Cayman Islands 2015

After many ocean passages over the years, you'd think the memory of an adventure at sea would match quite well with the actual experience, and that by now any sense of surprise would be greatly diminished, not unhappily replaced with a scenic refresh of the known and common. And so it was that I came aboard Marlow last weekend for a 750nm downwind sail from the Dominican Republic to Grand Cayman, expecting something akin to a short stay in a Swiss sanitarium–catch a breath, tinker with some mechanicals, read a few books, consult with Jung and generally put the mind at ease.

In retrospect, this pastoral view of an offshore adventure bordered on the delusional, and I am recalibrating exactly what failing of memory could have left me so ill prepared for the tribulations at sea. I might have taken comfort that among the crew I was in very popular company in this regard, that seemingly a gross deficiency of reality testing is in fact a pre-requisite for attendance, except that my life would depend on these dreamers. A dying breed, we were the only fools in the world so inclined to take a sailing trip along this route at this time of the year. We didn't see a single sailboat the entirety of the passage, a first for us all.

It had proven difficult to line up crew for the trip—people must have known something we didn't, but ultimately a crew of four experienced sailors came together, anchored by Marlow legend Sham Hunt, still a commanding presence at 78 (some would say too commanding, given his current rank) and Manning Maxwell, who had been aboard for Marlow's NYC to US Virgins run in 2001. Manning brought P____, a childhood friend and owner of a 37 ft coastal cruiser with a lifetime of expectations having piled up in anticipation of his first genuine open ocean adventure.

We departed the DR on Saturday at dawn feeling restless after having been held up by customs for 24 hours over the equivalent of an overdue parking ticket, the bureaucratic madness of which required the intervention of a Navy General. The fine—a slew of $20 tips for the various officials idling on the dock day after day awaiting orders. It didn't take but half a day for misbegotten expectations to shatter and then slowly dissolve away under the corrosiveness of the situation. It happened without warning and when it started it wouldn't stop until we reached land, upon which one of the cuckoos flew the nest before the ink was even dry on his customs stamp, greatly improving upon the previous record for hasty departures.

We ran with small seas and 15 kt winds from the E/SE, which were forecast to back to E/NE and grow to 25 kts overnight along our route 30nm off the Dominican coast. We approached the mountainous promontory which reaches 50nm out to sea and separates Haiti from the Dominican Republic. It is a great place for wind to whip and seas to shallow and steepen, and so we debated extensively how wide a berth to give it. Just after midnight with Manning and P____ on watch the wind suddenly shifted and doubled in strength causing the fully extended boom to pivot and crash to the other side of the boat with tremendous force, snapping the "preventer" line which is designed to delay, not prevent, the inevitable.

The wind blew 30, the seas grew to 10+ feet with breaking white foam glowing in the moonlight, and suddenly I was reminded of what memory had failed to record—the charged particles of emotion, a feeling rather than a thought, which had faded over time. The sound of breaking waves all about the boat were a haunting trigger of the very large wall of water that had crashed over my head the last time I was out here. I had been enjoying a historical witness of sacrificial Voodoo rituals in Haiti to that point but perhaps a better choice of reading would have helped alleviate some of the darkness.

There we were alone in a very foreign sea with no one available to help, at least probably not the Haitian Navy. And just who were these guys I was with? I hadn't seen Manning in 13 years, and learned upon closer inspection the next day amid the anxious chatter on deck that he hadn't done the full offshore gig in over 2 years. P____ decided this was the appropriate time to let everyone know he had never seen anything like it, and his cowboy yips and yelps at the increasing size of the waves wasn't fooling anyone, as Sham and I revealed in sidelong glances. And what about the old man, did he still have it? It was around then that I realized the passage wasn't going to be like a stay in Swiss sanitarium after all. The tethers anchoring us to the vessel were feeling more like straps in a hospital for the insane. I was hating every second of it, and yet it was exactly what I came for. A fat farm of sorts for the existentially challenged, instead of praying to an all mighty God every week as I was raised to do, I come out here once a year for a concentrated humbling.

One we went well into the next day approaching the Haitian border, 15 nm off the coast. The depth changed from 10,000 to 150 ft, as currents swirled and the wind piped up around the cape while the seas threw us their worst, a few sets steep and piling on top of each other to 15 feet. We cleared the cape, declared the worst behind us, having suffered none the worse than a frayed mainsail and a few frayed nerves.

Welcome back to sea dear Marlow, acclimation is achieved. No longer groping for sleep on the cabin floor, we left Haiti starboard abeam, noted Guantanamo 100 nm to the north and headed along the coast of Jamaica. The winds calmed, the seas moderated, and we tinkered with side projects like fishing and refrigerator repair, both offering a modicum of accomplishment. It was fish head soup with cabbage, ceviche and broiled Mahi steaks.

100nm out it became evident that P____'s offshore dreams had crashed and burned somewhere along the way. Manning was at a loss to explain it but I guess the rough and tumble of the sea, and the interpersonal tensions it fomented proved to be a thing apart from what he envisioned, at least aboard Marlow. We found him forward on deck sobbing, which he did on and off until we hit the dock in the morning. He could barely speak as we said our goodbyes and he raced to catch the first flight off the island. It was about as sad a thing as I could recall.

We sit at the dock awaiting our host Sheldon to take us to his father-in-law's restaurant for a local classic, sea turtle stew. Tomorrow we fly out, shaken as usual but thrilled nonetheless to return in April for Marlow's final and perhaps most exotic destination in her eight year odyssey abroad, Cuba here we come!

Yours faithfully,

STS

How to ingratiate yourself at sea

For starters, if a Captain has been kind enough to thoroughly document previous trips in a blog, reading it in advance will reveal many clues to help orient yourself. But don't just look at the pictures and pretend you read it, because that will become evident later when you least need it.

It is important to be aware that every boat is a culture unto itself. If you are coming aboard for the first time, you might liken the experience to transferring to a new school mid semester. Sailors can be like high school girls, cliquey and cruel. And as every high school student knows, don't be a teacher's pet. You may make one friend but everyone else will hate you. So don't kiss the Captain's ass–it is a losing gambit. Win over the lowest crew member first and work your way up the chain of command.

Regarding chain of command, make sure you know who's who. Perhaps the worst mistake you can make is disrespecting a Captain emeritus. It throws the whole boat in disarray. It may cause said ex-captain to feel the need to display his sailing superiority, which may come at an inopportune time, such as jibing in 30 kt winds and 10 ft seas, which may lead to conflict and inspire the wrath of not one but two very important people on board.

Therefore, it is advised not to engage a Captain emeritus in a conversation on his favorite subject in the world, in this case catamarans, unless you plan on being agreeable. His position is well documented in the blog, and he generally lets his opinion on the matter be known within minutes of meeting him. If you've had a disagreeable conversation about catamarans with said ex-captain, you are likely done for, unless you know him very very well, and then only if you are prepared to make grand gestures of respect, such as putting "Two Girls, Two Catamarans" on his bunk for passage reading. But even then, I'd limit yourself to one controversial topic per passage. It is absolutely ill-advised to pick another fight about the thickness of skis, just because you say you are a world class skier, now that it has become evident you are not a world class sailor.

And would it have killed you to ask our world class ex-captain about his varied and storied exploits at sea? No, it seemed like a better idea to share your incredible story of having paid $2500 for a passage at sea as a passenger with the world renowned Brad Van Liew aboard his racing yacht, which included two Brad Van Liew autographs and a certified Brad Van Liew sailor patch. No doubt your experience with Brad was your model for an offshore adventure– do what you want and hit the sack as necessary even if it means leaving your crewmate on deck alone because there must be a half dozen paid winch monkeys around here someplace to mop up.

But regardless, much can be forgiven at sea, because we are all in this together, right? So if you need to sweat all over the sheets on my back up bunk, go right ahead, I'll sleep on the cabin floor, its cooler down here anyway. And let's all take the Captain's special seasickness medication because it'll be safer that way, except you, because you never get sick at sea, except you've never been in seas like this, and what's that? You don't feel so hot and haven't moved in 6 hours? But no, I agree, its not seasickness since you don't get seasick, it must have been something you ate.

So its shift change at 3am and you've heard its a great move to make the incoming crew a hot brew of coffee. You've said you're a real coffee buff and you have a Starbucks frequent flyer card to prove it, and now is your big chance to show everyone what you can do. You make the Captain a cup of coffee and he wants to appreciate it but you intentionally leave out his shift mate, your interlocutor, said ex-captain. Oh dear. I'll cover for you this time because we can't have blood on deck so early in the passage and with so much wind. So I'll sneakily pour half of it into another mug and announce your unintended gesture to my crew mate.

Hey, since you're not doing anything else constructive, how about you make dinner tonight? It'll be surf and turf of hanger and Mahi steaks. Oh, just look at that well heeled steak for the Captain, an inch think, 2 inches wide, what a cut! But the poor ex-captain, he must not be hungry, because all he got was a rind of fish skin with a little meat attached. Oh dear. No hiding it this time.

It can be eerie swimming underway because the boat never entirely stops and it crosses one's mind if the crew won't abandon you. Oh Captain, my Captain, I heard you want to go swimming at sea, I got my trunks on, just the two us, let's go, let's go! I know just what to do, I'll jump off the back of a moving boat and then freak out when I can't quite catch up. Is that the ex-captain at the helm? Which way is he turning? Mother!!!!!!