Bruce told me later that the fellows who went below decks with him searched every nook and cranny. One of them remarked that he’d never seen so many drawers and compartments in a yacht’s head. They checked the engine compartment, all the lockers, all the drawers throughout the boat. After the search, the officer in charge referred to his clipboard and began writing down the particulars of the boat. Bruce handed him a copy of our ”Vessel and Personal Information” document. The Coast Guardsman was impressed. “All boats should be required to do this.”
Our “Vessel and Personal Information” was on a single sheet of paper. First were Impunity’s statistics listed on the left and a picture of the boat on the right. Next was the “Master” of the boat, Bruce, with his name, nationality, date of birth, place of birth, home address (daughter Bonnie’s), passport number, where it was issued, marital status and next of kin. “Mate” information listed next had all my information and picture. This document proved to be a valuable timesaver when we reached ports. We even had a French-speaking friend translate the information and had a document in that language.
In the meantime, the fellow and I sat in the cockpit and carried on a conversation. The Coast Guardsman still at the wheel in the RIB kept an even pace with Impunity, but never tied up to us.
Following sea rising behind Impunity
Finally the Coast Guardsmen and Bruce came up on deck. One of the seaman who had been below deck looked pea-green from seasickness. He was probably fine on the Coast Guard cutter, but each vessel has its own action to get used to. The officer in charge asked what we were dragging. Bruce partially brought up the drogue, explaining that it helped steady the boat. The Coast Guardsmen then inspected the cockpit lockers.
The officer in charge looked at his clipboard. “It looks like you’ve followed all the safety rules, but for one thing. I see no ship’s bell.”
“We have a bell,” Bruce said, “but we didn’t want it exposed to all this weather. I’ll get it.” They were satisfied that we’d complied and presented us with a nice safety certificate. According to them, it’s rare to pass a safety check with no citations or warnings. In our case, not even a suggestion.
They climbed into their RIB, still never having tied to our boat, and were off, back to the Resolute. They were onboard Impunity for about an hour.
We wondered if our call to the Coast Guard a couple of nights before had made them wonder what we were doing out in this weather and if, perhaps, we were carrying drugs.
We didn’t mind the boarding. In fact, we approved. It was our tax dollars at work.
Ten days after leaving Seattle, cold and tired, we needed a break. It had been our plan to put in at San Diego and top up our supplies, but we decided to put in at Cojo Anchorage on the eastern edge of Point Conception, California. We struggled through crashing waves, but once inside the cove found instant calm. Ahhhh, warm and sunny. Probably 80 degrees. We dropped anchor in thirty feet of water, the only boat in the cove. Below decks the boat was dry, but we set out the cockpit cushions, our jeans, and foul weather gear to dry in the warm wind. We rowed ashore in our dinghy and enjoyed the sight of sand dunes and sagebrush. In total comfort, I prepared a beef hash and we enjoyed a glass of wine with dinner. We basked in the quiet, calm atmosphere. It was tempting to stay a few days, but we needed to keep moving. We never knew what lay ahead and didn’t want to squander time here.
Bruce and I discussed the possibility of getting a new single-sideband ham (SSB) radio so that we would have better communication. We had with us his old ham transceiver but really felt it would be to our advantage to have a newer radio. Los Angeles would be the best place to buy it, so we took the Santa Barbara Channel from Cojo to the Santa Barbara Harbor. Bruce called the Harbor Master on VHF and was told which moorage space to use. Most marinas have guest dock moorage and permanent moorage, similar to what we had in Kenmore.
We stayed in Santa Barbara for three busy days. From a phone booth I called a friend who lived in Los Angeles and we made plans for her to visit us at the marina. We rented a car for our stay since it’s almost impossible to get around otherwise. We drove to Los Angeles to buy a ham radio. It was a good decision and for the rest of our journey we appreciated the advantages of the communication it provided. Luckily, Bruce had a ham operator’s license, so he could legally operate the radio.
This was before the days of cell phones, or at least common use of them. Although I had a computer, I hadn’t brought it with us. The Internet wasn’t nearly as advanced as it is today, and most people didn’t even have email. I did have my typewriter and at every opportunity I wrote letters to family and friends. As we had done when in Africa, we asked people to save our letters so we could refer to them later.
When we returned to Santa Barbara from Los Angeles, my friend Cheryl Janecky was waiting for us with her parrot, Charlie, on her shoulder. The green and yellow parrot stood about a foot tall. Cheryl treated us to a restaurant dinner, leaving the parrot in her car. After our meal we returned to Impunity, with Charlie, to continue our visit. The parrot was a character and found cute places on the boat to hang out. He’d stand behind a post, then peek out at us. I’ve never wanted a bird because of the mess they make, but Cheryl’s parrot was fun.
The next day we found a place to do our laundry. It took awhile because our winter coats had gotten wet and salty and we wanted them clean before stowing them. We bought a block of ice and stocked up again on fresh meat, milk, fruit and vegetables. A marine supply store at the marina had a Danforth anchor to replace the one we’d lost at sea. I bought a wide-brimmed straw hat, hoping we’d have sunshine to warrant it. We beefed up our supply of line.
The marina had showers and we took advantage of that all three days. What had seemed like an inconvenience at Kenmore Marina, leaving the boat to take showers, now seemed like a luxury. Lovely hot fresh water cascaded down my body. I could wash my hair using both hands. Oh, my.
We topped up our fuel and water and, rather than going back offshore where high winds were reported, we took the Santa Barbara Channel to San Diego. Bruce continued to listen to weather reports. A storm from Mexico was blowing over and it would be clear to travel within a day or so.
We spent only one night in San Diego, then were underway on June 21. Next stop, the Marquesas, but first we had to cross 3,400 miles of the Pacific, the largest ocean in the world.
The Long Haul
Log Entry—July 9, 1989: Six-hour rain squall.
Leaving San Diego on June 21, with the wind forward of the beam, we close-reached on a port tack. Bruce felt anxious about the unfavorable sailing conditions. At sea, it was still cold and we continued to wear foul-weather gear with warm clothes underneath.
Surprisingly, even that close to San Diego we experienced light shipping traffic with only one U.S. Navy frigate and one inbound surfaced submarine, plus three sailboats circling around. Within a short time, we had the ocean to ourselves, but not much wind, leaving Bruce frustrated. We motored most of the night which meant hand-steering.
Dolphins tagged along with us for a distance, slicing the water back and forth across our bow, swiftly ducking under the boat, then repeating their performance. Their cavorting made us laugh and gave us a welcomed diversion from hand-steering.
Although the pilot charts all but promised north to northwest winds for the area, by the second day out we bucked southwest winds. We made three to four knots in overcast weather, often running the engine. All around, everything was gray. I’d hear Bruce at the navigation station sigh with disillusionment as he plotted our course. Sloping tradewind clouds teased us with promises until the fifth day out, when we finally found trade winds and sunny skies. Ahhh, what a relief. We began shedding clothes as the weather grew steadily warmer until we were down to tee-shirts and jeans. Then, within a couple more days, tank tops and shorts, finally tank tops and panties for me, only skivvies for Bruce.
At one point the sea sparkled with thousands of dots on the water. Everywhere we looke
d, we could see the brilliant spots, each about the size of a fifty-cent piece. I lowered a pail to capture a sample and up close we could see they were light blue Velella velella, marine creatures with crests along their bodies that act like sails. They live on the ocean’s surface.
The trades, winds that blew from the northeast toward the equator, weren’t consistent and when they failed, the slapping of sails in slack winds became irritating. Fifteen knots of wind was ideal, but eight or so didn’t cut it. It was still necessary to hang on to something with one hand because of the roll and swing of the boat, but these were gently rolling swells, about five feet high, compared to the 15- to 25-foot seas we’d had off the Oregon coast. At least my stomach felt steady, even with rolling seas.
We found the midship single berth more comfortable than the V-berth, especially since only one of us slept at a time. The center of a boat has less action than either end, and the berth had sides that kept us snug. At times we strung a lee cloth that reached from under the frame to the railing overhead. If the boat should really roll, the person sleeping wouldn’t be dumped out of bed. On this passage, it never did get that rough, but it was reassuring to have that protection.
One morning, when Bruce woke me for my morning watch, he crawled into the narrow bed with me. It made us realize how much we missed cuddling. With our watch system, we often felt like ships passing in the night. We began doing this every morning, calling ourselves “bunk bunnies.” Only ten minutes of this satisfied our need to be close and restored our sense of “us.”
My advanced meal planning and provisioning was paying off, and we enjoyed healthy, tasty meals. About once a week I put together a soup or stew, enough for two dinners. I often fixed omelettes. I found sea water could be used for steaming vegetables and boiling potatoes. While we still had fresh vegetables, we enjoyed salads. Later when it was only cabbage I fixed coleslaw with an oil and vinegar dressing. Toward the end of our fresh vegetables, I started a jar of sprout seeds, rinsing them three times a day with fresh water. I used them in salads and on sandwiches. Otherwise, we used our canned vegetables. I prepared creamed ham (canned) and potatoes (still fresh). I also creamed canned chicken or tuna to serve over rice. We’d stocked up on bread in San Diego, but once that ran out I tried baking our bread, using sea water. The first batch of two loaves was wonderful, but the next batch didn’t rise properly, probably due to the rocking boat. I didn’t try again. Sturdy, round pilot crackers substituted for bread. We enjoyed our fresh apples and oranges.
We tried fishing but had no luck at all. We suspected our salmon tackle was too light. We’d check our line which we dragged off the stern, and it would be stripped of bait and hook. We had a thing or two to learn about fishing in the tropics.
Within ten days, I could hardly remember cold weather. It was pretty much non-stop heat. Bruce rigged tarps to give us shade in the cockpit. At sea, we couldn’t use our awning, but by adjusting a small tarp we had some relief from the seemingly endless sun. During calm seas I often sat at the table in the cockpit, wearing my big straw hat, and typed letters home.
The days seemed endless, but not in a bad way. Just day after day of sailing. I felt no particular pressure, but Bruce always seemed to be trying to coax more speed out of the sails. We fell into a pleasant routine. Life was good. I didn’t care when we arrived in the Marquesas, not as long as the sailing continued to be this pleasant.
Although our watch system dictated four hours on, four hours off, sometimes we didn’t even get four hours of sleep. We had a safety rule that if one of us went to the forward deck, the other had to be at least in the cockpit. Although when going to the foredeck we always wore our safety harnesses (well, maybe not in dead calm), there was still a danger of losing our balance and falling off the boat. If that should happen, even tethered to a line, the person in the water could be dragged along and unable to get himself back onto the boat.
Bruce always tried to have the sails settled for the night, but there were times he had to wake me during his night watch so that I could be in the cockpit while he changed the jib or took a reef in the main. The sea doesn’t care what your sleeping schedule is. Bruce always wanted me to call him, no matter the hour, if anything unusual was happening.
Mary typing a letter home
One night after a particularly calm, peaceful day, I was sleeping when around three in the morning I not only heard, but felt a loud BANG! It sounded as though we’d hit something. I heard Bruce yell, “Mary! I need you on deck!”
I scrambled out of the midship berth and up to the deck into screaming wind and driving rain. Bruce handed me my safety line and I clipped it on as he made his way to the bow, fighting against a strong wind. He took down the jib and lashed it to the railing with a bungee cord, then made his way back to take a couple of reefs in the mainsail, reducing the effect of wind.
Sudden squalls often come without warning and can knock a boat down. Since it was dark, Bruce couldn’t see it coming, but he said moments before the squall was on us that he had noticed a subtle wind shift and felt the temperature drop a few degrees. Then, the wind suddenly picked up and the squall slammed into us. Another reason why a person should always be on deck. Without quick action, we could have been in trouble.
When things calmed down, I went below, dried off and climbed back into bed. It took me awhile to get back to sleep.
We began to notice the lack of regular exercise. We’re daily walkers and on a boat there’s no way to substitute for this, but in the cool of the night we began doing bending and stretching exercises.
Sometimes we had rude surprises. More than once I’d no sooner hung out our daily laundry when the wind and seas kicked up and soaked the laundry with saltwater spray. I’d have to take the laundry down, rinse it again in fresh water, then wait for things to calm down to hang the clothes out. I hand-washed our clothes in salt water, using Joy detergent, then rinsed first in salt water, then fresh water.
We tolerated the difficult times better, now that they were offset with good days. Those early days, going down the U.S. coast had been nothing but tough, and that had gotten old quickly. But, now it seemed we had mostly good days, with a few rough spots thrown in to keep us on our toes.
With favorable winds, hand-steering was rarely required. The wind vane did its job keeping us on course. Every once in awhile, it was necessary to make some adjustments, but for days on end we didn’t have to hand-steer or even change course.
Night watches were often a marvel with bioluminescence. As the boat cut through the water, brilliant algae illuminated the seas in our wake and on the crest of breaking waves. Searching the sky, I loved watching the blazing stars. In the clear air they looked within arm’s reach. Sitting under the dodger was no longer necessary unless it rained. I usually sat in a cozy spot in the stern, wedged between a lashed-down propane tank and the small cockpit table, stowed upright when not in use.
There’s something a little sticky and abrasive about dried salt water. The backs of my legs became tender from the crustiness of it, so when in the cockpit I sat on a towel.
One day, approaching the equator, we had a heavy rain squall. At first we rushed around to take advantage of the abundance of fresh water. After the scuppers and deck were cleaned with the hard-driving rain, Bruce opened the deck plate to fill the water tank. We took showers, washed our hair, and I washed clothes. The deck got a good scrubbing. We exposed the boat’s salt-encrusted bench cushions to the fresh water. When it was over, six hours later, we marveled at our soft skin and hair, at how clean everything felt.
We’d gotten into the habit of Bruce reading James Harriot books aloud. We’d brought his first three, starting with All Creatures Great and Small. We also listened to music tapes played on the boat’s cassette player. It was a treat to have conditions calm enough for these activities. We enjoyed normal, relaxed conversations when weather permitted.
The sailing conditions weren’t as reliable as anticipated once we were in the trades. From h
is research, Bruce expected better winds. Still, our knot meter ticked away, indicating we were doing about four knots (about five miles per hour). At four knots, we would sail about 100 miles a day, rather than the 120 Bruce hoped for. Some days, we didn’t even make 100 miles, which discouraged Bruce. I really didn’t care. I loved the feeling of endless time.
On one of the earlier days of the doldrums, I enjoyed the flat sea, not being jostled about. I prepared dinner without having to hold on to something every minute. I cleaned up the boat, having the leisure of airing things out without worrying about sea-spray. At the end of the day, I remarked to Bruce, “This has been a great day!”
He grumbled a response, “We only got in about 50 miles.”
“Isn’t it okay to have enjoyed the day?”
“It’s not okay to be taking so long to get there.”
“Why, what difference does it make? Do we have to meet some kind of schedule?”
I think that conversation did us both good. I could understand that Bruce tried to get the most of what the boat could give us. And I think my remark helped put our situation in perspective. He seemed to relax a little about the business of sailing. We were doing this for the adventure. All of it.
We settled into a nice, calm routine and I found myself enjoying life at sea.
A quiet afternoon watch
To keep track of our progress, using the sextant, Bruce made star sights each morning and evening twilight, and sun shots two or three times during the day. The procedure was much more involved than I’d anticipated. The sextant was kept in a padded wood box. A mechanical device, a sextant has a small telescope, some mirrors and several darkened glass shades. He’d carefully take it out and slip its lanyard around his neck, along with a stop watch. On the single-side band radio, he tuned in WWV, a station operated by the U.S. National Bureau of Standards. The station consisted of monotonous ticking every second and a voice announcing Greenwich Mean Time each minute. Bruce would start his stopwatch on the exact minute. I wouldn’t have thought it would make that much difference, but if his stopwatch was off by four seconds, that would equal a one-mile error in longitude.
Sailing with Impunity Page 5
