Survival Instincts

A late posting – revised 2/17/10, but originally drafted February 9, 2010:

Enroute to Panama: With all of the planning and preparations for our trip, I knew that deriving accurate weather forecasts from the various public sources – NOAA data, open use forecasting models, etc. – was not likely to be an option. While more than a bit familiar with the sources, the models, and with actual forecasting, there were too many other non-delegable responsibilities (like closing hatches prior to passages) for me to try and predict the weather along our intended routes. Happily, there is Susan, a trained meteorologist based in Rhode Island who came well-recommended as a provider of voyaging forecasts for intrepid sailors. She helped us plan our trip down the East Coast, allowing Grace and its crew to avoid nasty weather outside of Cape Hatteras, and here, in the Caribbean, she has been invaluable in allowing us to slip in between several persistent weather patterns – patterns termed “boisterous” by Jimmy Cornell in his classic World Cruising Routes (fifth edition). Yesterday ran true to routine: I called Susan in the morning to give her our coordinates and for her to give me any updated advice from her direction of a week or so ago: “go now; it’s an ideal weather window.” She let me know that things stilled looked great; NE winds going from 10-15 knots to about 20-25 in the evening, and westward-running swells in the 4-8 feet range. She did mention that we might see an occasional 10-12 foot swell. I mentally prepared myself for a long night.

By evening, the winds had begun to pick up, and Grace began to accelerate to 7-8 knots of speed regularly. As she literally surfed down the waves coming from her port stern quarter, the sensation was a bit magical – a few times before (around Hatteras), she’d surf in the 12-14 knot range, throwing up a small rooster tail from her stern. Before turning over the watch to shipmates, and based on Susan’s forecast, we took some time as a boat to discuss the peculiar S-shaped path a sailboat takes when surfing down then climbing up the wave. Unprepared, a boat can take a larger wave on the stern quarter and pivot in the direction of the wave, as the stern is swung down-swell just as the boat begins to accelerate down the swell. In the worst of conditions, the boat can turn broadside to the wave (and, usually, the wind, since waves emanate from steady winds), and the wave can push the boat sideways down the wave, either digging the near side underwater, or tumbling the far side underneath itself. In either case – in the worst case – the boat can roll over sideways just like a toddler might push a toy firetruck over on its side. As we talked, such possibilities were far from my mind; it was a brisk wind, but nothing out of the ordinary, and the seas while nicely moving us to our destination, were modest. Nonetheless, the wind and seas were nothing to sneeze at.

Over the course of the night, as I lay in bed between watches, I could feel the wind freshen; I was up on deck a few times to reduce the amount of sail presented to the wind. We were sailing hard on a broad reach, and the boat was moving briskly, as they say.

At 5:15 am, in a dim light sleep, I heard a crash of water, felt an unexpected lurch of the boat, and a yell of surprise. I’m a light sleeper in the best of times, and on boats, on passages, I catch my REMs when I can. Within seconds, I bolted up the stairs from our cabin, out the door to the cockpit, and saw water already flowing out of the cockpit into the large drain scuppers designed to rapidly evacuate incoming waves. I did not see my brother Stephen, who was on watch.

By the time I arrived to this empty cockpit, we had already reduced our main sail to its smallest possible area – three reefs – and done likewise to our genoa. We were flying along on the smallest of sails, surfing down waves in 20-25 knots, just as Susan has predicted. As it was, we were making a strong 8-9 knots, and surfing into the low double digits. The sea swells had grown to about 8 feet, and in the blackness of the pre-dawn, I could see the tips curling over, a white foam specked with small tiny lights from the bioluminescence. It was dark; the seas were high, and the cockpit was empty.

The next morning, as we all – including Stephen -- safely recounted the events that began to unfold, Jennifer said that she never wants to ever hear the tone of my voice as I screamed Stephen’s name into the wind and night. I had personally checked his life jacket before turning in, and made sure the shackle was locked tight, and secure around a stout pole. How could he have fallen overboard? In the same breath and as I again screamed Stephen’s name, I ran to the back corner of the boat where we keep a man-overboard pole and life preserver. The arrangement works as follows: the preserver is attached to a light that, once upright and floating, is well-lit. The preserver is also attached to a 12’ pole, weighted at the bottom and buoyed at about the 2 foot level, a pole topped with a light and an orange flag. Finding a preserver floating at sea-level– even if lit – is unlikely in 8 foot seas; the brief windows of visibility are too short for a struggling victim. Having the pole is essential, since it’s high enough to see above the cresting swells. Not seeing Stephen, and instinctively recalling the lessons drummed into me by countless man overboard stories and admonitions, I pitched the pole and preserver into the dark sea, and I ran back to the wheel to begin a mentally-well-orchestrated and oft-replayed but rarely executed minuet by which a boat under sail turns to retrieve a man overboard.

We had not yet had such an unexpected trial, and I was focused completely on the task before me. Instinctively, Jennifer had pressed the Man Overboard button on our navigation software, placing a large red dot on the luminous screen in front of me, a priceless bit of latitude and longitude – down to the several feet – indicating a spot very near to where the preserver and pole were launched. Already, as I began to run the boat, I could see two bright lights in the water behind me, rising up and down on the passing swells. I had a target, and more importantly, I had Jennifer, my co-captain, by my side.

Just as the boat began to swing around, Stephen’s voice called out from below: “I’m here. I’m here.”

He had gone below briefly, as we all did from time to time on our solo watches. Just as he was readying to come up, a much-larger-than-usual wave had broken atop our stern quarter, dumping hundreds of gallons of seawater onto the decks and into the cockpit. Jennifer – next on watch – was dozing in the main cabin. It was her startled voice I heard crying out. Even with two good ears, Stephen could never have heard me screaming into the night from below. Total elapsed time from my bunk to deployment of the pole and preserver? At most 10 seconds, probably less.

A wave of relief passed over me and Jennifer – we had everyone on board, and everyone and the boat was safe.

Now we had another situation. With adrenaline running at decade-long highs all around, we all paused a moment to assess the situation; we were all on board; the cockpit was draining nicely, and, ahead of us, two lights, a pole, and a life preserver bobbed uselessly in the warm, windy and jostling Caribbean sea. I briefly considered abandoning them to the elements, but Jennifer’s Atlantic crossing story stared me in the face. “It’s time to practice our man-overboard procedure, gang. Get the boat hook out; we’re going to retrieve the pole, preserver and lights.” The sight of those two lights bobbing in the sea – bright against the black rise and fall of swells – will linger long in my mind: I was surprised to see how bright they were, and how close they appeared – and I was also struck how small they seemed against a horizon-to-horizon stretch of darkness.

I’m glad to report that we recovered the three items rapidly – in less than 5 minutes or so -- assisted by a pair of strong Volvo engines, by Jennifer who was willing and able to stand on the stern platform and hook the trailing yellow polypropylene line with a boat hook (she was safely and securely tied in, of course) as Grace drifted slowly downwind onto the items, and by a captain who has mentally reviewed the possibility of a real man overboard thousands of times in his head, reducing to instinct what he had first read about some thirty years earlier in a different time and a different place in his life.

In reviewing the event the following day, I recalled that my earliest “gut-level“ realization of the seriousness of a man-overboard situation came when I read William Buckley’s several books on sailing. Buckley related in his almost preternatural detached fashion the loss of a shipmate in, I think, Long Island Sound, on an otherwise unremarkable and quiet night sail. The shipmate drowned. Since then, I’ve read dozens of accounts of man overboard procedures, and they all stress the same points. The difference between survival and death in man-overboard accidents is timing and luck. If the person is conscious, and if the person can swim, and if they can find a life preserver or are wearing one, and if the boat’s crew can find the victim, then the odds of survival rise to, oh, maybe 50-50.

More recently, when Jennifer crossed the Atlantic in our boat, the skipper we hired knew to practice man-overboard maneuvers, and, more importantly, knew to practice them at unexpected times. A few days after leaving, he spotted a fisherman’s lost float bobbing in the Atlantic. Immediately he began to scream: “MAN OVERBOARD! MAN OVERBOARD.” In Jennifer’s frequent retelling of the incident, his effort at initiating a real-life, out-of-the blue practice run brought a gasp of initial surprise, then curiosity, and, finally, seriousness of purpose from the unprepared crew. Eventually, on a calm sea, in bright daylight, and after one-too-many efforts to bring the boat alongside the fisherman’s float, the float died. They were too late – and eventually, on a second practice, the crew succeeded. (We still have the float, and she still tells the story – always fresh in my mind)

I spent a few minutes contemplating whether I had overreacted, and whether I should have checked below to see if Stephen was OK, before deploying the pole and preserver. In reality, I never gave it a thought; I acted on pure instinct. More logically, at 8 knots, the boat travels 16,000 meters in an hour, or roughly 250 meters a minute. In 10 seconds, the boat has sailed nearly half the length of a football field – nearly two laps at a community pool. Had Stephen been washed overboard, he would have had a difficult time swimming the 50 yards – that’s why we all wear life preservers AND safety harnesses at night in adverse conditions. So no, I’m sure I did the right thing, and I’m glad we had the chance for a real-life rehearsal.

I’m also glad for books on sailing, which have taught me a lot. I’m glad for Jennifer’s stories, and for acquired instincts. I’m glad for accurate weather forecasts. I’m glad we got a chance to practice a man overboard drill under trying conditions. And I am beyond grateful to the gods above and all that is good in the world that this was only a drill.

Postscript: It's been a bit over a week since this happened; so much else has passed that it seems a dream of sort. It left us each considerably shaken the entire next day, to the point where I was reluctant to have any sail up the following night, even though it was much calmer. I think I -- if not we -- needed a quiet night. Sicne then, we've entered Panama, passed thru the Canal, and now are moored off the Balboa Yacht Club. Cruising is like that: moments of sheer terror and anxiety amid days of quiet and peaceful surroundings. I think it's the variation that draws me to blue-water sailing, that, and the sense of utter self-reliance we blue water sailors face on the ocean. Thanks again to Jennifer for being alongside me that night, and for helping me make sense of the before, during, and after. She's amazing.

2nd Half of the Transit

We entered the canal with our pilot, Fernando, on Tuesday evening at 7:40. We went through the first 3 locks and then spent the evening tied up to 6 other sailboats on Lake Gatun. Guita was the official photographer during that portion....Jon was driving and Jennifer and Stephen were helping with lines and fenders as we were tied up to a tug boat during that stage.

As you see from these pictures, Guita often has a camera in her hand and actually does most of the picture taking:

So Guita will post photos from that half of the transit. What follows are photos from the second half; Lake Gatun to the Pacific Coast.

Stephen did some of the motoring as we left

the lake and cruised along the lock-free area of the canal. He seems to be enjoying himself. Just before we got to the locks, we passed an area called "The Cut" which is where the canal goes through the continental divide and was some of the most difficult section of the canal to dig, having to go through mountain and mud. Now, at this point, the Panama Canal goes under the new Pan American Highway. Here is Jennifer as we approach the cut. The bridge is in the background.

Our second pilot was William, again a very calm cool dude, who clearly was in charge but also polite and nice. He assisted Jon in navigating into the locks and tying up to the French mono hull. Here we are in one of the locks as it finished draining. In the first 3 locks, we were climbing elevation, so once the lock doors closed water filled the locks and we ended up almost level with the top. But the last 3 locks (going toward the Pacific) are decending, so we entered high and water drained out of them and we ended up with the lock walls towering above us.

Jason and Tialingua were our two linehandlers. Here they are hamming it up for the camera.

Here, we are entering a lock and you can see that the lock walls are barely visible. Ahead of us are two sail boats tied up together. We are tied up to another sailboat on our starboard side. It is a carefully choreographed dance of big and little boats. This time we went through in the center with the two dock lines (bow and stern) on the port and 2 on the starboard. The line handlers on the canal work with the line handlers on the boats, to keep us centered and steady as the water level changes.

Here is one line handler walking along with us above the lock. And the other photo shows the two boats in front of us and how we are secured into the loch. We were just the same.Once in the lock, I had to make sure that Jon and Stephen were photographed under their mother's family crest. So Marlene, if you're looking down, I know you're smiling and would be so proud of your sons. The photo on the right is proof that Marlene's family crest is in the Panama Canal!

PACIFIC COAST!!!

The boat is currently moored at the Balboa Yacht Club on Panama's Pacific coast. Canal transit was great according to Jennifer.

Internet it seems is hard to come by on the Pacific coast, but they are trying and hopefully I'll hear more tomorrow.

Thanks for all the comments, they really enjoy reading what y'all have to say.

Headed for the Canal Entrance

Two line handlers are on board, we depart soon for the Flats (a holding area) to wait to be boarded by our "assistant" (pilot). Then we are scheduled to enter the canal at 6:45 PM.

Will talk to you from the other side.

Canal Transit

We are scheduled to transit the Panama Canal beginning Tuesday. Tomorrow we'll find out what time the assistant pilot and line handlers will board and what time we are to enter the canal on Tuesday. We will spend Tuesday night on Lake Gatun (not quite mid-way through the canal) and arrive in Balboa on the Pacific Coast Wednesday afternoon. We promise to post pictures!

How Our Boat Got Its Name

It took us longer to name our boat than it did to name either of our children.....I don't know what that means, but we've contemplated boat names for years. Once we ordered the boat in June 2007 and it began to become real, the name search was no longer theoretical but real and serious, because all the boat's documentation requires a name.

I was happy to let Jon lean toward Dutch names, in his family tradition of naming boats, or to pay homage to his late mother and her family name. Jon, on the other hand, was happy to pay homage to my family's Cherokee heritage with a Cherokee word. We did end up naming our LLC, which owns the boat, Tahlequah Voyages, but no word seemed to make the personal connection necessary for a boat name.

One criteria was that it be short and easy to understand over the radio. Jon suggested Grace and it eventually rose to the top of a short list. It certainly met our first criteria. It also resonated with our romantic notions that we might experience some grace on this journey, especially as we withdrew from the hectic pace of our land lives.

But both David and Katie disliked it. While they did not have veto power of her name, their dislike kept the name on hold.

By January 2008 I knew I was going to go to France to help sail the boat back to Annapolis, Maryland and was often thinking about what a transAtlantic passage would be like.....I was going, but I was a little scared. The upcoming passage was always in the back of my mind, even as I was in Denver, Colorado helping Katie move into her dorm to begin her new college life at Regis University.

Somewhere on the fourth level of stairs, carrying Katie's college dorm stuff, sweating in the winter of Denver, it popped into my head that a catamaran--half as wide as it is long with its two hulls--was more like an island. It would be my island in the ocean and that was less scary than the thought of being on a heeled mono-hull.

Because our boat was being built in France....and thus would be French, the words ile de Grace rolled off my tongue. (For those who do no speak French, it's pronounced eel-duh-GRAAHSS). Island of Grace. And that settled it. Everyone was happy, but the first criteria was out the window. (In truth, Jon and I use only Grace when talking on the radios.)

Without now going into the many theological definitions of the noun grace, all I can say is that so far we have rarely experienced the adjective "graceful." With a few exceptions, our dockings and anchorings have often been anything but----mostly comical, but occasionally stressful. We are learning, though, and I will keep you posted as we experience moments of grace and gracefulness.

Thanks To Those Who Got Us Started

This posting should have happened a long time ago, but better late than never.

Our launching point for the circumnavigation was Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. But before we could launch, we had to get the ile de Grace from Bodkin Creek, Maryland (between Annapolis and Baltimore) to Florida. Jon and I owe a special thanks to all who helped us get our boat there before the winter set in on the Chesapeake Bay.

November 14-15. We left Bodkin Creek November 14th for a 24 hour sail down the Bay to Norfolk. We were joined by Jon's brother Paul, his wife Darlene and Mary Houghton, our sailing friend. As predicted, it was an easy sail, and we actually had to slow the boat down so as not to arrive at night. Here we are after tying up the boat in Little Creek Marina, Norfolk, Virginia. Jennifer stayed on the boat for a week to re-rig our reefing system for the main sail.

November 20-22. The second leg began November 20th with Jon, Jennifer, Mary Houghton, Terry Burke and Gary Nyland. With high winds blowing us against the dock, we precariously left Norfolk and motored straight into strong headwinds until we could turn southwest after passing the Chesapeake Tunnel and Bridge. This journey included navigating between the notorious ship graveyard of Cape Hatteras and the Gulf Stream, and then later passing Cape Fear. It was a cold, wet and hard journey with a lot of rock and roll. We had seas to our quarter stern and were sailing at 8-9 knots and surfing waves at 14 and 15 knots. It was the closest to flying a boat as I have ever come. A big thanks to the hale and hardy crew.

December 11-14. The third leg did not begin until mid December. Jennifer did not make this trip and so Jon was joined by the very experienced captain and friends, Geert van der Kolk and his wife Olina Jonas, as well as Steve Lieberman and Jeff Sanders. This was another very difficult leg due to rough sea conditions and head winds. After a tough beat down the coasts of the Carolinas and Georgia,we finally made into the wonderful town-operated marina of Fernandina Beach, Florida, which is just north of Jacksonville. Thanks to the crew and we sincerely hope the chilly and wet experience will not preclude you from joining us again in calmer waters and nicer climes!

December 28-30. Jon and Jennifer made this 300 mile leg on their own. It would be the longest sail we had taken together with just the 2 of us---a good test to see how well we might do on our own. Here is a photo of Jon as we left Fernandina. He's extending the Man Overboard Pole before we head into open water.

This was a straight shot south southwest and we were never much more than three miles offshore so it did not feel too risky. We took 3 hour watches and made it into Ft. Lauderdale mid-morning on New Year's Eve. Driving the boat up the canals through downtown and past more mega yachts and mansions than I could imagine was possible, was a new experience for both of us. But we ended up in a wonderful boat yard, Lauderdale Marine Center, where we made final adjustments to ile de Grace prior to departing. The gang at Just Catamarans -- Johan and Raf -- did an amazing job helping us with cabinetry, final maintenance and various upgrades. Nance and Robertson's Rigging installed a much needed preventer, made further upgrades to our new reefing system, and provided much-needed advice. Silvio and John helped with last minute gel coat repairs. JT Haldren, who commissioned our water maker and gave us much good advise and moral support, remains in touch with us, and we hope to see him on the waters sometime!

We were joined New Year's eve by David and Kate and were able to spend a few days together as a family for what will be for us a long time. It was too short, but lovely. Jon's aunt Johanna, cousins Dominique and Michael and Michael's partner Artur joined us one day. Thank you Artur for taking these photographs.

Life had come full circle, because 30 years ago Jon went to his aunt's house in West Palm Beach before walking the docks in Ft. Lauderdale looking for sailboats that were looking for crew. Jon spent 1978 and 1980 crewing on other peoples's boats. Now, for the first time in his life, he had his own boat and was its captain.

At the lunch, seated from left to right, are Johanna, Michael, Dominique, Jon, David, Jennifer and Katie. Prior to leaving a few weeks later, we were visited by Michael's sister, Christina and her two sons. It was great to have family support as we neared our departure. Thank you again Artur for taking the photos!

Footnote from Bimini

Although we left Bimini, Bahamas a long time ago, our stay there deserves this footnote.

Jon, David, Katie and I sailed to Bimini from Miami during the kid's spring break in 2001. My two most vivid memories are 1) going to the End of World Cafe and eating the best conch salad I've ever tasted in my life and 2) hanging out at the Complete Angler, an old hotel for sports fishermen where Ernest Hemingway stayed in the mid-1930s. It had a library with walls that were covered with photographs of his Marlin fishing exploits, some letters and postcards, and other memorabilia from that time in his life.

I read The Old Man and Sea in high school and didn't have a clue what it was about. Then in my junior year of school, I saw my Dad reading a biography of Hemingway, called "Papa." He was so intensely reading it, that I checked it out when he was finished. I couldn't put it down, and when finished, I read all of Hemingway's novels. I was a scrawny kid from the middle of north Texas and had never been anywhere else other than Oklahoma and Colorado. Hemingway's novels and his own life story opened up a world of possibilities for me and were my first inspiration to travel and try to live life to the fullest. Later, Jon and I visited his home in Key West, Florida.

I was looking forward to showing the Complete Angler to Stephen and Guita while in Bimini and on our second day there, we went out for a walk looking for it. I knew I'd recognize it. After walking nearly the complete length of the island, I finally asked someone for directions (the island only has one street going the length of it). We were told that it had burned down several years ago. We got several versions.....arson, electrical, it was so old. But we had walked right past it not far from where we were docked. Everything was lost. Here is the photo of that remains. So sad.

In addition, the End of the World Cafe was closed down and was no longer the end of the world as there were newer buildings jutting farther out at the southern most end of the island. Oh well, just a reminder that nothing is guaranteed to be permanent. I think Hemingway's advise would be to grab everything with gusto while you can because it (or you) may not be here tomorrow.

Coming into Panama

We left Georgetown, Bahamas at noon on February 3 and arrived in Colon, Panama on Thursday, February 11 so it was 8 days at sea. Postings from others will follow, but here are a few photos.

Here, Jon is steering us toward Colon, Panama after spending the early morning hours dodging a lot of cargo ships. This was mostly done with the aid of our wonderful AIS system which identifies everything you'd want to know about another large ship remotely near your boat, and by talking to the skippers on VHF radio.

Prior to coming into to Colon, I began (slowly) my Farsi lessons with my sister-in-law Guita. Here she is teaching me the alphabet in the cockpit. Yes that is bandana tied backward on my head----that's because it has an ice pack that Jon made for me to help me stay cool in the ever increasing heat. (I know all our friends and family in snow bound Washington, DC area might be jealous, but it is really hot here. I am probably one of the few people who would have thoroughly enjoyed the blizzard.)

Here is a photo of Jennifer sewing at sea...working on some mosquito netting prior to our arrival in Panama. The sea behind me is a swell--about 8-10 feet. You can tell it's a swell because you cannot see the horizon, but no photograph can ever truly convey what a swell looks like as it's coming upon you. When coming from the stern, it's a gentle rolling. From the side or front, we call it "getting the sh*t kicked out of you."

While we all participate in tracking our course and Jon is our primary navigator, Stephen and Guita have played special rolls in our navigation. We had only paper charts in the Bahamas where the waters can be quite shallow and dangerous due the shifting shoals and coral reefs. While Stephen and I sat at the bow on watch for coral heads, Jon drove the boat with Guita at his side giving him minute-by-minute updates on our exact locations on the chart. She was superb. Coming into Panama, Stephen took over the navigation while Jon kept his eyes on the ship traffic. Here is a photo of Stephen the Navigator:

Panama

The boat made it to Panama today and after some tricky moments with anchor and getting settled in, all seems fine. Spoke with my mom (Jennifer) briefly and all seems good. I'm sure there will be a good update soon but just wanted to let all know that they are in Panama and safe.

I'm sure they would love some comments on here after their first significant passage... Please feel free to leave any comments short or long to let them know y'all are keeping track of them.

Hope all is well with everyone out there.


Kate Glaudemans

Rhythms

February 9, 2010: En route to Panama


After a few days at sea, the body, boat, and crew fall into rhythms. With the amenable watch schedule leaving everyone more rested, the mornings take on the kind of summer beach vacation dreaminess, with people awakening as they will, fixing a light breakfast, and acclimating to another day of sun, sea, salt, and the gentle swaying of a broad-beamed catamaran pushing thru Caribbean seas. The days are sunny, with temperatures in the mid-80s. The sea temperature is a steady 81 degrees, and this morning, Jennifer spotted a school of porpoises greeting the dawn by surfing our bow waves. Flying fish scatter the surface, propelling themselves through a wave face, and fluttering their 'wings' furiously as they skim across the surface, only to lose altitude eventually and dive back in. The purplish hue of the tiny Portuguese man o' war colors the occasional wave, their air-filled oblong bladders aligned with the prevailing wind. We are passagemaking, on a boat at sea.

By mid-morning, with the sun already high and bright in the sky, we're all up and about. There are the usual chores - cleaning up any dishes from the evening watches; putting away the long pants and jackets (windy nights are cool even here); and for me, tuning into my ham radio to listen to weather updates, check on notes from family, and send a position report to a tracking service. I also check in on a marine net, which hosts fellow cruisers who share current weather and wave conditions. These nets will prove invaluable in the Pacific, where weather monitoring stations are scarce, resulting in uselessly general 'official' weather forecasts along the lines of comedian George Carlin's famous forecast: "getting warmer toward summer." It's good to practice using these radio-based resources while we're still headed to Panama; after Panama, assistance becomes scarce. These daily contacts become part of our morning rhythm.

We try and have lunch and dinner together, to connect on what's happening with the boat, our route, and our morale. Being at sea, alone on an ocean on a small boat, can be disconcerting in the best of weather - better to stay checked in during good weather, to ease any transitions to less pleasant conditions. Today being the third day since we ran our watermaker, I refilled our 140 gallon tank with pure water - made using our very efficient Spectra Cape Horn watermaker. It uses a reverse osmosis process, where 10 gallons of sea water are forced at unimaginable pressure through tiny membranes that yields 1 gallon of pure water molecules to pass through. The slightly more-saltish waste is discharged overboard, and after testing a sample to make sure its mineral content meets specifications, I flip the lever to send the newly-made water to our tanks. We can shower every day, and use water freely in cooking and bathing - a luxury unheard of in small boats prior to the advent of these efficient watermakers. We run the watermaker every three days; our tanks are full.

Managing energy consumption is also part of our daily rhythm. All in, our routine electrical use includes our autopilot, which steers the boat for us, our navigation instruments, our refrigerator and freezer, and our water pumps and lights. Together, we use about 250 amp-hours a day. Our batteries store roughly 540 amp-hours, so without regular replenishment, we'd be energy-dry in two days. To produce energy, we use a combination of solar panels, capable in these latitudes of creating about 100-150 amp-hours per day and a wind generator that puts out another 100 amp-hours or so a day. For the balance, and for any shortfalls, we can either run our Onan generator - which sips fuel at about a gallon per hour, or one or both of our engines, which each burn about 1.3 gallons of diesel/hour. Today, we are close-hauled, with our sails tucked in tight, making a course of 203 degrees with a wind blowing from about 155 degrees. In these conditions, Grace likes to motor sail (catamarans are happiest with the win aft of the beam). Our batteries are full.

Tonight, we will eat dinner together as sunset colors the western sky. On the menu? Baked mahi-mahi, rice, and broccoli. The night sky is awash with stars, and the moon rises around midnight, half-full of the light of a sun passing over the Pacific Ocean, where we hope to be in a few weeks. Now that we're in a rhythm, the time will pass gently - each passing watch moving us 20 or so miles closer to Panama, in a kind of metronome of passage-making. Our bellies are full. We are passagemaking, in our boat Grace, across a gently rolling Caribbean Sea.

Received via e-mail on 2/9/2010 from Jon Glaudemans

Tracking IDG

Now you can follow IDG as they sail around the world! Click here and you can see where IDG is on their journey around the world.

Seeing

February 7, 2010

I'm not used to not having the sharpest eyes on the boat. Time was, I'd be the first to spot the buoy, to see that the light in the distant ship was green and not red, indicating a starboard-facing view. Today, I have reading glasses tucked away in every corner of the boat, and my brother Stephen (who's suspended his life as an architect in these no-new-construction times) is the first to see things. Perhaps not coincidentally, he is deaf in one ear, the result of a bicycle accident as a teenager. He and I were riding up to get some pizzas, and in a usual-for-Stephen bit of derring-do, he carried the pizzas home - look Ma - no hands! One turn too sharp and over the curb he flew, landing on his head and bleeding from an ear. I ran to an adjacent house and called home to let our Mom know.
My mother, who could see around corners sometimes, reacted with calm borne of raising six sons, and (as the story goes) told us simply to call an ambulance and she'd meet us at the hospital. By that time, we had our own orthopedic surgeon on call, and were on a first name basis with the nurses. Since then, Stephen's sight seems to have compensated for his lack of hearing, and he's the one to see the buoy and to distinguish the direction a passing ship is taking.

Well after the bicycle accident, when I decided to quit college, abandon my full scholarship, and go sailing on the oceans for a year, my mother's reaction was equally calm (although now, as parent, I can only imagine her torn feelings). Beyond calm, she supported my decision, a decision with a lifelong impact. I changed my course of study from the sciences to the humanities, and learned to see more clearly the world around me. Facts mattered, but facts were not the only things that mattered. That was also the year I deepened my desire and experience to sail extensively at some point in my life.

Since then, my mother has passed away, her eyesight clear to the end even as her mind's ability to process the images faded inexorably. She would have liked to see where her sons are today - together on a boat named Grace, pursuing a dream that perhaps she saw in my eyes when I broached the subject of leaving school.

Here, tonight, beyond the raft of glasses I've managed to strew about Grace's cabins, I've got other compensating strategies for my slowly deteriorating eyesight. I can listen to the sounds of the boat, and know when we're off course by the different sound the water makes as our angle into the waves changes. I can feel the wind on my cheeks, and can 'see' the wind change direction. I know by the pattern of the boat's rocking and heeling motions whether the waves and swells are increasing or subsiding. And tonight, even with these aging eyes, I can see - against a black sea - a lane of light stretching from Grace to the horizon, reflecting a ribbon of light from a low-lying southwestern star so bright that it lays a path from here to the horizon on a flat ocean. And I don't need the eyes I had thirty years ago when I left school to now see streaks of shooting stars against the fuzzy background of a star-saturated Milky Way, or the smeared light of a rising gibbous moon behind the eastern clouds.

Writing all of this on the midnight watch - knowing all of this - helps me see why I've come to this place - 16 degrees north, 75 degrees west - on a road lit by stars, flanked by the Milky Way to the west and a rising moon to the east. At night, we seem to see things clearly. Maybe my mother could see that Stephen would be fine; maybe she could see that I would be happier leaving school for a year. I know I'm happy that I can still see stars shine on the tops of Caribbean waters. I also know I'm happy there's a pair of glasses within reach wherever I am on Grace, and that my mother supported my decision to go sailing, and I'm happy that my brother is here to help me see.

Received on 2/7/10 From Jon Glaudemans

Keeping Watch (Last part)

The schedule will result in each person's watch schedule moving up one time slot, each day. Tomorrow, I will have the 0000-0200 watch. It seems like this will work well; two hours under a faintly-moonlit sky, with reflected sunlight shimmering on rolling swells seems right and easy, even if tonight, the gentle forward motion of Grace as she crosses the 18th parallel makes me want to stay at the wheel through dawn. I need my rest, even if Grace doesn't, and I'm looking forward to greeting Guita with an early 'top-o'-the morning' and then crawling into a warm bed with Jennifer, my co-captain.

Keeping Watch

February 6, 2010

While on passages, Grace sails 24 hours a day, continuously. No rest stops, no motels, and no breaks. While the sea is a big place, there are other ships and boats also underway, and a collision at sea can ruin your entire day, as the saying goes. Thus, ever since man set to sea, watches have been kept. The classic watch system is to deploy the crew to take a rotating four-hour command of a vessel even as the captain of the ship is ultimately responsible for a safe passage. This watch rotates among the crew, and on short-handed ships, the four-on, four-off routine is part of sailors' lore. Often, these watches are shared by two people - allowing for a degree of companionship, and, more importantly, a second pair of eyes, ears, and hands in the event some change in the ship's sail plan is required.

On watch, my two rules of sailing come into sharp focus: don't fall off the bat, and don't hit anything. The watch is responsible for the safety of the entire vessel while other are asleep. In addition to staying on the boat, we take routine scans of the 360 degree horizon for ships and land masses. We've been in busy waters lately, sailing well-established shipping routes, and there's usually been one ship or another ahead or astern to keep an eye on. Most travel faster than us, and thus either close quickly, or overtake us. Each situation bears monitoring, and we're assisted by a recent innovation whereby larger vessels are required to transmit their course and speed, among other date, to other ships. We have a receiver for these signals on Grace, and our navigation display conveys this information to us in an easy-to-understand fashion.

When Grace set off from Fort Lauderdale, we adopted the 4-on-4-off approach, pairing Guita and Stephen with me and Jennifer, respectively, thus providing a mix of experience. Our initial passages were short: less than a day to Bimini and overnight sails to Nassau and Georgetown, and we were experimenting as well as learning about the boat and each other. We left Georgetown a few days ago, and as I write this at 3:00 a.m., we are on our third night of a seven- or eight night passage to Panama. This evening, over an al fresco dinner of fresh-caught blue fin tuna (cubed, marinated, skewered, and barbequed, over a bed of rice pilaf), we discussed our watch system and made a few adjustments.

With everyone feeling more comfortable with the boat and each other, we decided that we no longer needed two people awake and on watch together. If a second person were needed, they could readily be called or roused (we carry a whistle, easily heard). Further, the 4-on-4-off system made the night watches long and grueling, and resulted in each person (or pair) having the same watch window each day. There are as many theories of watch schedules as there are religions, but we decided to go with three-hour watches from 0600 (6 a.m.) through 2400 (midnight) and to use 2-hour watches for the wee hours of morning. I came on watch at 0200, relieving Stephen; in (now) less than an hour, Guita will relieve me. At 0600, Jennifer will take over, for the first three hour watch of the new day.

The schedule will result in each person's watch schedule moving up one time slot, each day. Tomorrow, I will have the 0000-0200 watch. It seems like this will work well; two hours under a faintly-moonlit sky, with reflected sunlight shimmering on rolling swells seems right and easy, even if tonight, the gentle forward motion of Grace as she crosses the 18th parallel makes me want to stay at the wheel through dawn.

More to come on this... the e-mail was cut short.

Received on 2/6/2010 by Jon Glaudemans

Leaving Georgetown

We are leaving Georgetown, Exuma today continuing southeastwardly to either the Windward Passage or the Mona Passage, depending on wind and weather. We expect to be away from land from anywhere to a few days to a week or more.

All is well.

Jennifer

Community

We arrived yesterday in Elizabeth Harbour, the southernmost port in the Exumas, a long and slender chain of low-lying cays stretching southeastward from Nassau.  The previous day, we had sailed from Rose Harbor, just east of Nassau, leaving at 8:00 to assure ourselves of clear skies when traversing between the Yellow and White Banks -- each bank known for its coral heads.  By 3 pm, we passed through the cut from the banks to Exuma Sound, pushing against a 3 knot current of ocean surging onto the low-lying bank on a flood tide.  Out came the fishing lines, to take advantage of the current upwellings when the depth goes from 12 feet to 4,000 feet in a matter of a few hundred yards.  These underwater cliffs make the bahamas some of the best fishing grounds in the world.  Not five minutes later, we had a strike -- a large grouper.  Too large it turns out.  As a reef-dwelling fish, the larger groupers have fed on so many smaller reef fish -- each of which contains minute quantities of a poisonous toxin.  Without local knowledge as to which groupers are safe and which are not, we decided to throw it back, and off it swam.  


Not to worry; an hour later, another strike, and this was a keeper -- a nice-sized wahoo, which we promptly cut into two long, meaty filets and stowed in the fridge.  


Flanked by a rising moon and setting sun, we turned slightly south to southeast, and began a long, tough slog down Exuma Sound.  The good news?  We were in deep water.  The bad news?  The wind was coming directly from the direction we needed to sail to make Elizabeth Harbour.  The seas picked up as the wind freshened to about 22 knots true -- beating against the wind at a 45 degree angle, the wind across our faces blew at a frisky 25 knots or so, making for a bumpy ride.


As morning came, and the sun and moon reversed positions in the sky, we were a short 12 miles from Elizabeth Harbour, and its adjacent town of Georgetown -- a sort of mecca for cruising sailboats.  It's a large, natural harbour, flanked by Great Exuma to the west, and the barrier Stocking Island to the east.  Before entering, I made sure to hoist the burgee of the Seven Seas Cruising Association -- a global community of long-distance sailors and cruisers.   Approaching the twisting entrance, we dropped sails, and guided by Guita on the charts, and Jennifer and Stephen on the bows alert for shoals and corals, we made our way into the storied harbour past dozens and dozens of boats anchored in the lee of Stocking Island.  We dropped the hook, lowered the dinghy, and cleaned the boat from its thick coating of salt crystals. 


As we dove to check the anchor's set, a dinghy approached to "welcome us to the neighborhood."  Seeing we were busy, they promised to come back; they too were SSCA members, and by their burgee, I could tell they had logged thousands of cruising miles.  Given our 'newbie' status, we could learn a lot from them, so Jennifer and I hustled over in our dinghy, and invited them to share a dinner of barbecue-baked wahoo and rice pilaf.  George and Kim brought the wine, and over dinner they regaled us with stories and advice, as we shared a bit of our backgrounds and experiences.  Sailing, like most intensive activities, bvreeds its own culture and norms.  Sub-cultures exist as well; the cruising culture is to share generously of one's time, insights, supplies, and experiences.  I'm glad we joined the SSCA, and I'm glad we hoisted that burgee, and I'm glad we chanced upon such a lovely couple.  Mostly I'm glad for the existence of community.  

Sunday brought a bright, calm day, and we spent the day ashore and relaxing on the boat.  In a bit, we'll head over for the every-Sunday pig roast at the "Chat 'n Chill," a beachside impromptu gathering of cruisers eager to share their stories and hear others.  It's the Georgetown, Exumas equivalent of a community clubhouse.  We're looking forward to more sailing in the days ahead, to Panama and beyond, always buoyed by this palpable sense of community.

It's A Blessing

Grace and we lie snug on the south side of Rose Island, just east of New Providence’s Nassau harbor, after a two-part 110-mile sail from Bimini.  We left Wednesday at noon or so, after a morning of final errands and preparations.  After spending a few days acclimating ourselves to life outside the US, it became clear that we had a few too much of a few items, and Jennifer walked to the laundry to give Melinda several rolls of large, clear plastic bags.  Boats are, by their nurture and nature, damp environments, and plastic bags serve a vital purpose in keeping things dry (or drier).  We had overstocked.  Melinda was grateful for the gift, and reminded us of the conservative and religious foundation of these islands’ peoples when she said: “It’s a blessing.”

We offered some spare items to some of our fellow cruisers, let loose the dock lines, and headed north of Bimini harbor into a moderate easterly breeze and deep blue waters, intending to turn the corner and head southeast across the Grand Bahama Bank.  The Bank is a geologic wonder, a huge uplifting of the earth’s surface lying between the Gulf Stream, the Tongue of the Ocean, and set of deep-water channels.  Its average depth might approach 10 feet , with crystalline waters revealing every starfish, coral, and grassy bank below.  To a Chesapeake and blue-water sailor, it’s more than a bit disconcerting to be so sublimely aware of the only thing that really threatens a boat:  a hard, unforgiving bottom.

Turning north, and well before we entered the bank, the boat’s starboard engine shuddered, slowed, and then stopped.  This was a problem of a very different nature:  limited power and limited steerage in open waters.  Thankfully, it had not happened as we passed the rusty Bimini inter-island freighter in the narrow passage out of the harbor.  One lock astern revealed the problem:  a long tangle of discarded thick polypropylene  towing line had ensnared itself around the prop.  Out comes the mask and snorkel, over the side we go, and with a few shakes and turns, the line comes free and, thankfully – blessfully --  the engine starts back up and we round North Rock for the Bank. 

Twelve hours later, under a near-full moon and after a fast, gentle ESE sail across the Bank, we arrive at the NW Channel light marking the narrow gap between the Bank and the Tongue of the Ocean.  Rather than risk running aground in the narrow channel flanked by reefs and shoals, we anchored on the Bank for about 5 hours, waiting for first light.  To pass safely through Nassaus’s entrance channels, with its even shallower waters, we needed to pass the Channel light at first light; a few hours of sleep and an early morning call to arms, and we were back in deep waters, headed for Nassau.

By early afternoon, the huge hotels of Paradise Island were clearly visible on the southeastern horizon, rising like faintly-gothic towers atop a blue desert of ocean.  We were motor-sailing to assure a timely arrival before the sun got too low to reveal any lurking coral heads lying below the shallow eastern entrance channels of Nassau.  We made Salt Cay, just east of the Nassau entrance at 3:30 or so, and dropped sail and began to creep into the channels.  Making landfall in a new port is inevitably an anxious experience, and this proved no exception. The Bahamians are not known for laying clear markers (if any!), and with Guita reading off our coordinates and position, and Jennifer and Stephen keeping a keen watch from the boat, we crept south then east then north then west.  In eight feet of water, nestled on the south side of Rose Island, facing a faintly white rising moon, we dropped anchor.  A quick jump  overboard to check the anchor’s grip on the bottom revealed a scattering of starfish and small clumps of sea grass.  Dinner soon followed – an Iranian chicken and rice dish, with cucumber and yogurt (Guita is Iranian), and then a collective review of our next days’ passages.  As the moon brightened with the lights of Nassau behind us twinkling white, green, blue and green, Melinda’s words came back:  It’s a blessing.

Cold Fronts and Calypso Beats

Tuesday, January 26, 2010


The cold front passed through yesterday afternoon, bringing overcast skies, a shift of the wind from the southeast to the north, and a brief welcome burst of rain to wash our decks, sails, and windows.  After a Sunday spent gathering the soaked sheets and blankets from the drenching caused by leaving a porthole open on the crossing, we spent the day working under a sky that gradually filled with clouds, against a wind that moved around a clock dial through the SE to the S to the SW to the W to the NW, and finally, with cool air and a brilliant night sky, to the north.  As the rain shower began, we took advantage of the free fresh water to scrub the boat down with brushes and soap.  Water is 30 cents a gallon in these islands, a result of diminishing aquifers, pricey diesel to run desalination plants, and a relative dearth of rainwater to fill cisterns.  The clocking wind also brought us relief from the hourly checking of our fenders, used to keep the boat from slamming against the dock’s pilings.  Now the wind pushes us off the dock, and our new problem is adjusting the lines so that each boarding and disembarking doesn’t require a cartoon-like stretch of legs and arms.


Before the rain, laundry, re-packing the supplies in the now-again dry bilges, and making a trek to the building supply store to purchase some planking for future use in tenuous docking arrangements took up the better part of the day.  Engaging with the island’s commercial enterprises allows us to understand more about the people that call Bimini home.  We met Melinda, who runs the laundromat; Tin-Tin, who rides the streets in a bicycle festooned with license plates and Mardi Gras beads; the tram driver who sang to the calypso songs of Bimini native Stevie S., currently serving 5 years in the Nassau jail for statutory rape; a host of local fishermen looking to sell us lobster and conch; and Anthony, who heads up the security service at the nearby South Bimini Sands Resort.  We first met Anthony the afternoon before at Big John’s Bar, at the end of our dock, where we traded stories about football games as we watched the NFL conference championships while updating our blogs and drinking sodas, beers, and whiskey sours.  Security guards make about $300/week in at that exclusive resort and marina; healthcare insurance takes about $9/week out of that check.


Later, after the rain, after some well-deserved naps, and as the sun began to set, the Abaco-based calypso band Hipnotics set up shop at Big John’s, along with the crew of several local fishing boats returning from the Banks after a few days of commercial spearfishing for grouper, hogfish, and snapper.  Like fishermen everywhere, they were ready to drink, dance, and party.  A grill appeared; conch were broken open, pounded until tender, and along with chicken wrapped in foil, put on a rolling barbecue.  Drinks emerged from the bar, from bottles tucked around corners on the dock, and from hip flasks.  The lean, bright-smiled drummer knocked his sticks together four times, the keyboardist pounded the keys and the offstage bassist kicked into a solid 6 hour set of remarkably tight, well-rehearsed mix of reggae, calypso, and hip-hop.  Highlights?  A great medley of Marley’s “Stir it Up” with the Motown classic “Tracks of my Tears,” and (who could imagine) a fast-paced sunny-side-up version of the antiwar classic “Where Have All The Flowers Gone.”  By this time, Anthony had graciously asked Stephen for permission to ask Guita to dance, and proceeded to relate to Guita his recollection of where the Flowers had all gone.  Billy Flowers went to Nassau; Jimmy went to the U.S., and so on.  It turns out there is a large family of Flowers on Bimini.  Who knew?


By 9:30, probably just as the party was gearing up, we were winding down.  Back to the boat; a few moments reflecting on the progress made over the day; and a restful night with the boat safely kept off the dock by a cool dry wind.  The front had passed through; the rain had washed away the salt and grime; and through the hulls, the infectious beat of the Hipnotics’ played on through the night.


/jon

Arrived in Bimini, Bahamas

Ile de Grace arrived safely in Bimini, Bahamas yesterday. They experienced rougher than expected seas, but all seem in good spirits today. Jennifer and Stephen were hanging out in a bar watching some football earlier this afternoon when I spoke to them via ichat. They will remain in Bimini for a few days to wait for another window in the weather. More updates soon...and hopefully some lovely tropical pictures to take our minds off this cold and dreary weather!

Mishaps

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Try not to leave a port tired.  Yesterday, the official start of our long-planned circumnavigation, we left Fort Lauderdale after what might reasonably be called a three-year sprint to the starting line.  We had finished bringing the boat down from Annapolis on New Year’s Eve, and spent the next three weeks in an orchestrated  minuet of: unplugging from our professional, personal, and family connections; overseeing the final repairs, improvements,  and additions to our 44’ foot Fountaine-Pajot catamaran; and supplying ourselves with enough staples and dried goods for a year. 

I was tired of being cooped up in a marina, and we had a weather window to Bimini, so at first light, we slipped the dock lines, eased out of the slip, and headed west.  The forecast was light and variable till mid-afternoon, when the wind would pick up from the E-NE, allowing us time to enter and cross the nearby Gulf Stream before the wind created too much of a chop.

The forecast held – but only until 10:00 or so, when the winds picked up to 20-22 knots from the east.  We raised sail with a double reef, and settled in for a bumpy motor sail across the Stream, needing to make the 50 miles to Bimini by late afternoon to avoid running aground on the unmarked shifting sands and coral visible only in daylight.

First mishap:  as we were setting sail, we neglected to bring in the fishing line we had promptly set, hoping to catch some dinner on the way over.  The yellow, 100 lb test line promptly wrapped itself around out wind generator, creating an unholy mess.  We were lucky – had a fish of size chosen to strike our lure, it would have likely twisted one of our props before setting off dragging 50 yards of line and (perhaps) a piece of our generator.  My brother Stephen, who is joining us for the first long leg of our trip, along with his wife Guita, brought the line in quickly, but not before the line managed to wrap itself – oh, maybe 500 times – around the hub of the wind generator.

The lack of sleep, bumpy ride, and newness of the Gulf Stream sea conditions conspired to send my wife and co-captain Jennifer down for what turned out to be a nice long nap.  Guita soon followed.  The winds remained steady at 20-22 knots from the east, and with two reefs and two 30hp Volvos, we were making a respectable 6 knots to the southeast, on a tight beat. 

Second mishap:  A few nights earlier, at our marina, I had opened the porthole on the interior of our port bow to allow some interior breeze to flow through for Stephen and Guita, whose cabin lay in the port aft.  (You know where this is going.)  A few hours before making landfall, I did a check of the cabins and found myself stacking a large pile of sea-soaked bedding atop a sea-soaked foam cushion mattress.  The water had also drained into our port bilge – where thankfully, we had triple- and quadruple wrapped our dry goods and provisions.

Arriving in Bimini, we encountered a strong southward setting current at ebb tide, coupled with the persistent 20-25 knots of wind from the east.  We had arranged with Weech’s Bimini Dock to take us in for a few nights, and they had saved a spot for us along the N-S running bulkhead.  With a few pits in my stomach, I circled the dock area once, and let IDG drift to stop about 30 yards east of the docking area, and let the wind push us sideways onto the dock.  With some dockside assistance and the timely introduction on bumpers by my now fully-alert shipmates, we managed to tie alongside safely – and without mishap!  An hour or so processing paperwork, arranging bumpers, and making a start on the yellow fishing line tangle, we were safe and secure, and ready for showers, some food, and, yes, some sleep.

The following morning's sunrise and subsequent brunch eased the pit in my stomach from causing so much unnecessary hardship on our boat and my shipmates.  The day was filled with sunshine and wind, chores and errands, and ended with a solid night's sleep (again) by all.  Never leave tired, but if you do, head to Bimini and be blessed with understanding shipmates.

/jon

The Journey Begins

Jon, his brother Stephen and sister-in-law Gita, and I leave Ft. Lauderdale later this morning. Our first leg is a short journey across the Gulf Stream to the island of Bimini in the Bahamas. The boat is provisioned, and as ready as she'll ever be. I know that may people have embarked on such a journey much less prepared than we are---so it is now time to stop preparing and planning and start doing. We are about 3 weeks behind our original departure plans, but all in all that's not bad. We've shut down our house and lives on land, and are quite excited to head into blue waters.

There are many people to thank who have helped us along the way, from our broker Gregor, to Fountaine Pajot and to all the marine workers who've laid their hands and talents on the ile de Grace. But the 2 people I must thank the most are our two children, David and Katharine. They have supported us, advised us, encouraged us, performed critical tasks along the way when Jon and I could not manage it all, and will continue to back us up back on the home front.

So, to David and Katharine: You have our deepest gratitude and appreciation. We set sail with you both in our hearts and look forward to your joining us when your schedules permit.

Next post: The Bahamas

We're in Ft. Lauderale

Hoping to leave soon. Will update even sooner.

2009 Update

OK, I know it’s been a year and I apologize for being negligent in updating the blog. Much happened in 2009 and it wasn’t all to do with the boat. Nevertheless, we spent a lot of time installing upgrades so that the ile de Grace is ready for extended ocean passages.

One of the first upgrades Jon and I did was to replace all the through hulls, which were plastic, with bronze ones. A through hull is a hole in your hull where sea water may enter. Yes, you sometimes want this so that you can flush your toilets, drain your showers and use your sea water pumps to wash down the decks. It's just very important that the valves work well and bronze is much better than plastic.

We added a Spectra water maker, which can produce 14 gallons of fresh water from seawater in one hour. Our water tanks carry 140 gallons, which is nice, but the water maker will ensure that on long passages we not only will have plenty of water for drinking and cooking, but also for bathing and laundry.

Speaking of which, yes, we put a washing machine on the boat. I am sure that if this journey were being conducted by only men, then a bucket would have sufficed nicely. But clothes damp with salty water never dry and soon stink. And, as I learned on the Atlantic crossing, laundromats on islands can be very expensive and can take all day given the high demand around marinas. Next to the washer, we installed a freezer. It looks like an ice chest, but was designed for ambulances and is 12 volt. This is a benefit of having a daughter who is a paramedic. She took me to an EMS convention to help me outfit our medic kit, and we discovered the perfect freezer for the boat. Now, when we catch fish at sea we can store it and we can provision for the long sea passages ahead.

We also added a hatch in the starboard bow. Truth be told, this was the only way we could get the washing machine inside, but it also gives us access to the top from our primary storage area, and, most importantly it adds a lot of natural light to what is also our work area. We are quite happy with how it turned out.

Moving to the back of the boat, we added a stern arch to hold 4 solar panels and a wind generator. Since they were installed last July, our batteries have have stayed fully charged and we are extremely pleased with their performance. The solar panels can generate 28 amps. We added a stronger motor mount for the outboard engine for our dinghy, which is braced to the stern arch. The arch also allows us to elevate our GPS antennas and to troll for fish.

After our stanchion broke in the Atlantic, I was never happy with the weight distribution for the cockpit roof (which supports our boom traveler). We decided to add a fourth stanchion behind the inside of the helm station for added stability. It also will be a nice handhold in rough weather.

We added six more hand rails along the boat. For ocean sailing these were a must. The new hand hold at the helm station looks as if it was original to the boat, and it should have been. On the Atlantic crossing, there was nothing to hold on to when steering. I also added an extra rope bag at the helm station to make storing the lines easier. Although after I changed the reefing system so that it could all be done from the helm (which meant I added three more lines to the mix), the second line bag became a necessity, not just a convenience.

Other upgrades included adding an auto pilot repeater at the navigation table which allows us to make adjustments from inside the boat in nasty weather, installing a ham radio (Jon passed both of his FCC licensing tests and we hope to get over our radio shyness on the journey), replacing the hand pump toilet in our cabin with a fresh water electric toilet (a big deal to boaters), seriously upgrading our mattress, and installing curtains in the main salon. We also repainted the bottom hulls with a paint that will hopefully see us to Australia.

The boat certainly feels more like our home, and the process of customizing it has also made it more our own. I must of all give a lot of credit to Georgetown Yacht Basin, of Georgetown, Maryland for doing all this amazing work. David Ellison coordinated all the projects and Mike, Zinger, Matthew, Rick and others contributed extraordinary skill and talent to make all these upgrades look like there were original from the factory.

Finally, I must thank Fountaine Pajot and our broker, Gregor Tarjan, for following through on the warranty repairs. The helm station was reattached and the leaks were repaired in excellent manner by the folks at Georgetown Yacht Basin, but FP stood by their product and reimbursed us for the repairs. A big thanks to all.

Up next.....our journey down the east coast this fall to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida.

Update: Repairs and Outfitting

As with houses, boat projects take much longer than one would expect at the outset. Our Main and Genoa sails were taken for repair on the day we arrived home, June 4th. We needed to repair the tears in the Genoa's sunscreen, caused by chaffing against the mast stays. And we had another batten pocket to repair in the main sail--the second to tear on the crossing.

(Katie demonstrates the torn batten one month after her shoulder surgery, thus the big sling on her arm.) We decided to replace the existing batten system, which was plastic and lacked sufficient yardage in the sail fabric for a sustainable seam. We also replaced the sunscreen on the Genoa with a bit heavier fabric in the hope that it will last longer. We also added leather gloves around the ends of the mast stays to help prevent chaffing in the future.

As you can see, the repairs are great, but it took six weeks to get our sails back. Jon was getting quite anxious to sail his boat. He said the wait was a bit like a groom going through the wedding preparation and ceremony only to be told he'd have to wait six weeks for the honeymoon.

While waiting for our sails to be repaired, we took the île de Grâce for repair estimates to the only boatyard on the bay that can haul out large catamarans --Georgetown Yacht Basin, in Georgetown, Maryland on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake Bay, up the lovely Sassafras River.

On thcrossing, we have several significant leaks, the rack and pinion steering rod torqued, and a few other minor problems that the factory will repair under its warranty. Here, you can see where the helm station separated from the saloon.

It took until September to get all the estimates; into the fall to get Fountaine Pajot’s approval; and, as of January 1st, GYB has yet to begin...much patience is required.

In the meantime, we added two cleats to the bows (under the seat) and two to the inside sterns to allow for better mooring and docking.

In early August, Furuno re-wired all our navigation instruments, which had quit working a day out from Norfolk, Virginia. While they had our boat, we added radar, AIS (Automatic Identification System), and a chart plotter—our first major upgrades. The chart plotter integrates a chart, with GPS, radar and can give you a three-dimension perspective. The AIS
lets us identify any large ships that appear on our radar. It’s really cool, and was well worth rearranging the helm station a bit.


We were able to sail the île de Grâce for most of August through the fall. Jon was finally able to get to know his boat and get a feel for how she sails. Katie became the official “Hoister of the Main Sail” with the electric winch. And we had many lovely outings with friends and family.

This photo from mid-October hopefully shows how happy Jon and I are to sail her.

In late November, Jon and I returned her to Georgetown to be hauled out for the winter. Hopefully, the repairs will go smoothly, and our “to do” list will be well underway.

We have yet to install a water-maker, freezer, washing machine, solar panels and a wind vane. We will sand and repaint the bottom, and hope to add extra handrails and metalwork.

In addition, we are beginning to plan our route and travel logistics. Jon is studying for his Ham Radio license, and I am preparing to lease the house and put furniture in storage, which means cleaning out closets, the basement and attic. 

Sorry for the delay in posting, but hopefully, we’ll have updates more frequently.  Cheers.