Solo Passage: St. Augustine to Palm Beach
Sleeping at sea......
Christmas in Boston was lovely, and chilly but not cold. When I arrived back in St. Augustine it was not cold…but chilly. Enough. St. Augustine had been a great hangout, but it was time to seek even warmer latitudes. I was ready (an internal switch just flips and suddenly you seek horizons instead of harbors), and Laughing Gull was ready (no doubt, over the course of the stay at River’s Edge Marina, she had exhausted all possible conversation with the boring old Beneteau next door).
I quickly returned Laughing Gull to passage mode (covers off, speed paddlewheel back in, gear stowed properly, oil and fluid levels checked), Instacarted a load of provisions, and shoved off the next morning to catch the San Sebastian River ebb. The passage south to Palm Beach, my next waypoint, was about 220 miles, or about 36 hours. Happily, the weather gods were still in a post-holiday food coma and a beautiful weather window of moderate west winds was forecast to open in a day. So I spent one last night in St. Augustine, on a city mooring. The following evening I set sail, catching the last of the ebb and a blazing sunset as I left St. Augustine in my wake.
My primary timing consideration was to arrive off the Palm Beach/Lake Worth inlet in daylight, which as luck would have it was when the tide would start to flood and carry me in. I have developed a healthy respect and caution regarding southeastern inlets. They are narrow, the shoals in them move around, and the currents rip. If the wind opposes the current when you attempt passage, well, that is a good way to end up going viral on YouTube as millions of viewers mock your stupidity in the comments. The Palm Beach/Lake Worth inlet is a relatively safe inlet: well-marked, deep, and (theoretically) passable in all weather. Big ships, including cruise ships, use it all the time. Still, never having gone in I wanted the sun to guide me. To achieve that I needed to manage my speed south (if I arrived early I could heave-to, but better to take it easy and not arrive early).
As soon as I cleared St. Augustine I set the main and staysail, which is a good combo up to 25 knots of wind. The forecast was for 10-15 knots, moderating to 5-10 after 24 hours, so my setup seemed comfortably conservative. As often happens, though, the forecast was generally correct (west and northwest winds), but not exactly correct (winds blowing a steady 15-25 instead of 10-15). Laughing Gull, on a beam reach, simply launched. I wanted to average about 6 knots for the passage. Laughing Gull gave me the finger, and started reeling off steady 8s and 9s.
That was fun sailing, and I knew I would slow when the winds started to go light down the track. But when I am solo I find it more relaxing and enjoyable not to press the boat too hard (unless I have to in order to escape bad weather or catch a tidal gate). It is less likely that gear will break. And more likely I will get some sleep. Plus, I had been wanting to improve my technique for rolling up the main to reduce sail (reefing) while off the wind. So I set everything up, turned onto a close reach and rolled the mainsail down to the second reef (which reduces the sail are by about 40%, I would estimate). My reef was a bit sloppy (more to learn), but acceptable. I turned back to my course and Laughing Gull…slowed hardly at all. I was still rocketing along. Which was a very good lesson: Laughing Gull is easily driven and moves right along on surprisingly little sail area. Which is a very nice quality in a sailboat (thanks designer Chuck Payne).
Well, I didn’t want to argue, so just sat back and enjoyed the ride, which, with less sail area, was considerably more comfortable and stable. It was a spectacular night, with clear skies, blazing stars, and a three-quarter moon that cast shadows all over the deck. My only quibble was that it was cold, with temps dipping down into the 40s. I was layered up as if I was in the North Atlantic. And still felt chilled.
Lots of people ask me A) whether I anchor in the ocean at night (um, no); and B) since I don’t anchor, how do I sleep? My solo sleep strategy is an evolving skill. I know solo sailors who think little of simply heading below and crashing out for an hour or two. I can’t do that, because I have a good imagination. So I tend to sleep in short stretches from 15 minutes to 30 minutes, in the cockpit and under the hard dodger, which keeps me out of the wind and wet. There, I can quickly sense any changes and react quickly (and if I have to leave the cockpit I throw on my flotation harness and clip a tether to a jackline I have rigged the length of the boat). I set alarms for shallow water and any shipping that will come within a half mile of me. But that technology is not omniscient, so I scan the horizon for any lights or obstacles. If all is clear, I set my phone timer and lie down. When I get tired enough I can fall asleep quickly, and snooze until the alarm wakes me. I get up, scan all the instruments and the sail setup, and if I don’t need to make any changes set my timer and lie down again.
The longer I can set the timer, the better the sleep. How long that is depends on conditions. Out on the ocean, with minimal ship traffic and obstacles, I am totally comfortable sleeping for up to an hour. On this passage, which required staying within a few miles of the Florida coast to stay out of the north-flowing Gulf Stream, 25 minutes was as long as I dared (and 15-20 minutes when I was passing an inlet and its associated traffic).
This strategy of brief and frequent naps is something I first learned about when I reported and wrote an Outside magazine story about a sleep doctor who advised solo racing sailors. I played around with it at the time I wrote the story, but serial napping in the comfort and safety of your home is very different than serial napping on a sailboat out on the ocean. On a sailboat there is constant change. The wind strength goes up and down. The wind angles change. The sea state changes. Obstacles appear. At home nothing interrupts the napping pattern. At sea, solo, I am constantly waking up to adjust the sails, respond to s strange noise, or deal with an alarm. Fifteen to 30 minutes of uninterrupted sleep is a like winning the lottery. I can survive for at least a few days like this, but a deficit of deep sleep slowly builds and increases “sleep pressure.” The danger is that the sleep pressure becomes irresistible, and a 15 minute nap inadvertently turns into a two hour nap (at least this is my fear). Which is long enough for bad things to happen.
On this voyage, I experimented with one modification to my solo sleep strategy. It was so cold on deck (even with a sleeping bag), that I decided to try sleeping below during some of my naps. In theory, there is not that much difference between going below and being 25 feet from the steering wheel and all the sail controls, and being in the cockpit where everything is close at hand. And I lusted for a warmer, more comfortable, napping spot on the settee in the main salon, where I could stretch out fully, pile pillows, and get deeper than that liminal, half-sleep you experience when you are not quite warm enough. So I went for it, and it was…great. Deliciously comfy. I slept instantly and more deeply. My alarm woke me after 20 minutes from such a heavy slumber it felt like no time had passed at all.
I arose groggily, went on deck, and did my usual scans. Everything was fine, so I headed back below to get another sweet hit of settee sleeping. I lay down, snuggled into my sleeping bag, and…couldn’t fall asleep. My amygdala was flashing some sort of caution. At first I couldn’t figure out why and tried to ignore it. But as I lay awake I considered. Maybe the settee was too comfortable. Maybe it made it more likely that I might sleep through my alarm. My imagination chimed in and agreed with my amygdala. I was just over a mile off the Florida coast. If my autopilot pulled a Crazy Ivan, or anything else went awry I might be happily snoozing as Laughing Gull crunched into the coast. Plus, I felt just that much more insulated from all the little noises and sensations you pick up in the cockpit, which are the early warnings of something possibly going wrong. Suddenly, I felty irresponsible to be snoozing at my leisure, belowdeck, while Laughing Gull sailed on, untended close along the Florida coast. I went back to sleeping, and being chilled, on deck. Sleeping below will have to be reserved for true offshore sailing.
Apart from sleep, everything else solo is mostly manageable (I have to admit I haven’t been surprised by any squalls or un-forecast bad weather yet, so that opinion is open to revision). I cook and eat when I feel like it. I read when I have time. I even watched a movie on my iPad at 3 am (Maestro), when I couldn’t sleep. When the wind did go light after I rounded Cape Canaveral (I could see rockets ready on the launch pads), I had gone so fast and far in the first 18 hours that I just left the reef in the mainsail and sailed slowly and comfortably at 3-5 knots. I must have looked silly to sailboats that passed me during the day, but I got the last laugh when I approached Palm Beach just before dawn the following day and saw a few of them hove-to waiting for daylight, and the flood tide which began at 6 am. What was the rush?
Now I am comfortably anchored in 12 feet of water, just across from the swanky Sailfish Club Of Florida, in the vast cruiser village of Lake Worth, which stretches miles to the south from North Palm Beach. The anchor was in the sand by 9:30 am. I spent the day cleaning up and transforming Laughing Gull from a voyaging boat back into a floating condo with great views. I arrived on New Year’s Eve, and the Sailfish Club way partying that night. Me? There was only one thing I really wanted to do. I cooked a good dinner and went to bed at 9:30 pm. I could not have been happier to lay my head on the pillow and turn out the light. I slept for 10 hours straight. Pure and simple bliss.
Moment Of Zen: Click on image to play…
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