Under A Roof

And hardly paying attention to Windy...

This is my current view. It is not the Bahamas.

Spring is a season of transition. So in late March Laughing Gull began the migration from her winter nesting grounds in the Bahamas to the rocky Atlantic shores of Maine and Nova Scotia. Stage 1 was a 380-mile solo sail from the Abacos to Brunswick, Georgia, where LG is currently in a brief hibernation. Stage 2 will go from Georgia, around Cape Hatteras, and up to the Newport, RI area. Stage 3 will be to sail to Maine and Nova Scotia (and maybe Newfoundland), where LG will spend the warmer (and hopefully less foggy) days of the summer before migrating south again.

I am also hibernating, in West Cork, on the southwest coast of Ireland. I am new to the living on a boat thing, but I have already learned that taking a break a couple of times a year and enjoying the security and predictability of living in a solid, permanently moored, roofed, structure is a good way to recharge, reassess, and rewire. It is an interesting transition. Traffic, crowds, and all the electronic noise of modern life ashore can be a bit jarring. But sleeping deeper, and without some part of my subconscious on watch and tracking noise and motion, plus not worrying about weather and all the mishaps that can befall a sailboat on an unpredictable sea, plus easy access to hot showers and fresh produce, can feel pretty darn good. Until it gets boring. Which is, of course, when it is time to go back to sea. Already it feels weird to be so disconnected from every nuance and change in the weather. Already I can sense growing detachment from life ashore as so many live it.

The sail from Great Abaco to Brunswick was a fitting end to a love affair with the Bahamas. The forecast was about as good as one could hope for, and the only moment of stress was exiting the shallow Abaco Sea into the deep Atlantic via North Man O’War Channel. Large northeasterly swells had been pounding the Abacos and raging up the cuts for days before I departed, sinking one sailboat in nearby Whale Cay Cut, and driving a stricken tug and barge onto the reef at Man O’War (despite it being considered one of the more benign cuts used to pass between the Abaco shallows and the true ocean). Winds had eased in the 24 hours before I planned to pull the anchor and go, after yet one more frontal passage. But it was hard to predict how dangerous the lingering six foot waves might be in the narrow cut. My Navionics chart helpfully warned that in “large” swells there could be breaking seas all the way across Man O’War Channel (very, very not good), but less helpfully declined to give any sort of indication of what “large” meant. Six foot? Eight foot? Bigger? So I had no idea whether the swells still piling into the narrowing, shallowing channel might be a boat-breaking problem or no problem at all.

Two Apogee 50s In The Abacos

I wanted to leave as early as possible in the day, to take full advantage of the perfect winds (and avoid the next front, arriving in a few days), but not so early I drowned myself and LG exiting Man O’War. Ideally, I would be out in the Atlantic before noon, but the swells were not supposed to start laying down in the lighter winds before sunset. As I pondered this conundrum, sitting at the chart table and drinking coffee an hour after sunrise, I saw on AIS that a sailboat called Endeavor was on a beeline for Man O’War Channel. I waited until they had cleared the channel and tried them on VHF. To the skipper’s great credit he was keeping a good radio watch, and responded right away. Some big waves, he reported, but nothing breaking. He told me he had worried about it all night, but had been pleasantly surprised by the manageable conditions. With that reassurance, I wished him best of luck (he was headed to Hampton, VA), and set off straight away.

Tug and Barge On Man O’War Channel Reef

It is always a little stressful in the current and turmoil of a cut, and I prayed fervently to the Yanmar God while transiting. If your engine suddenly dies you can end up like the benighted tug and barge, getting hammered by the Atlantic as I passed by. I dipped my bow into a few of the larger and steeper waves, but, as Endeavor had assured me, the conditions were manageable. Still, when I got through and was able to crack off onto a reach and stop the engine, a sense of deep relief settled in. No more shallow water. No more fronts. No more tricky cuts. I loved the Bahamas, but no sailor is unhappy with vast depths and vast expanses of open ocean.

That feeling of contentment—at traversing a relatively benign ocean in a well-found boat—stayed with me all the way to the Brunswick, two and a half days later. Dolphins and seabirds kept me company, there was more sailing breeze than forecast, and the Gulf Stream eventually whisked me north at an extra 2-3 knots without even bothering to trouble me with squalls. I slept well. I ate well. I listened to music, read, watched some mediocre TV drama, and stared at the horizon. On the second night of the passage, the wind piped up to 18-20 knots from the southwest while I was in the Stream, so I got all the lines ready and then rolled a reef into the main. It went remarkably smoothly and efficiently, a testament to my growing confidence and comfort with handling LG solo. As usual, LG settled down nicely and continued racing along at nearly the same speed, sometimes showing 12 knots over the ground thanks to the Gulf Stream boost. I would have happily gone on for days.

I exited the Gulf Stream east of Jacksonville, and the wind finally started to fade. Out came the reef. When the wind died altogether, I had to spend the final 3 hours of the passage motorsailing. I arrived at the inlet to St. Simons Sound and Brunswick around 9 pm, after 60 hours of fine passagemaking. I made my way upriver a ways, assisted by the flood, and the anchor was down by 10 pm. I cleared up, cracked a beer, and made dinner. Then slept the deep sleep of the secure sand satisfied sailor.

In the morning, I nosed my way into Brunswick Landing Marina and secured LG for her Spring hiatus. She had kept me safe and taken me to beautiful places over the winter, and I had discovered that living in a 300-square foot waterfront condo that can sail suits me well. It is a simpler, physically active, lifestyle. My mind and senses are deeply engaged with the natural world and all the complexities of navigating a small boat across constantly changing waters. And I am able to achieve the detachment needed to see and experience what is happening in the world without despair and paralysis.

LG Nesting For A Bit

That distance allows creative energy to build. In Ireland, I want to take that energy and use it to think and write dispassionately and clearly. The vibrant colors of West Cork, the wild moods of sea and sky, the salt tang in the air, and the warm fellowship of the pub and village are a near perfect catalyst for contemplation and insight. The slower, still distinctly rural, way and pace of life allows more time to focus and create. Which is perhaps why there are so many writers, artists, and musicians in this corner of the world. I sailed away from a life that felt destructive and disconnected from the realities of our time, in search of a life that does less damage and seeks new ways of being. A communal life with interesting and kind people, situated on a dramatic and evocative coastline that begs you to be outdoors, is one good way to be ashore.

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