We're Back!
It's been a year since we moved out of our house and onto the boat. It's been five months since we left Florida for the Bahamas. This post is about our return passage. We're writing it as we sit here in Deltaville, VA waiting for a strong northerly to pass through.
The Passage
There we were, a week ago, perched on the shores of Manjack Cay in the Abacos, anxiously watching the weather. We had hurtled through the Abacos - not exactly what we intended, but we saw a really nice weather window open up and we had no idea when the next one would appear.
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| Checking out the reefs in the Abacos - we later saw a 6' reef shark there... |
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| Motoring in the Abacos |
We'd decided to sail directly to the Chesapeake (Norfolk, VA) from the Bahamas - about 700NM. This was going to take between 4 and 5 days - by far the longest passage for either of us. It meant that we'd have to rotate a 3-hour watch schedule to handle sailing 24/7.
Our weather forecasting services predicted decent wind and from a favorable direction. Most importantly, there were no low pressure systems forecast to come roaring through and wipe us out. Since we'd spend much of the trip more than a 24 hour sail away from any land, we knew we'd definitely be on our own - with the odd cargo ship to dodge.
Beth prepared some meals before we set out Thursday morning at 7AM. The wind was already 10-15k and we caught a favorable current that soon had us doing 8-9kt - which we continued for most of that first day.
A pod of Common Dolphins joined us an hour into our journey - an auspicious sign. We watched for a quarter of an hour as they crisscrossed our bow, surfed waves beside us, and leaped effortlessly in seemingly joyful abandon.
Our goal was to get north and a little west to hook into the mighty Gulf Stream and its 1-2kt of current flowing north and east towards Cape Hatteras. Once there, we'd jump off the stream and head due north up to Norfolk.
Tales of Cape Hatteras disasters and malign weather, set expectations of danger and the desire to approach it with caution. It's an awfully big ocean and we're insignificantly small in comparison. You don't go lightly off into its seemingly infinite expanse without a sense of what you're risking. It's more common for cruisers to head to Florida and then work their way north in day-long hops - so we were definitely choosing the more challenging path.
24 Hours Later
Our watch schedule meant I'd be up until 1AM, then Beth would do the 1-4AM shift before being relieved by me and then I'd continue until 7AM.
There's something indescribable about being on a boat at night, sails full and drawing, the moon revealing tossed seas on a dark horizon. Rollers creep up behind the boat - seemingly intent on catching it unawares and swamping it - before the boat gently rises and surges forwards in a rumbling rush. You sit at the helm looking up at the stars powdering the skies above when suddenly, a meteorite flares across the sky in a brief statement of beauty - so at odds with its rocky nature.
When the moon sets, darkness is still held off by brilliant stars that even cast shadows on the boat. Jupiter now peeks above the horizon, it's so bright, you can easily see a golden-tinged reflection scattered on the water. You're all alone on watch. If you fall in, you'll be lost in that immensity with the chances of being found rapidly decreasing with every second as the boat surges ahead on autopilot. It's fragile and beautiful and it's not for everyone.
In our first 24 hours, we average 7kts - and 162NM. That's a decent run for a cruising boat. But, as we sailed north, we also sailed into a high pressure zone and the wind slowly faded away.
48 Hours Later
Friday, we almost had our first Mahi. We had noticed bait fish jumping around the boat and something chasing it. I grabbed the rod and within minutes, a Mahi struck and leapt a couple feet out of the water. It struggled and then leapt again. As it came down, I tried to reel it in, but it stripped the bait off the hook instead and got away. Ah well, fishing does not come naturally to me.
With the wind dying, we're forced to turn on the motor to keep our pace. Surprise! The oil pressure light stays on. I've been trained to think that means the imminent destruction of the engine, so we shut it down. Weird, it had been performing perfectly. Good thing our boat has two engines!
Friday we only achieve about 90nM due to the light winds over this 24hr period.
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| Light winds and calm seas as we motor along |
72 Hours Later
We're now nearing the Gulf Stream and as we jibe to starboard and head northeast, a warm, humid breeze surrounds us. Definitely in the Gulf Stream! We cruise along with the wind increasing - we're sailing only up to 8kts as the Gulf Stream is not that strong in this part of it. It will strengthen later.
The winds come up first, and suddenly it's 22kts and we have all our main up. We don't know if it is going to increase more, so we decide to reef the main - which I badly bungle (I blame it on lack of sleep) and we're forced to turn into the wind and waves instead of being headed downwind to lower it and clear the lines that became wrapped up in our wind generator.
This meant firing up our sole remaining engine - which began to squeal because the alternator belt was too loose. We didn't have time to worry about it, so we got everything done and then turned the boat downwind again. Of course, the wind promptly drops to 14kts after all that trouble.
A few hours later, I peek inside the engine compartment and see a shredded alternator belt. That's our last belt - but luckily I had kept the old loose belt "just in case". Now we don't have either engine and I'll have to wait to deal with it as the seas are too rough. Good thing we're a sailboat!
Eventually, the wind softens and then settles down to 10kts. I decide to take another look at my fan belt issue. I'm worried that if I open the engine hatch at the rear of the boat, an errant wave will wash into the engine bay and cover the engine. I know this is possible as I've seen water surge over the engine cover earlier. It seems safe now, so I lean on the hatch rim, my rear facing the seas and my knees catching a surge every now and then. All of a sudden, a big rush of water comes over the top of me and floods the engine bay! I was not happy. Salt water baths are not recommended for engines. I hose it off with fresh water while swearing left and right. I get the fan belt on, using mollasses to make the old belt sticky enough to work. We now have one engine that works - not sure for how long.
96 Hours Later
I'm on watch, it's 8PM as we tack to starboard and head for our Gulf Stream exit point near Cape Hatteras and our leg up the Virginia coast. Between the wind and the current, we're soon doing 8-9kts in 9-10kts of wind! We're in thousands of feet of ocean, but it shallows to 100' off Hatteras - which is one cause of violent conditions there. The Gulf Stream is also very strong here - so if it ever opposes the wind - the waves can be heinous.
I can't believe our luck as we sail in calm water, about 1' seas, and the boat is just slipping through the night with barely any noise or motion. The light winds keep the water down as does the fact the winds are aligned with the current. We sail into the shallow water off Hatteras without incident.
Beth is so dead to the world, that despite shaking her foot, she doesn't wake up for her watch. I give her a couple extra hours, but the calmness of our sailing is luring me too sleep too, so I eventually get her turned out.
4.5 Days Later
It's now Monday morning as we head to Norfolk. The wind is light, so the working engine is running again. Beth is on watch and notices helicopters and Navy ships very active near us. As we work our way up the coast, a half-dozen helicopters fly right over us at about 200' on a training exercise. We start hearing the weirdest ripping, howling sound and see splashes of water about a couple miles behind us. We see the splashes, then we hear the noise. It's these small Navy attack helicopters with gatling guns practicing on target buoys. I can see their fiery tracers bouncing off the water and spraying in all directions.
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| Lots of helicopters all around us |
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| These were the small "attack" helicopters |
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| A different kind of "bird" that joined us for a few hours |
We pull into Ruddy Inlet (a 1-boat anchorage right off Virginia Beach) and suddenly we are "home." Aircraft from the nearby field roar overhead at frequent intervals until sunset. When they finally quieten, the birds take over and we identify cardinals, thrushes, and ospreys. Our senses are on overload. The water is placid as we sit in the middle of this lagoon with multi-million dollar homes all about us. A far cry from the Bahamas!
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| Virginia Beach |
The following morning I get a chance to swap the oil sensors and everything is working on both engines! Who knows why it gave me that warning light, I'd never seen it happen before. Now we have two engines and we can head off into the Chesapeake with confidence!
ps: Confidence was shattered a little when we managed to wrap a crab pot around our propeller in the Chesapeake and I had to dive in and cut it off. This is normally no big deal, but we anchored in 2-3kts of current - so I had to hold onto a line with one hand while the water tried to rip me away from the boat. Visibility was about 1', so it certainly wasn't the Bahamas...
