We would have never left Mystic, Connecticut on this blue-skied, crisp autumn morning, had we even an inkling that 15 hours later we would be slammed with a crippling storm that would leave us limping into Hampton, Virginia two days late and lucky to have survived. Our crew of four is en route to join the Caribbean 1500 Rally aboard our 50 foot Farr yacht, Joy For All.
By midnight, 60 miles off the northeastern coast, motor sailing with a reefed main in light winds, Gil and I are on the dogwatch counting the stars when the sky turns black. An unpredicted maelstrom of heavy winds, rain and nasty seas pipe up. A small low is due in sometime tomorrow, but what the crap is this?
We turn over our watch to Gail and Joseph at three, fully expecting this “squall” to abate. Yet, I awaken at dawn to the metallic clink of the gimbaled oven dancing the mambo. Rolling from our berth, I step over jackets and gear that have slid or been pitched from upper areas. Like a skid-row drunk, I lurch to the cockpit, where Gil has relieved crewmembers, Gail and Joseph. Bundled in foul weather gear, silver hair blown amok, Gil’s face is grim.
Winds have spiraled from a tolerable 25 to 35 knots to 40 plus, now. The seas gather around us like a city of tall buildings. To starboard, a monstrous claw of a wave hovers. The muscles in my shoulders tense and my neck shrink. It attacks, washing over our cockpit enclosure and leaving us dry but shaken from the impact. Through the companionway, I see my coffee pot rolling about the counter like an injured body, spewing liquid onto the floor of our portside, step-down galley. When I rush to catch it, I slip on the gooey mess made by the powdered coffee creamer, which has catapulted and split open on impact.
The added commotion has stirred Gail, an expert sailor and tactician, and she and Gil consult. Bare poled now and under full engine power, we are off the coast of New Jersey. As we turn toward Atlantic City, to safety, our speed drops to 2 knots.
Twelve miles to shore. Six hours of beating hell.
We opt to continue south, edging toward shallower waves near shore, intending a northward turn to reach Atlantic City. Meanwhile the seasick bug has struck our Joseph, a hardy sailor and great chef. He is prone across the saloon seat, clutching a plastic supermarket bag. Joe has company in his misery, for not even scopolamine patches or Bonine are enough to keep down the nausea that grips us all. We stave off the green beast as best we can with dry crackers and water and, when off watch, by lying down, eyes shut.
Our thoughts focus on survival as the winds and seas build throughout the day. Bracing with two hands and judging the motion of the boat does not prevent us from slamming into a bulkhead, spinning out and clunking a hip or shoulder, or careening down the steps into the galley or forward berths--not to mention that slippery coffee creamer mess I am too nauseous to clean up. And it is damp and cold, with temperatures in the 30s and 40s.
We've been pounded for 18 hours, now, with no sign of reprieve. Wind speed has climbed to a sustained 55 knots, gusting into the low 60s, and the seas crowd around us like white-haired monsters. From starboard, saltwater gushes over us in sheets, unsnapping the hem of our cockpit enclosure and washing into the boat.
My hair is wet. Water has invaded the insides of my foul weather jacket, and my sneakers and socks are soaked through. My body is tight with tension, fingers and toes are numb. Inner chills send throbs of goose bumps up my arms. I want to shut my eyes and make it all go away. I want to wake up and find this is a bad dream. Sent below, I crawl into our berth in damp clothes and huddle under as many blankets as I can reach. The chills won't go away. My head is pounding--caffeine withdrawal, perhaps--but I can't seem to move to get two aspirin.
By first light, I know I must rise to help, but I am spacey and move like a zombie. Gail and Gil need something warm to eat, and Joseph is still ill, rising only to take his watch. Oatmeal sounds good, doesn't it? With effort, I prepare two bowls for the microwave, which is hard heeled to port. By the time the ding goes off, half the mush has spilled into the corner of the oven and is dripping into the sink below. Saltwater I can't drain backs up into the portside sink, which dips low with the boat's vicious heel.
But we are moving. The engine plows us through the seas and auto helm is holding course. Our vulnerability is evident as the rudder lifts out of the water and slams back in with the hulking rolling of the sea. I thank the lord for our sturdy boat and sensible crew. The concept of a coast guard rescue flashes through my mind, squished by the risk of evacuation in such treacherous conditions. We are safer aboard, riding out the storm.
The clatter around us is so loud that we barely hear the engine cut out.
Propelled only by the storm surge, we flop about, now. This is a sailboat, so we unfurl the main and stay sail and get the boat moving on a starboard tack, giving up on our fruitless endeavor to reach Atlantic City and continuing toward the Chesapeake.
The day goes on with little change in conditions until we notice a strap holding our dinghy on the deck has snapped. The dinghy is leaning into the port lifeline. As the pressure continues, it breaks through the lower lifeline, threatening to spill overboard. We try to convince ourselves it will be all right; but the ramifications of a heavy item dangling off the low side make it mandatory we secure it.
Knowing there is no choice, my husband sets foot out of the cockpit, while Gail adjusts the sails and alters course to achieve as much stability as possible.
"Don't go." I tug at his sleeve, feeling like the heroine in the black moment of a thriller novel. "I'd rather lose the dinghy than lose you."
Ignoring my pleas, Gil clips his harness onto the jack lines. Dropping low to the deck, he inches forward. He is tall, so even stooped he appears to be standing. I want him crawling. I worry, will the harness hold? One spill, one mistake, and he could be snatched from me forever. My insides are a block of frozen nerves. I cannot move. I barely breathe. Gail concentrates, trying to maintain balance. She is steady, reliable, and even-tempered...and my husband's life depends on her.
Gil is on deck too long, his wet frozen fingers redoing clasps and tying salt water riddled lines. Spiky tendrils of his hair whip about with the wind and rain as cold and sharp as icicles pelt him. I hate him for endangering his life, even as I acknowledge his bravery in doing what needs to be done. Finally, he turns and heads back. I can’t wait. I want him safe inside the cockpit. I grab his hand like a lifeline and help him in. I could have lost my best friend, my soul mate.
In the distance an EPERB sounds. On our radar is a blip about 12 miles to starboard. The unusually quiet VHF radio bursts through with a call to the coast guard. Someone else is out here and in trouble--and in these conditions, there is no way we can reach them in time to help.
Conditions are far from good on day three, but the wind is coming down in small increments and taming the seas. We start to smile and crack jokes. Our stomachs gurgle with hunger. I remember to take my blood pressure pills, brush my teeth and change my underwear. As I comb salt-crusted tangles from my hair, I even consider showering.
On my six to nine watch that night, a patch of blue sky amid the clouds promises clearing, even as it continues to rain. The curve of a neon orange sun appears from under a charcoal cloud bank and splatters flashes of brightness across the horizon. It is going to be over. We are going to make it in.
By dawn, we are sailing under clearing skies with a comfortable 25-35 knot wind. We begin to restore ourselves with real food and dry clothes. Tonight, we will be on shore. Sunset brings us to the approach of Chesapeake Bay. With Gail's skill, we manage to hold course and sail through the entrance channel. I slip a casserole in the oven. Our spirits soar.
With the boat fairly stable, Gil drops down into our engine room and tries to get things going so we can dock. No luck. He hails Towboat US and arranges for a ride in to Bluewater Marina, where the Caribbean 1500 Rally is underway. By nine, we are secured at the fuel dock, having dinner, and learn of a failed sea rescue, where an expert sailor died, and of two boats still missing.
Later, at the rally, an old friend says, “Gil owes you big time for corralling you into crewing on that trip. Maybe some jewelry…”
I shake my head to the side. “He got us here. That’s gift enough for me.”
