold, continually rolling, wind blown, becalmed, frozen, and roasted, salt crusted, can't get dry, can't eat, can't sleep in the rack, for 35 days ... well you signed on to it. But I know nothing. It's a voyage survived by millions in much lesser crafts over time. Don't miss it if you can.

[Salty19]

Way to pump a guy with confidence there, skip. 

Billy, this is an epic, soul changing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  It does sound a tad frightening, but if the two other guys are experienced and you trust them, and you feel you can overcome the challenges you'll face, how can you NOT do this trip?   I agree if you can do this...and I know you can, it will inspire you for greatness in life.  It will be legend....wait for it....dary!

I have some cold weather hints which I'll share soon. But that's about all I can offer except to say good luck, have a lot of fun, and keep the plastic side down and the dacron side up   

[Billy]

Thanks Mike! I also appreciate the H.I.M.Y.M. reference. Plus it is everything Skip mentioned that makes this trip so much more than just the same old outing to Anclote which is still a great outing.

And while I am a Mono guy through and through, I have read that Cats are better for long crossings. More stable, more comfortable, faster, and should they flip, they will still float upside-down, Unlike a displacement mono.

So,
Dacron side up.....got it.

Now which end is the front? Pointy or squarey?

[atrometer]

I've crossed the Pacific from the west coast to Hawaii, Korea, Japan, Okinawa and back and LOVED every minute of it - even dodging a VERY large typhoon with 50' waves, for the better part of a week. And I felt VERY safe, of course that was in a large Merchant Marine Troop ship.  Would I do it myself, sailing?  NO, but I'm very conservative.  Would I love to do it, yes.  There have been boats as small as 10' sail to Hawaii, a Montgomery 15' (still there) and others.

[capt_nemo]

Billy,

Rest assured, your excitement about open ocean sailing at night (in clear weather) will be justified by what you SEE above and around you, as well as what you DON'T SEE and HEAR! What little offshore experience I gained in my "big boat" days is forever etched in my memory.

At the risk of perhaps being accused of preaching to the choir, I would feel remiss if I didn't share a few cautionary thoughts with you.

1. Get a good, strong, comfortable, inflatable, OFFSHORE PFD/Harness, and wear it ALL THE TIME outside the cabin.

2. Make it a habit to hook up to anchor points or rigged Jack Lines ALL THE TIME outside the cabin.

3. Harness should have 2 tethers, with 1 ALWAYS in use. Hook up second BEFORE releasing first.

Otherwise, have a great time!

capt_nemo

[Billy]

Thanks Capt!

I do have an inflatable w/ harness and bought my "Y" tether today.

And yes, I forgot to mention the sounds!

Thanks for the encouragement!

If I didn't have a Com-Pac I think I would seriously consider the Montgomery. In fact I think Small Craft Advisor will be doing a comparison between the two here in one of the next couple issues.

[crazycarl]

Billy,

your list wouldn't be complete without the clumsy fall guy with thick skin that everyone yells at and makes fun of to relieve tension.

i'm volunteering to be your "gilligan".  all i'll need is my salary covered, and a note explaining why i need the time off work.

let me know asap so i can start packing 


seriously,  there's not a soul on this board that wouldn't love to join your adventure.

best of luck and godspeed,

cc

[Salty19]

Here are some cold weather tips.


-Add clothing before you feel cold, keep adding to prevent premature heat loss.
-Base layer ("Long John's" we call them) should draw moisture away from your skin. Look for Polartec fabric or one that removes moisture but is breathable to allow air to circulate. Do not wear cotton as the first layer, it retains moisture which will draw heat away from your skin 25 times faster than dry skin.  Always wear this base layer.
-Insulate--Long sleeve T's made of poly material would be over the base to act as insulation and a thin layer of air to maintain dryness and circulation, then layer either wool or a performance fleece sweatshirt.  If you have itchy skin, skip the wool and stick to fleece. Add fleece layers as the temp drops. Avoid tight fitting insulation, it should be comfortable and loose fitting (but not overly so).
-Outer layer should be wind and waterPROOF, not resistance.  There are a ton of trade names for these fabrics depending on the manufacturer.  I presume this will be a marine grade foul weather coveralls and jacket.
-Your hands and feet will be cold first, and will bring cool blood into the core.  Keep hands and feet dry, moisturized and warm .  Lined fleece and goretex gloves and socks (or boots) will be helpful.
I like the Jon-O zippo lighter fluid powered hand warmers to keep hands warm in really cold weather. The small pouch-type foot and hand warmers are more convenient and safer, but don't put out as much heat.
-Wear a wool or fleece lined ski-type hat with a polartec-type (moisture wicking) base layer skull cap underneath. The jacket should also have a hood for final cover from wind and rain.
-Avoid alcohol, it reduced body core temperature.
-Keep up nutrition and have a big breakfast. You'll be burning more calories as you body starts to get cold.
-At the pharmacy are "Thermo-Care" brand back and neck wraps. Get them.  Get a metric ton quantity of the back warmers.  They will keep a nice warm happy back which will warm your blood and keep your core from going into hypothermia.  They last about 8-10 hours, and at about $7 for three of them they will be more valuable than pirate treasure.  Wear them over your base base layer and under the next layer.  Do not get the off-brand type, they are not nearly as good.
-Avoid too many layers that would restrict blood around the armpits, groin, inner thigh and becky
-Be sure you and your crew know all the early signs of hypothermia.  If you're starting to shiver or even start to forget something, or aren't thinking as clearly as you should, that's a sign you need to get warmer.  Drink hot beverages and eat some high calorie food.  Again, put more layers on early.
-Vaseline jelly on exposed skin will help keep heat in, the water off and the wind out.  Even under gloves they will help your hands stay warm and especially dry.
-Exercise when you start feeling cold to let your body generate heat.   But don't get breathing too hard when the temps are below 45 degrees.  Instead do stretches and bodybuilder-like poses (tightening muscles hard, but not doing jumping jacks).  This will keep warm blood flowing faster, slowing down the cold in your hands and feet.  You want to avoid sweating, so again don't overdo it, and if you do sweat and it's cold, wipe up sweat with a cloth and take off some layers for a short period, long enough to get dry.
-Cover your mouth and nose with a scarf or wrap the scarf around your neck and into your jacket.
-Keep an eye on the crew for signs of hypothermia. Help them avoid it, and if they start being confused or listless before or after shivering, don't suggest they do something about it...help them through it.  Once you start getting confused, making the right choice won't be part of your logic stream.
-Pottery, metals and water or oil filled containers will stay warm a long time if exposed to heat.  Heat them up then hold onto them (obviously don't burn yourself).  Several small waterproof bags of warm water, say 3/4 gal each, held near your body while sleeping will provide some heat absorption. 
-Keep up on hydration. This keeps blood vessels full and will provide less constriction which would tend to numb the extremities. Once cold, they will constrict despite hydration (thus the pale skin).
-More heat is lost through your head than most people think.  Keep that head covered even if you don't feel like you need it like during the day. If you have gloves on, you should of had your hat on hours ago.

I'm thinking you don't have a ton of this stuff being in South Florida...maybe I outta send you a care package from the great cold and snowy state of Ohio? 

[Bob23]

B:
   Congrats on the opportunity of a lifetime! Part of the adventure is being scared. If we made all our life choices based on practicality,  how boring would that be? My dream has always been to cross the Atlantic but it's always been a dream just out of reach. Sometimes the dream is enough; it's safe. When you cast of your lines, the wonderfully scary part begins. You already know enough to stay safe and Saltys advice is right on. I've camped outside in -20 degrees F while cross county skiing and the only way to survive the cold at night while sleeping was to place Nalgene bottles of hot water in our sleeping bags. As you can see I'm still here so it worked fine.
   Looking forward to hearing the accounts of your voyage! Happy New Year!
Bob23

[kickingbug1]

   i would volunteer as well except for one thing-----i doubt if my wife would be too keen on me flying to france alone-----lost at sea---she could live with

[Aldebaran_III]

Good luck for the trip.
One small thing that will make a big difference. When water is scarce their is no need to go without showers.
I lived on board my own boat for 14 years and never had a water maker. For long passages we had one of those solar showers. Like a big plastic bag, clear on one side and black on the other. Fill it with salt water and leave it on deck. Even a modest amount of sun will at least take the chill off the water. Hang it up and use the attached shower nozzle for your shower.
The thing that really makes the difference is to take sea water soap/shampoo with you. It really works, it lathers and even leaves your hair nice and soft. Then sponge off with just a kettle full of fresh water. You end up feeling great and you've only used a couple of pints of water.
http://www.davisnet.com/marine/products/marine_product.asp?pnum=00721  This is one of the ones I've used, also I remember a good one called "Sea Savon".

Don't listen to the catamaran detractors. Hundreds of cats cross the Atlantic safely every year, and if you're not racing or in a rush, it's easy to keep the boat sailing within safe limits.

I recommend you learn to bake bread. It's easy and you can't beat that smell of fresh baking to lift everyone's spirits.
Fresh fish is also a great plus. Take some simple gear with heavy tackle and a few lures, and you will eat like kings. You haven't tasted fresh fish until you've done ocean to plate in 30 minutes.

Enjoy the ride, I wish I was out there again!
Derek

[Jon898]

Sounds like a fantastic adventure in a great new boat!

One gentle piece of advice...be careful of the urge to keep to a schedule in a brand-new boat.  Expect teething problems and initial failures of equipment that may not show up as fast as you'd like.  The shakedown cruise from La Rochelle to the north coast of Spain (Gijon?) takes you across some water that can be very nasty, particularly in winter...not something I'd want to do in a boat I wasn't 100% confident in.  I've had 3 boats delivered to me as "new", and the Little Com-Pac was the only one without problems (small = fewer systems = less to go wrong).  A few examples from the other two were:

- Screw for a mesh bag to hold sheet tailings penetrating the exhaust hose from the engine causing the cooling water to leak and exhaust to gradually fill the cabin.
- Anchor chain bitter end not secured to the boat in any way...interesting with an unmarked chain so you didn't know how much you had let out.
- Compass adjuster's correction table with signs reversed so that corrections were applied the wrong way (pre-GPS, so not immediately apparent).
- Vent from the diesel tank not fully welded to the tank - not apparent at rest, but resulting in strong fumes when in a seaway in the North Sea

The least dangerous (but most embarrassing) was the British red ensign supplied for one of them by the Dutch shipyard having the Union Flag sewn on upside-down, which we didn't discover for almost a week!

How are you handling navigation?  GPS with Astro as a back-up?  Of course anything is better than the old sailing directions of "sail south until the butter melts and then turn right"  !

In any case, have a wonderful time.

P.S.  If you're interested in what can be done in crossing the Atlantic, here's a link to my cousin Charlie's latest escapade: http://transatlanticsolo.com/charlie/ . Please note that not all of us in the family are that bold!

[HenryC]

This is the best I can do in way of experience.  I've never crossed an ocean on anything smaller than a destroyer. Regardless of how this might turn out, you can count on that when its over, you'll be glad you did it. Your memory of this voyage is something you CAN "take with you".

Good luck and fair winds.
HC

My friend Tom originally met Steve at one of the yachtsmen's hangouts he frequented.  There he made arrangements to help crew Steve's cutter, Haiku, to San Diego.  As luck would have it, Tom got the flu, and it quickly turned nasty enough to make going offshore out of the question.  Phone calls were made, more arrangements hastily concluded, and I found myself volunteering to go in Tom's place.  At nine that night, October 12, my wife dropped me off at the old Oyster Point Marina in South San Francisco and I went aboard, introduced myself to the owner, and started moving my gear below.   I immediately disliked the man, he was a gruff and sarcastic son-of-a-bitch, and complained about the amount of luggage I had brought with me.  It did not seem to matter to him that most of it was there for his benefit, my chart portfolio of the California coast, my sextant and navigation kit, foulies and safety harness, not to mention food and clothes for myself for a few days; a courtesy to the skipper so he not need share his  stores or equipment with a stranger. 

Steve described himself as "a recovering dentist" who had forsaken the suburban rat race and was striking out for the South Seas.  The harbor in San Diego is full of these people, waiting for a wind or spare parts or courage to head west to Hawaii or south to the  Canal.  Steve fit the stereotype.  Haiku's 28 feet were hastily crammed with the debris of this man's life, cooking utensils, power tools, sail bags, even some dental instruments.  There was precious little room for my gear so I had to park most of it in the way, on the cabin sole, before I could crawl into the quarter berth and get some sleep. Even the head was buried under a mountain of luggage so that relieving oneself first required a three-point transfer of cargo.  The third member of the crew was Steve's cat Fang, a grotesquely obese creature who obviously disliked boats and water intensely.  Everything below smelled of cat shit and kibbles, along with the usual small-boat brew of sweat, dirty clothes, stale food, sewage, diesel, and decaying plankton.

It was ten in the morning before we were underway, Steve had left a long list of chores to be done at the last minute, and as a result we wasted hours of daylight and a favorable tide.  We motored to the City, turned left toward the Golden Gate, and left again threading  the channel between Four Fathom Shoal and the beach.  As soon as possible Steve headed offshore for deep water.  October is not a good time to go to sea in the northern Pacific.  The first of winter's gales hit us about noon, and in a matter of minutes we went from a lazy rolling swell to a brisk, then a stinging, wind.  Just like they tell you in the books, the first bit of weather tells you what gear is adrift.  Within minutes the cabin was a shambles, clothing bags and food and equipment boxes were rolling about everywhere, the cat's litter tray overturned and an open port got hit by a stray sea.  Water poured in as if from a fire hose, and I got soaked trying to secure it.  As I stood up I tripped on some loose gear and, on the way down, took the decorative antique lantern with me, adding kerosene and glass shards to the general confusion below.  It took me an hour to clean up enough to make the cabin safe from injury and fire. 

On deck, Steve had secured the engine, hoisted the storm jib, and had rigged the self-steering vane for a southerly course, lashing the rudder amidships.  With a 30 knot wind blowing on her starboard quarter, Haiku roared along like a locomotive, alternatively rolling from side to side (although favoring her port to her starboard) and simultaneously pitching in a treacherous following sea with a sickening corkscrew motion.  Fortunately, the captain seemed to know what he was doing, and in spite of his lubberly and unseamanlike housekeeping, the boat was well managed.  But like even the best of seamen, the skipper had his touch of first-day-out seasickness, and soon went below to try and sleep it off.   I was left to the first watch, thanks to my immunity to the mal-de-mer.

As the afternoon wore on the storm increased.    Piled higher and higher by the unforgiving nor'wester, the seas grew and grew, following behind and following faster; towering over the boat as if to crush it, then sliding beneath her at the last moment to break with a crash and roar just ahead.  The word "billows" kept coming into my mind, from either Melville or The Land of Counterpane,  I couldn't remember which.  I could never see why they always used the word "billows", now it made perfect sense.    I had little to do besides contemplate my situation, the small scrap of sail forward and the windvane kept us pointed downwind where we needed to be in this weather.  Haiku, a squat ugly duckling of a boat, was thriving under these conditions.  She was built for this, and her hull lines and sturdy rig carried the racial memory and experience of the British mariners who had developed this shape and this balance over a thousand years of tragedy and landfall.  If her crew exhibited due prudence, she would not let them down.  For my part, I realized I had been offshore in small boats before, and I had been out in bad weather before, but I had never been offshore in a small boat in bad weather.   The sky and sea turned a monotonous gray and the boat's course, not quite parallel to the coast, gradually diverged further out to sea.   Dark came early in the overcast, and the last sight of land was the lights of Monterey.  Soon we were driving off alone into the darkness.

I had hoped the skipper would duck into Monterey Bay for some shelter, perhaps even spend the night there or  Santa Cruz.  It was not to be, the captain was up, refreshed from his nap, and took the watch.  He took a quick fix on the GPS, plotted the position on the chart and layed out our night's course.  I made it a point to look over his work, he seemed to be a fairly competent navigator, so I could sleep with some sense of security.  The rest of the equipment was not so reassuring.  The radio transmitter was not working, although the receiver was functioning.   In this storm, we seemed to be the only non-commercial traffic on the water between San Francisco and Point Concepcion.    I turned to my berth, covered with gear, where  Fang had settled in the only soft spot left.   For a while I thought I would have to fight him for it, but I eventually persuaded him to move, and crawled in, not even bothering to remove my dripping foulies.  There was nowhere to put them and I was too tired to worry about it. 

I never sleep well the first night in a strange bed, and this time was no exception.  Besides the frantic symphony of motion below and the crash and thump of loose cartons and cans and other detritus, the green glare of the GPS screen was right in my face.  Outside, the wind howled louder and louder as the night wore on, the jib flapped, the halyards slapped against the mast, and there was the constant sound of waves crashing against the hull and rolling under the keel.   The groans and sounds of hull and rig were normal, even reassuring, nothing unusual or unexpected, but I would need some time to get used to this particular boat's song.  At midnight the skipper woke me up; I know I slept because he complained about my snoring, but it couldn't have been for very long.   Still, I was looking forward to getting on deck, the stuffiness and stench below was starting to get to me.   I snapped my safety line to the padeye by the hatch and crawled out to the port side of the cockpit.   My instructions were simple, steer due south (the skipper had disconnected the wind vane, because the wind was from the north now, and self-steering gear was not effective with the wind directly aft).  He also warned me that Fang had installed himself underneath the life raft (it was lashed to the cabin roof) and refused to come out.  He wanted to practice deploying the raft, in case it became necessary to do so in an emergency, but to do it would mean crushing the beast between the hatch cover and the raft.  In order to remove the raft, it was necessary to slide the hatch out of the way, and the cat was in its path.   He  was determined not to move and  I didn't think he was likely to feel any differently if the boat were on its side and filling with water, either. 

The world outside had changed, it was totally dark, but the sky had cleared, a full moon was overhead and the sky was filled with stars.   The mountains of water made their presence known by occulting the stars behind them, and in certain directions, the sea had transformed itself into a bubbling molten silver.  The temperature had dropped, and it was further exacerbated by the biting wind and the spray, which was now pretty well constant.  I was well protected by my foulies, but my hands and feet were bare and  they were soon stiff from cold.  The water, as always in the northern Pacific, was deathly cold.   It was an arctic desolation, an alien planetary landscape from the edge of the universe, which after all, is exactly what it was.  I had seen the sea like this before, but never from a small boat, close enough to the water to reach down and touch it.   It was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Without Iron Mike hooked to the tiller, I had to work now.  I sat with my back to the cockpit bench, and with my feet braced on the opposite side, both hands on the tiller and with my eye on the steering compass.   After the initial period of learning the boat's response, the steering settled down and  became routine.   Most of the time, the tiller was limp and the boat raced downwind, like a living thing.  Occasionally, some vagary of wind or wave would bring her head around and some effort was required, either toward or away, to swing the boat properly  under the compass card as it locked onto the earth's magnetic field.   The longer I delayed, the harder I had to work, and the more likely I was to overshoot and be forced to correct.  Eventually, the brain would master the feedback and the boat's wake trailed behind in a perfect straight line over the rolling sine waves on the sea.  The helmsman's hands are where the sky and the sea, the sail and the hull meet, the microscopic boundary between the atmosphere and the ocean where the boat travels, with man at its precise center.   

Of all of man's artifacts, a sailboat is most like a living thing;   it reacts to the chaotic forces of nature, not only through the hands of its crew, but through the minds and experiences of the thousands of generations of  mariners and shipwrights that preceded us.  It is their skill and their failures which are embodied into the graceful lines of the hull and sails, as sleek and sensuous as the hips of a beautiful woman...Or as my friend Tom says, "AArgh!, me likes the turn o' her bilge, matey!"

At daybreak, I volunteered to continue at the helm while the skipper cooked breakfast: coffee, biscuits and gravy.   The simple meal was delicious.  Shipmates now, we opened up a bit to each other, and gossiped about the night's events.   My trick at the helm had been pretty uneventful, except that we had been pooped once during the night by a rogue wave.   A ton of water landed in the cockpit, almost knocking me down, and pouring several hundred gallons through the open companionway hatch.   The goddamn cat, of course, slept through it all.   The electrics pumped out the yacht's bilges, but I had a little trouble locating the cockpit drains (they were under two feet of water)  to make sure they were not plugged up with debris.  My foulies were well buttoned up, but were never designed for hands and  knees in hip deep water.   It wasn't til after the water was cleared that I realized how dangerous that can be; the first wave stops you helplessly in the water, unable to maneuver, the boat gets hit full force by the next and capsizes her, the next one sends her to the bottom.

Through the night, the winds had moderated somewhat (or maybe I had just gotten used to them).  The seas, on the other hand, were now enormous.   They came racing impatiently behind the boat, foaming at their crests, scud and bubbles blowing down their forward faces and their trailing slopes.   The color of the seas well offshore is totally indescribable, like dark blue ink poured into a glass of water, all offset by the blinding white of foam and spindrift, and contrasted against a paler, but no less bluer sky.   They would momentarily tower over us, but Haiku would lift her skirts and let them slide harmlessly beneath her rump so they could continue their breathless rush to the end of the world.  The waves looked as high as a four story building, although the radio assured us that they were but "19 foot seas".   It is a discrepancy which has been documented before, the mariner should be forgiven for a bit of a stretch of the truth.  It is as much an optical illusion as it is a sailor's exaggeration.   Later that morning we saw the only other vessel that shared that windswept ocean with us.  A huge container ship crossed our bows about a mile ahead of us, I could see an officer on her bridge through binoculars, watching us through his.  We waved at each other, and I felt sorry for him, his ship was built to carry cargo, a blunt box with a flat bottom; riding broadside to the seas and with no top hamper to steady her, she rolled sickeningly in a beam sea.

The gale blew all day, but by evening began to moderate.   As we expected, it had petered out to nothing by the time we rounded Pt. Concepcion and we changed course to parallel  the coast.    We secured the jib and fired up the engine and traveled within sight of the coast towards our destination.  As if on cue, Fang emerged from his hideout, went below and lost himself in the clutter of the cabin.  He spent the whole gale on watch and now he was ready for some serious sleep.  The day was cool and crisp, and as we threaded our way through the channel islands we could easily imagine ourselves the only ship on a primeval ocean.  The islands rose like monoliths from the sea, some close enough aboard for us to see the colonies of sea lions littering the narrow and cramped beaches, at this distance, tiny maggots crowding the carcass of a dead whale, a monstrous dead whale of stone, the size of a mountain, floating in the deep blue vastness.   Every fissure  in the rock, highlighted by the long shadows of a setting sun, continued the cetacean illusion.  The islands were wrinkled behemoths, without a particle of green fur, brown rocky skins like an elephant seal's.  With nothing but the sea lion colonies to give them scale, it was even difficult to judge their distance and size.   

I recalled the last time I had sailed this way, a few months earlier, although then it was night, and we had taken the channel side on the lee of the islands.   It had been overcast and dark, the islands invisible, but sensed from our knowledge of the area and the silent witness of the chart.   The low cloud layer by coincidence was at the precise level of Anacapa Light, and the sweeping beam from the rotating beacon perfectly illuminated the exact bottom of the cloud layer.  It was an unforgettable illusion, truly the Light at the End of the World, a godlike flash as the sword of light sliced over our heads again and again, precisely at the level of the fog bank.  But there was no light from our present perspective, just an occasional aid to navigation blinking its coded message.   For Haiku's crew it would mean a sleepless night, we were approaching the crowded waters of southern California, with their heavy commercial and yachting traffic and the threat of collision had to be dealt with by constant vigilance.  Steve went below and used the radar, calling out ranges and bearings which I, with my dark-adapted night vision, could verify with binoculars.  Navigating by GPS and radar, we approached our destination until daybreak when my shipmate finally begged me to carry on alone for a while so he could  get a few hours sleep and make our final approaches alert and refreshed. 

I was tired as well, a bit punchy from the night's sailing, although my work had been physical rather than mental so the fatigue was not as severe.  I knew that with sunrise I would get my second wind. Through the dim twilight we were well into the oil patch, threading our way through the pumping stations and offshore platforms.  The ocean is foul here, not from the derricks and pipelines, but from petroleum bubbling up from the sea itself.  The stench is everywhere, and you could see the droplets of crude floating past, some still racing up from some hidden fissure in the sea floor to break at the surface after countless milennia under the crust of the earth and the shroud of the sea. 

Soon, even this dead zone was behind us, and that sacred time came when, just before sunrise, there is plenty of light to see but no harsh glare to squint the eye.  A trick of the atmosphere colored the scattered clouds a bright solar yellow, while between them was the dark violet of an early morning sky, a color once described to me as  "Maxfield Parrish blue".  The combination of colors was so unexpected,  a salmon and indigo is what one usually expects from this time;  but some trick of the light or some unexpected illusion of these two contrasting colors, violet and yellow, came from the sky in alternating bands as the parallel stripes of cloud and sky provided the color backdrop.  The surface of the sea, almost perfectly calm, also had its alternating pattern of crest and trough, tiny wavelets just a few inches high and a few feet apart.  The pattern of the waves suddenly meshed with the striping in the sky and for a few moments the surface of the sea exploded into a geometrical spray of yellow/violet reflections  that throbbed and propagated in a bizarre Op Art extravaganza.  The effect was not natural in appearance at all, it appeared almost mechanical, computer generated, artificial, and it only lasted for a few seconds while the geometries of sky, sea and boat motion briefly merged in perfect synergy.

And then it was over.  The alignment shifted slightly and the yellow/violet kaleidoscope collapsed back to undifferentiated chaos, and the colors changed slightly to something more familiar in the gradually increasing illumination of the scene.  It had my attention, and I shifted my head back and forth in a vain attempt to recapture that fleeting pattern of reflections.  It was not there, but looking into the water itself I could see something below the surface.  A huge pod of Pacific dolphin was passing under Haiku, the nearest to the surface just a foot or so below.  They are smaller than our Atlantic Coast porpoises, and more boldly marked, and there were thousands of them.  In a moment they were gone too. 

[Billy]

Great read. Can't wait to have a story like that of my own.