To an artist, the sea is a moody canvas of light, texture, color and motion to capture, but to a sailor, it’s more than that. The surface of the sea is [...]]]> There’s no two ways about it: being out at sea changes me.

It’s hard to write about this without streaking off on a tangent of froth.

To an artist, the sea is a moody canvas of light, texture, color and motion to capture, but to a sailor, it’s more than that. The surface of the sea is a living membrane between two worlds.

Both have oxygen and carbon, light and darkness, calm and tempest. Both worlds move fluidly, even if the creatures that move within them at times seem clumsy.

Offshore, the boundary between sea and sky is delineated by density, gravity, a 360-degree horizon, and by the form that water takes—mostly vapor in one, mostly liquid in the other.

But there’s also a boundary of the imagination.

The air is light, heavenly, knowable; the sea, innately un-knowable, thick and dark, a place of slimy predators, witless prey, and terrors of the deep.

It symbolizes the fear of unknown deeps within ourselves.

Architeuthis, the ship-killing mythical Kraken, is actually a giant squid not known to grasp ships and pull them under, but we still harbor its menace beneath the conscious surface of our imaginations.

Its existence is sometimes hinted at by upwelling and unnamed extremes of emotion, whose release we fearfully block lest they pull us under.

When we say someone is “all at sea,” it means they are feeling lost and confused.

When a sailor goes to sea, she in fact confronts 3 worlds: Besides sky and water, there is also an ocean inside us.

Before Jim and I left Port Townsend aboard our Pacific Seacraft Dana 24, Sockdolager, we asked a few friends for advice.

Much of it was useful, some was funny, but the most profound suggestion came from Lin Pardey:

Once you head out to sea, turn off all shoreside communications and feel the delight of truly being at sea, letting the sounds, smells and vistas take over your whole mind.

I had no idea how right she was.

I found that letting the sea take over opened an elegiac doorway into an unexplored chamber of the mind.

It’s as if my amygdala, the brain’s center of primitive emotion, became mesmerized and could no longer repress thought snippets, memories, and occasionally, endless annoying song fragments.

There was a tidal freeflow in and out, an ebb and flood between the conscious and unconscious, until things I hadn’t remembered in years spilled out on night watches as I braced tiredly against ceaseless rolling.

Oh look, what’s that thought flopping down there? Talk about unguarded moments. The sea bent me to its will through heave and toss, pitch and yaw, a form of sensory overload combined with the empty-horizon sameness that can induce sensory deprivation. I felt a nameless gate opening.

We’re from the Pacific Northwest. There the sea is cold and mysterious.

At night off-watch, I lay in my warm, dry bunk, left ear six inches from the Pacific gurgling at the hull, 100 miles off the Oregon coast. I imagined the billions of unseen shelled, feathered, finned, and toothed lives, of which we know next to nothing. Some crawl in freezing darkness 12,000 feet down; others are near the surface. Some are large, intelligent; others are invisible, microscopic, but no less alive. Some lives span whole oceans as they migrate with the seasons; other lives are confined to a drop of water.

On watch I emptied my mind while barely hanging onto my stomach, and watched the birds fly.

Look at how that delicate petrel reverses direction, doing cartwheels! Even over the nausea I wondered, how is it not broken by the wind?

The albatross barely moves its long wings on wavetop swoops, and stares with soulful dark eyes. And the shearwaters, so curious at this green contraption with its tanbark sails and foaming wake. What are they wondering as they fly, land, stare and repeat the sequence?

One could also argue for the presence of another boundary between worlds…

… the one that existed between my mind and body, now a disagreeably nauseated blob of protoplasm which still required the same basic maintenance I would normally give it on land: eat and sleep, pee and poop.

In this watery, out-of-sync world, I tried to “manage” the body by drinking less (so I didn’t have to go below as often to ride the wild toilet) and by restricting what I ate (less bilious product at risk if I’m seasick) but this invariably fails. Somehow, by the time my body feels ready for an IV infusion, it becomes used to the motion, and I resume drinking lots of water. And the other seagoing bugaboo—constipation—is narrowly avoided, too. The meaning of a whoop when someone emerges from the head is instantly clear to everyone aboard a sailboat. Little things mean a lot at sea. Becoming closer to one’s own bodily rhythms is not a bad thing.

By the fourth day out, the sea has turned me into a creature of the moment, which is exactly what one must be in order to survive (and thrive) so far from land. How strange for modern humans to do this! To go from our preoccupied selves with frenetic lives punctuated by 8 hours of sleep to this mariner’s world, where the past dims, the future is far away, and all you have is the voyage.

I can’t enjoy the distraction of reading a book yet, because although I’m not queasy now, reading might trigger it in these big seas.

At first the huge aloneness with myself feels a bit empty and slow.

I notice a disappointing twinge of boredom, and wonder: Why? It’s just me now, am I bored with that? Maybe it’s a truth about our lives: without the past and the future to buffer us, the pure present can feel uncomfortable, so we seek distraction, even escape. But there’s no escape; at sea, the present tense is everywhere.

This flatness of mind is not welcome at first; I was hoping for something more… poetic.

But one needs this flatness out here to be able to recognize changes: a tiny dot on the radio’s AIS screen means a ship is within range, and suddenly I become all alert and sensory, searching the foggy horizon where the bearing says it is, listening for the sound of its engines (sometimes audible through the hull first); perhaps even sniffing for its exhaust, if the ship is upwind. This is not a game, and sailors know it.

Going to sea on a small sailboat is about letting go.

It’s a dropping of allegiance to certain ways of thinking.

Like the idea that you need a lot of space to live in, and a lot of possessions with which to fill that space. Or maybe the idea that adventures are for other people, who fail to heed the conventional wisdom: none of us will ever have enough, so we can never stop working to get enough, because none of us know how much is enough.

Voyaging requires work: planning, preparation, and a high degree of organization, but voyaging makes me feel so alive. Everyone I know who’s done it lately says why didn’t I start sooner? What’s so frightening about feeling more alive? It’s admittedly a lot easier to turn on the TV, pop a can of Bud, and fart into the couch. Or go shopping. But none of that would make me feel alive.

There’s also a notion that life off the grid is slightly shabby, second-rate, a glorified form of camping out, which implies a degree of sustained discomfort or doing without. You do give up a lot when you move aboard a small boat and then sail the boat around on the world’s oceans. We’re doing without schedules dictated by others, nightly apocalyptic news broadcasts, utility bills, commutes, car payments, and too little exercise. We traded that for self-reliance, including sometimes being pushed past what we thought were limits. It isn’t convenient or easy compared to land, but it’s simpler. And in a time when nothing seems simple, that’s a lot.

So I finish my watch and lay down in my bunk, more grateful for being horizontal than I ever thought possible. It won’t be enough, but it’ll get me through the next watch.

To the sea’s chuckling sounds I drift away, between two worlds, but beginning to feel at home now, equally, in both. The sheer richness of life is making itself known; a richness that, from back in my other, land-based life, I know is under terrible threat. Out here I see its exuberance, and begin to feel something resembling love, for its sheer crazy variety and the joy of being alive and in a still-vibrant world.

About Karen Sullivan

Karen Sullivan has been sailing since the mid-1970s, in New England, the Caribbean & Gulf of Mexico, Alaska, and the Pacific Northwest.  She studied oceanography in school, held a 100 ton license for 20 years, from 1980-2000, and ran some big boats, but is back to her small-boat roots on a Pacific Seacraft Dana 24.

She and her partner Jim left Port Townsend in July and are enroute to Mexico and beyond, in the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.  Their blog, Karen and Jim’s Excellent Adventure, is at:  karenandjimsexcellentadventure.blogspot.com/

Read also on this website

• Lessons from an offshore voyage: How one woman’s life was changed by the sea, by Heather Mann

More information (external links)

• Karen Sullivan’s blog
• Published articles from Karen Sullivan

How does being at sea change you?

Let us know.

Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.

In it she shares a list of things to have aboard to help you prepare as well as a [...]]]> Hurricane Irene – August 23, 2011 – 21:45 UTC – Photo Goes East

As readers prepare for hurricane Irene, we are re-printing a story that Pam Wall wrote about going through Hurricane Dennis in the Abacos.

In it she shares a list of things to have aboard to help you prepare as well as a checklist of preparations to make as a hurricane approaches. 

Several years ago we were in the Bahamas for our summer vacation. It was early July and we had not been worried about hurricanes at that time of year.

But, good old Bertha didn’t look at her calendar! We were in White Sound, Green Turtle Cay, in the Abacos at that time. Our family of four plus our dog were aboard, and while we were all a bit frightened, we were proud that we had stayed aboard our boat, Kandarik, a Freya 39. Bertha did her best to ruin the islands, but thankfully there was not much damage.

And now, just two weeks ago, we were again in the Abacos, and as our luck would have it, Hurricane Dennis came out of nowhere and tested our wits again.

The National Hurricane Center (NHC) in Miami predicted it would go to the East of the Abacos. When the Northeast seventy-plus knots of wind died for about fifteen minutes and the wind veered to the Southwest with a vengeance, we knew the NHC was wrong and the eye of the hurricane had come over us. And this was our vacation!

Getting prepared for a hurricane

South Pacific: S/V CARIBEE riding comfortably in 80 knots after hurricane Rene passed – Photo provided by Cheryl Baker

I feel now that we are experienced in getting our boat and ourselves prepared for the forces of a hurricane. The things we will always have aboard when cruising during the tropical storm season are essential for the safety of the boat and all aboard.

I have made a small list of essentials that may be useful for others:

Hurricane List

• Galvanized shackles of every size, your chain size and larger, and of course, seizing wire
• Extra 50 foot lengths of chain, the size you use for your anchors and larger
• Anchor swivels
• Extra heavy duty line ¾” and larger preferably Megabraid, 100 and 200 foot pieces
• Heavy duty galvanized or stainless steel thimbles
• Assorted different style anchors (at least three plus a larger storm anchor)
• Jerry cans for extra fuel and water
• Lots of lashing lines
• Hand held VHF
• Hand held depthsounder for sounding secure anchorages as well as what is ahead of and behind the boat
• Raw water strainers that are easy to clean for the unusually dirty water following a hurricane
• Sheepsfoot knife for fast cutting of lines to be kept in the cockpit
• SSB or Ham Radio and/or battery powered AM/FM radio for local forecasts
• Masks, snorkels, fins, and if possible filled SCUBA tank for setting anchors and securing moorings under the water
• Good recording barometer (really fun to see AFTER it is all over!!!)
• Lots of towels and heavy duty chafe gear
• Ventilator caps for all vents and dorades
• Dogs for all hatches and ports
• Big roll of Duck Tape
• Dacron sticky back tape for instant sail repairs
• Good sturdy dodger that can safely be left up in the strongest of winds
• Anchor weights
• Extra long anchor snubbers
• Batteries for flashlights, radios etc.
• A really good washer and big dryer for cleaning up everything after it is all over!! Ha, Ha, I wish!!!

This looks like a lot of equipment, but it really isn’t. And most of it you would have already. If you don’t have all this aboard, you could be caught short when you need it the most. Believe me! We saw so many people looking for this equipment when it was too late or unavailable. It is so easy to think ahead and make provisions. Once we knew that Dennis was going to be a threat to us, we started looking for a secure anchorage. This can sometimes be difficult when everyone else is doing the same thing.

So, start getting yourself a safe place as soon as you can.

Beat the crowds and find yourself a place with as few other boats as possible as the real danger can be others breaking free and crashing into you!

Here is another small list that makes it easy to prepare for the worst:

Safe List

• Take ALL sails down, mainsail, genoas, mizzens, ALL, flake them and stow below deck
• Take all Bimini Tops, awnings, weather cloths, etc. off the frames and lash the frame securely
• Take all downwind poles off the mast and secure as low on the deck as possible
• Tape the snap shackles with duck tape and pull to top of the mast (don’t forget to leave one to be able to retrieve the rest!)
• Lash all the halyard falls to the mast. Nothing should be able to whip in the wind (and it will if left unlashed)
• Take any undeployed anchors off the bow rollers where chafe could occur; lash the anchors on deck where they could easily be deployed if needed during the hurricane
• Cap all ventilators
• Stow EVERYTHING on deck down below. If it can get loose on deck and cause damage it will!
• Use a combination of chain at the bottom and line to the boat for anchors and mooring lines. All chain does not have enough stretch, and all line could chafe on the bottom. Mooring weights are a great help and Megabraid seems to have the best stretch and chafe resistant capabilities for these extreme conditions.
• Secure all lines through smooth chocks, to strong cleats, and use fair leads. Heavy-duty snatch blocks are great if the lead from your chock to the cleat isn’t fair.
• Do not rely on the windlass for securing anchors on chain or line
• Check every unattended boat around you for secure mooring (that will be your biggest worry!)

By the time Dennis came upon us, we had secured everything as best we could. During the 48 hours of very strong winds, we were constantly checking for chafe and adjusting the lines to the best advantage.

After the eye passed over us at about 4 am (naturally it would be in the dark!) we had only a couple of minutes to make sure we would be ready for the 180 degree windshift.

We actually had to swim out another couple of mooring lines to different mooring blocks when the shift came. It’s easier to swim under water than take a chance on a flipping dingy above the water. Two of our anchors were useless, as the eye had been predicted to pass well to the East.

Ready for the storm

As the storm approached us, we were all ready for her in the Eastern Harbor of Man-O-War Cay in the Abacos. There were about 25 unattended storage boats in the harbor on permanent moorings.

Only five boats had crews aboard. Funny how close we all became. It was like one big family in different rooms, all with the same fears and problems, and all willing to help one another should the need arise. We were continuously on the VHF radio checking on each other. Truly, we became the closest of friends during that 48 hours!

The pelting rain and gusting wind began about 12 hours before the eye passed over us.

We went for a walk to the windward side of the island to see the ocean. It was blowing about 55 to 60 knots and even though we had difficulty walking against this wind, the view we had of the raging sea was spectacular. The normally peaceful lagoon inside Man-O-War reef was a tempest of gusting wind, huge seas, no visibility, and enormous breaking surf on the coral lined beach.

And the hurricane had not even yet arrived. Our anchorage was still quite calm behind the hills with the wind very sporadic with short-lived gusts to 50 knots.

At dark the full fury of the storm came upon us.

Why does it always come at night? Cockpit watches and chafe patrols kept us awake. The anemometer registered over 70 knots and I know it was blowing more than that for some of the time. Kandarik would heel over in the stronger gusts, then shake herself back onto an even keel. The noise on deck was deafening as the wind whistled through the rigging. We could hear the shotgun sounds of a loosed roller furling genoa on the boat up the harbor from us. Below in the cabin it was difficult to talk to one another over the sound of roaring wind. While it did not rain very much, only spitting at times, the wind driven seawater poured over the boat like a wild shower. Even in the dark we could see the gusts literally lift the harbor water up and send it whirling across the surface.

We could not sleep. I was on the Ham Radio every few minutes getting updates, and giving the National Hurricane Center our barometric pressure, wind speed and direction. It was fun being part of their network.

At about 3:30 a.m. the wind stopped. It was so weird!

We rushed up on deck; there was the loom of the full moon, and no wind. I got on the radio and reported this to the Hurricane Center in Miami. I was asked to go on deck and give every detail of the conditions. Now, at last they knew exactly where the eye was. Within minutes the wind made its dramatic change that confirmed the location of the eye.

If it was blowing hard before the eye passed us, well, let me tell you, it blew even stronger on the backside of the storm!

And now the pouring pelting rain came. Sheets of rain smothered the boat. Even higher gusts of wind came more frequently and lasted longer. The barometer plummeted in its final dive, and seemed to stay at its all time low forever.

As dawn finally came we realized we needed more lines out to windward.

The only solution was for Andy to swim to where we thought there was another mooring block. There I was on the bow, holding on as the wind tried to tear my hands from the bow pulpit, watching my husband swimming in the half-light of dawn, trying to secure another line to a mooring in front of us! I remember not being able to see anything as the stinging rain bit into my skin like a million needles.

I was really worried about Andy and was so relieved when he resurfaced near the boat. It was a struggle for him to get back aboard. He laughed at my worried expression and told me how peaceful it was below the surface of the water. He was lucky to have found the mooring.

The hurricane force winds lasted another twelve hours.

We saw two boats tear loose from their moorings and smash into other boats before finally ending up on the shore. There was nothing anyone could have done to save them, as the wind was far too strong for a dingy to survive without flipping over. I have never seen such rain. Blankets, not sheets, of water were thrown over us. Dennis must have liked the Abacos, as he was so slow to move on.

Our poor barometer must have hated my eyes peering continuously at it hoping for the much-desired rise in pressure.

It was late evening of the second day that it finally calmed down to 35 or 40 knots. The rain continued, but there was a definite ease in the wind. By Sunday morning it was all over, calm and peaceful again. The seas outside the island continued to rage for several more days as Dennis insisted on churning up the ocean to the North.

But, for us, the show was over.

This article appeared on Pam Wall’s blog

Less than 10 days later, Kandarik encounters hurricane Floyd!!!! Read the story! (Pam Wall’s blog).

About Pam Wall

Pam sailed around the world in a 7-year adventure with her husband and young children before finding her important niche as West Marine‘s Outfitting Manager.

In this role Pam has done much to support cruisers, both new and experienced, as she has through the many seminars she presents at boat shows across the country (including Women and Cruising seminars) and the sailing she teaches annually at Women on the Water Week in the British Virgin Islands.

Pam’s website is www.PamWall.com.

Read also on this website

• Earthquakes & tsunamis – Part 2: lessons learned in Samoa, by Amanda Neal: Suggestions for preparing for and responding to earthquake and tsunami alerts.

Read some of Pam Wall’s contributions to Women and Cruising:

• Pam WALL Answers 12 Questions about Sailing as a Family aboard Kandarik
• Pam Wall: What I like Most about Cruising
• Pam Wall: Galley Advice from a Circumnavigator

More information (external links)

• Hurricane Floyd, by Pam Wall: “Dennis came and went with no damage to our boat Kandarik except for our frazzled nerves. We never dreamed we would encounter another hurricane in less than ten days!”
• National Hurricane Center: The National Hurricane Center website provides detailed location and forecasting of tropical storms and hurricanes in the Atlantic, Caribbean Sea, Mexico and the Eastern Pacific.
• Hurricanes in Baja: Fire Drills and the Real Thing, by Gwen Hamlin

Have you weathered a hurricane or tropical storm?

Share your experience.

Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.

“My mind creaks as I shift from boat maintenance to sailing. Having spent the hurricane season in Wisconsin with the boat tucked into a boatyard in Florida, Dave and I realize it has been five months since we’d hoisted sail on our [...]]]> “Do we remember how to do this?” I ponder in my offshore sailing journal.

“My mind creaks as I shift from boat maintenance to sailing. Having spent the hurricane season in Wisconsin with the boat tucked into a boatyard in Florida, Dave and I realize it has been five months since we’d hoisted sail on our Hylas 45.5, WILD HAIR. We comment on the butterflies in our stomachs.”

And so begins our great offshore sailing adventure from Green Cove Springs in north Florida (N 29 59 30 W 81 39 65) to St Thomas in the US Virgin Islands (N 18 20 19 W 64 56 40). In total, the trip was 1,566 non-stop nautical miles. Moving at an average speed of just over 5 knots, the trip took 15 days and 80 gallons of diesel to complete.

During the half-month afloat in the Atlantic—with nothing but combinations of boat, spouse, sea, and air—I became forever changed.

Some of the changes I might have predicted, others I never could have guessed. Here is a sampling of what lingers after the journey is complete.

• My doubt about our ability to undertake the voyage was healthy, but not necessary.

In retrospect, we were prepared. We had spent years updating our 1994 vessel for offshore travel. Dave and I gained experience sailing her up and down the east coast and touring the islands of the Bahamas. We had attended boat show lectures, read books, and queried fellow sailors about their offshore experiences. We were physically fit.

To ready our 16-year-old boat for offshore, we pulled WILD HAIR’s mast to check electrical connections and thread fresh running rigging

Yet I remained leery because our mettle was untested. There is a limit to what we could know from books and lectures. Eventually, we had to go offshore and taste the voyage for ourselves.

By completing the voyage my husband and I graduated into that proud class of “offshore sailors.” Now, I experience a freedom, a confidence knowing I can pick a far away destination and—together with my husband—sail to it, safely.

• I was thrilled to learn on the trip that—in all sorts of conditions—our boat is sea-kindly.

Offshore, WILD HAIR surfed large waves as they overtook us from the stern

While underway, I wrote:

“With a little smart handling, WILD HAIR finds her way expertly in the seas. The hull, bobbing happily through unending assaults, finds a middle path. In the past two weeks I have seen a year of wear put upon her and yet she stands tall, willing, able, and ready for more.

Our boat possesses qualities hidden to the buyer that knows only to ask, “Is she strong? Can she go offshore?” The reputation says yes. Now this indebted sailor says yes. Discovering the boat in this way is like meeting a lover only to discover that my lover is also my best friend.”

Preparing for a sail-away departure, Heather raises the main sail prior to hoisting the anchor in a cozy harbor in Bequia, Grenadines

• Not surprising was our technical growth; the trip made Dave and me better sailors.

Previously I was skittish about big weather. Now, after smoothly navigating a strong gale at 47 knots and several lesser gales, I feel safe riding out heavy seas. I feel at ease detecting a change in the wind and adjusting sails and course headings.

Today, I am so confident in our boat and my know-how that I often hoist sails in the face of a blow whereas before I would have shrunk from intimidation.

• I learned technical lessons from the things we didn’t do on our trip as well.

In retrospect, maybe we should have gone north to go south.

The Caribbean 1500′s route, from Chesapeake Bay to the British Virgin Islands (Photo from www.carib1500.com)

Every year, the Caribbean 1500—a cruising rally open to sailors like Dave and me—departs Hampton, Virginia and travels nonstop to the Virgin Islands. Surprisingly, that route is the same distance to the islands as a departure from Florida.

But this year, just weeks before our voyage, Caribbean 1500 participants made the trip in only nine days, averaging eight knots, compared to our two weeks at five knots. What was the difference?

Given the slope of the east coast, Virginia is located hundreds of miles east of northern Florida. Their trip was almost due south and the dominant winds pushed from behind nearly the entire distance.

We did the trip the hard way. Northern Florida is just about as far west as you can get on the east coast. So, we sailed 955 nautical miles east—into the wind—before we could turn south to reach our goal.

Doable, but it was slower and harder on a body and a boat.

The Caribbean 1500 also insists on crews of at least three people per boat. This would have been lovely.

With just the two of us, Dave and I were on a constant rotation of watches.

Adopting author Beth Leonard’s recommendation for each of us to take at least one long sleep per day, we found ourselves refreshed when the seas were quiet enough to sleep.

Otherwise, we became exceptionally fatigued. Worse yet, it is necessary on WILD HAIR to manage the main sail halyard at the mast; our lines do not come into the cockpit. So, every time we reefed or let the sails out we did so as a team—further disrupting our partner’s rest.

Ear plugs and a lee cloth gave us the peace we needed to rest offshore

Depending on our 15-year-old auto pilot with no back-up was also fool-hearty. If it had failed, our exhaustion would have increased exponentially.

Were we to go offshore again, we would certainly equip ourselves with a wind-vane or a third crew member.

Late in the trip I learned another dangerous lesson: no-wind days can be as risky as heavy weather storms.

Here is a scary story from my journal on the day we were becalmed:
“Imagine a lumberjack camp. In it, a 60 foot crane lifts a ten foot log on a rope. The crane swings right and left 15 feet in each direction until the log arcs wildly. It only takes two or three strokes.

This is what happened this morning as we took the whisker pole off the forward sail. Dave was standing on the bow as I furled the sail in from a winch at the stern. I heard a strangled call and as I looked up Dave fell backwards onto the deck. The log/whisker pole swung wildly from the top of the rocking mast clearing him by inches as he fell. The pole easily could have knocked him overboard. It easily could have knocked him out.

Luckily—and it was sheer luck—Dave saw the pole coming out of the corner of his eye and dropped. On the pole’s next pass, Dave caught it and the drama was over. It was to date our most frightening moment and the whole event happened in less than 10 seconds on a sunny day in calm seas.”

• On the spiritual side

Heather and Dinghy the Sailor Cat take watch at the helm

We learned anew that we carry people with us forever

On the spiritual side, although Dave and I did not discuss these unusual happenings until the last day, we both heard and could not help but respond silently to a crowd of people as we traveled.

At sea, childhood friends joined us as companions at the helm. Elsewhere, we heard voices from family members encouraging us, laughing with us, or chiding us to do better. It mattered not if people were long dead or if we hadn’t spoken to them in decades; they were actively engaged with us on this journey.

Taking note of the people that accompanied us was fascinating. We learned anew that we carry people with us forever, and—everyday—they help shape our understandings and our actions.

I also learned anew that nothing stays the same.

In my journal I wrote:

“This is a blissful moment. Gun shy about how quickly our fates change, I am no longer presumptive enough to call it a ‘beautiful day;’ I can only vouch for this moment. In 20 minutes everything may be different.

The sea is teaching me about the dynamic and ever changing flow of life. I cannot hold anything forever. Nothing stands still in time. Absolutely nothing is permanent. But, this present moment is heavenly.”

Finally, after two weeks at sea, I had something of a spiritual insight as we approached land.

Here is what I wrote the morning of the last day:

“I am at the helm as the sun teases the horizon at dawn. The lights of St Thomas are visible like chunky sugar crystals on a Christmas cookie in profile, gold and red.

For the past several years of our sailing life, I have been acutely sensitive to the cruelty with which people treat each other. Every time Dave and I re-emerge from an extended sailing trip and come back into the US culture of media and financial markets, we are stunned by how badly people behave: spiteful politics, greedy business decisions, and selfish personal indulgences. None of this is new to the history of mankind. What is new to me is the degree to which bad behavior saturates every aspect of our collective lives. It is the fascination and allure of news casts, the tantalizing plots of sitcoms, and the root of catastrophic economic loss. Constantly turning off the TV, I find it almost more than I can bear.

“But this morning, with the sugar crystal lights of St Thomas on the horizon, I saw nothing but the beauty of mankind. We take care of each other through the gift of light in the dark night. Art, literature, science, medicine, environmental protection, and education are all evidence of our nurturing higher selves. Food—the act of growing, storing, preparing, serving, and eating is a reflection of kindness one for another. All of civilization is a testament to our love. Civilization is the creative energy and celebration of our coming together.

“I am so relieved. Now, I can see the beauty that counterbalances the chaos of petty ways. Now, I have a salve for the pain. The ugliness becomes mere background noise to the greater story arch of human inspiration. “

Fatigued but happy, Dave and Heather arrive safely to St Thomas, US VI

These were a few of the experiences that re-molded me on my time at sea. I am not exactly the same person I was just months ago. I am humbled and made stronger by the challenge. I am a better sailor and my heart has opened a bit more.

These are lessons I could not have learned by staying home. It is necessary to leave the safety of the shore to be reborn by the sea.

About Heather Mann

Sailing adventurer and freelance travel writer Heather Mann lives aboard Wild Hair, a 1994 45.5 foot Hylas sloop.

With husband and cat, Heather has cruised nearly 10,000 miles in four years, sailing from the Mid-Atlantic States to the south-east Caribbean.

She is a dedicated student of Buddhism, practicing under Vietnamese Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh. In 2006 at Plum Village—Nhat Hanh’s monastery in Bordeaux, France—Heather was ordained into the core community of the Order of Innerbeing.

Currently, Wild Hair is sailing the waters of Grenada.

Hear more about her travels at AdventuresOfWildHair.blogspot.com.

Read also on this website

• Heather brings her meditation practice aboard, by Heather Mann

What have you learned on your offshore passages?

Let us know.

Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.

We figured it would take just the four months left in the hurricane season to make the boat perfect, then we’d cruise back to St.Croix for the winter.

Tony and I each had over [...]]]> In 1998, we purchased our first real cruising boat, sailed quickly from Tortola to Venezuela, and began converting her to a floating palace.

We figured it would take just the four months left in the hurricane season to make the boat perfect, then we’d cruise back to St.Croix for the winter.

Tony and I each had over 30 years sailing experience, mostly racing, but planned this boat to be a live-aboard cruiser, not a racer.

We were fearless about sailing, clueless about cruising.

Two days south of St. Croix, we sailed through a squall with a steady 40-knot breeze.

Playing the waves, I reached off, not caring as much about the course as avoiding pounding the hull.  The knotmeter read 11.

Tony woke up and said my grin was from ear to ear.  We reefed and got through the storms unscathed, happy with our new boat’s seaworthiness.

As the sky cleared, Tony spotted two men adrift in a 24’ open boat, 200nm and 10 days from land. With a broken down outboard, no food, water or fishing gear aboard, the pirogue would have drifted to Haiti in two weeks time.

We brought the men aboard and towed their boat to Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela.  They lived in our home-under-construction for 3 weeks while endless paperwork got sorted out.

As Tony took them to the airport for their flight to Trinidad, I severed my fingertip while cleaning the icebox, now emptied of three month’s provisions by the two survivors.  Neighboring cruisers drove me to a private hospital; a surgeon reattached my fingertip and gave excellent care for our remaining months in Puerto La Cruz.

This is cruising?

In Puerto La Cruz, Tony installed the systems and equipment we had brought with us.  A carpenter converted two forward staterooms into one.  Our budget broken, it was time to head north.  The boat was provisioned, charts readied, computer programmed with waypoints and route.  The weather was fair, and we did day-sails at first, to keep from getting too far from help should we need it.

Now, we’ll cruise!

Sailing through Ensenada Tigrillo, we counted over 90 dolphin, the most we’d ever seen in one afternoon.  The area has few signs of human habitation; just the occasional small fishing camp tucked into the red mountains, black rocks and green mangroves.

The beauty and serenity struck me as perfect justification for selling everything we owned in the U.S. to go cruising.

We’d arrived at a goal: seeing beauty no other could find without a similar sacrifice.

Could it get any better?

Anchored in a sunken valley, within sight of a small village, we stayed only one night.  We wanted to sail as much of this area as possible without missing the holidays in St. Croix.  We had much to learn about cruising.

Our next stop was Isla Cubagua, where we dropped anchor off the white sandy beach of a real island, at last.

Snorkeling over the sunken ferry wreck, I’d never seen so many silvery fish, 1½-2” long, traveling in superhighways, crisscrossing the hulk, and making a loosely woven silver basket.  The beach was littered with shells.  We debated spending another night, but the surge from the passing Margarita ferries was reason enough to leave.

Doing so allowed an extra night in Isla Coche, another small island south of Margarita. Coche is not as deserted as Cubagua, with two villages and a hotel.  Four brilliantly colored macaws flew around the tall palms noisily with outstretched wings, untethered.  In the anchorage was a Spanish family, who invited us for a cerveza fria, then a tapas dinner and an invitation to visit when we get to Spain.  Our host summed up Coche, saying it is a perfect place to do “nothing.”  They planned to stay another week.

Another day of “nothing” would have been fine with me, but the call of the north would not go unanswered.

Porlamar, the main cruising anchorage of Margarita, returned us to the mainstream cruiser scene.  Through the morning radio network, several couples we knew helped us find our way around.  They suggested we lunch at the fisherman’s beachside restaurant, where calamare and cold beer were fantastic under the palm trees, and the price was outrageously low.

The second night brought a fierce rainstorm, making the normally roly-poly anchorage VERY uncomfortable.

We left the next morning despite the threatening sky.  Tony predicted the weather would improve and we’d be happier underway.  It did, we were, and Cayenne III gave us a wonderful sail past some beautiful beaches to Juangriego, a fishing port named for a shipwrecked pirate, John the Greek.  The waterfront restaurants didn’t serve dinner until 2100, forcing us to relax and enjoy the evening.

Saying our final good-by to the still-visible mainland, we joined 70-80 dolphins and reached to our last Venezuelan stop, Isla La Blanquilla.  Fishing boats and oil tankers were the only traffic on the 9-hour sail north.

Some say Isla La Blanquilla, a small island of fishing camps, has the Caribbean’s most beautiful beaches and best snorkeling.

It’s true: a near-empty anchorage, minimal surge, and clear water filled with life.  Scrubbing the boat bottom, tiny silvery fish surrounding me, I’d entered a glitter-filled paperweight.  We snorkeled forever among the granite rocks, marveling at the variety and colors of swimming creatures.  We hated to stop, but the alternative was drowning from fatigue.

That night, the sky was filled with stars.  Being so far from streetlights made for a sparkling carpet above.

Relaxed and ready to sail the remaining 362nm to St.Croix, we promised to return to La Blanquilla some day.

It’s good we planned to sail – the alternator gave up as we left the anchorage.  Fortunately, the new generator did its job keeping the batteries charged and refrigeration running. The wind was fresh, the seas not-too-bad, thousands of flying fish glinted as they crossed the bow.  Cayenne III gave us a good ride, picking up lace petticoats to step gracefully over each swell.

The first night out was very special.

Miles from the lights on land (moonrise at 0400), I saw the heavens again sparkling, even more so than at La Blanquilla.  Meteors streaked by every minute, some large and long lasting.

The sea’s bioluminescence sparkled brightly as though Tinkerbelle had scattered fairy dust from our transom.  My theory: when falling stars land in the ocean, they become lights in the water at night and diamonds in the wavelets during the day.

It gets better. I was at the helm playing the waves, counting the billions of stars overhead.  I looked for the moon.  Over my shoulder was a silver sliver 15o above the horizon. Just then, off the starboard quarter, a dolphin rose out of the sea, meeting the moon’s crescent back-to-back.  Transfixed, I will never forget that sight.

No camera could capture the symmetry and beauty of that moment.  The animal swam – a bioluminescent ghost alongside Cayenne III.

“So this is cruising,” I said to our sleeping cockpit cat.

***

By 1100, the third day out, we rounded Pt.Udall, easternmost point of St.Croix and of the United States.

Thousands of yellow butterflies and seven dolphins welcomed us home.

Some breeze for the short downwind leg would also have been nice; we were again forced to take our time sailing.  We anchored in Gallows Bay at 1300, home at last.

Perhaps someday we’ll be “real” cruisers, free from the calendar’s tyranny.

If the anchorage is better than the weather, we’ll stay – if not, we’ll leave.

We might have autopilot, radar, single side-band radio, and folding bicycles.

However, to me, that single moment with the moon and dolphin was worth more than condos, cars and careers left behind.

Later, I learned our location was only 46nm from where we’d found the survivors adrift, four months previous.  The distance between St.Croix and Puerto La Cruz is over 460nm.

The prospect of another singular cruising experience has kept me going through four years of carpentry, re-configuring, re-upholstering, rebuilding an engine and getting caught at ground zero by Hurricane Lenny.

To experience the sparkling water and sky away from land, the beauty of the shores we pass and the friendships made – surely, that will keep me sailing through many a squall to come.

About Ellen Sanpere

Free lance writer, photographer and life-long racer, Ellen Sanpere has lived on Cayenne III, mostly in St. Croix, USVI, with husband, Tony, since 1998, with annual visits to Chicago, IL where she sails Lake Michigan.

Her articles have appeared in the Caribbean Compass, Latitudes & Attitudes, All At Sea, Cruising World, The Boca, SpinSheet. She is also a contributor to Gwen Hamlin’s “Admiral’s Angle” column (Latitudes and Attitudes Magazine.)

See also on this website

• Ellen Sanpere races her home, combining cruising and racing
• Ellen Sanpere working with the St. Croix Hospice Regatta   
• What Ellen likes most about cruising

How did you become a cruiser?

Let us know. Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.

In fact, I remember a few family outings as a child to Terracina or Sabaudia or even San Felice (Italy) [...]]]>

I don’t know why I’m terrified of water.

It’s not as though I have memories of any tragic or traumatic moment in my life, such as I’ve heard others tell when detailing their fear of the deep.

In fact, I remember a few family outings as a child to Terracina or Sabaudia or even San Felice (Italy) – beautiful warm water – like soup actually – and beaches that stretched for miles on the Mediterranean side of Italy (just south of Rome, where I come from) that were filled with laughter and a lot of splashing.

Of course great food was always a requirement for these outings, making us totally stuffed and horribly heavy as we waddled back into the soup after lunch.

I remember the beaches seemed very long and wide, a bit of a walk to arrive at the shoreline, and the sandbars seemed to go out for miles before the deep water.

My father swam well and enjoyed swimming – so why was I so frightened?

Well, let’s do what all analysts do

…let’s break it down into small sections.

Dad swam, Mom did not, my sister didn’t when small and only does so on occasion as an adult, my brother…not sure actually. I don’t swim and my son is now terrified of water and doesn’t swim (not proud of this legacy).

A friend once commented that Romans bathe, they don’t swim.

The fact that it takes a long time in order to get to deep water on the Med side of the ‘peninsula’, means that most people frolic in the surf near to shore and just sort of get wet enough for a lovely tanning session (I know – NOT politically correct these days – but if you’ve been to the region, if you are now sitting on that beautiful shore or planning on being there, you have to admit that Italians are like beached smoked fish on the particular beaches I’ve mentioned.)

But I’m still not convinced that genealogy or geography has anything to do with this unexplainable fear of the deep blue sea.

When living in Toronto with my family, any lake that we visited was deep, dark and filled with weeds that made it difficult to see anything, let alone the bottom.

That particular environment wasn’t welcoming, but still I don’t think this is enough to instill the kind of fear of the water that lies deep within me.

Let me explain.

I’ve been taking lessons for years.

I was always in a school that had a pool and throughout high school, swimming or some type of aquatic activity was a requirement for gym.

So why was every single person who took lessons able to get over their fear and learn to swim, except me? I’ve been asking this question for years.

I was on the varsity diving team for goodness sakes!

I swear. An explanation is in order:

I was in gymnastics for a very long time, and could tumble like the lightest weed in an arid desert.

On the diving team, I could get up to the tallest tower (no fear of heights), and perform the most amazing and fun tumbles (no fear of broken bones).

When I would enter the water…..wait for it….my coach would extend the ‘hook’ over the side of the pool so I could grapple onto it to lift myself out of the pool – like a flailing smoked fish! Needless to say, no perfect scores.

OK, so let’s break it down a little more.

Mom was scared of the water.

She would warn:

“Don’t go out in the water after you’ve eaten or you’ll drown”

or, “Don’t go out past the surf or you’ll get towed under”

or “Don’t go out too far because I can’t save you”.

Well ok – I might be getting somewhere now….but still not enough to cause this insane fear (I think).

Let’s look at my own personality.

I’m a control freak. Triple A is too low a category for me.

I have to know everything about everything I’m doing at all times as well as control it ALL and be the BEST ever at everything. And when I’m in the water, no way can I let go and just relax enough to let the buoyancy of the water help me along. NO WAY.

I took more swimming lessons than you care to know about or that I can even recall.

Here are some facts that I have learned about swimming over the years of endless lessons:

These are facts I’ve experienced and don’t enjoy and yet, apparently, many others have overcome. Why not me?

In fact, I actually took up sailing to get over this damnable fear

That’s right. I figure if you have to get over something it’s best to do it head on. So in 2004 I embarked on what I now term my “IN THE EYE OF THE STORM” period of my life.

It was quite figurative actually as I was also going through a horrible divorce and storms were brewing everywhere.

I paid my ‘lots of thousands of dollars’, took the Colgate Offshore Sailing School courses – this one was held in the BVI’s, (both beginner and intermediate courses – because why go at all if you can’t do it all at once?) (Did I mention I was > Triple A?), and lo and behold I was down in the playground of the sailing world and learning to conquer my fear of the big bad blue.

As luck would have it (I’m not that lucky) there was a horrible northerly that came down and for the first time in years, temps dropped to less than 60°F and the winds and seas were well over 20 knots – swear to ‘whatever you believe in’.

I was petrified.

I remember studying like a fiend to pass the course – did I mention I was >Triple A? I had to get A’s (which I did) but when it came to getting on the boat I did so only through sheer force of will, and I immediately:

1. Came down with bronchitis
2. Lost my voice
3. Got my period (which I had scheduled to NOT start during this timeframe)

I have to admit, though, that even with the rough weather and complete terror I felt when the boat heeled slightly, the Colgate School of Sailing (BVI location) was an amazing learning center.

The instructors and fellow students were wonderful.

The instructors were kind, with excellent credentials and, in fact, the instructor I had for the intermediate leg of the instruction was Mr. Julian Putley, solo world circumnavigator, writer, humorist and instructor extraordinaire, who was coincidentally the man that commissioned the design of a particular center cockpit cutter by Dudley Dix, that my husband and I eventually deemed the only boat worthy of our custom aluminum dream boat project.

So, here I am, in the playland of the ubersailing world and I’m sick as a dog, scared to death, dealing with my period and NOT enjoying this at all.

However, there was a moment when things did change.

We sailed to Anegada Island (BVI’s)…  and it was stunning and beautiful and the weather calmed down and the sun was brilliant. The air became warm and the water sparkled like jewels and …ok, so you get the picture.

The sailing started to feel amazing I became hooked… it didn’t hurt that we had a wonderful beach party that night filled with wine and champagne, making the life experience all the richer.

I passed both the beginner and intermediate levels.

When I returned to Canada, I was able to finally get my divorce ($90K for lawyers: he got the house, the cottage, the cars and the money – I got my life back and, looking back, would have paid a hell of a lot more if I had to…but that’s another story completely).

The storm abated, I moved to Vancouver and decided to take my advanced levels.

Of course, the CYA doesn’t play nice with the US Sailing Association, so they didn’t recognize my credentials from the earlier courses I took. So I challenged the exams and took both the beginner and intermediate CYA and passed.

Now I was ready to take the advanced levels – off to Coopers Sailing School on Granville Island I did go, and signed up for the advanced/offshore certification course.

Another salty dog entered my life by the name of Jim Lavers. What a great instructor and a very, very, very patient man. I was the only woman on the boat, with 4 men taking the course. I was not expected, and dare I say, not really wanted.

I “hot bunked” (Now I know what this means) with the captain (of course!) and off I went circumnavigating Vancouver Island.

Please remember, I’m still afraid of water, but what I was learning by doing all of this is that I can CONTROL my fear if needed.

Yes, control is a big thing for me, so if I can learn enough about sailing and how water can be viewed as a positive element of the sport, then I can control how I deal with water as a manageable quantity rather than the behemoth-deep, unexplainable, unmanageable, unfriendly, uninviting, mass of wetness (cold, dark and clammy!) that terrorized me.

Guess what? I circumnavigated Vancouver Island!

We had some hairy times, and some wonderful days; saw amazing coastline and sea life. But for me, it was the people along my journey that became the winning prize at the end of the adventure. I sat my exams at UBCO as I could not muster the strength or courage to sit them during the trip. Did I mention I’m Triple A? Of course, another A.

Now that I’ve become enamored of sailing and the wonders it can bring to one’s life, and have a beautiful boat to live on (yes ON THE WATER, at Spruce Harbour Marina in one of the most beautiful cities in the world – Vancouver), I absolutely have to get on with overcoming my inability to stay submersed in the water for any length of time.

It’s also a matter of safety. I should absolutely be able to at least swim to get into a life raft if ever our boat starts sinking – which I think about a lot!

I’d also like to show my son that his mother overcame her insane fear, and provide (maybe) an example that no matter how old one is, if a person desires something badly enough, they can get it.

I truly want to be able to swim and get over my fear of being in water.

My husband – a wonderful and supportive man who understands my need to overcome the problem – started investigating swimming lessons given by instructors who devote their time to persons who are truly afraid of water, and not just new to the sport.

In other words, a real shift in thought on how to approach a person’s fear and to help them along in their swimming goals, rather than the old fashioned method of teaching through drilling the student with pure rote skills and insanely practicing those skills- that never can be acquired successfully because the student is not responding to that style of instruction because they can’t get into the water and stay there and be comfortable in it.

My husband was able to find a gem of an instructor called Peter.

He himself did not learn to swim until adulthood and still hates water up his nose. However, when he goes into the water, it’s a joy to behold the way he moves with it. He’s incredible to watch – such beauty in motion and such delicate and relaxed movements. He makes it look so graceful and effortless….don’t you hate people like that?!

The first thing that Peter managed to teach me was to find what he called my ‘safe position’.

He asked if I could swim at all. I told him the extent of my skills.

1. I’m able to float on my back,
2. I’m able to do a dead man’s float (hopefully this will never happen for real)
3. I’m able to do a sort of crude back stroke

He was impressed. He said, and I quote, “I thought you said you couldn’t swim?”

Ok – so now I’m thinking he’s not that great an instructor and this is another lesson in futility and more money down the drain. However, he went on to prove to me that if I could float on my back, then I could use that particular skill as the position to go to when I needed to feel ‘safe’.

If I was able to get to the back float position in a somewhat relaxed state, then my body could use this position as the place to return to when other moments or positions became too frightening or overwhelming for me. It’s kind of funny to learn that after all these years my skill in the water was “laying on my back”!

However, that simple truth must have held some type of honest relief for me, because now when I become overwhelmed in the water, (you know the feeling….panic, then loss of breath, then more panic, then gasping for air, then sheer terror, then spluttering, then coughing) I immediately turn onto my back …NOT gracefully like Super Instructor Peter…but in my own flustered way.

And voilá, I am safe.

The point? I am able to stay in the water now. What a brilliant idea he had and so dead simple.

One could argue that our species is not meant to swim.

And in fact, I can attest to this statement.

Swimming is totally counter intuitive and in my case, not at all graceful.

Swimming requires that we keep our head in the water and then turn it sideways until our nose surfaces above the water (not a natural motion) in order to breathe. Think about that for half a second.

Whales breathe out through their nose, WHICH IS ON TOP OF THEIR HEADS, and have a device built into their bodies (genetics is a wonderful thing) that can clamp their noses shut so that water doesn’t go up it.

Same for porpoises. Hence they swim well and can stay in the water forever.

Last I looked, I’m neither a whale nor a porpoise.

I don’t know what happened

However, on Sunday, January 31, 2010, I went into the pool at the YWCA in downtown Vancouver, as ordered by the doctor, for thrice weekly physio exercises to help heal from an accident sustained in 2009. I don’t know what happened.

I don’t know if  it was because I was so tired from the earlier exercises and therefore didn’t care so much, I don’t know if I just stopped thinking for a moment or if it was just the time for it to happen, but … I put some swim fins on, got into the pool and SWAM TO THE DEEP END AND BACK.

Apparently, the grin on my face was so big that people wondered what was up, and starting asking me about it.

So I told them. “This is the first time in my life that I swam into the deep end on my own.”

So now I will continue down this path and keep working on my skills.

Knowing me, I will take the hardest route. Knowing me, it will not come easy. Knowing me, I will have setbacks before another milestone is reached. Knowing me, I won’t give up until I accomplish my goal.

So what should I say to anyone that has true fear of deep dark blue water?

1. It’s valid
2. You can overcome it
3. You are not a whale nor a porpoise and therefore must understand that this is counterintuitive
4. Find classes (private or otherwise) with instructors who teach about overcoming the fear of water
5. Keep trying
6. Keep trying
7. Don’t give up
8. Be bloody minded
9. Stop listening to people that say, “What? It’s easy. Why can’t you swim?”
10. Have a great sense of humour….I do. You should see me in the water! It’s a riot.

I’m going for a glass of wine tonight, but tomorrow, its swimming lesson time again. Only this time, I know I will live through it and I won’t be as frightened as usual. I might not look great doing it, but I feel incredible knowing how much I have overcome.

And maybe that’s the best lesson of all.

Laurie M. Clark, Tadpole
SV NAMO
Vancouver, BC, Canada

About Laurie Clark

Laurie and her husband Ian, live aboard NAMO for the most part in Vancouver at Spruce Harbour Marina in the fabulous South False Creek area, but also enjoy spending time with their great kids in their home in Kelowna, in the Okanagan Valley.

Laurie Clark is a respected banking and investment sector specialist. She is the owner and founder of GITTI Inc. (www.gitti.ca) a Corporate Development Strategies firm.

She and her husband, Ian, along with all their children spend their time sailing in their beautiful custom offshore cutter around the beautiful and scenic Vancouver and Gulf Islands whenever they can.

Laurie’s goal this year is to finish the year by swimming one lap around NAMO. The family’s goal is to leave the West one day soon for adventures unknown across the many and great seas.

Related articles (on this website)

• Learning to Sail (resources and links)
• How We Learn (blog)

What have you learned lately? Let us know. Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.