The Windward Passage is the body of water that lies between the islands of Cuba and Hispaniola. This strait is part of the shipping route between the Panama Canal and The United States’ eastern seaboard. Many sailors have dubbed the Windward Passage the “Windless Passage,” as the trade winds are frequently disrupted there. This was not the case for us. Adamant about sailing the whole way, we waited patiently in Matthew Town, Great Inagua, for a weather window that would allow us to sail through the Windward Passage to Jamaica. While we waited we repaired and prepared The Seeker, and interacted with the Bahamians and Haitians in the harbor there.
Port Antonio, Jamaica lies about 240 nautical miles from Great Inagua. Anticipating about 60 hours of sailing, this would be the longest any of us had been at sea. At 11:00 PM, we set sail with easterly trade winds blowing about 15-20 knots and a wave height of approximately 6-7 feet out of the Northeast. The sky was clear and the temperature a crisp 750 F. These initial conditions were as close to perfect as we could reasonably expect. Typically, with an operational self-steering device, we take four-hour shifts at the tiller. A second person is designated as deckhand and the third person is off-duty. The helmsman is responsible for keeping watch for hazards and maintaining the appropriate course. The second crewman is available to assist the watchmen if necessary but is allowed to use their time in whatever manner he sees fit, usually sleeping. As the few lights of Great Inagua faded into the darkness, with Max on watch and Christian on deck, JB drank some Nyquil and slipped into a dreamless coma. We were extra vigilant on watch, due to a prior near accident. Before continuing the story of our passage to Jamaica, we will digress briefly to describe this earlier encounter, which also features JB in a Nyquil coma.
The night sail from Great Abaco to Eleuthera was going smoothly. Christian had just finished his watch, passing the tiller to Max. It is customary during a shift change to inform the next helmsman about the conditions, sail trim, the heading, and any potential hazards. Christian warned Max that there had been several large ships passing by and specifically to keep an eye out for a certain ship without bow running lights, which would have allowed others to determine the ship’s direction. Christian and Max were unable to determine the distance and heading of the ship. Christian went below to put on a foul weather gear and a harness before reefing the mainsail. Reefing the mainsail is a reduction of the mainsail’s sail area, which also flattens the sail, thus balancing the boat better.
“Christian, I need a consult.” Max was standing up in the cockpit, speaking with his head over the dodger, his voice carried off by the wind.
“What?”
“I see the lights, but I can’t tell which way this boat is headed. I need your help.”
“What?”
“I need a consultation!”
Entering the cockpit, Christian asked, “What’s up, dude?”
“Should I gybe? I still can’t tell where this ship is going.”
“Mmmm….you probably should.” The lights were now noticeably moving further away from each other, indicating that the boat was looming closer.
“Ok.” Max said, still holding the course, watching the lights. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Wholly shit!”
“Turn right now!” Christian was shouting.
Out of the darkness, the white wash at the bow of the ship emerged. Max abruptly yanked the tiller to port, swinging the boat to starboard in a rapid gybe, back-winding the sails with a “pop!” The enormous container ship passed less than 100 yards ahead on our port side, bound for Nassau. The containers, cargo, portholes, captain’s bridge, even the rivets were visible. And only now was the deep hum of its engines audible. Compared to the velocity of the container ship, The Seeker felt stationary. JB, hearing the commotion, asked if everything was ok. It was. Though we narrowly avoided disaster, had we not been attentive, surely we would have been crushed underneath the ship. We corrected our course, sent out a SPOT message, reefed the mainsail, and continued on to Eleuthera.
Now on our way to Jamaica from The Bahamas, the first day passed slowly. The wind and swell were increasing but in the words of Bob Marley, “the sun [was] shining and the weather [was] sweet, yeah.” Our speed had increased to between 5-8 knots, depending on whether we were surfing down the face of following waves. We passed about 30 miles from the eastern tip of Cuba, the rotating beam of a lighthouse the only other light in the darkness. After sunrise we chose to fly only our spare headsail, with one of its sheets run through a pulley at the end of the boom, acting as a whisker pole. Occasionally, if the stern of the boat was not perpendicular to the following swell, the boat would twist to one side. If the boat turned to port, the headsail would collapse briefly, then quickly fill as it caught the wind again, making a loud crack and stressing the rigging. While this was not a matter of great concern during the calmer, daylight hours, when the wind increased to 30 knots and the seas rose to 15 feet, it became an issue of concern. Christian was at the helm. Max had just finished his shift and was lying in his bed, oddly not yet able to sleep. JB was slumbering soundly in his bunk, in a Nyquil induced coma.
Before you criticize JB for drinking Nyquil when not on watch, you must know that it is often difficult to sleep on a passage. Though he does not get seasick, JB has particular difficulty sleeping when the boat is rolling. By contrast, Max gets seasick every time we leave an anchorage but can fall asleep in any conditions. During a passage, a greater portion of time is spent sleeping, as the sleep is usually of poor quality and activities are limited. When awake, activities that are normally conductive to passing the time are less appealing. Reading, watching movies, eating, and listening to music are good alternatives to staring at the horizon but are still not as commonly practiced as closing one’s eyes, as sleeping is the best remedy for boredom and seasickness. Since conditions can make this highly desirable activity difficult, JB drank the Nyquil.
The waves had grown larger than any we had seen before, growing until they towered over The Seeker. Each one propelled the boat forward down its face, doubling our speed. Suddenly the CRACK of the headsail collapsing and refilling sent Christian quickly into the cockpit to investigate. The autopilot was engaged to the tiller but when a large wave hit the stern quarter of the boat, it turned the boats upwind, more perpendicular to the waves. CRACK! Again, the headsail collapsed and refilled. Max and JB were now both awake and equally groggy, wondering what was going on. Just as it became evident that something must be done quickly, a monster wave spun the boat again, now placing it completely abeam to the waves, the position most vulnerable to capsize. (The beam is the widest point of the boat, an imaginary line perpendicular to the length.) Christian quickly disengaged the autopilot and took control of the tiller. Without warning, a breaking wave came crashing into the side of The Seeker, dumping gallons into the cockpit and cabin. Holding the pushpit with one hand and pushing the tiller to starboard with the other, Christian shouted, “Big wave!” Some of the water poured onto Max’s face, abruptly bring him to a full state of alertness. Having fallen asleep in his raincoat, Max stood up and immediately began putting on his harness, repeating “Shit! Shit! Shit!” JB came crawling out of his cavernous bunk, not yet moving quickly. Another wave came, bathing Christian in seawater. “Fuck!” Max was airborne, slamming his head into side of the cabin. JB was tossed into the mast but instead of cursing, he was repeating sternly: “Maintain your composure. Keep your composure! Everyone just keep your composure. Are we capsized? What’s going on? Just keep your composure!” This seemed to partially neutralize the panic and the three of us were soon busy in the cockpit. Expecting another wave, Christian had secured the tiller to the starboard side, acting against the force of the sail to turn us toward the wind. This kept the boat moving, vital for maintaining steering. Max seized control of the tiller, carefully sailing a course that would prevent the sail from collapsing. Christian put on his harness and detached the autopilot while JB checked the navigational charts. CRACK! Another rogue wave came that caused the sail to collapse and refill. The sail was now mostly detached from the forestay.
Max started the engine and continued to steer while Christian worked the winch and the sheets and JB and pulled down the sail. Inside the cabin, JB inspected the sail for damage. Still in their grommets, several of the hanks had been torn from the luff of the sail. We were glad we used our back-up sail. Before long we were able to reattach our autopilot and resume normal operation. However the rest of the night was spent on high alert, looking out for both large ships without bow lights and big waves. Eight hours later we arrived in Port Antonio. This sail proved that while waiting for the right weather window is important, not all situations can be foreseen, thus reacting well to unexpected circumstances is equally critical.
