Saturday, June 19, 2004
At exactly 2150 hours I am awoken by the captain with the standard “Ten minutes” warning. There is just enough time to clear out some cobwebs and get ready for the 10 PM to 2AM watch.
As I awake I find myself on the port bunk on Remora VIII. She is a 1989 Pearson 36’ sailboat and I am held in place by the canvas lee boards as we pitch in the darkness.
I struggle to put on three layers of clothes followed by my foul weather gear and safety harness. I climb up the companionway and lock in my harness before stepping into the cockpit; and along with Ian, we relieve the two man watch currently at the helm.
What we find in the world outside the cozy cabin is frightening.
As our four hour watch begins, it is black and foggy. The wind and waves are loud. We can barely see the top of the mast, and the instruments at 56 feet above us disappear in the dark mist. Looking forward and sideways there is only blackness. It feels like we are standing in a cocoon out on this ocean, and all the while we are screaming forward at 8.5 knots.
We are running before the wind in 2-4 foot seas about 150 miles offshore from Newport, RI. On this dark and foggy night we are being propelled by an asymmetrical spinnaker and our main sail. The wind is a comfortable yet powerful 12 knots and the heavy sail area is pushing us at the full rated hull speed of Remora. It feels like a wild sleigh ride, but without our eyes to assist as we are closed in by the fog.
Ian and I quickly focus on our jobs. We will rotate at the helm every thirty minutes to prevent fatigue. The compass light is our friend tonight and we trust it to guide us toward the Gulf Stream as we steer a course of 165 degrees magnetic. This uneasy feeling of motion without visibility will not last long. Although we cannot see beyond our bow we do spot the first star above. The fact that the fog is not very high is a good sign.
As we settle into our routine the first distraction of the night occurs. I hear the hissing of the water to my left and turn to see a high speed projectile just at the water surface coming alarmingly fast toward our bow. This live missile actually glows in the dark from the photo luminescence of tiny plankton being disturbed in the water. At fifteen feet from our bow, my heart skips a beat as two large porpoises jump and dive underneath us then quickly surface on our starboard side. This playful activity goes on for ten minutes and we marvel at their quickness, strength and beauty.
By now, more stars are appearing and we turn our attention to speed. After months of preparation every second now counts in the 2004 Newport to Bermuda race. I am at the helm and although I cannot see the spinnaker, the boat does not feel quite right. I struggle to keep control and stay on course. Ian quickly decides to ease the sheets a few inches which instantly has two effects. We gain about a half knot of speed and the unfriendly weather helm is significantly reduced. It is amazing how well a person can gain the feel of a good boat, even in the dark of night.
We passed the 1000 fathom mark earlier in the evening and still have about 100 miles before entering the Gulf Stream. The Stream crossing can either make or break the race, and we sail toward it with anticipation and anxiety.
Although only minutes have passed, most of the fog has lifted. We look up and see thousands of stars. What started out as a tense nighttime watch is quickly turning into a beautiful night to be out at sea.
Our friendly porpoises are back and a half smile comes to my face as I realize that the remaining wisps of mist far above are actually the visible Milky Way. It is now crystal clear and with the visibility comes confidence and ease of mind.
In another hour we will sail into Fathers Day. Little do we know what awaits us at the end of our watch…..
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