Sailing with Impunity

by Mary E Trimble

  Feeling rested, I was more relaxed leaving for this leg than I’d ever felt when going to sea. Maybe it was that we were heading home. Sailing conditions were perfect, the high seas forecast good, and we were assured we’d make good time. The weather was ideal and we wore shorts and tee-shirts.

  A day out of Honolulu and we were again alone with nothing but the sea stretching out in all directions. Night watches were a delight. The only sounds were seas parting as Impunity sliced through waves, and the occasional roar of distant waves breaking from their own weight. The sails, full of wind and trimmed to maximum efficiency, propelled us forward as if Impunity wanted to get home, fast.

  On about the fifth day, we spotted a commercial fishing boat. We turned on the VHF radio in time to hear, “Gettin’ crowded out here.” It was a lone fisherman, probably eager for a little human talk. He asked if we were fishing and Bruce mentioned that we had caught a nice 20-pound mahi-mahi, sometimes called dolphinfish. “That’s more than I’m catchin’,” he said in a slow drawl.

  As we pushed north, the weather cooled and we began wearing warmer clothes with foul-weather gear and knit hats for night watches. We brought the sleeping bags up from below deck storage. Even a wool blanket wasn’t enough. We continued to alternate sleeping in the midship bunk.

  Bruce was pleased with the Loran-C, but used his celestial navigation to compare results. When turned on, the Loran-C continually gave us our position. Loran-C calculates positions by measuring the time difference between low frequency radio signals broadcast from Loran-C stations on shore. When signals were strong, it was quite accurate, and by using both Loran-C and celestial navigation, when possible, and comparing the results, we had confidence that our position and course were correct. This would be important as we approached the sometimes unforgiving entrance to Washington’s Strait of Juan de Fuca

  Flying fish occasionally found their way to our deck. We threw them back into the water right away, if we saw or heard them land. One morning we found a 6-inch squid, complete with ink, on the deck. It was hard to imagine how that happened. Waves seldom broke over the deck.

  We had a few light squalls and partially gray skies, but the sailing was smooth and blissfully uneventful.

  For a few days the winds were very light and we motored to make forward progress and to keep the boat from wallowing. It was a relief when wind again filled the sails, pulling us energetically toward home.

  We began making plans for when we returned. Bruce intended to return to the marine electronic field. We definitely wanted to live in a rural area. After reading so much James Herriot, we couldn’t wait to get a dog. I wasn’t wild about the idea of a long commute, though taking Safeco up on its offer to again work there as a programmer/analyst had its attractions.

  “Mary,” Bruce said, “why don’t you consider writing? People enjoy your letters. You could write for sailing magazines.” The more I thought about that, the more attractive it became. We began brain-storming topics.

  But first we had to reverse our original plan. We’d sold the house to buy a boat, now we needed to sell the boat to buy a house. We considered keeping Impunity and still buying a house, but we wanted to be in a position to make a large down payment on a home. Besides, Impunity was overkill for Puget Sound; she was a sea-going vessel. Over the years we had seen so many boats tied up at marinas, never used, year after year. Boats are expensive to moor and maintain. We’d done what we set out to do. It was time to move on.

  There were a lot of unknowns ahead in our lives, but after 13,000 miles at sea, we were used to that.

  A large ship passed us, an unusual occurrence. Bruce spoke with the captain via VHF and learned they were on their way from Los Angeles to Japan. Bruce asked for their position and compared it to our Loran-C fix and they coincided.

  Our heading was straight north with the intention of avoiding the North Pacific High, a semi-permanent, subtropical high pressure area located in the northeastern portion of the Pacific Ocean, west of California. Our plan was to skirt around, leaving it to starboard, then, once passed, turn east. To go through the North Pacific High meant there would be no wind.

  I spotted a glass Japanese fishing float bobbing in the water. Bruce maneuvered the boat around so that I could bring it aboard. It was covered with barnacles, but was in good shape. Then we found what appeared to be brand new float, a lovely shiny green, about 12 inches wide. Within the next few days we found another glass float and a few plastic ones. We collected the glass ones, but ignored the plastic. It appeared the glass balls were caught in the North Pacific High and they were effectively “circling the drain.”

  Glass balls weren’t the only thing floating in the North Pacific. We saw large cans, bottles, and what appeared to be ship’s garbage. The litter in these pristine waters made us sad.

  When the wind died or was squirrelly, we motored. One night we shut down the engine, double-reefed the main and drifted. Both the air and sea temperature were 69 degrees, cold compared to the South Pacific.

  July 20 we experienced total calm and overcast, but after a couple of days, we welcomed light 3 knot winds. We crossed the 42nd parallel, the same latitude as the California-Oregon border, though several hundred miles away.

  On July 24, we passed the midway point with less than 1,300 nautical miles to go.

  We both marveled at the ease of this leg of the journey. The winds were weak allowing us both to relax and enjoy this last leg of the journey. Bruce was generally pleased with the Loran-C, though it wasn’t always accurate, depending on where it picked up its signals: Hawaii, Alaska or the North Pacific chain.

  We finally put to good use the radar detector that Bruce’s folks had given us. On much of our South Pacific journey we didn’t use it. Ships there often didn’t use their radar, which is unsettling. As it happens, they lease their radar by the hour so when they are in the open sea, it isn’t even on. But now that we were approaching an area where we were likely to encounter other ship traffic, we kept our radar detector on. The alarm sounded as a freighter appeared on the horizon heading from Los Angeles to Taiwan. Bruce asked for their position, explaining we were using a new Loran-C.

  As we crossed shipping lanes, ship traffic picked up and by listening to radio conversations and occasionally getting alarms from our radar detector, we learned that we were one of four boats in the area, but we rarely saw any of them.

  As we neared the Washington coast, the winds were directly astern of us, making the “boat look like those knock-down clowns that kids like,” Bruce noted in the log. Interestingly, my attitude about that had relaxed, and so had my stomach.

  On August 3 we spotted several magnificent gray whales headed west, their warm breath condensing in the cold air.

  I was impressed with Bruce’s calculations regarding our fuel supply. He had two spare 5-gallon containers of diesel and had added 22 gallons of fuel in Honolulu. Since then we had run the engine 68 hours. We still had plenty of fuel to last, even if we needed to run the engine in the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

  We began experiencing northwest fog. We appreciated the Loran-C, especially since it was now getting strong signals from the U.S. west coast.

  We cheered when we spotted land, 26 days after we set sail from Hawaii. We could barely make out the mountains of Vancouver Island on our port bow. Within a few hours, through the fog we sighted Tatoosh Island. There it was! The northwest tip of the continental United States!

  After 13,000 miles at sea, we were almost home. My mind raced and I was filled with mixed emotions. I felt elation, but also a sort of a let-down. Our adventure was coming to an end. What we had so carefully planned and worked for, and then actually accomplished, was almost finished.

  This had been an extraordinary journey, one that few people make. We’d sacrificed to make it happen, but we persevered. After 14 months, we were different people than when we left home. We’d experienced joy and had seen sights and been to places most people only see in pictures. But we’d also experi
enced fear, discouragement and discomfort. I’d found strength I didn’t know I had. I’d learned that I could be miserably uncomfortable, lacking sleep, and still function. I could put out a decent meal in rough seas when I had to hang on with one hand for dear life and could barely keep from throwing up. I had an even deeper respect for Bruce and his all-around seamanship and ability to solve problems.

  We knew unequivocally that we could rely on each other. Using our watch system we knew the person on watch, no matter what time of day or night, would do what was necessary to keep us safe. If we took care of the boat, she would take care of us. We could sail with impunity.

  Our lives were richer because of this experience. Our marriage had more depth and meaning. At sea, we had only each other and we found that to be enough.

  As we neared our home state, the fog became so thick visibility was almost zero. It was spooky not being able to see anything, yet moving forward. We frequently checked the Loran-C for our position, plotted it on the chart and made small course adjustments to stay out of the shipping lanes, and to stay clear of land. We heard ship traffic on the radio and could hear ships’ engines rumbling. Bruce occasionally called on the radio to make sure they saw us on their radars.

  “Yes, we see you on radar, Impunity. You’re off our starboard bow.”

  Proceeding up the Strait, we cleared Point Wilson on August 7 and were officially back in Puget Sound. We docked at Port Townsend. The kids were planning a welcome home party for us the next day and we planned to greet them by sailing into Shilshole Marina.

  In Port Townsend we tidied up the boat, I cut Bruce’s hair, but then went to a salon for a shampoo and hair cut. We luxuriated in the marina’s showers.

  The next morning we were underway and arrived at Shilshole exactly on time, twelve noon. We heard the family laughing in delight as they spotted us coming in under sail. They waved and ran down the guest dock in a swarm. Although I laughed, too, I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. What a grand reunion with Bruce’s folks and all the kids and grandkids. The family had again reserved a section of a Shilshole restaurant for a luncheon celebrating our return.

  We’d done it! We’d fulfilled another dream. Not without struggle and doubt. Not without sacrifice, but we’d done it. We felt tremendous relief and satisfaction, and yes, pride.

  We looked forward to a new beginning.

  Epilogue

  After returning home from cruising the South Pacific, Bruce again worked in the marine electronics field as a product manager, enriched with his own experiences at sea.

  I followed Bruce’s suggestion and began writing articles about long-distance cruising, keeping a good watch system, the value of household bleach on board, planning meals for an extended voyage, and other topics of interest to sailors. After a few rejections, three different magazines published my work in the same month. That success gave me the self-confidence to consider writing as a profession.

  Camping has always been one of our favorite things to do, but we like to move from place to place, rarely spending two nights at one camp. It became tiring breaking down and setting up a tent with every move. We acquired a camper, the type that fits on a truck’s bed. It has been perfect for us. Sailing articles morphed into RV articles and my writing career was firmly launched.

  While camping we look for article material. Bruce’s camera is always at the ready, while I take notes as we go along. A two-week camping trip usually produces three to five articles. Those articles, plus articles about other events we attend, and issues of interest to homeowners, produce several pieces published each year in magazines and newspapers.

  Because we have a goal other than just having fun while camping, we look at places and situations with closer attention, knowing that what we’re seeing and experiencing may end up in print. We delve into the history, the flora and fauna, and things to do in the surrounding area. This research results in a far richer experience for us.

  One summer in eastern Oregon on our annual two-week camping trip, I spotted a girl, probably in her teens, walking along a rural highway with a huge pack on her back. She looked weary and hot. My mind whirled with reasons she might be out in the country, by herself, back-packing. I would never know her story, but I made up one of my own. My first novel, Rosemount, was born that day. I finished Rosemount and found a publisher. However, Leslie, the character in Rosemount, wouldn’t leave me alone. Her story wasn’t finished, I discovered, so I wrote a sequel, McClellan’s Bluff.

  While researching cattle ranching in Washington for Rosemount, I visited a rancher in eastern Washington. He made several references to the Mount St. Helens’ eruption of 1980 and the disruption that event caused his cattle operation. Tenderfoot, a romantic suspense with a sub-plot of the Mount St. Helens eruption, was my third novel.

  Although it had been on my mind, I had never written of Bruce’s and my experiences in Africa with the Peace Corps. Although I had reservations about the self-exposure that memoirs create. I tip-toed carefully into our story and, refreshing my memory with letters written to family at home, realized the story would interest people who liked to travel and to learn about other cultures. The gamble paid off. Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps has brought me many opportunities to speak to groups about life in a third-world country. By this time, Bruce and I felt we knew the publishing business pretty well, so we decided to self-publish the memoir and have been happy with the results.

  That brings us up to our experiences aboard Impunity. This book was a joy to write. As I wrote, feelings of exultation welled up, but then so would memories of desperation and despair. I relived these moments as I prepared to share them with you. Again, we decided to self-publish this book, making our own decisions on the different aspects of publishing.

  Being a writer has enriched my life. I’ve made contacts and life-long friends with other writers, people whom I deeply respect. It’s gratifying to have someone come up to me in a grocery store and tell me they enjoyed a book or article that I wrote. Someone has noticed, and that’s important to me.

  I’m honored when invited to speak at library and community groups. I’m sure every writer is thrilled when asked to attend a book club when the selection being discussed is her own. Speaking to groups about Tubob: Two Years in West Africa with the Peace Corps has opened many opportunities to discuss conditions in Africa and how basic the needs there are. My presentations also lead to discussions about Peace Corps opportunities for “older” recruits, people with experience who could make a difference.

  As planned, we sold Impunity and are living on rural acreage on Camano Island, Washington, in Puget Sound. And of course, we have the dog we longed for, a chocolate Lab, Toby.

  Glossary of Nautical Terminology

  Aboard: On or in a boat

  Aft: Toward the stern. Sometimes referred to as “After.”

  Anchor: A device usually of metal attached to a ship or boat by a chain and cast overboard to hold it in a particular place either by its weight or by its flukes.

  Awning: A tarp that’s designed to provide shade.

  Backstay: Standing rigging that runs from the mast to either the boat’s transom or rear quarter, counteracting the forestay and jib.

  Beam: The width, or diameter, of the boat.

  Beam reach: Sailing at a 90-degree angle to the wind.

  Beat or Beating: Sailing as close as possible to the direction from which the wind is coming.

  Below: As in “going below decks” meaning going to the space below the main deck.

  Berth: A bed on a boat.

  Bilge: The lowest inner part of a boat’s hull.

  Binnacle: The stand on which the boat’s compass is mounted.

  Block: A single or multiple pulley.

  Block and Tackle: A system of two or more pulleys with a rope or cable threaded between them, usually used to lift or pull heavy loads or sails.

  Boarding Ladder: A ladder hung from the boat’s side to facilitate getting on a
nd off a boat.

  Boat: A small craft compared to a ship, which is usually considered a commercial vessel.

  Boom: Spar (pole), along the foot (bottom edge) of a fore and aft rigged sail.

  Boot stripe: Stripe painted just above the waterline to evaluate the boat’s trim.

  Bosun’s Chair: A seat, usually made of canvas, used to hoist a person up the mast.

  Bow: The forward end of a vessel (normally, the pointy end).

  Bow Pulpit: An extension of the forward deck encircled by a stainless steel handrail.

  Bowsprit: A spar extending forward from a ship's bow, to which the forestays are fastened.

  Brightwork: The exposed metal or varnished woodwork on a boat.

  Broach: To slide sideways down a steep wave, rendering the boat out of control.

  Broad reach: Sailing with the wind coming from behind the beam.

  Bulkhead: Walls or partitions.

  Bulwark: The railing extending along the sides of the boat above the deck.

  Cabin sole: The floor of the cabin.

  Celestial navigation: Navigating by the sun and stars using a sextant which measures the angles between the stars or sun and the horizon.

  Channel 16: An emergency and hailing channel on the VHF radio.

  Cleat: An object of wood or metal having one or two projecting horns. Used for tying off a boat’s line.

  Clew: The free corner of a sail not attached to any standard rigging.

  Close reach: Sailing farther off the wind than beating, facilitated by letting out more sail.

  Cockpit: A recessed area in the main deck where the boat is steered, usually in the middle or rear of the boat, normally large enough for seating for the crew.

  Companionway: The entrance to the cabin. The passageway that leads from the cockpit down into the cabin.