Night sailing

I often love night sailing, especially when conditions are good: open ocean, minimal traffic to worry about, clear dark skies, nice wind, phosphorescent water, comfortably warm.... but there are other times, too.

In July, about 18 months ago, I wanted to head from Bucks Harbor to Bar Harbor, ME to meet Cynthia's flight. Weather forecast was for hurricane remnants dying off by dark, then decent but dying winds all night.... and then unfavorable winds until after Cynthia arrived. So.... I headed out at sunset and set sail down Eggemoggin Reach. As the light diminished, the wind increased.. and increased... and increased, well above forecasts, as the eye of the storm passed and the wind returned. Fortunately, I had dropped sails just after dark when I wondered about increasing winds and we raced along under half of the jib. 

By the end of the Reach the wind had died down and I raised all sail... and found that NONE of the buoys in Maine seem to be lighted! No worries: I have good charts, GPS, and AIS... and it means that very very few random high-speed idiots are out at night.

The moonless skies had cleared to reveal sparkling diamonds of stars for the first time that foggy summer as I sailed along using my GPS to tell me where the invisible buoys, islands, rocks, and ledges lay. At one point I sailed over a bar (at least ten feet deep) and the sudden change in wave, current, and accelleration would have revealed the subsurface ledge even if my chart had not... and a bell buoy and gong buoy told me I WAS where the map claimed and that I was moving rapidly past them. We depend so much on vision that it is delightful to use other senses to investigate my surroundings in the pitch darkness!

Another night found Cynthia and me sailing into Beaufort Inlet in the dark, keeping a sharp eye out for obstacles. A storm was approaching and time was short, so it made sense to enter this wide and easy harbor and drop anchor.... and any boats or other obstacles legally had to be lighted... but we turned sharply when a dark thing loomed suddenly ahead. Some huge item of dredging equipment was anchored and the red lights on board had burned down to being barely visible at 100' rather than the mile or so required. Anyway, "all's well that ends well".... 

Sailing north in the spring I ran into a line of storms at night and tried to figure out where the lightning cells were going so that I might be able to adjust course to avoid them. I find that worrying about storms is often worse than being in them. Anticipation of sudden gale-force gusts and lightning leaves me terribly anxious: I actually did far better once I had decided how the thunderheads were moving and set a course, and even better once the winds struck and I could sail along through building waves and whitecaps, hands on the wheel to fight the forces trying to head me up into the wind, trying to hold a bearing through the trackless dark. 

Another night on our first sail in the Bahamas, Cynthia and I were struck by a squall and found ourselves unable to figure out how to sail in the shifting wind, unable to keep a straight bearing. I can't recall if we jibed or tacked or what, I don't know if we sailed in circles or the wind shifted, but I recall noise and shouting and swearing. Something very similar happened when I was helping transport a boat from FL to the Virgin Islands: the crew on deck had trouble with steering a straight line, although there wasn't a storm. Now that I'm far more experienced, I would just heave-to and let the boat sit like a duck in the chaotic wind: much much easier and safer.

Long ago, a friend helped me sail from NC to MA and we tried to run downwind at night in very windy conditions. My friend wanted to make as much progress as we could, so I fought the wheel and tried to keep things safe and stable, nearly damaging the boat in the process. Finally I told myself to quit being stupid and heaved-to, reducing speed from 7.5 knots to 5knots and reducing our situation from dire to unpleasant-but-fine. FAR more relaxing than attempting to sail, even if the occasional "BANG!" of a crashing wave striking the exposed bottom startled me. I've heard about folks actually losing spars or sails trying to sail through this sort of weather rather than being wise and patient...

Avoid all this? Well, maybe.... but I think that the high points in our lives are often defined by the low ones, that happiness is defined in comparison to it's opposite. The lows are very fair payment.

BTW, the photo is a long exposure taken with my cell phone in Sonoma in early November rather than on the boat, but gives a darned good idea of dark sky views from the boat. 

I'm delighted to discover the excellent night photos my cell phone takes: I can even see the color of different stars and the nebula on Orion's sword!

Sailing south: Cape Cod to Lookout Bight

 A couple weeks back, Cynthia and Lucy and Monty and I finally raised our sails, dropped the mooring line, and headed south. 

The moving parts of life dictated that I leave the boat in NC or FL for a month while visiting CA and that Cynthia and Lucy fly out of Norfolk. Wind and waves dictated that we stop in Delaware Bay for a couple days to wait out a storm.

Moving along, we entered the Chesapeake around dawn, actually needing to motor a bit across the glassy water. 

Monty eagerly sniffed the air and looked at the shore, obviously aching for sandy beaches. Lucy, as usual, relaxed in patience, probably cuddled up beside me or Cynthia.

The Chesapeake is BUSY around Norfolk, full of active military bases and commercial shipping and recreational boating. Even has some crumbling old forts: here is Fort Wool: 

The fort is cool; but I dislike the crowding, the developed shorelines, the giant container ships and tankers, and (especially) the military vessels that are all over the place with no AIS to show up on my instruments. Sailing here requires constant attention, somewhat like sailing in Maine with a sailboat that snags lobster pot lines: not pleasant.

SO, once Cynthia and Lucy had taken a taxi to the airport I found myself aching to head to the open sea AT ONCE and did so, despite low wind forecasts. I made it into the open, a few miles off Virginia Beach, before the sun set and the wind died to nothing. 

What to do? So I heaved-to and cooked and took photos.

At around 10:00pm, with little traffic showing, Monty and I crawled into bed to await the forecasted wind. And at 2:00am the boat heeled over slightly, the boat movement and noises changed, and I rose from bed to raise the sails; leaving Monty tucked into the blankets.

Gentle wind moved us along nicely through the dark (I saw two shooting stars!) until sunrise, made unique by clouds and contrails.

Waves built up during the day as I headed for Cape Hatteras and the deadly shoals that extend out for many miles. This is one of the many places where I feel a great gratitude for modern charts and GPS, letting me know where I am at all times... although I have seen plenty of issues with charts, especially in Cape Cod where shoals move often. Anyway, I am always concerned going around Cape Hatteras as the Gulf Stream clips the end of the shoal, causing the north wind I typically ride on my trip south to kick up far bigger waves than in more normal conditions..... and this time I would be rounding the Cape around 1am with winds around 20kts....

In the darkness, I tried to get little naps, hoping to be better rested for the shoals. Wind picked up and overpowered the autopilot, so I had to go out on deck a few times to adjust things... and this was complex. You see, Monty kept wanting to come out and pee; so I would put on my harness, set him on deck while blocking any access to the non-netted sections of the boat, lift him back into the cockpit, zip down the enclosure so he would be OK, then CAREFULLY make my way to the mast, never moving without a secure handhold and timing my steps with the boat motion. Once at the mast, I clip my harness to a secure point, do my work, and then unclip and head back. 

My movements made me think of a sloth, moving along slowly and deliberately, never rushing. When I had a construction business I would tell new employees that no item is worth an injury and sailing is the same. And a nightmare scenario I've often seen in my head is myself in the water, watching the boat sail away unmanned. This has recently gotten even WORSE: now I imagine Monty on board, alone and helpless. And I think this is a good thing to think of as it really really increases my caution.

Along with these thoughts, as I stood at the mast I noticed the shock of two small waves slapping the hull, the roar of the bow wave as I slid down a rushing wave, the whiteness of a large cresting wave behind the boat, the vibration of the propeller turning to a judder as our speed reaches 7 knots or so as we surfed down a wave. And I noticed that this is one of the times I feel most alive, most in tune with the universe. I MISS this badly when I live in a house!

Anyway, we rounded the shoal, avoided the unseen unlighted marker that may exist only on the charts, and headed for Cape Lookout Shoal, another 12 hours sailing in pretty good waves. 

Another several hours (upwind: ugh!) took us to Lookout Bight at sunset.

We dropped anchor, took a walk, and fell asleep.

Monty LOVES this place!