THANKSGIVING - 35 years on and we're still sailing!

 

Tropicbird

This is the 35th anniversary of a Thanksgiving that we hold very special.  It was November 21-23, 1988.


In our 37-year career, it was rare that we took a dedicated vacation. Running a small mom-and-pop company limited the time we could be away from our business. We might take an extra day tagged onto a work trip or a long weekend to visit family in South Florida. But, that really wasn't recreation time. Besides, we traveled so much to so many wonderful places, we never felt the need to take time off to change the scenery. But, we did long for more time to cruise on our sailboat.

Our Tropicbird, a 1960 Pearson Triton, was a well-found sailboat. We became her caretaker in 1979. The fabled classic Triton was a Carl Alberg designed, heavy displacement craft, full keel with a four foot draft. We worked to refit and upgrade Tropicbird and invested much sweat equity and funds. In 1985 we repowered with a Westerbeke diesel. A few years of neglect by the irresponsible former owner set the stage for more maintenance than was typical, so there was always something to do or fix.

The plan was to leave on Sunday morning. The weather forecast a NW front. In a weather front, the winds clock around from east to SE, south, SW, west and then northwest when the front hits. Then the winds blow out of the north or northwest and eventually abate. That’s the predictable pattern. We could wait for this cold front to pass and then make a run straight before the wind to Crystal River on strong N/NW breezes to our stern, surfing with the waves that would likely be moving in the same direction. Then, as winds usually calm after a front, we could hop our way back to our home port, stopping at Cedar Key, Steinhatchee, and Rock Island. It was a decent plan.

Our No. 11400 Tampa Bay to Cape San Blas Chart

Note the LORAN lines - today, GPS positions display on a flat screen.

Our departure was delayed a bit when the front arrived a little later than the forecast. We slept overnight with our boat tied to the dock on Sunday and watched the weather settle on Monday. By noon, winds were good. It was still overcast but the marine weather radio forecast reported improving conditions and fair weather ahead. There was a tropical disturbance in the Caribbean, but it was forecast to track west due to the approaching cold front. The Nature Coast would be clear. About noon, we were off before a fresh wind….on our way. An eagle soared overhead as we cleared the Shell Point channel marker. We took it as a good omen for our journey.

We were making good progress, 5 knots or a bit better, sailing a southerly course. Once we were about 60 miles south we would steer to a more easterly course to enjoy a beam reach on to Crystal River. All continued to go well; as the sun set we were nearing 40 miles south in the Gulf. NOAA Weather continued to report a good forecast. At 1800 hrs we weren’t yet enjoying the clearing skies we anticipated but the temperature wasn’t dropping and it wasn’t raining. As darkness surrounded us, we began our watch schedule - 2 hours on, two hours off - taking turns at the helm. Neither of us is great at watch keeping. Adrenaline keeps us both awake and up until we are both exhausted. Lacking the discipline to catch a nap, it’s hard to keep solo watch, especially when it gets to midnight and the wee hours of the morning.

On toward 9 PM, conditions began to get a bit dicey. Winds were no longer steady out of the north, shifting mostly to more NE or easterly. Still, we were making decent progress, but no longer before the wind or on a beam reach. We were more close reached to the southeast and confused seas. We shortened the mainsail and hanked on our small working jib to replace our larger roller furling genoa. Not an easy task in the dark and rain on a heaving foredeck. The genoa was doused, unhanked, and stuffed below through the forward hatch, in a wet bundle.

Winds increased and became more gusty. Waves were no longer coming from the northwest. Instead they were piling up into haystacks. Sea foam started lining up in streaks across the water. And, it began to rain. Still, NOAA weather was predicting fair and clear conditions with moderate seas. We tuned in to catch the updates because the weather we were experiencing wasn’t matching up with the forecast. Winds were a steady 25 knots and gusting over 30. 

Things always seem more dire at night. Rain and spray add to the anxiety. By 2000, we had enough of the beating into a gusty headwind. Reefing again and dousing the jib, we were OK, but decided to take a more comfortable option to head north and hope for the improvement. We were both tired and soaked, but more uncomfortable than frightened. 

By 2200 hrs, we decided to crank up the Westerbeke diesel and head straight in to Steinhatchee. Lowering the reefed main we started motoring into the wind and seas, now regularly over 30 knots and gusting to 45. Seas were breaking over the bow as we plummeted into the waves which had built to 6-8 ft. Tropicbird would ride up a wave, then crash down into the trough, the Gulf washing over the foredeck, shudder, and then resume forward motion. We were making slow progress. We would get to port by dawn at 3 knots under power. We were in a sturdy seaworthy boat. 

Our fortune changed at midnight when the diesel engine choked and died. We hove to, a technique to steer into the wind and drift sideways. This can be dangerous in breaking seas, but with the haystack waves, it was more like a bucking bronco ride than a sideways slide. Checking out the engine, and with no expert mechanic on board, we could only confirm that it was still in place and the bilges were normal. At least we were not sinking!

That thought had come to mind. When we purchased Tropicbird, we had replaced the cockpit scuppers that drain the cockpit with a criss-crossed arrangement that a marine surveyor had recommended. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but now we were standing ankle deep in water in the cockpit, with scuppers that kept water from draining out efficiently. Tropicbird did not have a bimini or dodger to protect us from the elements. While we had our rain gear and boots on, we were exposed to the rain and wind. Standing in the water sapped our body heat and our confidence. 

We took stock of our situation and weighed options. We were 50 miles south of Shell Point and 25 miles away from the closest land. We were not sinking, the boat was OK, though engineless. We were tired, cold and wet under our foul weather suits. The wind was howling and the seas were very uncomfortable. If this was a TV show, we should change the channel.

We decided not to do a radio check to test our capability to transmit. We held out hope that if things really got bad our last resort would be to call the Coast Guard. We did not want to know if this option was not available. We also knew that, if we called the Coast Guard, they either would not come to get us because the weather was too dangerous or they would come get us and we would have to abandon Tropicbird to the elements. It was not likely that we would be towed in, considering the storm.

It might be trite, but we recalled that the opening line of the Old Breton prayer: "Thy sea, O God, so great; my boat so small" applied pretty literally to our circumstance.

Our options were to run before the wind under bare poles - a more comfortable course, but taking us further out into the Gulf. Or, we could anchor in place in the rough seas. Or, we could hank on a jury-rigged reefed working jib and beat into the storm. We chose to make the best course we could by sailing with a jib spilling enough wind to not blow out, but keep us moving on a close reach.

In 40 knot winds and higher gusts, we clawed our way southeast. We were both seasick. Nighttime is so disorienting. We took turns plotting our position. In the days before GPS that delivers an accurate position on a chart, along with other pertinent data, our navigation was supported by Loran. Loran was state-of-the-art at the time. It was a series of time difference numbers that need a bit of math to convert to latitude and longitude and then it needs to be transferred to a paper chart. With a rocky ride and by flashlight, we captured the Loran number, did the math, and extrapolated an approximate position to plot on the wet chart. We noted progress making 10 miles or so over 4 hours. 

At 0400, exhausted and with conditions showing no signs of improving to the still fair conditions of NOAA weather reports, we decided to try anchoring. Casting off our Danforth anchor and nearly all of our rode, the boat jerked into the weather when the anchor set and we began the rolling bounce to await the dawn. Between us, we were able to consume and keep down half an 8 oz. box of juice. We lay spooned, shivering in foul weather suits, on a single berth. Neither of us could manage to more than nod off for a few minutes before being jolted by the waves, and the constant serenade of howling wind singing in the rigging. We discovered that hatches and ports leaked, making it all the more uncomfortable inside the cabin.

Daylight delivered a better view of the situation we were in. By the Beaufort scale, a time-tested measure of wind conditions based upon observation of the behavior of the waters, we could see we were in a Force 8 gale. It was cloudy, with a low ceiling of fast moving clouds and spitting rain between heavier squalls. 

At 0945 we tried to down another box serving of juice and prepared to haul the anchor. Winds were out of the east and still howling, shifting from ESE to ENE. We had a bit of luck restarting the engine - it ran long enough to head us into the wind to pull the anchor. Then it coughed  and died. The fuel tank had been shaken so violently by the storm that the filter was clogged with detritus dislodged from our aged tank. But just a few minutes with the engine made pulling the anchor a short task rather than a long, back breaking, inch-at-a-time ordeal.

Out on the rolling sea - Marvin painted from a vivid memory ~1990

At first we tried running with no sails up, using only the force of the wind on the mast and boom to propel the boat. Soon it was obvious the only point that we could make under "bare poles" is the dreaded downwind run back out into the Gulf. We wanted shallower water to help abate the seas. So we hauled the working jib, and spilled air with a very sloppy set. Like magic, when we crossed the 4- fathom line, and were only a dozen miles off the coast, the waves calmed to only "very rough". Waves were more regular and winds eased a bit. We continued NW through squalls for several hours with ESE winds blowing about 20 to 25 knots. As we were running with the wind we were making hull speed with a better set of the jib alone. Then our speed suddenly slowed. A crab pot line caught the freewheeling prop and lodged between the rudder and keel. 

Lee was adamant that Marvin would not go overboard with a mask and knife to cut the line. His assurances of the necessity of the excursion were not convincing. Consequently, the fast pace and easier sail on a broad reach, heading home with the wind at our backs would be hampered by dragging a crab trap. Instead of making 6 knots with following seas, we could make about half that speed. 

Night fell and we sailed on. We believed we were through about the worst of it. Closer to home, we picked up a few local transmissions on the VHF radio and to our surprise the NOAA forecast was still for good weather.  We were done with dry heaves and neither of us wanted anything to eat or drink. The cabin was a mess, water everywhere from rain and hatch leaks, soaked cushions, clothes, and every unsecured item resting on the cabin sole. We looked forward to making the entrance channel in familiar waters, even if at night.  But the slow progress from dragging a crab trap and the fatigue combating the wind and waves led us to decide to anchor again. But not before we caught a glimpse of the St Marks Lighthouse welcoming us back to our corner of Apalachee Bay. We knew from the charts and cruising guide that the lighthouse had a range of 18 nautical miles. We were somewhere within 18 miles of St Marks and almost home.

We dropped the hook, having given up plotting our position on a wet chart. From here, even though well out of sight of land, our spirits were buoyed. We settled in for another wet and rocky night's sleep. Awakening early to clear skies and a fresh north to NE wind, we pulled the anchor without the engine assist.  We could raise our main and reset the genoa. Overnight, Neptune had released us from the crab trap float and we were free to have a great beam reach sail on a normal sea condition of 2-3 ft. 

At 1100 when we arrived at the entrance to Shell Point, we found it was low tide, with winds blowing out of the north. The water was blown away from the shore, exposing shoals on either side of the channel. We were welcomed by a bald eagle, again flying over our mast, as one had done upon our departure.

Pretty much spent, physically and emotionally, we decided to wait for the tide rather than tacking up  the narrow channel into the north wind to sail the last mile to our dock. We deliberately ran the boat aground just off the main part of the channel and threw out the anchor with about 30 ft of slack line and chain in case the tide refloated us. Retreating to the cabin we collapsed to sleep til about 4PM. In the late afternoon sun, we flagged a mullet fisherman who kindly towed us in to our dock. The sun set with a beautiful glow in a clear sky on a mirror slick bay.

At the dock, we listened again to NOAA marine weather and to our surprise the report was for "small craft warning, mariners should stay in port". A little late for us and more like weather history than a forecast.

Approximate track of our 3-day adventure

Disembarking, with the motion of the ocean still swaying in our heads, 

it was Thanksgiving. 

And we indeed had much to be thankful for - a seaworthy boat

 and, especially, each other. 

Epilogue 

After our cruise, we learned what we didn’t know about the weather when we were in it. Tropical Storm Keith had strengthened and turned to the northeast, heading for Tampa Bay. The cold front was stalled or backing up, converging with the tropical storm. We had been caught in the boundary between the two systems. Tropical Storm Keith came ashore between Sarasota and Tampa, with tropical storm conditions extending “much further to the north”. 








As much as we loved Tropicbird, her 4 ft draft was too limiting for the thin waters off Shell Point and our sailing ambition, the Florida Keys. It would take us 20 more years to get to the Keys, aboard our shallow draft Shannon Shoalsailer, Bay Breeze.


In 1990, we bought a Freedom Cat Ketch with a shallow 2.5 ft draft and weighted centerboard keel. We kept Tropicbird for another year to be sure we liked the Freedom, Wing and Wing, and then passed our beloved Triton (no. 123) on to a Navy fighter pilot who sailed off to Panama City. We hope Tropicbird still sails on. 

Tropicbird sails on with us on Bay Breeze...forever grateful 

for her delivering us safely to our dock.

         Track of Tropical Storm Keith

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Thanks for reading!

Thy sea, O God, so great,

My boat so small.

It cannot be that any happy fate

Will me befall

Save as Thy goodness opens paths for me

Through the consuming vastness of the sea.

Thy winds, O God, so strong,

So slight my sail.

How could I curb and bit them on the long

And saltry trail,

Unless Thy love were mightier than the wrath

Of all the tempests that beset my path?

Thy world, O God, so fierce,

And I so frail.

Yet, though its arrows threaten oft to pierce

My fragile mail,

Cities of refuge rise where dangers cease,

Sweet silences abound, and all is peace.

- Winfred Ernest Garrison