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Conquering Fears of
Offshore Sailing
12/03/02
Blaine Parks
Sunset over a
calm ocean on Charbonneau's first offshore passage.
(11/12/00) |
And this was the
welcoming sunrise the following morning (11/13/00) |
 
 
Porpoises join
us as we head offshore from Beaufort, NC to Charleston, SC
(11/12/00) |
Offshore
spinnaker sailing
(11/19/01) |
Once again, it was time to start moving south.
We’d lost our sea legs after a month of land travel while visiting
family and friends, but it was good to be back aboard.
With our gear and new provisions safely stowed, our attention
turned to the upcoming passages. We
had spent the entire summer gunkholing in the Chesapeake Bay and
backwaters of North Carolina. Now it was time to get back offshore and, as we approached
the Cape Fear Inlet on our way out to sea, it suddenly dawned on me that I
was smiling with excitement.
It didn’t seem to bother me that the winds were blowing over 30 knots
and the seas were six to eight feet.
In fact, I was almost giddy with the prospect of running downwind
in those conditions. Gone
were the early fears and concerns that faced us on our maiden offshore
sail three years ago. Also
gone were the long checklists of preparations.
They were now replaced with familiar tasks, respect for the ocean, a sense
of confidence, and a body of experience that only comes with time on the
water. But when the sea took my lunch in an early bout of seasickness,
my mind raced back to that first offshore sail.
We had spent years planning our escape.
Those same years were consumed with wondering how we’d perform as
offshore sailors. Were our
skills up to the test? Was
the boat ready to take the ocean’s fury?
What did the words “ocean’s fury” really mean?
Did we have all the right safety gear, and did we know how to use
it? We had plenty of
questions, many more than we had the answers to.
In short, we were terrified.
Days before our departure, we checked and re-checked our sails, rigging,
and safety gear. The night
before we ran our new jack-lines from bow to stern, tested our tethers and
safety strobes, and laid out our inflatable life jackets, complete with an
integrated harness. Our dogs,
Max & Bailey, had no idea that their walk in the pre-dawn light would
be their last for a while. With
everyone back aboard, we cast off our lines and, with brave faces and hearts full of doubts, we raised our sails on the way out of the Beaufort,
North Carolina inlet, headed for Charleston – absolutely sure that we
might sail off the edge of the world into some watery grave.
We cleared the outer buoys and turned the boat south onto our intended heading.
There was a moderate breeze blowing across the beam of the boat
pulling Charbonneau along at six knots.
The seas were less than three feet and the experience was,
surprisingly, much like sailing on our home waters of North Carolina.
The sun was shining warmly as we settled into our first watch –
Janet had the helm. Two other
sailboats followed us out of the inlet and made the same turn south.
They hailed us on the radio, confirmed their destination as
Charleston, and suggested we stay in touch via radio throughout the
journey. We were still on our
own, but having others on the same course gave us a reassuring voice to
talk with during the late hours of our watches.
Two hours into our passage, the winds disappeared leaving the ocean with a
mirror-like surface. We
brought in our sails and began motoring, looking for wind.
We never found it. What we did find were several pods of dolphins that came
racing across the calm seas to play in our bow wake – our first offshore
greeting by these graceful creatures.
Janet ran to the bow each time they returned, reaching down from
the bow and almost touching them. They squeaked their version of hello and
made a game out of slapping their tails as they passed by under her
outstretched hand, as
though they were trying to splash her.
When the last light of the day faded in a blazing sunset, the sun was
replaced by a rising full moon. Our
plan had been to head offshore with a full, or nearly full, moon to help
ease the fear of that first night watch.
The result was magnificent. The
moon reflected off the ocean giving us more than three miles visibility
under clear skies.
Shortly after 9:00 p.m., one of the other boats reported catching a
twenty-pound tuna. Janet
and I continued standing our three-hour watches through the night.
Our earlier fears were replaced by a nervousness blended with a sense
of wonder at what we were doing. We
were offshore, something we’d dreamed about for years.
Morning came, bringing with it a fire-orange sunrise, but still no wind.
In the late morning hours, we spotted land.
We passed Charleston’s outer sea buoy just before 1 p.m.
Local pilots were leading ships to and from the busy harbor as we
navigated our way in through the channel, one buoy at a time.
Shrimp boats carried on around us with their daily fishing as if
the day were nothing special. Yet to us, this was a remarkable day. We had just completed our first overnight, offshore passage
– and survived despite all our fears.
We were overwhelmed with a sense of accomplishment as we pulled
into Charleston’s City marina, exactly thirty-two hours and forty-nine
minutes after our departure from Beaufort.
Sure, it wasn't the culmination of an around-the-world sail, but it did
represent the first step in our journey. I imagine that Joshua
Slocum and other famous round-the-world sailors felt the same exhilaration
after completing the first offshore legs of their
journey.
A loud cheer from Janet brought me back to our current offshore jump to
Charleston. I thought, at
first, that she was yelling, “mine too, mine too”, which made
absolutely no sense to me. When
the winds, now blowing over thirty-five knots, took a breather, I could
hear her more clearly – “nine two, we’re making nine point two
knots.” Now that was something to cheer about. Charbonneau settled in for the night averaging more than
eight knots. It was a sleigh
ride the whole way, teetering on the verge of being out of control. Damn, this was fun!
Looking back, I don’t remember when I crossed the line from fear and
trepidation to fun and anticipation during our offshore passages.
I’m sure my moment was different than Janet’s and that your own
moment will be personal to you. The
point is that every experienced sailor, from Columbus to our present-day
sailing heroes, started with that first offshore passage and not knowing
what to expect from the ocean or from themselves.
Yet, with time and experience, each of us crosses the line from
dreamer to day-sailor to offshore cruiser.
Maybe today is your day.
We’ll see you
on the water.
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Offshore
sailing on a perfect day
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