Small Boat, Big Ocean
When we woke up it was forty-six degrees in the cabin of our boat. We could see our breath. I made cheese scones in our little oven and we began to thaw out. It was time to go. We’d been waiting for days for the weather to turn so we could head out in the ocean and go south. The forecast was for relatively mild conditions and an easy NE to NW wind, which is pretty much perfect.
Eric and I had made two coastal hops (one overnight) in our 33 ft sailboat, so we had some idea what it would be like out there. Back in the 1990s, I sailed a larger, heavier sailboat from Seattle to San Diego, going two hundred miles offshore to catch the wind before coming back in. Even with that experience, which included a storm and fifteen-foot seas, and the exceptionally mild and favorable forecast, heading offshore made my chest flutter with excitement and fear. The ocean is not to be trifled with. People do die out there.
After several days of miserable cold rainy weather, the sun came out over Georgetown, SC. It seemed a good omen. On the way out of the harbor, Eric spotted a boat named Jenny. One of my oldest friends is named Jenny and whenever we see a boat with her name, it feels reassuring, like she’s with us in spirit. She worries about us quite a bit.
We motored out of the harbor and into the wide channel in Winyah Bay. There was a perfect sailing breeze. It was still freezing, so Eric, with his hardy Midwestern blood, went up on deck to raise sail while I shivered and steered from the protected cockpit. When we shut off the motor, we had no idea how long it would be before we needed it again. The sun sparkled on the water like a mischievous grin. Both banks were mostly wild, with very few houses dwindling to none as we ran downwind toward the mouth of the bay, which is wildlife reserve on both sides for about six miles. At three and four knots, six miles takes a good long while to traverse.
The scariest part is not the big ocean, but the narrow neck where the river meets the sea. With all that water rushing in and out a narrow neck, currents can overtake a small boat and if there is wind against such a current, the seas can work up into breaking waves in the shallows. We had done our research and were heading out on an outgoing tide with the wind at our back, the best possible conditions. Still, my nerves were jangly. Eric was very quiet, so I knew he was nervous too.
At the end of the bay, the small barrier islands have inviting sandy beaches, completely deserted and accessible only by boat. I made a mental note to return in warmer weather to explore. With my binoculars, I could see the breakers splashing high on the rock jetty. I tried not to think about those rocks or those breakers. The combination would wreck our little boat and probably kill us as well. I tried to focus my attention on the next navigational marker and ducked below for my camera to photograph the lovely little Georgetown Light. I can never resist a lighthouse. They are like a seaman’s teddy bear, proud and comforting.
The current carried us sideways, but we were mindful of it. Eric’s decades of whitewater experience have made him a keen observer of water conditions and he coached me in steering to compensate for the current. Eric watched the GPS. I steered. One by one the markers went by, reds on the left, greens on the right, the numbers diminishing. The channel was wide and we had it all to ourselves, there was no traffic.
At long last, we cleared the end of the terrifying rock jetty and breathed in relief. We set a course for the St. Johns River inlet and sat together in the cockpit enjoying the blue sky and sunshine. Pelican sailed herself with the autohelm over the long, slow ocean swell. We giggled when she hit five knots and calculated we’d be there in no time.
Eric stood up and said, “Dolphins.” I stood up to look, but saw nothing. He said he wasn’t sure it was dolphins, they didn’t look quite right. I looked behind us just in time to see two fins appear and disappear. Eric was right, they were moving too slow and were too big to be dolphins. We decided they were our first whales. Then the sun set and put on quite a show.
Eric was tired after our trip through the inlet, so we decided I would take the first watch. The quarter moon was already up and when it got fully dark, I saw Orion leaping out of the sea. It was the night before the peak of the Leonid meteor shower and I saw several shooting stars on my watch. I sat in the cockpit, read a book on my tablet and played Sudoku and solitaire. It got cold again after dark, but I bundled up and kept warm. By 11pm, I was ready for a nap so I woke Eric up to take over watch. With the gentle rocking motion of the swell, I was asleep in seconds.
When I woke up and scrambled back out on deck, Orion was clinging to the top of our mast. The light at the top of the mast is like our personal swinging star and Orion was trying to catch it. I settled in with my tablet. Every fifteen minutes or so I’d get up, check our course, make sure the sail was pulling well and have a look around for traffic. Conditions were so mild and perfect there was not much to worry about, but I was very nervous about traffic. On our trip down the West Coast I had been on night watch when a huge container ship passed much too close. It scared me. But now, with the miracle of AIS (Automatic Information System), we could see commercial traffic nearby (they are required to have AIS) and get the ship’s name, distance from us, course and speed and closest point of approach (CPA).
A ship called the Zim San Diego was going to pass within a third of mile, or possibly a quarter mile. As Pelican rolled, the numbers would change, but I considered this much too close. I picked up the VHF radio and hailed her. To my great relief, the captain answered and was happy to chat with me. When I asked, he checked his radar and was able to see us, thanks to Eric’s installation of two high quality radar reflectors. The captain confirmed it was us by our distance from him and our speed (4.2 knots). He then altered his course ever so slightly and increased our passing distance so we barely saw him. The rest of the night was quiet.
The next day, the wind slacked and we began to worry we wouldn’t make it to the St. Johns the following day. We wanted to arrive at the slack before the flood tide in the inlet at around midday. Eric looked up the entrance to St. Mary’s as an alternative, but it was so beautiful, sunny and calm with a steady light breeze pushing us along at 2–3 knots, we felt like we could keep going for days. The day went by quickly, with us taking turns to nap and keep watch, the sea bright like crumpled tinfoil in the sun.
Towards dusk, clouds moved in. There were showers possible in the forecast, but nothing stormy or scary. Still, there is something about dark falling at sea that makes me nervous. Once it’s dark and the stars and/or moon come out, I’m okay, but if it’s heavy clouds and you can’t see the horizon, it’s a little disorienting, like being suspended in some nether world, which, really is the truth of the matter.
I was disappointed by the clouds because of missing the meteor shower, but it didn’t rain much and the wind picked up just enough to get our speed up to five knots. I hoped it would be enough to make up time so we could get into the St. Johns the next day. As if she’d been given instructions, Pelican charged forward, surfing down the increasing waves at six-plus knots as the wind picked up. Eric was sleeping the next morning when I spotted land. I had never been so happy to see big ugly beach condos. I wanted to shout, “Land Ho!” but I didn’t want to wake him. I wanted him rested for the passage through the inlet.
As we neared the inlet, the mood got tense and quiet again. A flock of pelicans came toward us in a vee and separated around the mast. I considered this a good sign. A power boat passed us and went on in. Toward shore we could see a sailboat coming in under power as well. As we got inside and breathed a sigh of relief, the sailboat passed us. It was the Oceana, a boat we’d seen anchored in Ocracoke all summer. She’d passed us in the Waccamaw River in a deep fog and called out to us. Here she was again, like an old friend.
A lightly loaded container ship passed by and we could see her bulbous bow.
A dolphin leapt up clear out of the water and back into the bow wave. Again, and again it jumped, the image of pure joy.
We were elated. We’d made it, our longest passage together. We raised our mainsail to complement our Genoa since we were now reaching instead of running downwind. Even though Jacksonville is a very busy port, and it was Sunday afternoon, there wasn’t much traffic. On the north bank, the Zim San Diego was unloading her cargo. I wanted to call her captain and thank him for altering course for us out there in the big, big sea, but I knew he was either busy or on shore.
Unwilling to give up the 2–3 knots of current running with us in the river, we sailed on through downtown Jacksonville even though we were tired after our passage. It was a little crazy to hear wild hammering rock music from the Hooters after two days and nights of nothing but the sea slapping and gurgling on the hull and the wind in our ears. The river was a riot of reflections of colored lights in every shade. Jacksonville was jumping. We dropped the hook just past the last bridge and dropped into bed with the satisfaction of a job well done. We’d done it, our longest passage yet. And we couldn’t wait to get back out there again.
