Wintertime in Sweden!

4 FEBRUARY 2011

Today is Friday, Day One of my fourth trip to Sweden. I am
surprisingly unashamed to admit that this, what I'm writing here, is a
journal, and only a journal. For once I'm not trying to serve a higher
purpose, do something meaningful. I'm just sitting down to write about
my experiences.

Okay, I lied when I said this won't serve any purpose. Today marks the
first day of the official run up to two of the most important events
of my life – my upcoming wedding to the most beautiful girl in the
world; and our subsequent trans-Atlantic passage in Arcturus. I say
it's the first day because it's the first time that Mia and I have
been together in a 'home' situation in over four months – prior to
this was a measly two weeks in St. Lucia surrounded by people in a
working environment where we never even got to say a proper goodbye to
each other. So it's different now.

And it's different because I am focused. I'm no longer a fish out of
water in Sweden – I have a lot of writing work to get through in the
next few months and a wedding to plan. I am comfortable enough with
the language to make a fool out of myself and not care. I have an
enormous athletic challenge in less than four weeks – 90km of
cross-country skiing – and I've yet to even learn the sport.

I was motivated to start writing this in a real-time, journal format
after reading the first few sections of Black Swan. The author makes
an intriguing point that history is always explainable with the
benefit of hindsight, but that seeing things in real-time gives one a
more intimate perspective when viewing events through the rear-view
mirror. So despite what I recall of this time, between now and June 18
(and the remainder of the summer), I will hopefully have this record
to confirm or deny what really went on.

---

SAS flight 904 landed this morning ahead of schedule. We had a
magnificent tailwind, according to the pilot. I wouldn't have known
anyway – by a wonderful stroke of luck, I managed to doze for most of
the flight, sprawled out across the four middle seats, all of which
were empty. This was indeed a fortuitous turn of events, as I began
the flight against the window, sharing the neighboring seat with a
rather wide man. Once the plane was fully boarded, the flight
attendants roamed the cabin recommending that anyone sitting too close
to their neighbor could move seats if they preferred, as the economy
class was curiously empty.

I was slightly surprised to see the sun this morning at 7 in the am as
we de-planed. I was anticipating the winter darkness until I recalled
that the darkest nights were over a month ago, and every day is
getting brighter and brighter. It didn't last long though – by the
time I got to Mia's apartment (via the Arlanda Express train and the
tunnelbana), the sky was overcast and it was heavily flurrying.

Arlanda Airport is incredible. For some reason the passport control
guy knew I lived here:

- 'Talar du Svenska?'

- 'Ja, lite.'

- 'Du bor har, eller hur?'

- 'Ja vist!'

I was through in less than a minute. Five minutes later my big Helly
Hansen bag emerged on the carousel, and I snagged my skis from the
special baggage department on the way out – they had already arrived.
I don't remember the Swedish astronaut on the wall exiting the
terminal. Is he new?

Oddly, the excitement of seeing Mia kind of wore off once I left the
airport. Being back in Stockholm and riding the train brought with it
a  strong feeling of familiarity – it was like I'd never left in the
first place and riding the train was the most normal thing in the
world. I lucked into meeting Mia as she was leaving the apartment for
school. She was off in an instant and I was left alone again, to
unpack.

When she returned we made a thermos of coffee and walked down to
Arstaviken and sat on a dock overlooking the frozen waterway. The
middle of the channel had obviously been used by the local ferries and
shipping traffic – it'd been broken and refrozen dozens of times over,
leaving a wide swath of jagged ice interrupted by occasional pools of
melted water rippling in the slight breeze. The ice near our dock was
firm enough to stand on (though I only tried for an instant), and was
covered by a thin layer of fresh snow from the flurries this morning.
The occasional jogger ambled by on the trail behind us, and the train
whoosed above our heads on the bridge to Sodermalm, but otherwise we
had the place to ourselves overlooking the water and the city.
Stockholm, Sweden's biggest city, still has places to escape to, and
this is what we love about it.

Mia was off again at 4 to head to Globen for work, so I grabbed my
skis and was off to Sodermalm to the Intersport to have the bindings
mounted. I expected to have to drop them off for a pickup sometime
tomorrow. Instead the guy downstairs apologized for not being able to
do them on the spot – his colleague was using the mounting machine –
and told me I could pick them up in an hour. Okay.

Sodermalm was crowded, but it's Friday, so it's was to be expected. My
timeframe is all out of whack given the six hour difference. It was
getting dark as I emerged from the tunnelbana station at Skanstull. By
the time I'd dropped my skis off and startes strolling up the hill
past Medborgplatzen towards one of my coffee shops I'd assumed it was
nigh on eight or nine o'clock. Alas, it was only just after five. The
darkness I had anticipated.

Tully's at the top of the hill was jammed, so I went across the street
to Wayne's Coffee, Stockholm's version of Starbucks which I'd normally
pass by. There was one table open next to a pair of beautiful girls,
so I sat down, but the internet wasn't working. I didn't stay long.

Instead, I hurried back to Intersport where the skis were waiting for
me (150 SEK later), and made my way home to Globen on the tunnelbana.
Dinner consisted of two baked potatoes with cheese and olive oil while
I watched biathlon on Swedish TV. I was bored afterwards, so I went
for a nighttime run down along the water on Sodermalm in my barefoot
shoes and had a glorious time.

Offshore

I did not anticipate the smell.

We actually sailed into Tortola - the breeze picked up as we approached Thatch Island, just after the crew woke me up, around 7 this morning. My last watch was from midnight-2am, and we were still about 50 miles out by the time I went below for a sleep. I left the owner's son, Aaron at the helm, a ship close by to starboard, the loom of St. Thomas just appearing off the bow. The moon was setting in the west, and had disappeared behind a cloud bank just before I went below. There was a space beneath the clouds, however, and I told Aaron to keep a lookout for the setting moon, as I anticipated it being a marvelous sight.

David woke me at 7. We were motoring, as we had been when I was on watch, the mainsail sheeted flat, no jib, powering along at 7 knots. By now we were right on top of the islands, less than 4 miles from the finish line, between Tortola and Thatch Island. It was a good feeling, having slept through the monotony of the approach, awakening just as things were getting exciting, as we arrived.

I didn't want to wake up, in truth. I was in a deep sleep - I had only slept about 4 hours before my watch, when I could have slept 8 - I ended up finishing my 5th book of the passage, and completing the radio sched instead of retiring to my bunk forward. Which was all well and good at the time, but when David roused me at 7, I felt I needed a few more hours to be fully refreshed.

But I went on deck anyway, chipper in attitude because we were nearly there. And then I smelled land.

I recall reading this in the books I've devoured over the last few years. And I should well have experienced it in my own right, having done half a dozen or so offshore deliveries. But the simple smell of the islands, the flowery and smoky fragrance that wafted over the boat as we rounded West End triggered wonderful emotions from my previous visits here over the past three years, emotions that I wasn't prepared for, that caught me off guard and made me realize how much I'd missed this place, the tropics. For all the crowded harbors and charter boats, there is something here beyond comprehension that makes it feel absolutely wonderful to return.

Only smells and sounds can produce those feelings, I believe. For what I saw I have seen before, what I felt I have felt before, and what I smelled I have smelled before - yet it was only that smell which triggered the memories within me, the timelessness, the calming...it's indescribable, really - and I had never expected it.

For the entire summer I have been dreaming of winter, of recharging my batteries after an insanely hot and humid season on the Chesapeake. I haven't had a winter in the past two or three years in fact, at least not an entire season. The thought of retiring to the dark and cold of Sweden this year has been appealing, indeed very much so considering the sweltering we took in July and August. And yet, though the sun baked down upon us as we entered the islands, I felt invigorated by the smell, and beyond that, I can't describe it. It was there, and it was good.

Photo Test Two

Photo Test

Arcturus' New Rig

Check out the new rig diagram I made this morning. I've spent most of the morning in the Southbound shop splicing the new intermediates and putting together a new forestay. Mast will go up in two to three weeks!

Downrigging the Mizzen

The work continues on Arcturus. Mia is on day four of scraping Cetol, and the rigging project is making progress.

After school yesterday we headed back down to the boat on our bikes, the best purchase I've made in a long time. Mia had been at the boat all morning, but the scraping was still not complete, so she got back to work. Meanwhile I was trying to figure out how to get mizzen mast down on deck without breaking it in half. 

We rigged the main halyard to the top of the mizzen mast by connecting it to the mizzen staysail halyard. With the main halyard tight, we slacked all the mizzen shrouds, and rigged the topping lift as a hoist to the stern (the boom had already been taken off). Mia manned the main halyard and I stood aft at the mizzen, and slowly it tipped forward out of its step. We lowered it to the deck using the mainmast halyard like a crane, and the operation went off without a hitch. 

The deck was a tangle of wire and halyards from the mizzen, so I started about taking everything apart and cleaning it up. I must admit that it was nice having a sloop for a while - the  cockpit nearly doubled in size without the mizzen back there. But I still want a two-masted boat, so it will go back up. The shrouds came off very easily, including the tangs on the mast, which I need to replace to accommodate the synthetic rigging. We were able to recycle one of the lower shrouds as a bike lock! The mast is currently laying on deck, radar and halyards still attached, but all the rigging coiled up and stowed away. I will begin splicing and installing new 7mm Dynex Dux to fit to the mizzen.

I re-designed the rigging on the mizzen to eliminate the triatic stay and remove the spreaders. By moving the chainplates for the upper and lower shrouds aft about 10 inches, I will be able to eliminate the need for running backstays in all but the worst weather, as well as eliminating the spreaders - by moving the uppers aft, it widens the shroud angle at the mast to within the acceptable 10 degrees, thereby making the spreaders an unnecessary complication. I'll also be installing two intermediate shrouds that will 'drift' forward about 25 inches from the mast, thereby letting us remove the triatic. All of the mizzen shrouds will be lashed to the toerail in place of chainplates.

Fitting Out Arcturus, Part 1

Mia and I have been steadily chipping away at our long list of projects to prepare for the upcoming trans-Atlantic to Sweden. The Miami Boat Show starts next Thursday, so we've been focusing on getting the boat ready for that, primarily.

Unfortunately that's meant making the boat look pretty, which wasn't exactly one of my priorities for ocean sailing, but nonetheless I think the effort will pay off at the show. Mia has spent the past four or five days scraping old Cetol off all of the exterior wood. I bought her a heat gun the other day, which has made the process slightly more bearable. You don't realized how much wood the boat has until you start a refinishing project like this. The only saving grace is that Ben, the former owner, replaced the teak toerail with aluminum, saving hours of labor. Mia's about 3/4 of the way done scraping, which will be followed by three stages of sanding (60, 150, 220), and finally slapping on 8-10 coats of varnish. We'll be happy if we can get just three coast by the show, continuing to build it up after that as the weather permits. 

I, on the other hand, have been up and down the mast re-doing the standing rigging one shroud at a time. The re-rig was our number one priority before the trip - the old stainless rigging was going on 25 years of service - nearly all the swage fittings were cracked, and I wanted to upsize the wire. Plus, the reason we're in the boat show in the first place is to display the new synthetic rigging we're using, thanks to John Franta at Colligo Marine for the sponsorship (www.colligomarine.com). He sent us  a spool of both 7 and 9mm Dynex Dux synthetic rope (for the mizzen and main, respectively), and all the requisite fittings (deadeyes, thimbles, lashing line, etc.), plus new titanium mast tangs. 

Yesterday I cycled almost 15 miles to Broward Bolt to pick up a new 1/2" stainless bolt to attach the new mast tangs with. I swung by Lowe's to pick up rubber washers for insulating the titanium against the aluminum mast. Surprisingly, the old bolt and tangs came off quite easily, even with the added difficulty of dis-assembling it from the bosun's chair. When it came apart, I found the bolt bent alarmingly, and the pin holes on the tangs severely deformed. The new titanium tangs are vastly stronger, lighter and thicker, and should prove a definite improvement. They went on without any trouble. (I would have had to replace the tangs regardless of the wear on the old ones - the thimbles that the Dux are spliced to are significantly wider than a swage or Sta-Lock wire end fitting, and would not fit next to each other on a typical double-lower-shroud tang).

I had previously measured and spliced the lower shrouds from the 9mm Dux. It rained much of the afternoon yesterday, and after having gotten soaked while up the mast, I sat in the cabin in my underwear getting dry and splicing line. The 12-strand Dux is very easy to splice - with practice, I am able to complete a perfect splice in about 10-15 minutes. The thimbles have deadeyes built into them where the lashing line is then rove through, attaching to another deadeye that gets pinned to the chainplate. This eliminates the need for turnbuckles and adds a very traditional look to the boat, which I rather like. Tuning is more laborious, but once set-up, it works very well.

Due to the lashing line, measuring the shrouds is not as imperative as with turnbuckles, because any  length difference can be made up with the lashing line. I measured the lowers with each other, meaning both the aft and forward lowers are the same length, but they are not as long as the wire ones were. The lashings are about 24" long, making the lower thimble of each shroud come to about the top lifeline. It's important to measure the shrouds to matching lengths so it looks nice, but the actual length of them is  less important.

I'd previously spliced and installed twin backstays in place of the original split backstay (due to the twin chainplates of the yawl configuration). A challenge remains of finding a way to efficiently attach both thimbles at the masthead, where only one wire was attached before. Currently there are several shackles and toggles doing the job, but we'll need a better solution before heading offshore, as there are simply too many links in the chain, so to speak, and I need to simplify and strengthen this. However, having twin backstays seems vastly superior to a split stay for ocean sailing.

I've also reconfigured the mizzen mast to do away with the triatic stay, thereby independently staying each mast. To do this, I consulted both Brion Toss' book 'The Rigger's Apprentice' and Donald Street's 'The Ocean Sailing Yacht.' Both books agree that to get a sufficient staying angle on a shroud, there must be at least one inch of 'drift' for each foot of height. I'll be installing intermediate shrouds on the mizzen mast to act as forestays - they will attached 16' off the deck (21' total mast height), and will 'drift' forward a full 25 inches, which is plenty of drift to support the mast when going to windward. This will eliminate the triatic. Similarly, I will be eliminating the spreaders, and moving the chainplates for both the uppers and lowers aft about 10 inches, to get a wider mast angle, and create enough 'drift' aft so as not to have to rely on running backstays except in heavy weather. I basically copied the proportions of Donald Street's yawl 'Iolaire' when doing the calculations. Since the mizzen is so small and the forces so little, I'll be able - using the synthetic shrouds - to lash the shrouds right to the toerail (whichis through-bolted), using shackles smooth enough to accept the lashing line, providing a myriad of options for placing each shroud, instead of having to move the chainplates. 

When it's all said and done, I'll have what I believe to be the ideal ocean-sailing setup - a wire forestay that will accept a hank-on 100% jib; a synthetic inner forestay, with a hank-on storm staysail; a genoa furler, independent of the forestay for my 150% big sail, which can be lowered in rough weather without interfering with the forestay; an independently stayed and vastly stronger mizzen mast; and, finally, outboard chainplates, also of titanium (from Colligo), that will eliminate deck leaks and make for better shroud angles. 

Photos and more on the final product next week.

The Secret Band

The village of Morne rests at the top of a mountain in the green interior of St. Lucia. On Sunday, Mia, Suzana and I made an accidental visit there and got to enjoy part of an island culture I had assumed didn't exist here.

Rodney Bay Marina, where more than 200 yachts participating in the 2009 edition of the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers are berthed, is typical Caribbean tourism at its worst. Restaurants serve 'western' food at ridiculous prices, taxi drivers continually bark for your business and locals remain virtual slaves to the visiting yachts. Apparently this works for all parties involved - the St. Lucians demand a pretty penny for the services rendered to the yachties, and the yachties get the 'developed' services and facilities they're after. It's just not for me.

On my second day off from working - and after just completing the 2am-8am graveyard shift - my ARC partner Suzana, who is from Portugal, Mia and I took the car and went for a drive. The plan was to have no plan. I was at the helm, Mia riding shotgun and Suzana in the back, and we agreed that if anyone wanted to turn at any time, simply to say so. As driver, I was happy to oblige their whims.

We stopped to buy drinking coconuts not five minutes outside the marina complex. I will never tire of coconut water, which is without a doubt the most refreshing and enjoyable beverage one can experience, and it comes in it's own container. The guy on the street hacked a few open with his machete and Mia and I drowned them in a few large gulps. Then we continued up.

We made a left turn off the main road as soon as we could - another side effect of the influx of tourists and yachties is the incredible traffic on an island where there is only one road leading to anywhere. Only half a century ago an overland journey on St. Lucia could have taken days on foot or horseback. Today it takes about an hour to traverse the island from north to south, and the roads are in amazing condition. Up we went, on a roller coaster of a road. We came to a fork in the road, and Suzana shouted 'Left!' so I went left. The road continued up, passed a few small shops, and turned into dirt. And we found ourselves in Morne.

Little more than a few houses on the hills lining each side of the road, Morne is a family village, and we had stumbled upon a family party. The party was not all that different from the summer pool parties at home. Chicken was roasting on several grills, a man behind a bar that known as the 'No F-ing Credit Bar' was distributing 'Piton' lager beer, and the family was playing music. Incredible music, actually. About a dozen or so St. Lucians - all related - were banging away on metal chairs, bamboo poles, plastic barrels and bongo drums, while another was tooting a conch horn and a woman sang the lyrics in Creole. They called themselves 'The Secret Band,' and I was happy to be in on it.

We were only passing through on our 4-wheel adventure, but they insisted we stay. I had no problems with this request, and was handed a beer. Several generations of the Morne Village family were present, from the smallest baby to old men with no teeth, and everyone was happy. The music continued with new members joining and leaving the band at will. Even the little ones had a go, and it was apparent that these islanders, at least, had music in their blood. 

They would only allow us to pay for one beer each - after that, everything was on the house. We ate grilled curried chicken, fried bread and fish cakes. We drank beer. A teenager opened a dozen coconuts with his machete, and we drank the water, with rum of course. 

The party continued into the afternoon. We were invited by one of the younger guys to go for a trip down to the beach, on the Atlantic side, where he'd show us around to the Carib Indian ruins that lay among the palm trees, the first settlement on St. Lucia. Happily, we obliged.

Once beyond Morne, the dirt road began its descent to the beach. The little Daihatsu bounced along on the rutted and rocky path, but managed well enough. To our right a valley opened up, at the bottom of which stood a small pig and banana farm, a thousand feet below us. To the left, cows and goats grazed on the steep hillsides. This was the St. Lucia that the ARC participants were missing, and I was okay with that.

At the beach, which was volcanic black sand, dwarfed on two sides by enormous cliffs, the Atlantic surf pounded on the sand. Debris from passing ships had washed up on the shore. Bookcases, old bottles, even a telephone pole were strewn about the ground. We hiked beneath the cliff on the southern side along a barely discernible path through a grove of coconut palms. Our de facto guide pointed out the Indian ruins, which became quite obvious after a second glance. Soon the remains of a large Indian 'church' appeared out of the trees. An enormous tree had grown right up through one of its walls, betraying the age of a rather mystical place. 

After our walk, I helped Lloyd (our village guide) load the two bookcases into the back of our car - he was going to fix them up and use them for his house, which I thought was a grand idea. Similarly, the grills back at the village were made from old propane and gas tanks cut in half and hinged, mounted on legs made from rebar. The kettles they boiled their pots on were old car and truck wheels, mounted in a similar fashion as the grills. They waste nothing in the village.

Upon our return to the mountain top and Morne, I expected Lloyd to announce his fee for our afternoon tour. Instead, he called to his two kids, who appeared holding a machete and more coconuts, and he offered us another drink. He was incredibly proud of his family, of the house he built with his own hands, and of the village life where his entire extended family lived close together on the top of that mountain. 

I arrived into Morne with the initial impression that I was an intruder, 'stealing' photographs and somehow tainting an otherwise 'pure'  atmosphere. I wondered to myself if there was anything I could give to those people to make their lives better. 

The villagers at Morne want for nothing. They are quite obviously far happier than any western family I've encountered, my own included. Their happiness comes not from things or money, but from togetherness and passion. Passion for their land, their music and for each other. I left thinking instead how the world might be different, if we all had the same attitude about life.

Cafe Rustica

My back hurts from sitting on the sofa. It was comfortable for the first hour or so, but you can only change positions so many times before you've gone through them all. 

I'm back in Ft. Lauderdale, back at the Cafe Rustica where I spent a lot of afternoons last spring either before work at the River Taxi, or after school at MPT. The same dude is still running the place, the music is still excellent, and the atmosphere stimulating. The only difference is that Mia is sitting across from me, instead of 4000 miles away on the other side of the Atlantic. This is a good thing.

We arrived in Pompano on Sunday night, after deliriously navigating through the 22nd and final drawbridge of our longest day yet on the ICW. It was only 63 miles, short by comparison, but took an agonizing 14.5 hours of hurry-up-and-wait motoring. Most of the bridges on that southern section of the waterway are restricted, and it's easy to get in sync with their hour and half hour schedules - if you're a powerboat. Arcturus was about half of a knot slow, and we continually arrived at the next bridge exactly as it was closing. We waited the full half-hour four times, adding two hours to our journey's last day, a day when we were tired but excited, a day when all I could think about was that frosty German bier and two pound pork shank waiting for me just behind our new dock. That thought alone, after ten days without meat or alcohol was enough to drag those half-hour waits into infinity. 

But we finally did make it, and Checkers, as it's known, was still open, even though it was 8:30 on a Sunday night. We were the last patrons, but we were without a doubt the most appreciative of the lot that day. The Bavarian music played over the speakers, and that first bier was a waterfall running down my gullet. Mia and I had eaten so little in the previous ten days that I actually couldn't finish the pork leg, a first. I did manage to drown a second liter of bier though, and it was delightful.

We've got the rest of the week to figure out how to stop Arcturus from sinking at the dock - the packing has been leaking so badly as to fill the bilge in little over twelve hours. Without an automatic pump, we resorted to manning the hand-operated pump in the cockpit, pumping nearly 100 strokes per hour underway, an exhaust leak adding to our troubles. On Sunday we fly to St. Lucia for the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers, where we'll greet the incoming yachts en route from the Canaries, 2800 miles across the ocean.

Jonas the Goose

There's been a particularly friendly white goose hanging around Sarles for a while now, and the other night I decided to make friends with him.

He hangs out by the boat ramp up near the railway in the evenings, returning after untold adventures in Spa Creek. He makes an awful racket with his incessant honking, but I think he just wants attention.

I had some old hot dog buns in the fridge, so sat down with him the other night and had a little foody snack party with him. He literally came right into my lap and ate from my hand, nibbling on my fingers as he tried to eat the buns. It doesn't hurt when he nibbles. He's got no teeth, only a beak.

Last night I took him a little bowl of water and it's incredibly comical to watch him drink. He leans down, sips some water up, then put his head back to let it slide down his long neck, making little sipping noises all the while. This morning he came honking by the boat, paddling along with his orange webbed feet and I fed him some Swedish crispbread for breakfast, which he seemed to enjoy immensely. He lets me pet him now, even without food, and his big puffy white chest is incredibly soft. He has bright blue eyes with an orange ring around them, and is quite striking when you look at him up close.

We named him Jonas, and he's a friendly goose.

Contemplating Prison in Grenada

After three hours in the Immigration Office in Grenada, I'd finally resigned myself to the fact that I actually would be spending the night in prison. 

The Caribbean is a wonderfully friendly smattering of nations and cultures, where it's almost too easy to cross borders and travel freely. Especially by sailboat. Even our most recent passage, a relatively long one by comparison between Union Island and Grenada was an easy one, just a long day sail of 50 miles or so. Since coming down from St. Martin over the previous three weeks, our teenage crew had covered a lot of ground, and we'd gotten quite adept at handling the customs and immigrations procedures along the way. In my backpack, safely wrapped in plastic, were 13 passports and the boat papers,  and it was only a matter of filling out some forms and smiling to the friendly government people, and we were off, free to explore another country.

It's also very easy to get lulled into a sense of complacency, to fall victim to 'tropical stupor,' that lazy, languid state of mind created by balmy weather and easy-going, where you 'just can't seem to get anything done.' 

My brush with the Grenada officials came about due to a combination of the factors above, with the additional stress of playing both captain and psychologist for a boat-full of teenage emotions. One particularly rebellious student had finally crossed the line in the Grenadines - we booked him on the first flight out of Grenada the following morning, a scheduled 6:30am departure. My first mate Mia (who also happens to be my fiance), woke before the dawn at 4:00 to accompany the student to the airport, meeting the taxi at the St. George's Yacht Club. 

I realized something was afoot when I went to clear customs that afternoon. The head Immigration Officer seemed to know who I was before even introducing myself, and gave me a wry smile when I asked to be cleared into the country. 

'Have a seat, Captain,' he said, emphasizing the word, almost taunting me for my apparent mis-step. The bottom line, he explained, was that I'd illegally disembarked a crewmember without first clearing him into the country. By his logic, he had no idea if I'd disembarked him at all, going so far as to suggest I could have thrown him overboard 5 miles offshore. 

After 10 minutes, I realized the situation was quite serious, despite the officers friendly demeanor. I remained seated, while he towered over me, staring at me through the corner of his eyes as his head gazed off in the other direction.

'Andrew, Andrew,  Andrew, I hope you can come up with brilliant idea to help me decide what to do with you...'

Brilliant idea? Was he talking about a bribe? I had no idea how to handle myself, and decided to just answer his questions honestly, and hope he'd let me go on account of my responsibility to the kids (who were sitting outside, waiting for me to emerge, which was starting to seem increasingly unlikely). He called Mia in after an hour or so, asking her if she was capable of sailing the boat onward to Trinidad while I lingered in the local jail, awaiting my trial and potential $10,000.00 fine. Though she would have been quite capable to do so, leaving me behind was not an option. The walls were closing in, the room was getting hot, and I was getting desperate. I had only myself to blame - my innocent slip-up was about to put me in the biggest trouble in my young life. Forget the principals office - jail in a foreign, third-world country suddenly seemed tangibly real, and each minute that passed was another minute to contemplate my fate. I'd quickly sobered up from my bout of 'tropical stupor.'

As the third hour came and went, so did my hopes of sleeping aboard that night. The officer assured me that I'd be taken care of - a private cell, a hot meal and a shower. By then I was simply grasping for bright spots, and the idea of a real shower after 25 days actually sounded pretty good. 

'Do you know what this means, Captain?' he asked me, handing me a sheet of paper, completely out of the blue. I looked at what appeared to be my clearance, both into and out of the country, and I gave the officer a puzzled look. 

'Does this mean you're letting me go?' I nervously replied. 

'Yes. But only because you have ten young lives to look after, and you seem like a good man. Now go.'

Dumbfounded, I stood on wobbly legs, walking out of the office without even thanking him, corralled the kids and walked - practically floated on air actually - to the dinghy dock, where freedom was instantly manifested in the form of a small rubber inflatable. 

The lesson, of course, is to simply take customs and immigration as seriously as it really is. Clear in immediately upon dropping your hook - this must be a priority. If you can't, fly your yellow 'Q' flag and do not let anyone go ashore until the skipper has completed his responsibilities. Once cleared, fly the courtesy flag of the country your in from your starboard spreaders while you're in their waters. It makes you legal, but more than that, it lets people know you respect not only the law of the land, but more importantly, the laws of the sea.

It's so easy to take this for granted - the Caribbean is so laid-back and friendly, that clearing in and out becomes formality, routine. But what if the tables were turned? Imagine a Grenadan boat disembarking a crewmember in New York City, where he subsequently boarded a plane en route to a foreign country, without first going through customs. The skipper in that case most certainly would be in prison, no questions asked. 

In the end, the officials in Grenada remained friendly and polite throughout the ordeal, as was every other customs official I encountered throughout the whole of the island chain. I was scared stupid not of them, but of my waiting prison cell.  

Back at the boat, dinner never tasted so good. The kids wanted to know word for word what had happened. I obliged with a stupid smile plastered on my face, breathing in the air of a free man, acutely aware how wonderful it was to be sitting in the cockpit of a sailing boat and not behind bars. 

Fun with Celestial!

Just a reminder to anyone interested in joining us for the Celestial Nav course in Annapolis. We're up to 4 confirmed entrants, so there are only two spots remaining. Check out the details, once more:

Celestial Navigation Workshop: $300.00

September 19 & 20, 8 am - 5 pm each day

Sarles Boatyard & Marina, in Eastport (Annapolis)

The course includes all materials needed to practice taking sights, reducing them, and plotting them on a chart. We have a few sextants and all plotting materials, but feel free to bring your own (in fact I encourage you to, if you have your own). 

We'll spend Saturday morning talking about the 'Big Picture' of celestial, what's going on out there in the heavens and how we can use it to navigate. Then we go sailing on Arcturus, take a bunch of practice sights of the sun, and spend the afternoon learning how to reduce and plot them. Sunday will be a bit more of the same, with a greater emphasis  of navigating by the stars (much easier than reducing a sun sight), using steering stars, and why I think celestial is just so darn cool.

Contact Andy at 484-269-3358 or andy@fathersonsailing.com to sign up. See you there.

Ideas From My Bicycle

I'm not a cyclist, per se, but I am also not not a cyclist. 

For the first time in a long time (over a year?) I suited up in my spandex and took to the crowded, rush-hour roads of Annapolis on my Madone, eager to put some miles under the tires, erase my brain and get some much needed exercise.

I rode past the Naval Academy, up and over the 450 bridge and out towards Sandy Pt. State Park, a 21-mile jaunt that brought back memories of my days living ashore, when I sometimes rode over 150 miles per week on that bike. I usually take music with me, but this time it was silent, save for the traffic and the occasional bird, and my head was spinning (in a good way) with ideas.

I wanted to write this last night, when I was fresh off my bike, but there was a sexy Swedish girl in the cockpit of my boat with a bottle of wine and some French cheese, so we enjoyed the evening instead. 

I always said that I wish there were a little man up in my head who could write down my thoughts when I wanted him to. Often when running of biking, and with no music, I have a terrific flood of ideas that pass through my brain, and wouldn't it be nice if someone were there to write them all down? Here's what I remember...

Idea #1: 'The Great Chesapeake Bay Seabreeze Race'

Since somehow being appointed the new 'Commodore' of the Allied Seabreeze Owner's Association (how did that happen anyway?), I've been brainstorming about how to do some fun things with my fellow Seabreeze sailors. Why not a race?

Typically my brain will start with the seed of an idea, and in this case it started wondering how I could get involved in 'The Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race' this year, but on my own boat. Then it marched right along, remembering that I am the new 'Mr. Seabreeze,' so why not get a whole bunch of boats involved? And since the Schooner Race would never allow one-sticked boats in their event, why not create  our own? It wouldn't even have to be the length of the Bay (though I'd push for that), but something different, maybe Baltimore - Annapolis? I'm going to let this one incubate for a while, but I might have something here.

Idea #2: 'Rally to Bermuda'

I spoke with Steve Black on the phone yesterday, who run's the 'Caribbean 1500' cruising rally each year, which we are participating in aboard Sojourner. He mentioned the thought of organizing a Bermuda rally, of combining with the NARC Rally in the future and got the wheels turning on my end.

Mia and I have our sights set high on reaching Sweden next year on Arcturus, which will most likely include a stopover in Bermuda, so why not get a bunch of other boats to follow us there? Of course, we'd likely end up last in the fleet, if it turns out to be anything like the Carib 1500, with the average size being around 48', some 13 feet longer than our little yawl. But nonetheless, why not?

Idea #3: 'The Self-Sufficient Rally'

I don't know how or why I got caught up in this rally business. In fact, I have a definite distaste for it, thinking that when we go cruising it will most definitely not be with a bunch of other people out in the middle of the ocean. So how can you reconcile sailing in numbers to a sailor like me who prefers solitude?

I fear (and could be wrong), that the onset of cruising rallies are making very adventurous people out of novice sailors. There has to be a way to stress self-sufficiency in the organization of these rallies, something that is not only going to get those sailors safely across an ocean, but also make them better and more self-sufficient for it. I think it's awesome having a net of cruising sailors a radio call away when something goes wrong aboard (say a blown headsail, clogged fuel filter, etc.), but there's got to be a way to teach people to try for themselves before calling for expert advice. I understand that they stress that in a rally, no one is there to help you, and I also understand how comforting it must be just to hear a friendly, helpful voice on the radio. But let's use these cruising rallies as a way to make better sailors out of folks, rather than just complacent sailors. This one needs some more time  to incubate.

Idea #4: 'The Ultimate Broadreach Trip'

It was a long bike ride, and my brain works faster than my legs. Idea #4 began while thinking about who I would want to bring as crew on a potential trans-Atlantic to Sweden next spring. Mia has already declared she wants competent - no expert - crew aboard for the long leg between Bermuda and England, just in case we need their help. I thought of who I'd want along - my Dad, Adam, Micah, Moxie,  Maddy, Darren - but then I thought of DJ, an exceptional kid and a great sailor who was crew aboard the Arc of the Caribbean program we led this summer. 

It was DJ's fourth trip as a BR student - he was immediately comfortable on the boat, fast became one of our best and most reliable leaders, and by the end of the trip became a full-on sailor, quite capable of standing midnight watches by himself on a 50-footer. Dj was also the funniest guy on the boat (Mia relieved him from watch duty one rough night coming back from Trinidad, with 30-35 knot winds bashing us around. He laid in the cockpit, enjoying the evening, even saying he enjoyed 'being a real sailor.' Not two seconds later he was swamped with a wave that climbed aboard, and not five seconds after that the working jib sheet parted with a 'BANG!' DJ quickly retracted his admission, announcing 'I don't think I want to be a real sailor anymore!'). 

Anyway, all these thoughts went through my brain on my bike ride, and I concluded, 'wouldn't it be cool to offer a crew position to DJ, the ultimate experience for a young kid who really got into sailing this summer and proved himself capable? Of course it wouldn't be an official BR trip, just an invite from a former skipper, but what an experience for him, and what a boon for us to have capable crew. Perhaps I'll think about this one some more.

Odd how all of my ideas somehow related to sailing, despite being all garbed up for cycling. I'm riding again today, this time maybe 30 miles, so we'll see what we come up with for tonight's entry.

Running

"But I'm here for a reason, and with luck I'll pass my test and eventually find my way to the waterside where hopefully docks full of sailboats will await my exploration."

So much for that. 

The color blindness test yesterday proved, well, that I'm colorblind. I can't easily distinguish between green and white, though red shows up just fine. This is the most frustrating failure I've ever experienced. I don't fail. I've never failed anything that I've put my mind to, yet this time it was completely out of my control. No amount of studying, of hard work was going to help my eyes see color better. 

I wanted to punch the wall yesterday when i walked out of the MCA office. I cursed bloody Southampton and everything British, and just wandered aimlessly around the city, finally finding that marina I was looking for. I actually was invited to go racing on Xtrovert, an X-Yachts 37-footer last evening, but simply was not in the mood to be around boats, so I took the train home to Romsey, staring out the window for the duration of the short ride.

Clint was home, and I went running. I needed to run, and it did me good. Behind Clint's house is a path that leads along an ancient canal, with forest bordering one side, and open meadows on the other. Meadow is really the only description for the landscape, appropriately British. It's beautiful. I trotted along the footpath, as it's called. The sun shone down through the branches of the tress that formed a sort of tunnel over the path, and bugs flitted about in front of me. Four ducks waddled down the path, anxious to get out of my way, but friendly enough not to fly off in a flurry. They were content to plop themselves headfirst into the canal, and gave a nod as I passed. 

I ran the anger and frustration out of me. 20 minutes into my journey I sped up, because I had a realization. I can run. I can run as far as I want to, and no one can stop me. I can sail. I can sail my own boat around the world as many times as I please. I can climb Mt. Everest, I can write a thousand books, I can compete in a thousand races. Why waste my time worrying about what I can't do? I realized that to focus on what I can do and not waste any time not doing it is foolish. 

Clint, Ally, Matt and I went last night to the hotel where I'm sitting now and drank beer and tequila. The conversation grew livelier with each shot and each glass of beer, and I enjoyed the company of my friends. 

In Southampton

The train ride was only 15 minutes, so I got into town much earlier than expected, and far earlier than I needed to be. My eye exam is at 1pm, and it's only 10 past 10am at the moment. My search for wireless internet was fruitless, so I'm sitting now in a pub, writing, having already finished my first coffee. I'll save the second for the pub that actually has wireless internet.

---

The town of Romsey is wonderful. The centre has a very medieval feel to it, and was walkable from Clint's house. A great abbey stands watch over the town from the top of the hill. Surrounding this is countryside, as far as you can see, and in the springtime warmth, it's beautiful. Clint and I ran yesterday, down along the canal on a dirt footpath, over several small wooden bridges, through swampy wooded areas and along flat grassy fields. We only ran for about 30 minutes, but it felt much longer, for there was so much to see, so much to smell. The birds sang louder than my iPod and the warm air require the removal of my shirt. I was at home.

Clint took me to his village in the evening to meet Glenn for a pint. I haven't seen Glenn in two and half years, since leaving Christchurch on that morning the boys never returned from the pub. Nothing has changed, except Glenn has a beard now. It was great to see him, and the three of us relived the old times over a few glasses of beer in the village where they grew up. Clint complains of the village, but to me it was idyllic. The pub was white with wooden beams, and situated at the bottom of a small valley, the center of the small town surrounded by quaint and humble homes. Beside that, it was more farmland and countryside, rolling hills punctuated with brilliant yellow fields of rapeseed. The landscape was more fertile and blossoming than any I can remember. Maybe I'm here at the right time of year with the right weather, but I could have stayed in that village forever.

---

Southampton is not like any of that. Southampton is a city, but not a big one, and seems to be a large commercial port. Loads of cranes and trains lined the tracks coming into the central station. The city seems hastily put together, lacking the character of Romsey, the countryside of the village, and apparently the technology of wireless internet. But I'm here for a reason, and with luck I'll pass my test and eventually find my way to the waterside where hopefully docks full of sailboats will await my exploration.

Romsey, England

England!

I left Stockholm Tuesday morning at 11am, looking forward to a leisurely trip southward, expecting to arrive at Clint's around 5-6pm England time, which is one hour behind Sweden time. I arrived at 11:30pm, after nearly 13 hours of traveling by bike, bus, car, airplane, bus, train, and car again. Clint and I drank two Foster's pounders in his living room. They were much needed.

My 'Tunnelbana' card had run out of stamps, so I biked to the central station in Stockholm. Mia was supposed to pick up my bike after school, so I locked it outside of O'leary's pub near the main station entrance. I think i biked through some fresh street paint - my feet, in flip-flops, were speckled with white paint, and each tire had white marks on them.

Usually I am adept at planning travel, but in my experience I must have grown pretty lax. I nearly missed the bus to take me to Vasteras, where Mia's older sister Frida was to pick me up for the last short leg to the airport. Once on the bus, I ended up paying double what I should have paid for a ticket, had I booked it in advance. This was not the end of my traveling troubles on this long day.

The flight was the easiest part of the trip, and Ryanair takes after the Aussies (or maybe vice versa), and boards their planes from both the front and the rear, foregoing the jetway for the old-school walk on the tarmac. This made for 25-minute turn-arounds for the planes, and the entire operation was incredibly efficient.

Once at Stansted, the 'other' airport in London, I had to make my way to the South Coast of England. All I had was an address of Clint's house, and a phone number which was unreachable to me, for I didn't have a phone, nor any British money to use the pay phone. 

In a lovely British accent, the info desk lady offered her assistance: "You must take the bus to Victoria Station, transfer to a bus or train for Southampton, and transfer again to the local train for Romsey. Cheers!"

Right-o. 

I didn't know that Victoria station was in central London. We fought incredible traffic and wound our way through a city much bigger and exponentially more crowded than I'd ever imagined, finally disembarking 90 minutes later near Buckingham Palace. The central station at Victoria was bustling with people at 5pm. My foggy mind was spinning. I purchased a train ticket for Southampton which was to leave in about 40 minutes, so went and found some sailing magazines and a coffee and tried in vain to find a quiet spot away from the crowds. 

Once aboard, I settled into my train routine, wrote a bit in my journal and daydreamed while i watched the scenery go by, becoming increasingly rural the further from London we traveled. I was absolutely enchanted by the English countryside - in the fading daylight, the rolling hills and meadows glowed with a warmth you could feel. On a hillside in the distance a castle stood silhouetted against the backlit horizon, and though you couldn't quite see it in the darkness, the enormous flag flying from the ramparts was unmistakably British. 

The serenity of my rail journey was abruptly halted when the announcement came over the loudspeaker that someone had decided to jump in front of another train further down the tracks, forcing us to divert. We would not be going to Southampton after all, and I'd have to find another way down.

For some reason I had only emailed Clint with my expected arrival time of around 5-6pm. It was then 9pm, and he had no word of me, I had no clue where he lived or how to get there, and it was dark outside. I've grown quite experienced traveling on my own without plans, but my complacency was now costing me considerable headache.

The Brits, I learned almost immediately, are incredibly friendly. Linda, a mother from the South Coast let me borrow her cell phone to call Clint, and a man named Clive joined in the conversation as we brainstormed how exactly I was going to get to my friend. Linda consulted her rail map while Clive called the train service, and together they were an unstoppable force, determined to see my safely to my destination, and my fascination with all things British grew.

Linda bid us adieu at Havant, while Clive and I slogged ever onward, for he was headed to Southampton as well. We were a team now, but he was the unquestioned leader, jumping from train to train at each new platform, planning the route on his map and cell phone, timing everything to perfection and offering precise driving directions to Clint on the phone when we finally found a near-enough station for him to pick me up. Clive was invincible, was made to help foreign strangers like me, and seemed to positively glow with joy when I finally reached my last stop. Good on ya Clive.

My reunion with Clint was subdued only by the fact that I just saw him in Stockholm in September, but it's always great to see an old friend and I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation in the car on the way to his house, as we drove on the wrong side of the road, me in the driver's seat but without a wheel. It was 1130pm by the time we reached his place, but the beer was still cold, the welcoming friendship warm, and I was finally comfortable.

Links to "New" Old Posts

Check out these two posts which I originally published on another blog, and have since transferred here.

Moitessier, Major League Baseball & Roger Federer - February 2, 2009

St. Thomas to Annapolis - March 27, 2009

More Thoughts on Adventure

I've figured it out. It's taken me two glasses of wine and an evening listening to "Music for the Open Minded" on iTunes radio, but I have an idea about adventure, and how to use it in a meaningful way.

Adventure is about the unknown, and the fears, excitement, adrenaline and ultimately satisfaction that come from experiencing it. Anything in life can be an adventure, whether it's selling your car or jumping off a bridge, both of which I've experienced as such. The common thread is the excited fear of the unknown and the anticipation of how it will play out. True adventure forces you to live in the moment, creates a zen-like experience whether you consciously want one or not, from traveling without a destination to walking through a rainforest. Bungee jumping in New Zealand was the single most terrifying experience of my life, but looking back, that 8 seconds of freefall I experienced over a gorge near Queenstown was the longest 8 seconds of my life - it was eternity, followed by the most amazing, indescribably feeling of euphoria that one can imagine. It's impossible to describe. It was dying, and coming back from the dead in a little over 8 seconds. 

Adventure Travel, therefore, adheres to the same idea of the unknown, fear and timelessness, with the added implication being that the event take place outside one's home area. I was struggling with how to declare 4x4 driving as truly adventurous under my definition of the word, until I realized it, as is every other "adventure" experience, is uniquely personal based on one's previous experience and their simple gut feeling. My goal then, as a writer, is to create that gut feeling, the fear of the unknown, and to foster the excitement and uncertainty as it relates to each experience - to give that one person who has never left their garage the temptation to try something new and adventurous, even if to me, it's completely mundane.

"Music for the Open Minded"

I'm in Oxford living in a barn. 

What's nice about the barn is that is has a washer/dryer that has just finished cleaning and drying my dirty clothing that has accumulated on the boat for the past week or so. 

I'm here because I've been busy finding work doing whatever will make me some money and satisfy my soul, which is a difficult combination, because money does not satisfy the soul. I'm refitting Steve's "pocket rocket," his 25-foot Seaward sloop which sits in the swamp that used to be his backyard behind the barn. My front window has an extraordinary view towards the Choptank River and Chesapeake Bay beyond, and I have about  5 acres of land on the peaceful eastern shore to myself for the next few days.

I haven't been writing in here for a while, and that is a shame. Ever since I started trying to get paid to write, I've neglected the outlet that has gotten me there in the first place. It's extremely frustrating, because when I think about the stories I wrote from Austria and Germany during my stay in Prague, they were written only for myself, only to relive in my mind what had been happening in my life, and there was no motive outside of that. Writing to get published has been fun, but just isn't the same. I must continue to write for myself and simply continue these streams of consciousness to keep it pure.

That said, my professional writing career is continually on the upswing. Just today I confirmed two more monthly columns, bringing the grand total to three. "All at Sea" magazine, based in the Caribbean, will be publishing my ideas on seamanship once a month starting in June. The first article will focus on catamaran sailing and how to get the best performance out of a cruising cat. July's issue will be about anchoring under sail and the joy that accompanies it. Of course, there will be a quote from Moitessier...

"Transitions Abroad," the online magazine that's been devoted to helping people discover travel (as opposed to tourism) since 1977, will be featuring my thought and ideas on "Adventure Travel." They've already published four previous, unrelated pieces about various topics from sailing to study abroad, and have agreed to give me a column on adventure. Gregory Hubbs, the editor, and I have had some enlightening email exchanges about our ideas of adventure, travel and tourism, and he has been without a doubt the best and most accesible editor I've ever dealt with in my short career.

Which leads me to my idea of adventure. I've been trying to get this on paper ever since I started thinking about my new column, which has been nearly 12 hours now! My idea of adventure is a state of mind. Anything can be adventurous if you let yourself go. Driving across the Bay Bridge and living in a barn while working on a small sailboat in peaceful natural surroundings while enjoying cleansing solitude is adventurous in my book, as much so as hiking in New Zealand. Yes, I'd rather be hiking in New Zealand, but you make the best of what you're given. 

Adventure requires a lack of planning, a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants attitude where "no" is never the correct response. Think of all the opportunities you've let slip by with that simple two-letter word. A stupid yet useful example I like to use is the sale of my Range Rover. It was winter I think (at least 'wintry' outside), and I'd gotten a phone call from Johnny, a Haitian man from NYC asking me to drive the Rover up to Manhattan, sell him the car for $1200 cash, and take the Amtrak back to Philly, which he'd pay for. Of course, my instinct was to say "no" immediately and hang up the phone, which is exactly what I did. But upon reflection, I'd wanted to sell the car to avoid the expenses and create some tension and adventure in my daily life, so why not start immediately? I phoned him back and agreed to his terms, leaving instantly in a snow flurry, and driving halfway to Manhattan before telling anyone I'd left. I didn't want the opportunity to be squashed by anyone else's conservatism. We made the transaction in an alleyway near Madison Square Garden and I walked to Penn Station with a wad of $20's in my coat pocket feeling like a drug dealer. My heart was pounding - I had a smile plastered on my face too.

I guess adventure is really anything that makes your pulse race, pumps your adrenaline and forces you to exist in the present, for a moment, a week or a lifetime. I recall landing in Fiji two and a half years ago, staying in that deserted hostel in Pacific Harbor and staring at the ceiling while I listened to the 'American Analog Set' and cried inward tears of homesickness, wondering what I'd gotten myself into and why. I could not escape the present as hard as I tried, and I had a queasy feeling in my gut - not one of sickness, but one of the unknown. It took me a while to fall asleep that night, yet ironically the next day was one of the most memorable days of my life thanks to a group of recently unemployed Fijians I encountered sitting roadside under a mango tree drinking cava. 

Not unrelated, about six months later I was sitting at my job in Maryland, far from that previous adventure yet experiencing a similar feeling to the one I had that night in bed. I was about to register for the Black Bear Half Ironman Triathlon in Jim Thorpe, PA. I'd raced a marathon before, competed in sports in high school, and was an exercise phanatic, but this was beyond my realm of experience. The marathon had taken me just under 4 hours to complete and was the single most difficult thing I've ever done. This Half Ironman, by my estimates, should take closer to six hours. 

I was scared. That same queasy feeling I had in Fiji came right back, but I clicked the 'register' button anyway. The commitment was made, now I just needed to follow through on it. Turns out my fears were unnecessary. I won the freaking race in my age group, finishing in five hours, thiry-seven minutes, completing the greatest athletic achievement of my young life. 

The point is that adventure lies in the unknown, and we as humans fear the unknown, and this fear of the unknown forces one to live in the present, really live in the present not just attempt to (in the case of true adventure, you have no choice in the matter). As  it pertains to travel, and ultimately to the column I'm supposed to write, I'll have to work on that. But thinking about it these past hours has really made me remember what is important in my life, and how I need to have one of those queasy feelings pronto to get back on track and start enjoying life again, in the present. 

I'm leaving for Sweden in less than three weeks. Mia is currently in Morocco, and based on our all-too-brief phone conversation today, Morocco is exactly like I imagine it and I am incredibly jealous of her good fortune in being there. I have a reasonably good idea of what my life will be like in the coming months. Yet despite the known quantities of it, there is still enough of the unknown to qualify it as an adventure. It's what keeps me going.

St. Thomas to Annapolis

I was going through security at the Ft. Lauderdale airport, and it was no surprise when the pulled me out of line. "Bag check!" yelled the agent behind the x-ray machine. They whisked me away behind the counter, sans flip-flops. A gloved TSA worker curiously examined the varnished wooden box I'd been carrying. Apparently he had never seen a sextant.

Once convinced that I wasn't a terrorist but merely a boat captain, he gave back my flip-flops and my treasured sextant, and I was on my way. I was en route to St. Thomas to deliver a new Fountaine Pajot Salina 48 catamaran back home to Annapolis, and the voyage would count as the qualifying passage towards my Yachtmaster Oceans endorsement. 

We sailed the morning after I arrived, three others and myself. It was a blustery, rainy day and we only made it as far as Lindberg's Cove on the south side of St. Thomas, electing to wait out the weather. Besides, it was a Friday (the 13th, no less), so I was perfectly content not to tempt the gods on Day One.

The weather forecast for the first 48 hours of our trip called for near gale-force winds, and from the NE, with 10-14 foot seas, not exactly ideal, especially on a cat (and a new one at that). Instead of romping headlong into the fresh nor'easter, we elected to sail south and west, the long way round Puerto Rico, and follow along the eastern edge of the Bahamas, keeping well-clear of the islands, yet giving us an outlet if it got particularly nasty. 

Sweetest Thing was a rocketship off the wind, and in the lee of P.R. we notched 16 knots in the puffs, while the boat's proud owner stood at the helm, a ridiculous grin plastered on his face. We power-reached along the south coast in record time, rounding Cabo Rojo and entering the Mona Passage before midnight. Once clear of land, I got out my sextant and we went back in time.

In his book, Celestial Navigation in a Nutshell, Hewitt Schlereth sums up how most people feel about celestial: "From just about the first moment you set foot on a boat, you heard two things talked of in hushed tones, Cape Horn and celestial navigation." Celestial has always seemed to me a pastime of only the great sailors, the world-voyagers like Moitessier and Hal Roth. In their books, they speak of it with reverence, yet never seem to give away it's secrets. Moitessier, in fact, shipwrecked two of his beloved boats before finally realizing he seriously needed to learn this magic, yet when he finally mastered the art, to him it became "child's play."

Voyaging sailors often talk of the "noon-site," and daily runs are typically recorded by measuring the distance between these sights, thereby giving a nice round 24-hour mileage mark. While the noonsite is incredibly useful (it can give you your latitude with minimal calculations), in my mind, it's time consuming and redundant. Once you master celestial, standing around waiting for the sun to reach it's apex in the sky while tediously measuring it's altitude every minute or so seems awfully boring. I prefer to simply take a morning sight and a sight sometime around noon. Reducing the sights is less magic and more rote memorization, and once you get the hang of it, it becomes second nature, and can be done in a matter of a few minutes. By advancing the morning sight along your DR, you get a nice neat fix at noon, longitude included, something the noonsite cannot give you with a realistic degree of accuracy. 

As we sailed northwest in hopes of catching a ride on the Gulf Stream near Savannah, the wind eased and the weather was perfect. Once clear of the Abacos, we hoisted the big genneker and comfortably reached along on a flat sea. 

"Give me a ship and a star to steer her by." Sounds nice and romantic. In reality, navigating by the stars doesn't even occur at night. Which is why I found myself up at sunrise and sunset every day, regardless of my watch, sextant in hand, waiting for the first rays of dawn or the last glow of daylight to illuminate the horizon enough to give me a clear sight. In the evening, Venus shown incredibly brilliant on the western horizon just after sunset, and every night I'd log her altitude and plot a line of position. On clear nights, I crossed Venus with Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, and Rigel, giving a nice, neat three-star fix, the most accurate way to navigate with a sextant. 

After 5 days, the fixes on the chart arced an even curve towards Hatteras. The weather was so nice that we kept sailing on a beam reach, and never did catch the Gulf Stream until Hatteras. The notorious Cape did not live up to it's nasty reputation; instead, the wind died completely and we motored the last few hundred miles in thick fog. My last sight was a line of position that put us about 25 miles east of the Cape, and was the last time we'd see the sun for the rest of the trip.

Returning to the Chesapeake by sailboat, and after 1800 miles at sea, is something I was very much looking forward to. It was unfortunate that we didn't actually see our return - we navigated through the Bay Bridge-Tunnel by GPS, giving security calls on the VHF every 5 minutes to warn the shipping traffic. The weather turned sour that night, and we made the trip up the Bay in rain, headwinds and fog, dodging frequent shipping traffic and bracing for the cold. Despite the terribly conditions, it was immensely satisfying to plot our position on the chart as we passed the familiar landmarks coming up the Bay.

We motored past Thomas Point early the next morning, barely visible from only a few miles away due to the weather. It was cold and dreary at the helm, but nice to be so close to home. My hands were numb by the time the last dockline was secured, but I was satisfied. We'd completed an 1800-mile passage in 11 days, with a short stop in Marsh Harbor, and I'd navigated the old-fashioned way. There is something special about finding your position on a chart after patiently waiting for the sun to burst through the clouds, something romantic about searching the night sky to identify the stars before the coming dawn fades them from view. After learning to navigate electronically, this departure from the chartplotter and into the real-world was an extremely satisfying feeling. Schlereth again puts it best; "Why learn celestial navigation? Because it will satisfy your soul."