Jump cut from September (Laughing Gull is on the hard in Bert Jabins Yacht Yard in Annapolis) to today (Laughing Gull is at a dock at St. Simons Island, Georgia, having flown around Cape Hatteras on the way south to Florida and the Bahamas for the winter). The repairs and upgrades seemed to take forever, but now Laughing Gull has finally been restored to her true identity: a voyaging sailboat. And I am morphing from land dweller and hater of traffic jams back to my preferred identify as itinerant boat bum and seeker of wisdom, truth and salvation in the play of wind, light and water.
Every voyage writes its own story, regardless of expectations. And this was a voyage in three acts (you can see Laughing Gull’s tracker here).
Act 1 was the departure from the Chesapeake Bay, with my friends Ed and Ivar aboard, and a sublime passage around Cape Hatteras, so often a point of stress, complication, and potential danger. Warm temperatures, reaching winds, fast, comfortable sailing, a crystal-clear starry night featuring a brilliant Jupiter, and plenty of dolphin visitors. It really doesn’t get any easier or better than that. Ed, Ivar and I soaked it all up, got good rest and ate good food, and eased into the simple rhythms of life at sea on a capable boat. For me, there is nothing more soothing than the calm detachment from all land-based craziness that the hiss of the hull, the creak of the sails, and the slap of the waves can deliver.
Act 2, according to classic story structure, has to involve adversity and setbacks (or you’d have a pretty boring narrative). For us, Act 2 involved a relentless beat into strong southwesterlies that tested and discomfited both boat and crew. The successful rounding of Cape Hatteras is always the priority in any delivery south, so I didn’t fret too much at the headwinds forecast to fill in after the first 24 hours. In any case, I knew Laughing Gull to be a pretty capable and comfortable upwind machine. What I didn’t reckon with, really, was the cumulative impact of two days and hundreds of miles of upwind sailing into winds that ranged from 15-22 knots, and seas that built to 4-6 feet.
In short, we pounded our way relentlessly upwind, living life on a constant lean and staggering around the boat trying to hang on. Every time Laughing Gull caught a wave flush and slammed into it rather than slicing through it, it sounded as if a sledgehammer had struck the hull. With every blow, it was impossible not to groan with a mixture of both awe and regret. And to pray that something wouldn’t break. The autopilot wasn’t very good at minimizing the slamming. So Ed, Ivar and I hand-steered quite a bit, which demands more of the crew. And spray and green water swept the decks, finding every little gap and flaw in the allegedly watertight seals of the hatches, and depositing a constant drip of water onto bunks and interior spaces.
Not that the dolphins minded…
The psychological stress, and decline in living standards below, increased with every mile, every slam, and every jet of water into the cabin. Finally, south of Frying Pan Shoals, I called a timeout. The winds were forecast to ease in a few hours to 15 knots or less (though remain from the southwest), and we needed to both charge the batteries and put in some port tack time to close the coast and stay away from the north-flowing Gulf Stream. We furled the staysail, and jogged comfortably along under main and motor, and caught up on sleep. After a few hours, the winds eased exactly as forecast and we got back to sailing. Still upwind, but the the difference between going upwind in 20 knots and going upwind in 15 knots was the difference between pain and pleasure. The worst was over. We were a bit battered, but thoughts of bailing out to Charleston receded. We had a delivery to northern Florida (our goal was Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island) to complete.
Act 3 traditionally involves a dramatic resolution, and the story of our voyage delivered that too. Another 100 miles of upwind sailing on the greatly favored starboard tack took us well offshore and into the next weather transition forecast: in which the wind would go light for about 8 hours and then a 15-20 knot northeasterly would fill in and blow us home. All transpired as forecast, except when the wind finally went light and we started the engine, expecting to be making 6-7 knots directly down the track toward a mid-Saturday arrival, our speed over ground suddenly showed 3 knots. My (very, very) bad. We had wandered into the Gulf Stream and were now bucking a 2 knot current, which had a double dire effect: 1) it would mean a nighttime arrival at the inlet at Fernandina Beach; and 2) the northeasterlies were forecast to steadily increase so every extra hour we were out there meant extra wind when we finally got to an inlet. And the one condition that makes the tricky inlets of the southeastern Atlantic coast tricker (and even dangerous) is hard northeasterlies.
Still, after our upwind battering we enjoyed the peace of motoring across a quickly calming sea. We ate, slept, played music and relaxed. The winds would come, and when they did they came hard. Harder than forecast. Not 15 knots. More like 20-25 knots. By daybreak Saturday we were barreling dead downwind, mainsail out, preventer on, surfing up to 12 knots on 6 -8 foot swells. The autopilot did its best, but we often veered toward an unwanted gybe and sometimes it applied so much force to the rudder in an effort to straighten the boat I felt sure either the hydraulic ram or something in the steering gear would snap. Back to hand steering, which had its thrills. But as I found a rhythm with the waves, and Laughing Gull rocketed down some impressive rollers, I started to think ahead with growing anxiety to the inlet conditions we might find.
We had to get in, because the weather was only expected to grow worse over the coming days. And while Fernandina Beach is considered to be an “all-weather” inlet I didn’t like the idea of transiting in the dark, or the three gybes it would take to get there. As it happened, our sailing angle pointed us directly at another all-weather inlet: Brunswick, Georgia, which was closer, and also an inlet I have been in and out of 5 times. If we went there we could arrive in the afternoon. Equally important, the tide would be slack when we arrived, then flooding (some dumb luck is always a welcome thing). The inlets can be rough enough in a northeasterly, but a northeasterly against an ebbing tide is the condition which breaks boats.
Changing our destination to Brunswick was an easy call to make. But I still had lots of growing anxiety about what the actual conditions would be. I chastised myself for not taking seriously enough the little blast of finishing northeasterlies forecast for our routing. I felt sympathy for all skippers who somehow ended up in trouble against a lee shore, with the rest of the world later wondering how they could have been so stupid. While Ivar and Ed enjoyed the experience of steering Laughing Gull downwind in heavy weather I chewed over the term “all-weather.” What does that really mean? All-weather for a Navy vessel or cargo ship, or all-weather for any vessel? Might there be breaking waves in the Brunswick channel? If I let my imagination loose, this is kind of what it conjured (click image—or here—to see this craziness unfold). I exaggerate a bit, but you get the gist:
We finally hit Brunswick inlet in the early afternoon. There were 4-6 foot swells in the well-marked shipping channel, but none were breaking, my imagination be damned. There was, however, a massive car carrier exiting the narrow channel just as we were trying to claw our way up it. I quickly took us just outside the channel, and to leeward of the cargo ship, letting it slip by safely before getting back in the channel and finally forging our way into the blessed and welcome calm of St. Simons Sound.
We were tied up at the Morningstar Golden Isles Marina by 3 pm, safe and sound. Stress and anxiety evaporated. Cold beers materialized. The addictive satisfaction of a voyage brought to a successful conclusion bloomed within. Hot showers, more drink, and hot dinner followed. Then the deep sleep of the delivered.
Our three act drama came to a close. It was a decent show.
(Thanks to Ivar for the videos).
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Tim, glad to hear you're back on the water doing what you love to do. Keep safe and writing your great journal.