Just another Gulf crossing 2

Elizabeth and I emptied all of the trash out of the storage unit--Air conditioners, ice chests, old used sails, engine room insulation and even some camping equipment. There would be no need for it any more.  We were not planning on returning to the Kemah area.  Some of the junk found new homes at the resale shop, other items went into the dumpster, but a large portion was packed aboard SOEL.

I had a bit of a breakdown that day.  Furious at the clutter, I took a few photographs.  I angrily cursed a couple of items and threw them into the harbor.  My little ship was being weighted down by the crushing materialistic nature of humans.  It does not seem to matter how much ‘stuff’ a person collects, he will always want more.  I really believed I was better than that.  Believed I was somehow above petty hoarding.  The glaring evidence was laid on the cabin top, stacked in the cockpit, and strewn about the dock for all to see.  I was, of course, just human.

But not a free human.  More along the lines of, an indentured servant.  Every additional piece of equipment would require maintenance.  Each tool would require cleaning, recharging, care.  Every raw material had a future project waiting for attention.  My attention.  “If I don’t do it, it don’t get done!“ is my usual rant.  The box of spare parts that was supposed to represent self sufficiency, was closing around me like leg irons.  I was feeling like I had become a prisoner to my own boat.

Our previous cruises with SOEL had more structure, some outline.  We planned a flexible departure date (dependant on good weather), picked a cruising ground, and a loose return date.  I could leave things in storage, because I was returning in the near future.  Back to the same old job, worn out truck and familiar town.  Familiar.  This was a clue to another human quality.  Humans are creatures of habit.  They do not always respond well to change.  The human animal likes to follow the same route to the same job, eat the same meals, and slumber in the same cave.  When I knew we were coming back to the same old routine, it was somehow easier.  This time, it wasn’t easy for me. 

Not easy at all.  Mostly because, we were not planning much at all.  The variable itinerary was: Sail to Florida in January, across to the Bahamas, south to Venezuela, west to Panama, then back to some yet undetermined location on the United States Gulf Coast, at some undetermined later date (2 to 5 years or more) in the future.  The hint of true freedom, uncertainty, open ended plans, and the huge pile of crap on the boat did not sit well with me.  My intuitive mate slipped on her walking shoes and quietly stepped off the boat for a little stroll. 

My buddy, Lee and I had been watching the weather reports all through December like men possessed.  For weeks we had been sharing dinners, beers, and now, similar cruising plans.  The week after New Years found us pulling GRIB files twice a day, comparing notes and sharing thoughts.  The moon phase was represented as a big highlighted circle on January 11th of 2009.  SOEL was just about finished receiving her final preparations, and the weather Gods must have held a conference.  The jet stream that had been keeping any frontal system from pushing far enough south to be of any use to us for the last six weeks, appeared to be forming a loop.  A couple of mild cold fronts seemed to be lining up, and the moon would be full.  Could it really be this perfect?  What incredible good fortune!

Now, here is the funny thing about departing from Clear Lake, Texas.  If we leave before the front arrives, E and I would be on the water when the leading edge pushes through, bringing a squall line of high, gusty winds, rain and probably thunderstorms.  Not exactly a fun day.  Then, the north wind invariably blows all the water out of Galveston bay, and Clear Lake gets really shallow.  If we wait, secure in harbor till the cold front passes, our keel will either be stuck in the mud right in the slip, or she’ll run aground trying to get out of the marina.  Wait too long, you will never get out!

Wednesday, January 7th, we finalized packing as the jet stream loop slid into Arizona.  Thursday, the 8th, Chris from Cokabee Canvass installed the new dodger, and a weak cold front was predicted to arrive Friday around midnight.  Friday, the 9th, the broken stanchion was welded back together, and the front prediction changed to Saturday morning at 6am. 

I just love it when a plan comes together!

Plan “A” was to leave before the lake ran out of water, anchor overnight to await the mild front, then haul ass to Mexico!  Florida could wait.  The Bahamas were not going anywhere.  Sure, I was still stressed beyond normal, but, I was not so rigid that I couldn’t shift our landfall.  What was firm, however; was that we needed to make pretty good time, because the next system was already forming a severe front.  I wasn’t concerned about the weaker fronts, but the strong one grabbed my full attention, making the hair on my arms stand up.  Its forecasted arrival was only six days away.  Predicted wave heights of 12 feet or more.  A gale warning would eventually be posted from Cuba to the Bay of Campeche, and covered over half of the Gulf of Mexico.  I was crossing my fingers we wouldn’t have to deal with that kind of weather.

Lee backed Jargo out of his slip about 1400.  I slid SOEL out about three hours later.  Elizabeth and I rather enjoyed our short two-hour sunset sail out to the Redfish Island anchorage.  All of the stress and anger seemed to be sloughing off of me as SOEL parted the bay waters.  By the time we flaked the main sail, I felt ready.  Ready to face the uncertainty. Prepared for freedom.  I was realizing my humanness.

The little front rambled through at 9:30 the next morning, bringing with it light rain.  A cold wind shifted around, blowing at about twenty five knots out of the north, and an endless army of steep little froth topped waves marched through the anchorage.  Butterflies began fluttering deep in my gut.   

For days now, SOEL and Jargo had seemed to be locked into some crazy game of “Mexican Sweat.”  Each appeared to be waiting for the other to blink, and therefore loose the standoff.  The two boats rocked up and down on the whitecaps like nervous racehorses.  A betting man would have had a hard time picking a winner that day.  Another hour passed and both anchors remained set.  Everyone felt seasick, even though the boats were yet to register a new GPS coordinate.  Elizabeth was also battling a cold,  running a fever, and just generally feeling crappy.  We downloaded one last weather report to study, and then… the voyage began.  

Saturday morning, January, 10th 2009, two little sailboats were drag racing down the Houston Ship Channel, riding the wind and the outgoing tide.  I dressed SOEL in her #3 jib and a double reefed her main.  She seemed to agree with my choice and she curtsied goodbye to the jetty with the first waves of the open water.  My butterflies had flown away hours ago, as soon as my hands touched the anchor chain, and I was now the happiest man in the world again.  A seagoing mariner, bouncing along with the waves, sailing fast, sipping hot tea to stay warm… ahh, life was good.  But not perfect.  My poor wife was passed out down below, a belly full of cold relief medicine.

I do not sail constantly staring at a GPS screne, and had never stuck to a shipping lane before, but for this trip, we opted for the “safety in numbers” cliché and hugged the right side of the little purple line that represented the safety fairway for about a hundred and fifty miles.  It wasn’t as bad as I had imagined.  Two cruise ships, numerous huge tankers, and un-countable cargo ships were constantly passing and overtaking us the first 24 hours, but always at a safe distance.  Seas were up to five feet not far offshore, and the wind increased, occasionally gusting to thirty knots.  Rain showers came and went.  A lucky wave jumped over the side and flooded the cockpit ankle deep with water, but it immediately drained out.  The Aries wind steer unit worked flawlessly and kept SOEL perfectly on a parallel course down the edge of the safety fairway.  My little ship was happy, and life aboard was wonderful.  

I checked with Lee via the VHF radio, and we reported each other’s conditions.  Jargo was skidding about in the waves and Lee had dropped the mizzen to try and regain some semblance of control.  SOEL was accumulating water in the bilge, and I didn’t know where it could be coming from.  We made contact every few hours as long as we were in range, and it was always good to hear a recognizable voice. 

Sunday brought an identical monochrome landscape.  Same cloudy grey sky.  Same lumps of grey waves.  Same cold grey rain.  Same wind from the north at twenty five knots.  Elizabeth was fighting that fever hard and sleeping quite a bit the first two days, so it felt as if Lee and I were both single-hand sailors.  I poured some red wine into a coffee mug and quietly ate my lasagna, alone.

Monday, our third day out, the wind slacked to force four and waves receded to a gentle two to three feet.  Elizabeth came back to life and crawled out of her bunk to down some Gatorade and devour a bowl of Ramen Noodles.  Maybe the tiny bits of sunshine trying to poke through the clouds assisted in her recovery.  We both commented on the warmer temperature, not knowing what it really meant.  Reality was: I had sailed too far east and had gotten us into the northern most loop of the Gulf Stream.  Now SOEL had a two knot current slowing our progress, trying to push her backward.  Damn!  I adjusted our course south and hoped for the best.

After an early afternoon supper of homemade tamales and Texas beer, I went down for a nap.  Elizabeth woke me just after sundown and pointed out a green light off to port.  Jargo!  I got on the radio and reported that water was still finding its way into the bilge, but Elizabeth was feeling better.  Lee revealed that the dog finally urinated, but his steering wheel was now slipping.  We discussed possible causes and remedies, as an unusual line of clouds off to the west held my attention.  The next weak front line was advancing.  I made a sail change as, oddly, the wind continued to lighten.  By 2200 it was only ghosting about five to eight knots out of the north and the Aries could no longer hold us on course.  I hate running the engine on a sailboat, but this night it was necessary.  We absolutely had to outrun that next big gale.  I disengaged the Aries, clicked on the electronic autopilot, fired up the diesel and surrendered to a steady drumming the remainder of the night.

A beautiful sunrise awoke us Wednesday morning with winds increasing to a perfect ten to fifteen from the northeast.  I silenced the engine and cast out a fishing line.  SOEL was beneath a full main sail and her #2 jib, making five to six knots through the comfortable two to three-foot seas.  Another lucky wave spanked SOEL on her hindquarter, and tried to spin her sideways.  The electronic autopilot was still steering the boat, and as the rudder conceded to the force of the water, the wheel drive did not.  The steering wheel spun in harmony with the rudder, but the motor screamed in protest, then let out a horrible banging, grinding noise.  Not to worry.  Of course I had a spare.  Elizabeth took the helm while I dug out tools and parts.  I removed the nut, she yanked the wheel off, I swapped the drive units, and she pushed the wheel back onto its keyway in less than ten seconds.  Total time for the complete repair: Less than fifteen minutes!

I reset the Aries, then switched off the repaired Raymarine electric autopilot.  My love and I sat out in the cockpit soaking up sunshine, sipping strong coffee and beaming about what a great ride we were having.  What a difference two years makes!  Our last crossing was like a freakin five-day survival fest compared to this one.  Wind ahead of the beam screeching in the rigging, waves as tall as houses.  Yuck.  This trip was so much more enjoyable!  The winds slacked a bit and the waves never got the chance to grow obscenely large.  We debated whether our experience made this a better passage, or were the conditions really that differ...  Our conversation was interrupted by the buzzing of the fishing reel.  FISH ON!  I landed a small tuna, and we changed our plans for lunch. 

All night, the wind steadily increased, and so did the waves.  Our last night, I was either reefing the main, or changing a jib, every two hours.  By 0300 SOEL was again, double reefed with the #3 jib, rail in the water, screaming along at seven to eight knots.  YEEHAW!  We could easily see the Isla Contoy lighthouse spinning its beam around through the darkness as a warning to all mariners, and the illumination gave us some sense of comfort, security, finality.  The proverbial “light at the end of the tunnel.”  Then, suddenly, a full two hours before daybreak, the fuckin’ light went out!  That single landmark which had us both feeling so safe, was suddenly swallowed by ominous blackness.  The anxiety meter pegged the needle till dawn. 

We turned the corner, keeping the lighthouse about a mile off to starboard, as the sky began to lighten.  In a cold rain, we reached the submerged reef just north of the island at 0900, anticipating the calm waters of the harbor.  SOEL seemed to be happy to bathe in clear warm waters again and she surfed a wave over the reef at fifteen knots to celebrate.  I piloted us into the anchorage while Elizabeth let down the sails.  We picked a suitable location between two boats, close to the beach, and dropped the anchor.  Safe and secure, up on the bow, for all the world to see, with a warm embrace, we shared a grateful kiss. 

It was just another Gulf crossing.

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