Be Careful What You Wish For

So, once again I’ve taken to the ship. Perhaps not too quietly, but quietly enough. In recent months, I’ve definitely been grim about the mouth, and have been closer to stepping into traffic or pushing off people’s hats or following close after funerals, so perhaps it’s allowable that I wasn’t quite as silent as I might have been. My buddy, Ishmael, would allow me that luxury, I suspect.
What’s been surprising is that taking to the ship hasn’t been the balm it’s always been in the past. Granted, it’s only been four-plus days but I was hopeful of an almost immediate transformation. And what I’ve found has been a bit more like, well, finding out that the red Corvette convertible and the bimbette don’t really solve the mid-life crisis.

I arrived in Barbados Saturday afternoon, a week or two short of 25 years since I last set foot on that island along with nine other college friends on what was an insane and wild spring-break week. It was interesting to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak (to be honest: it was a lot tamer than we like to admit to ourselves) even if only for a few hours. And it was only for a few hours because I was bound for Union Island in the nation of St. Vincent and the Grenadines a day later. I couldn’t make the connection in one day, hence the layover.

Union was my destination because my Dutch friends, Boogie and Marlies, with whom I’ve sailed many thousands of miles both north and south, were there, and they had invited me to get away from winter, from despair, from what has been a 24/7 job of caring for my father for many months. Dad has progressed in recent weeks to near-independence, enabling me to take my friends up on their very kind offer and escape to the Caribbean.

Union is very Third World, an on-the-cusp-of-tourism-influx place in stark constrast to the smooth operation of Barbados. It’s the gateway to the diving mecca of the Tobago Cays and is a burgeoning kiteboarding destination. And in the middle of it all were my friends, skipper and mate on an obscenely opulent 70-foot aluminum sailing yacht. Boogie and Marlies work for the pair of owners and have shepherded the boat throughout the Mediterranean, across the Atlantic and up and down the Caribbean chain. The owners were going to be back in Europe for a bit, enabling me to join my friends as they took the boat north to St. Maarten in advance of the owners’ return.

While I didn’t get to experience the Tobago Cays (they remain on my to-do list, for sure), I did get in a morning of kiteboarding — the first time I’d done so since I spent three days in Cape Hatteras the first week of November 2011 learning how. And I had a great time and was much more proficient than I expected I’d be. That was gratifying. And just plain fun. The dinner we had the night before we departed — grilled lobster with assorted local sides all prepared by a local guy named Michael and served on the beach between passing rain squalls was nothing short of exquisite. A return to Union is in the cards.

We hoisted anchor and motored out around the reef at midday on Tuesday. We were bound for Antigua: 266 miles almost due north. We planned to run along the west, leeward side of St. Vincent, St. Lucia, Martinique, Dominica and Guadaloupe, and finish up at Falmouth Bay on the south coast of Antigua. Our ETA was about 30 hours later: late in the evening on Wednesday.

We hit our ETA but it sure felt a lot longer than that, and that’s where the feeling of midlife realization came in. I hadn’t been aboard a boat in 51 weeks — since I’d crewed for Boogie and Marlies in the 2012 Heineken Regatta in St. Maarten — and while I expected to be a bit queasy (par for the course the first night out when I return to sea), I never expected this. I felt like shit from Tuesday evening until we arrived in Antigua, with a wonderful break in the lee of Guadaloupe. It was never really bad — a lot like a low-grade wine hangover — but I never really felt as blissful and carefree and, well, FREE as I usually feel when I’m at sea. And it’s not like the location in this case sucked: at night I had Polaris on the bow and the Southern Cross on the stern and several shooting stars all aroud; there was the deep, royal blue of the Caribbean Sea, a color that calls you to look into it in search of anything and everything you might be seeking; the wind was a raucous and steady 20 to 25 knots, powering our 55-ton vessel as she was made to be moved; and perhaps most importantly, I wasn’t cleaning commodes or administering medicine or washing soiled laundry or living from call to call and need to need, the first time I’d really had that freedom in almost four months. It was not only escape, it was escape in the dreamland of escapes.

And yet, I felt like shit. Again, not puke-my-guts-out shitty but just blah. Exhausted. Worn out. Tired behind the eyes. And I couldn’t find the cure. Robert Frost pointed out that the best way out is through, and since I had no alternative, that’s what I did: I kept on. I stayed topside when I could, savored the sailing and the Caribbean when I could, and I slept when I could.

There was the fabulous several-hour respite in the lee of Guadaloupe. As we approached, the seas that we’d been bashing into and the wind that had us almost close-hauled — two factors that in all likelihood created my crappy feeling — waned. The sea flattened and the wind shifted to the west. You could smell the land — plants, activity, LIFE — and even the sun that had been scorching seemed more benign. Dolphins cavorted in the bow wave adding to the majesty. I can’t speak for Guadaloupe itself but I adore the waters off its west coast.

We emerged from the northern point of Guadaloupe back into the close-hauled winds for the 40-mile run to Antigua. But the seas weren’t quite as jarring and the fact that the finish line loomed undoubtedly helped. The run into Falmouth Bay went nicely, although there was still a tinge of discomfort within: I was saddened to have the sailing not be the escape it’s always been.

But we made it. And so we’re in Antigua now. Last night was mellow: a barbecue dinner at a restaurant owned by a friend of Boogie and Marlies (they know EVERYONE in the Caribbean it seems, especially among the yachtie contingent) and to bed early. Today it was a few boat chores and then off for another round of kiteboarding — my progress continues and considering I’d kited once in 15 months since I’d learned, I’m way psyched with the outcome. We’re kiting again tomorrow morning and I hope to really make a jump in my ability.

It’s ironic that the kiteboarding has been the biggest escape thus far on the trip. What was originally going to be a nice plus has turned out to be the pinnacle of the trip…so far. We’ll be here another couple of days and then head downwind to St. Maarten and I’m hopeful that this final sailing leg will rejuvenate my sailing jones. I’ll try to find a crewing gig for next weekend’s Heineken Regatta (our boat will not be racing) and I’ll turn 47 (the second straight year I’ve spent my birthday in the islands) and we’ll see how it goes. And I’m sure I’ll continue to ponder more. Too much, in all likelihood. But I’ll report back with my findings.

Thanks for indulging me in this bit of navel-gazing. Greetings from Antigua!

Ocean Fun, Uncategorized,

Confessions of Rail Meat

I’m in the Princess Juliana Airport in St. Maarten. It’s Monday afternoon and my flight to Newark is delayed three hours. Coming AND going, my experiences with airlines this trip have been less than stellar: Jet Blue lost my baggage on the way down and now this. I’m hopeful I’ll still make my connection to Boston although I’m kinda skeptical.

The view from the airport terminal makes up for the inconvenience somewhat: on the far side of the lone runway, the light-green-and-teal-blue waters of Simpson Bay taper to the darker blue of the Caribbean Sea, and all the water is capped by the snow white of wind-blown waves. Yes, Roman Abramovich’s obscenely large motor yacht (and Luna is Roman’s small boat) lying at anchor mars the Simpson Bay scenery somewhat, but the fact remains that it’s still paradise outside the airport terminal.

I’m leaving paradise after three days of racing in the Heineken St. Maarten Regatta. It was an interesting, entertaining weekend, despite our boat’s poor showing. We were DFL, although one (or two, I forget which) boat in our class retired. And the boat that finished just ahead of us failed to round the farthest-out marks in Friday’s course; had that boat been disqualified or done the honorable thing and retired from that race, we’d have finished another spot higher. No matter. It was a fun weekend of racing, partying and getting sunburned; I’m quite sure I’ll be back for this event again someday.

My job aboard Lady Ann was actually a variety of jobs. I was responsible for the port side running backstay. What that means is that I was in charge of sheeting in and letting out the block-and-tackle system that extends from the left-rear corner of the boat to the top of the mast. There’s a similar arrangement on the right (starboard) side too, and the systems alternate depending on which tack the boat is on (which side of the boat the wind is coming over) in order to help stabilize the mast and rigging.

Whenever we would switch from a starboard tack (the wind coming over the right side of the boat) to a port tack, I’d crank in the backstay as soon as the front of the boat passed through the wind. Going the other way, I’d loosen the backstay when we went from a port tack (wind coming over the left side) to a starboard tack, and pull the whole pulley-and-cable system forward of the sail and secure it to a cleat on the deck.

Once the running backstays were set, I’d hustle to the windward side of the boat and plop my ass down on the rail, alongside everyone else on the crew who wasn’t steering the boat or trimming the main sail.

In other words: my role was largely to get my ample body weight to the windward side in an effort to prevent the boat from heeling over too far. So my principle assets for crewing this weekend are one, my aforementioned size, and two, my ability to move that rotundity quickly and smoothly around the boat.

I’m exaggerating a bit, of course. I did a lot more than just crank in and out on a winch and serve as ballast. Given my strength and size, I wound up doing a lot of the chores that others in the crew (two 60-something Dutchmen, one 40-year-old Dutchman, and one small Scottish woman) couldn’t do: hoisting heavy sails and anchors; controlling things on the heaving, wet foredeck of the boat; moving heavy things such as anchors around; etc.

The other members of the crew were trimming sails using electric winches since the forces involved were too much for them to be able to do much else. This was my first time on a boat with electric winches and I have to say: they’re a pretty nice feature. I’ve never been interested in them personally but it sure was nice to hoist a mainsail or crank in on a wind-filled headsail with just the push of a button. I’ll have to think about an electric winch (just one) on board my boat-of-the-future if only to raise the mainsail quickly when I’m out there on my own.

So once again my sailing experience was broadened largely through osmosis: watching Boogie and Marlies and how they managed the myriad different tasks required to run a boat. The next step really is to do more helming and sail trimming, and that can really only be done on my own boat, since anyone else I crew for is going to put me to work on brute-force chores rather than on tasks requiring finesse and judgment. It’s that age-old quandary: how do you get the job? By having experience. And how do you get experience? By having the job.

Ocean Fun, Uncategorized, , ,

Serious Fun: The Heineken St. Maarten Regatta

If we didn’t finish DFL we certainly weren’t much farther ahead. The first race of the 2012 Heineken Regatta in the waters around St. Maarten finished a couple of hours ago, but I’ve yet to bother finding out how the Lady Ann did.

Not that it wasn’t fun and not that things didn’t go well. But we have so many handicaps that the likelihood of us placing highly are as slim as the possibility that I’ll go home on Monday NOT looking like a lobster that’s been boiled for far too long. And after four days on the Caribbean, trust me: my skin is already fried.

The bottom line, pun intended, is that the Lady Ann has a modern underbody and a modern keel, so her rating in the eyes of race organizers is that she must be a fast boat. But we’re not racing with a spinnaker — or even a gennaker, a hybrid between a spinnaker and a genoa — so our downwind legs aren’t exactly blistering. Going to windward, Lady Ann performs reasonably well but with all the extras on board for cruising — the creature comforts below that facilitate her existence as a charter vessel — she’s bloated way beyond the light weight of her competitors who skim over the sea, taking better advantage of the gusts.

As if Lady Ann’s limitations weren’t debilitating, her crew would cripple even a speed demon. Yes, we’ve been practicing this week but none of us are true racers. And none of us has been in our role WITH the others on THIS boat so that we can anticipate better. We’re all still dependent on our leaders, Boogie and Marlies, who tell us what to do — trying to keep it as simple as possible all the time — and then end up babying us through the task step-by-step. No matter how much better we get, however, we also have limitations brought on by strength (or the lack thereof) and age (or the advanced nature thereof). Suffice to say: We’re getting better, but we are NOT a well-oiled machine. And it’s safe to say we never will be.

So combine all of those factors and apply them to a boat competing against boats that are 80-plus feet long, and longer, and crewed by a dozen-plus sailors and Lady Ann’s goals wind up being a little more down to Earth.

Not that it really matters how well we do. I mean: win, lose or draw, we’re sailing on the Caribbean on a lovely yacht. The water is turquoise, the sun shines brightly and the wind whistles in the rigging. Pick any cliche you can think of…it’s here for the living.

But as mellow as I like to think I’m becoming as I mature (cough, cough), getting smoked offends my competitive nature, I must admit. I’ve been able to dial back my amp level when I play beer-league hockey, you’d think I could dial it back when I’m out sailing. But there’s something about competition that makes me want to tweak every little aspect of the boat and crew, trim the sails on a second-by-second basis, and strategize to the Nth degree, all in the quest for microscopic increase in speed and being first over the line. I guess old habits die hard.

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