A CURIOUS PASSAGE

Charleston, SC

Our Norwegian friends conducting home school on Cumberland Island.

We've gone state-hopping. After two nights at one of our favorite stops, Cumberland Island, Georgia, we set off from the St. Mary's Inlet for an overnight passage to yet another favorite: Charleston.

The weather was finally, finally turning in our favor. The squalls skittered away and our northeast route would be blessed with 10-15 knots of east wind slowly clocking to southeast and easing at the end of the day. Then, the diurnals would kick in giving us some good wind for the night.

Well, none of that happened, but it was a beautiful trip anyway! For once, the unpredicted weather was in the other direction, lighter.

We headed into the deep at 6:30 and into pretty big swell on our beam. Under full sail, we were able to ride over it nicely.

Down:

And back up again:

The wind didn't ease much, and it never clocked south, so we rode on the closest point of sail we could manage, which put us exactly on course to Charleston. For the first time ever, we raised the sails and never changed the set for 30 hours.

The swell laid down in the late evening for a gorgeous night of stars punctuated at midnight with a half moon.

Sometimes dolphins joined us.

Photo by Chip

We rode in on a rising tide and reached Charleston Maritime Center at exactly slack water.

A perfect passage? Almost. For the first time in three years, I got seasick. :-\ Perhaps it was the particular motion of the swell, which wasn't anywhere near as bad as the Gulf Stream crossing. Curious. I was at the helm the first three hours, and then got sick. It never left me.

Chip was a superhero, helming about 2/3 of the trip.

Another cruiser posted this excellent article about combatting and treating seasickness. I know there were several factors that made me susceptible:

1. I didn't sleep well the night before. 
2. We had been inshore for a week or so, on smooth waters.
3. I started on an empty stomach.

All bad. Usually if I take a slug of Pepto before leaving, I don't have much trouble. This time I was not so lucky! I slept at least 12 hours of the passage.

Once we arrived in Charleston, the queasiness disappeared -- and Charleston awaits. Now that's perfect.

Thanks to Stian on To Be for the photos.

MOTHER OCEAN SMILES

Great Harbor Cay, Berry Islands, Bahamas

After waiting in Miami for a seemingly long 18 days, a weather window opened to cross the fickle Gulf Stream. At long last, the northern wind began to lighten and clock east, then southeast and off we went.

For a change from the usual hop to Bimini, we set our eye on Great Harbor at the northern tip of the Berry Islands, 146 miles from Miami. We estimated it would take us just over 24 hours, so we left Miami at a luxurious 9:10, waved goodbye to our dear friends Joe and Deb on Kajon and pointed east.

And Mother Ocean smiled on us today. You just never know when you head out there, but except for a few hours of confused seas, we had smooth water in the Gulf Stream with enough south in the east wind to keep the main full. By 3, the wind was a light 5-8 knots at 150 degrees, and all the sails were flying.

Gulf Stream doesn't get much better than that!

Our goal was to make it onto the Bahama Bank by sunset. Most of the day, that seemed unlikely, but sure enough, as the sun sank low in the west, Bimini was right there on the horizon. We cleared North Rock, north of Bimini as the sun was setting, but not before we reveled in our first glimpse of gorgeous turquoise water. With more than half our crossing to go, it felt like we'd already arrived.

We sailed on into the gathering blackness that slowly unfurled a blanket of stars overhead. We huddled together in awe, watching.

Chip sailed, full sail, for his 12-3 watch, which he gallantly extended to 4, so I could sleep. The wind lightened just before 4, and we went back to motorsailing.

On my 4-7 a.m. watch, the wee crescent moon was long gone, the horizon ahead just a barely visible line differentiating the black of the sea from the dark of the sky. But it's not really a line, is it? Just my own perception of the edge of my world.

The stars, if possible, were even more brilliant. I leaned back to watch.

Off to my starboard side, something caught my eye, a star trying to get my attention. It was not the brightest nor the biggest, but it blinked the most, right along the southern horizon, the only one to send a luminous reflection across the black water straight toward me. Its faint reach of light beamed an unfathomable distance across space and atmosphere and water but dwindled out a few feet from my outstretched hand, just beyond my grasp.

Unrequited love is always the most tender.

Then something caught my attention in the water below. Did I see a flash of light? No, surely not. There, again, did I see a light?

Yes, I did. Bioluminescence bubbling up in the fast-moving water along Cara Mia's hull, not fireworks but a gentle spark there and then another over here. A flash and then gone. Two flashes and another.

I leaned back to look up at Cara Mia's sails, there in the crest of the sky, an arc of stars encircled Cara Mia's mast like a crown.

A dazzling blanket of stars above, twinkling water below, me and Cara Mia in between.

We almost resented the sun for awakening us from that dream.

But Great Harbor waited just ahead, and we entered the skinny limestone channel, tying up at 10:24, 25 hours and 17 minutes after leaving Miami.

And the Bahamian flag flies once again on Cara Mia.

OFF WE GO!

Coconut Grove, Miami, FL 25º43.532N | 80º14.193W

Is this too close? Tight quarters on the mooring balls in Coconut Grove.

Coconut Grove released us in only nine days, a record for us. Fort Lauderdale calls -- and beautiful conditions for an offshore sail.

We attempted to outsmart the wind and tides to get a smooth trek through both inlets, 20 miles apart. With a little math, we decided to slip out Government Cut early afternoon, shooting for the Fort Lauderdale inlet at slack tide around 6.

I got my ponytail on...

...and then drove through the gauntlet of Miami traffic to the inlet, where Chip's sister Bonnie was finally at her condo to see us pass.

Bonnie looking at us:

Us looking back:

She's on the 17th floor.

And then we headed into a beautiful day of sailing with flat, calm seas and light wind from the EAST! (We were headed north/northeast.) When I daydream about sailing offshore, it's exactly like this. Unfortunately they are rare as a flattering swimsuit.

We took our time and relished every second, although I did fall down once. ? The sea was so calm, I let my guard down. I was standing in the cockpit taking this picture:

A random little wave sent the boat rolling once, and the cockpit bench just jumped up to meet me. I caught myself with my arm and wrenched my shoulder and neck. Oops. My bad. The photo kind of makes the point about how silly it was to fall on this day.

We sailed the whole way and reached Fort Lauderdale just a wee bit early, but the inlet was smoooooth. The only bridge we had to go under was a little tight for comfort, but the bridge tender was enjoying rush hour, and asked us to have a go.

Our height is 55' plus antennas.

I watched nervously as we passed under, but I always think we're going to hit, even if there's 65' of clearance.

See what I mean?

We ghosted on skinny water and anchored in beautiful Lake Sylvia.

Get to Fort Lauderdale. Done.

Our swanky new neighborhood.

IN THE GROOVE

Miami, FL 25º40.386N | 80º9.79W

The three of us shook off our barnacles today, Cara Mia with a little help from Chip. We all performed with more agility.

But, remember that plan to leave in the wee hours and sail to Ft. Lauderdale? Well, barnacles are a good example of why sail plans are tentative. We knew the wind would be dying out today, requiring us to motor some. No way we wanted to do that with all those passengers slogging down the prop. So, with a later start, we couldn't make it to Fort Lauderdale.

Once clean, we sailed away from Rodriguez, Miami-bound, onto smooth water with a beautiful 15-knot breeze on our beam. That lasted about 90 minutes. Then it clocked behind us and dropped to 7-10.

Ah, well, we made good time motorsailing, drawing any power we could from the breeze, enjoying the beautiful turquoise water.

As we approached Miami, things got interesting in an uncomfortable way. The wind was behind us and light. A big swell started rolling in with the tide, rocking us around. I was resigned to rock and roll the last 15 miles, but Chip, who knows more about waves than I do, decided to outsmart them. He got us on a tack where we could ride them and keep the jib full. For my part, I used jib skills learned on the overnight to Charleston last fall, reefing the jib in light wind and giving it slack. For some reason, this helps it stay full. We rode the jib and the swell into Biscayne Bay just as this approached on the horizon:

The huge Miami skyline is somewhere in that dark cloud. It was gusting in the high teens as the squall was barreling right at us. We were hoofing it to an anchorage, when unexpectedly, the storm just stopped.

A happy surprise. We anchored without even a raindrop just outside No Name Harbor.

Such drama in the sky.

Our little salt farm.

THE THREE SLUGS

Rodriguez Key, FL 24º03.523N | 80º27.254W

Dropping anchor west of Boot Key.

We left the mooring in Boot Key Harbor yesterday midafternoon to fuel up, fill the water tank, and then anchor off the west end of Boot Key for an easy takeoff this morning. All good.

As we approached the dock at Burdine's Marina, it was clear we were with wind and current. Bad. (Lesson learned on several occasions: Don't do it.) So we opted to turn around. Bad. Actually the decision was good. The spot was bad.

The current funnels right at the marina, and as soon as we were broadside, the wind and current started carrying us right toward this:

Chip did a masterful job of keeping us from hitting anything, even though we tried to hit a lot of things. At one point, our bow inched out just missing that schooner bowsprit.

I was making my way around the deck, ready to fend off anything that came my way, but I never had to push off.

If you look really, really close, like I did, you'll see that the very tip of that bowsprit has a red star on it. From the bow, I gave it a little squeeze -- without even reaching very far. Yep, that close. YIKES.

So, we never did get turned around there. We went all the way down to the end of the channel and came all the way back, pulled up to the dock pretty as you please, against wind and current. Good.

The fuel was expensive. They charged us for water. We took our 'free' ice, but it made the refrigerator unit freak out (still not sure why), so we turned it off for the night and now have an enormous glob of ice in there. Bad juju on that stop.

We anchored mostly uneventfully, although not restfully, and left early. Cara Mia felt like a slow-moving walrus. The engine, what little we used it, was sluggish.

The water was pleasantly smooth with 2-3 foot waves, wind was decent, 14-18 knots, more than predicted (imagine that, she says sarcastically). In this case, a misprediction worked in our favor!

This boat sails much better with minimal heel, so we put a reef in (shortened the mainsail) about midday. It was blowing just short of where we could point, so we had to tack south, backtracking a little, every 5 miles or so. Cara Mia did great. Her crew was tired, fumbling around, tripping, oversteering on tacks (me), never satisfied with sail trim (Chip). Once a jib sheet (rope) caught a boat hook, and I had to stop mid-tack while Chip went forward to retrieve it, jib lines flying all around his head. The dinghy slowly deflated as the day got cooler, loosening the straps and moving about.

It took us just over 11 hours to go 45 nautical miles, slow enough to cause a murderous road rage for some, a slow sail with no engine to us.

Rodriguez Key, home for the night.

We are anchored in Rodriguez Key on clear, placid water. We lowered the dinghy to inflate it, and, while we were at it, have a look at the prop.

No wonder we had such a hard time turning around in wind and current! Chip will be up first light to scrape Boot Key stowaways off the prop for there will certainly be some motoring tomorrow if the wind prediction is right. Ha.

Pre-reefing. Hot dogs anyone?

*love*

Our chichi Rodriguez neighborhood. Anchored next to a Trumpey (I think).

SMOOTH SAILING

Miami Beach, FL 25º47.239N | 80º08.847W

So, after two eventful days, we set the alarm for 2:30 a.m. in Lake Worth to check the conditions for a 12-hour sail to Miami, hoping for favorable winds and calm seas.

All was peaceful under a half moon, so we lifted a very short anchor chain (7 feet of water), raised the mainsail and ghosted out of a blissful inlet at 3:20, strangely enough, behind two other sailboats. They must have been headed for the Bahamas, because we didn't see them again.

An 11-knot southeast wind pushed us along the coast but, after dawn, started dropping off. The north-flowing Gulf Stream is uncomfortably close to shore along this stretch right now, some places less than three miles, so there's not a lot of sea room when you're headed south. If you stay really close to shore, there's a countercurrent. I experimented on my watch, and it would kick in just under a mile offshore.

I know to land people that seems comforting, but to a sailor it's unnerving. Most of the dangers are associated with being near shore, you know, rocks, land, reefs, all bad. With eastern swell and east/southeast wind, it was one reason we opted to anchor for the night rather than wading up the shore in the dark.

By the time we had Miami in sight, the countercurrent had us flying at a whopping 8 knots (motorsailing). Yahoo!!!! There was a huge squall off in the distance, but sunny and near-perfect where we were. This was the day I'd wanted yesterday.

We traversed a strangely empty Government Cut at 2:15, only about 6 hours after we would have come in had we sailed through the night. All told, while the overnight wind would have been nice to have, I was glad instead to roll in on 7 hours of peaceful sleep. We were in the dinghy on our way to South Beach in less than an hour.

It's beginning to feel like a Miami Christmas!!!

RACING THE SUN

Lake Worth, FL 26º46.055N | 80º02.693W

Rainbow just after sunrise, between Vero Beach and the Fort Pierce inlet.

"Now that's how you want to start your day. A rainbow has to be a good omen, right?" I said.

Chip said, "There's something in my weather book about a rainbow in the morning ....."

Neither of us bothered to look.

I was way too focused on a beautiful day offshore, 5-10 knot east wind, 3-6 foot swell, no ICW, no bridge tenders.

A line of six sailboats ahead of us had to be another good omen. The chatter on the VHF said Chris Parker declared today a good weather window to cross to the Bahamas. Yahoo!!

Our first sign of clouds on the horizon was when all but one of those sailboats passed the inlet and headed on south on the ICW. Strange, I thought as I turned east down the inlet channel.

I knew we would be headed out the inlet on a falling tide, with the water going out, and with wind coming toward us. However, with such low wind predicted, I thought it might be a little rough but fine. And so far, as predicted, the winds were zero when we left Vero and had picked up to 7 or 8 before the inlet.

We followed the other sailboat down the channel into more and more swell as we approached the ocean. The other boat, Imagine, was about 200 yards ahead, and we could see him getting tossed around at the end of the channel. Then really, really getting tossed. At one point we could see the entire length of his boat -- from the top, as if we were flying over it.

It was the first moment I thought of turning back. I was at the helm. I should have. I did not.

As we neared the end of the channel the swell turned into huge, unorganized chop. I mean, really, can't someone get this shit organized? Who's in charge here? I tried by my very will to get it organized, you over there, hold back, you ahead, calm down and proceed forward. You, way up there .... Yikes.

It was hopeless. Each pounder would send the bow straight down into the water, then rock us, sometimes side to side, sometimes hobby horsing, ending with the bow pointing straight up.

Chip took this photo of one uphill run. We both tried to take photos.
It was not possible to both hold on and take pictures.

We think they were only 8 to 10-foot waves, but they weren't swells. They were steep, smashed up together and unpredictable.

Then it got really crazy.

Chip asked if I wanted him to take the wheel, and I said YES. He's much better at reading waves than I am -- a misspent youth body surfing really pays off.

He manhandled us through while I sat on the floor of the cockpit trying to tie down the cockpit table that had come loose was pounding against the helm.

I kept thinking, please engine, please don't shut down now -- LIKE YOU DID YESTERDAY.

We cleared the inlet and turned into large, choppy swell with 20+knots of wind, and not perfectly east for our southeast trek. It was clocking south, just hovering enough east that we could get some traction.

"Hello all stations. This is United States Coast Guard Miami Station, United States Coast Guard Miami Station, United States Coast Guard Miami Station, please tune in to Channel 22 Alpha for information regarding a small craft advisory."

Great. From the time we left Vero, we had gone from a predicted 5-10 knots and nearly calm seas to a small craft advisory. The swell and wind were, as we already knew, much higher than predicted, and on top of that, there was a nasty chop on top of the swell. Not dangerous, just bumpy -- not the glorious ride I was hoping for.

Our plan was to make the 50-mile hop to Lake Worth (Palm Beach), anchor until 3 a.m., and then set off again for another 50-mile hop to Miami, but the swell had us slowed down to a pace that would put us at Lake Worth well past dark -- and, even if we went in, it would be with wind, against current, a lesson very fresh on our minds. The only other option would be to keep going all night, slowing down to make Miami just after dawn.

We got on our line, adjusted as much sail as we could manage (reefed main, jib and staysail) to give us the easiest ride possible for the conditions (full sails give you traction in the water, making the pass through waves much smoother, less rocking).

We motorsailed to get our speed up, and, most amazing of news, according to our GPS, we would be in range of Lake Worth between 5 and 5:30, just before sunset, WITH a rising tide peaking at 5:12 (wind with current going in).

I had been fighting seasickness all morning, but my usual shot of Pepto before going offshore was keeping it in check. The worst place to be for getting seasick is below in the cabin, so to get what we needed I would dash below and run back up, dodging the array of stuff strewn about the cabin floor. We had "stowed" before going offshore, but a few months of soft inshore travel had made us lazy -- plus, we did not expect the thorough tossing we got from the inlet.

By about 1 o'clock the seas started backing down and the wind moderated to an easy 13-15 knots. Aside from a rolly swell, we were travelling in relative comfort and were able to regain order below. No major spills, no breakage, just a few things tossed about.

At 3:20, we were only 11.4 miles from Lake Worth, the wind was down to 13, and the sea was growing very kind.

Palm Beach. A happy sight.

At exactly the dot of high tide, we traversed a calm inlet and turned to drop the anchor in seven feet of water. I looked down as the anchor sank and -- for the first time since June in the Bahamas -- I could see it go all the way to the bottom!

I watched as the anchor spun into position and nestled itself cozily in the sand. I could almost swear it was smiling.

So was I.

EARNING OUR WAY TO CHARLESTON

Charleston, SC 32º46.832N | 79º57.599W

Attentive readers might remember how we fell in love with Charleston last December as we passed through, bookmarking it for a visit on our return swing north.

Yesterday we set off from Cumberland Island for yet another 24-hour passage, entirely skipping Georgia and its 9-foot tides.

In a frustrating continuation of our ships-passing-in-the-night phase, as we were leaving, our friends Christie and Matt on Kaleo were anchoring across the way in Fernandina, but we were glad to hear they are Charleston-bound as well.

The generous inlet of the St. Mary's River was shrouded in dense smoke as we sailed out mid-morning. Apparently large chunks of the southeast are on fire. We leave you folks in charge of the country for a few months, and you set the whole place on fire!

The wind was brisk and lovely, from the east as we set our course northeast toward Charleston. The forecast was dreamy: 0-1 meter of swell, wind in the 10-15 knot range, perhaps dropping during the night.

We passed an enjoyable day of near-perfect sailing accompanied by a strong sense of foreboding, remembering that damnable pattern of the last two passages: perfect by day; hell by night.

And you know what? We were right -- except for one thing: it was far, far worse.

After sunset, the sea state got increasingly agitated. By midnight it was tossing us about in 8-10 foot swell with a random 12-footer thrown in. What direction? On our beam, of course.

The wind apparently did not read the forecasts, because by midnight it was howling a steady 25 knots, gusting even higher. From where? You should know the answer by now: on our stern quarter, clocking slowly behind us.

Same routine as the last two overnighters with the volume on 10. Sigh.

It's a funny thing about sailing. On a tack off the wind, you loll along surfing the waves, thinking this wind isn't so bad, but then you turn on the opposite tack, and it's as if somebody switched the weather channel. The bow pounds through the waves, the screeching wind blasts against the sails (and your face) and you feel like you're rocketing out of the atmosphere -- even though, according to the knot meter, you're actually going slower.

On our two previous passages with similar but lighter conditions, we were able to hold our course reasonably well, but this time, if we kept our course, the rocking and rolling was truly unbearable. We had to zigzag west toward shore, running downwind, then east, out to sea, hopefully on average, keeping our course to Charleston.

During his 3 to 6 a.m. watch, Chip altered our course, finding a better route that was a wee bit more tolerable. On my 3-6 shift, the swell slowly, inch-by-inch started to ease and by the time I came back on watch, the sea state had calmed, and the sun was just beginning to lighten the sky.

The sun must have had a rough night too, because all morning it threatened to just go on back down.

Since when does the sun set in the east?

We passed the morning peacefully, snatching little catnaps in the cockpit thanks to calmer seas.

Well-earned rest after a fitful night.

By noon we turned into the long channel leading into our dear Charleston, dropping anchor in the Ashley River for a good long sleep, resting up for our weeklong date with this fine southern city.

THAT TEMPERAMENTAL OCEAN

Cumberland Island, Georgia 30º46.403N | 81º28.602W

The sun setting over the calm yet capricious ocean.

How different I feel as we retrace our path north. Seven months ago, as newly minted cruisers passing through this same stretch of Florida, we had yet to sail in the ocean, still using our time toiling south for outfitting and rigging, preparing the boat and our nerves for the rigors of offshore sailing. Seven months ago, we threaded tiny stitches down the ICW, taking two weeks to cover the same distance we traversed offshore last night in only 24 hours.

Such a short few months later, we don't hesitate to abandon the grumpy bridge tenders and wake-making power boats for the mysteries of the deep.

And truly, you gotta wonder what mysteries await when you step into Neptune's territory.

With our GPS routed to our much-loved Cumberland Island on the Florida/Georgia state line, we threaded the slim Ponce Inlet mid-morning in unsettled waters, turning north in a brisk breeze from the east. We briefly considered reefing the main (pulling in some sail) but waited a bit to see how reliable that breeze would be.

The forecast was sketchy, calling for the wind to get light and clock, perhaps all 360˚ overnight with little or no swell.

They were half-right.

We had a beautiful day of sailing on smooth water with a good wind that settled right down, no reefing required.

This sure beats two weeks on the ICW!

Then the sun set and all hell broke loose. Does this remind anyone else of our Gulf Stream crossing?

The swell gradually increased after sunset, rising to 6-8 foot swells by midnight, right on our beam if we kept our course. The wind dropped and started clocking around behind us, practically useless.

These conditions always make me wonder, as I'm sure I've said here before, how loud music purloined the term Rock 'n' Roll, a name much more suited to our rock, rock, rock, ROLL. And why is it invariably in the dead of night?

On my 9-midnight watch, I struggled to get any power I could manage out of the light wind, anything to stabilize us in the broiling swell, I discovered that, oddly, the jib does better running on light wind if it's reefed. Who knew. I was able to keep it full much better by reefing it down to a smaller slice of canvas. I tried to snake as close to our course as possible without pitching us all in the drink from the rocking.

But, as predicted, the wind kept clocking, making a full circle by the time we were done.

We enjoyed the day and alternately endured the night, delighted to see the sun finally rise and the damned swell begin to unfurl.

I think I've got the ocean figured out. She's a primadonna, docile and perfectly lovely in the spotlight of day, a total freakin' bitch by night.

We set our anchor just off Cumberland after 24 hours of sad near misses. Leaving Ponce Inlet, we learned we had anchored less than two miles from our friends Eric and Annie on WeBeSailing, whom we haven't seen since we left them in Rose Island in February. Making our way into the St. Mary's inlet, Karen and Dale on Jessie Marie radioed us on our their way out, forging the path we will take tomorrow: a 24-hour passage to Charleston.

Fort Clinch on the southern shore of St. Mary's River.

FLYING FISH & ROLLING SWELL

Cape Canaveral, Florida 28º24.51N | 80º37.655W

We're the line going northwest, Great Sale to Cape Canaveral.

You never really know what you're sailing into when you head into the ocean. It's part of the allure. The weather guessers predicted very light winds from the east, clocking to the south and dropping during the night.

As planned, we lifted anchor in Great Sale, Abacos, mid-morning yesterday for a 24-hour crossing to Cape Canaveral. We sailed onto the Bahama Banks under this:

Good omen or bad? Either way, it was lovely.

Counter to predictions, we had a beautiful sail across the Bahama Banks toward Mantanilla Shoal, skimming over smooth turquoise water with a brisk breeze. What's not to love about that? It was northeast wind.

Northeast wind + Gulf Stream = bad. The Gulf Stream flows south to north, so any wind blowing against it kicks up waves.

We sailed safely off of the Bahama Banks into deep water without incident -- and without much swell so far. I made Chip take the 6-9 watch, because, for the first time, this impending darkness with a northeast wind riling the beast ahead filled me with foreboding. Not a we're-all-going-to-die fear but more of that uneasiness you have sitting in the dentist's chair before a root canal, knowing even at it's best, it ain't gonna be that great.

On second thought, the sun setting over the water is so calming.

On we sailed as the wind eased back, clocking more to the east, and the swell increased. I took the helm for my 9 to midnight shift in moonless, inky darkness. The swell was coming on our stern quarter, 4-6 feet with the occasional 8 footer. I could keep our course but not without a swaggering roll that was uncomfortable but just short of miserable. I found songs on the iPod that kept the same beat and worked the roll into my dance step. I had a pretty good dance routine going until I whanged my knee on the wheel. Ouch. At least it was dark, and, as far as I know, nobody was watching.

As the wind clocked around almost behind us, not quite, I tried to cheat it. We had been motorsailing for a while and having any sail up makes the ride smoother, so I had been letting out the main as far as possible to keep some traction in the swell. As the wind dropped, the pressure on the main also lessened, causing it to flop around occasionally when we teetered back and forth in the swell.

When Chip came on watch at midnight I told him I was getting worried we might jibe (where the wind gets behind the sail and bangs it across to the other side), so he rigged up a preventer using sail ties and line. I observed that it would likely give way if we really did jibe, but he said his goal was to slow down the boom to lessen the impact. A proper preventer (a rig that holds the boom in place to prevent accidental jibes) is on the very long list of things we need to do this summer.

So off I went to try to sleep in the wildly rocking cradle of a v-berth, stuffing pillows all around me to keep from flopping around too much, my own preventer. Just as I was drifting off, I felt the boat buck and heard a loud WHAM. I knew what it was. We had jibed.

I ran to the cockpit, and Chip turned over the wheel.

"Point into the wind while I get the preventer off," he said.

So, half asleep, I took the wheel in the pitch black and tried my best to point into the invisible wind and deal with the nasty swell, while Chip was up there in no-man's land on the cabin roof.

Our policy offshore is that anyone leaving the cockpit wears an offshore lifejacket with a leash tied off in the cockpit. While that is theoretically comforting, the reality is less so. All I could think about was if he went overboard, how I would reel him back in while keeping the boat stable.

Mid-thought the wind caught the sail and whammed it across the boat again, flying over Chip's head as he went spread eagle on the cabin roof, hanging onto, well, nothing. I got us stabilized again but couldn't tell if the boom had hit Chip on it's way across or if he had gone down on his own.

It's amazing how terrifyingly long two seconds can seem in the middle of a black, bucking ocean.

He jumped up and came running back to the cockpit.

"Point in again so I can drop the main."

In that moment I was deliriously happy that we had waited for this night to cross the Gulf Stream. Why? Because we took the time to fix the Dutchman flaking system that catches the mainsail as it drops. We had considered leaving the lines off and managing the sail the old fashioned way: Catching miles of billowing canvas, piling it onto the boom by hand and tying it in place with sail ties.

Instead, with the newly repaired system in place, Chip released the halyard, and the main dropped mostly into place, although the lightening wind and the roll of the swell made it messy. He quickly got it under control, and I turned the boat back on our old rolly course.

"That was fun!" Chip said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Well, the other of us didn't think so. We debriefed, and I went below trying to quell the piping adrenaline and get some rest.

Chip fought the swell until my 3 a.m. watch then dropped exhausted onto the cockpit bench while Bill Cosby and David Sedaris entertained me on the iPod.

About 20 minutes later, Chip came shooting up out of sleep yelling, "Squid!"

Of course I thought he was dreaming, even when he started clawing at the neck of his jacket.

"Oh, it's a fish," he said.

I pulled out my flashlight, and sure enough, here's what I saw:

The wayward flying fish that whispered in Chip's ear.

We had been seeing flying squid all day, thus the SQUID alarm, but this was a standard issue flying fish that had haplessly flown into the cockpit, right into sleeping Chip's ear and tried to flop under his collar.

Now who had adrenaline pumping? Both Chip AND the fish. The latter got pitched overboard, the former sent below.

The swell mellowed a little, and David Sedaris and I steered us through to just before dawn without further incident, other than the rush of seeing the knot meter hit an all-time high of 8.9 as the Gulf Stream carried us north. It did make me do a double-take when I first observed the real-life occurrence of set and drift, where the magnetic compass goes at odds with the GPS heading, because the GPS registers our northern flow in the Gulf Stream. The instruments might not have agreed on which way we were heading, but boy, were we getting there f a s t.

Chip took the last watch that brought the sun up behind us and our country before us.

Cape Canaveral ahead.

Just short of 24 hours after leaving Great Sale, we tied up in Cape Canaveral in green, murky water, tired and happy, ready for proper land showers and whatever culture shock might await.