Worst. Night. Ever.

or I could have titled this blog...

"The Weather Forecaster Sucks"

"Red at Night, Sailors Delight"

"Mr. Toad's Wild Ride"

"Marquesa was a Raging Bull"

"Thank God Agnes Didn't Crap Out"

"King Neptune was Fed a Snack"

"Sailing- 95% relaxation, 5% sheer terror and misery"

"This was not how this passage was supposed to go"

"My Husband is a Beast"

"8 foot seas and 30 knot winds"

"We Got our A**es Kicked"

or simply...

"Willis May Never Speak to us Again"


These are the thoughts that ran through my sickly semi-consciousness as we crossed the Gulf from Tuesday morning until Wednesday at noon.  There is good news in all of this...well, lots of it really.  The best news is that it is OVER, and we are safely tied to the dock back at Banana Bay.  The great news is Marquesa (and occasionally Bessie) handled it all beautifully.  The good news is what was supposed to have been about a 30 hour crossing, or more, was done in less than 27 hours.  Praise. the. Lord.

There will be very few pictures, because, well, I was not in the picture taking mood.  And I had no idea where my camera had landed in the warzone we call our living space.  I didn't even take a picture of the mess after we got tied down.  It was filthy and disgusting, compliments of a thrashing sea that leaked into our Vberth and Willis and I puking our guts up.  Yeah, it was THAT gross.  My husband is a saint....on so many levels.  That he offered, and willingly, cleaned up the puke-y parts- his stock value just increased that much more.  More importantly, though, he stayed steadfast and true as Captain of Marquesa, for 27 hours straight. Unbelieveable.  I was completely incapacitated with seasickness.  I couldn't begin to take the helm.  I couldn't even feed him a sandwich or make him coffee after the sun went down.  (Why is everything WORSE at night?)  My man was up and awake, at the helm, or in the water, for 27 hours straight- without so much as a cracker from me.  I was curled in a ball in the corner of the cockpit, trying to stay out of the spray from the waves that occasionally crashed over us. Beyond the violent puking, I was so weak I could barely stand; my body was trembling all over.  To even sip water, sent my stomach in spasms.  The bottle of water that was next to me the entire trip, had but two sips taken from it. The crossing was just that. much. fun.

Let's back up to bedtime Monday night...

We had the alarm set for AIS 7:00am, but the wind HOWLED all night long Monday night.  Marquesa was bouncing off the dock at Whidden's Marina in Boca Grande.  (Did I mention that I LOVE that place?)  By about 5:00am, I got up to check and rearrange the docklines for the second time, and changed the alarm to 8:30am.  Not only were we not sleeping well, it was going to take some time for the waves to die down once the wind finally died down.  When we peeked our heads out at 8:30am, it was still blowing, but only at about 15 knots.  Donnie went to get ice, while I checked out the weather forecast a final time before we untied from the dock.  The forecast called for E/NE winds, 13-18knots, 1-2 ft seas.  Sounds perfect.  We were traveling about 150 miles due south, and just a click to the west, so it should be a comfortable ride.  With that wind and direction, we should be able to sail most of the way.  Here's where "The Weather Forecaster Sucks." 

Let me just say, I cross reference three different weather forecast websites, that are designed for mariners, and they all were saying essentially the same thing.  As I now reflect back to passageweather.com, there was a hint of 25-35 knot winds, but it was WAY OUT in the Gulf of Mexico, to the west of us, and appeared to be no where near the essential coastal waters where we would be sailing.  Even though it was E/NE winds, and the blow was to our west, I should have exercised caution, and known better.  I typically am the one who studies the weather routes, and then Cap'n and I discuss what we're seeing and make our decisions accordingly.  I am the one who errs on the side of caution.  Looking back, I should have suggested we sit tight with the kinfolk at Whidden's for one more day, to see if a blow developed onshore, and if so, to give it some time for the seas to settle back down.  However, we were also comforted by the thought of being able to sail by the light of a full moon, a high pressure system, and a cloudless night.  It would be easier to navigate any crab pot balls by the light of the moon.  On our trip up the coast, there were times we were sailing through a minefield of crab pots.  We knew they were out there, and we didn't want to wrap a prop in the dark of night.  So, for all of those reasons, we chose to go ahead and leave at 8:45am Tuesday.  Hindsight is always 20/20, they say.  As we backed off the dock, the kinfolk weren't even up yet to bid us goodbye.  The goats did bleat at Donnie one last time when he got ice, so I guess that qualifies as a "Fair winds, following seas." (which is kind of like "break a leg" in theater-speak, only different.)

If you remember, one of the reasons we diverted from Charlotte Harbor to Boca Grande was because of the Boca Grande Pass.  This is the deepest water passage from Pine Island Sound back out to the Gulf of Mexico.  From Whidden's Marina, we were only 1.8 miles to the pass.  This pass was very choppy, 2-3's.  The tide was beginning to turn and it is a narrow body of water that goes from about 10-12 feet, to over 50 feet deep.  This is where the famous tarpon fishing takes place in and around the Boca Grande Pass.  You can just imagine schools of big fish funneling through the narrow pass.  In fact, every weekend in May has a tarpon tournament scheduled.  In this picture above, we had just left the pass and were on the lee side of Boca Grande Island.  This is a restaurant 'lighthouse' that marks the south end of the island.  The clouds were leftover from the wind and rain on Monday night.  It was supposed to clear up by noon, and it did.  That part the forecasters got right.

This was taken early on Tuesday afternoon.  We spent the day sailing down the Gulf side of the outer islands- Boca Grande, North Captiva Island, Captiva Island and Sanibel Island.  Then we passed Ft. Myers Beach, Naples and finally Marco Island by about 10:00pm.  We were within 10 miles of shore most of the day, and could still see land.  Cell phone service was patchy at best.  It was a lovely day when this picture was taken.

 

Willis was using his litterbox in the cockpit, all was well.  Since the pee/poop/puke incident on our sail to Islamorada earlier this year, the boy is no longer trusted down below.  Better still, we can keep an eye on him this way, by having him in the cockpit with us on passages.   I want you to admire how clean and tidy the cockpit looks...this was no where near the case the following day.

So far, the winds were E/NE 13-18 knots as predicted...

Marquesa was sailing along beautifully, consistently between 6-7 knots and sometimes more with occasional gusts. On the right up by the spreaders, you can see our radar reflector.  Between this and the AIS we have on our VHF, we are as good as having a radar, which costs lots of B.O.A.T.S.

We were relaxed in our sailing, as we had clear waters ahead of us...until we unknowingly entered the first string of crab pots.  We were enjoying the sun, the breeze, reading a good book, Agnes was driving, and all of a sudden we slowed to about 3 knots.  What's up with that?  A quick look off the stern and we could plainly see the line of a crab pot we had picked up and were dragging.  A quick jump in the water by Cap'n, with one swipe of the dive knife, and we were back under way. 

After 5:00pm, the wind died, as it often does late in the day, even in Indiana.  We motor-sailed for about three hours until the sun set.  Willis has a love-hate relationship with Bessie, the engine.  He was beginning to feel a little sickly in the diesel fumes.  Poor little buddy.  For the first time this trip we were reminded of sailing Lake Michigan.  As we motored through the late afternoon, we got into a nest (swarm?) of little black flies.  (In Florida?  Off shore?  Biting black flies, really?)  Thankfully, I found two fly swatters I had squirreled away down below.  Cap'n won the contest, hands down.  In my defense, I gave him the bigger fly swatter! 

Just before sundown, the few clouds freshened the breeze and we were able to cut Bessie off.  It was looking to be a beautiful sunset on the water.

As the wind picked up, so did the waves just a little bit.  By the angle of this pic, we were heeled about 15 degrees and sailing at about six knots.  Just what we were hoping for- a perfect sail.

About this time, Willis did his first puke.  He went in his littterbox to do his other business, and he started meowing while he was in there.  As usual, he meowed just before he wretched.  The boy NEVER meows unless he is sick.  Thankfully, the first puke landed IN the litterbox.  I can feel his pain.  When I am in the head doing my business while were are underway, I start feeling puke-y, too.  It must be the closed space.  Or the yucky head/litterbox smell that does us in.  I took Willis' meowing  as a warning- I went down and took the first (of four) Bonine and put on my wristbands.  Supposedly the wristbands put pressure on our pulse point (which it does) to prevent seasickness (which it does not).

Beautiful sunset.  As soon as it set on the water, the sky was a lovely shade of pinkish/red.  "Red at Night, Sailors Delight"- yeah, right.  The building wind and waves were merely a foretaste of what was to come. Trust me, there was NO delight on Marquesa that night.  This is the end of the photos, friends.

By 10pm that night, we were passing Marco Island.  The seas were up to 3-4's with the occasional 5 footer rolling under the keel.  It was beam on, the direction we wanted for the wind, but not necessarily the waves.  We toyed with the sails trying to find the comfortable sweet spot, as it was definitely becoming more uncomfortable.  The helm was tight, and Cap'n was having to hand steer.  It was too stiff for me to take over.  Agnes couldn't hold our course either.  It was all I could do to manage the helm while Cap'n went on deck to reef the main. twice.  We tried one reef in the main, a double reef in the main, main only, jib only, half a jib, etc.  All the while, the wind and waves continued to build.  We put on the weather channel on the VHF at about 10:30pm.  The original forecast called for the winds to abate at midnight.  Ok, we can do this; it's all good.  We're under a double reefed main and half jib, still flying between 6.5-7.5 knots.  Just a few more hours and things should settle back down.  My stomach was locked up, but I'm not puking. yet.  I was, however, making multiple trips to the head with other problems, a nervous bladder being one of them.

For the second time, this passage was reminding us of the passage we had coming down from the U.P. on Lake Michigan.  We reminisced about our overnight sail with Emily, Ellen, and Simon (Willis' BFF of a dog) on our Chrysler 22' many years ago.  We left Manistique under a star-filled night after a rain shower had passed through earlier that day.  We left at 10pm for an easy overnight passage to Northport- or so we thought.  By midnight, we caught up to the storm, and were in a 6-8' following sea- with tiller steering.  The girls and I had an overactive bladder, naturally, and had to cave in and pee in a bucket and toss it overboard.  Repeatedly. There was no bucket to be found on Marquesa.  (How do we have a sailboat with no useable bucket on board?!)  If there had been one, I would have used it. Gladly.  Trying to get up and down the ladder, through the boat, to the head, while it was thrashing about, (with two broken toes, mind you) was not the passage I had hoped for when we left on Tuesday morning.  In fact, being in the head alone, made me feel even more sick.  I used to think that night on Lake Michigan was our Worst. Night. Ever.  I even wrote an article about it and had it published in a sailing magazine.  This night didn't begin to compare.  I would have GLADLY taken a following sea, and surfed down the waves.  At times, the waves were higher than our tallest lifeline on Marquesa, which is at least six feet from the water line.  For a few minutes, we discussed turning back toward Marco Island and tucking into the beautiful little anchorage at Factory Bay.  It sounded so inviting.  But, the reality of pounding into these 3-5's for 7-10 miles, was beyond uninviting.  It would have slowed our speed to a crawl, because we could have been doing more up and down then moving forward.  Getting to Marco would have taken hours.  I would have been sick for sure, and at this point I only FELT sick, and was sent stumbling onto the head repeatedly.  We just needed to deal with it until midnight. The wind was supposed to abate then.  This trip had quickly become "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

By 1am, we were under a double reefed main and just a SCRAP of jibsail- like a handkerchief.  The waves were definitely 5-6's, with the occasional 7-8 footer greeting us on the side, or crashing over the bow and spraying all the way back into the cockpit.  "Marquesa was a Raging Bull", charging through the waves like a champ.  She reminded me of a racehorse being let out of the starting gate.  She charged and reached and drove through the waves like a pro.  Not for a minute did I question her ability to take the wind and weather. In this regard, I completely trusted the boat.  I knew she would take care of us.  At this point, though, in one of my trips to go down to the head, (for like the 57th time), my stomach finally cut loose.  Violent, projectile vomiting.  Oh no, this passage was now the Worst. Night. Ever.  In addition, Marquesa picked up at least three or four crab pot balls during all of this, which would slow us to a momentary crawl.  The next violent wave would crash us or lift us up and the crab pots thankfully slid off.  This happened several times between midnight and 2am.

By 2am we were in 6-8' seas, with winds 25-30 knots.  Waves were crashing around us and over us. In the light of the moon, you could plainly see the froth and foam of an angry, confused sea. "Thank God Agnes Didn't Crap Out."  With a double reefed main and handkerchief of a jib, Agnes (the autopilot) could hold our course.  Cap'n's back was getting so tight from the hand steering, that he was asking me to take the helm, even for a few minutes.  I couldn't do it.  I could barely stand up.  My whole body was trembling like I was in shock.  I know I was really dehydrated, but I couldn't do a thing about that, either.  A few sips of water sent my stomach in spasms.  I didn't even have the strength to get down below another time to find some ginger ale.  On each bathroom trip prior to finally getting seasick, I was taking Bonine, which did absolutely no good.  Even though Cap'n was finally able to use the autopilot, I couldn't let him leave the helm for a minute, even if it were to get a ginger ale for me.  I was also afraid for Willis, who was just as seasick.  Even more so, though, Willis was scared.  Like me, the poor little buddy was also trembling all over, too. I felt so bad for him- that we got him in to this mess- that I couldn't bear to keep him in the cockpit with us any longer.  The wind was HOWLING, things were BANGING, waves were CRASHING, and he was SCARED.  I had Cap'n pitch him down in the cabin below. At least he could find a hole to curl up in where he would stay dry. 

From midnight until about 2am, ("the weather forecaster REALLY sucks"), we were keeping a close eye on the dinghy by the light of the stern.  It was thrashing right along with us.  Sometimes Marquesa would be up, and the dinghy would be down, but she seemed to be taking it alright.  The problem, however, was the motor.  Cap'n had it lashed upright, good and tight, but one of the bolts had broken free, and it was laying on its side, half in the water, threatening to swamp and sink the dinghy.  By 2am, Cap'n couldn't take it anymore.  He knew something had to be done.  I wanted to cut loose the whole dinghy.  Yes, it was brand new.  Yes, we paid $800 for it.  (which really is a bargain).  In my mind, though, Cap'n's life is worth FAR MORE THAN $800.  It went against every fiber in my being to let Cap'n try to step off the buckling bronco, and into the dinghy, in 8' raging seas.  Bad things were bound to happen.  Of all the bad scenarios I could trump up in my mind in about 30 seconds, I was ill-prepared, and quite frankly, unable and unwilling, to deal with any of them.  Trying to do a man overboard drill (but for realsies) so sick and in this ridiculous wind and seas, was a no-go in my book.  I could not convince Cap'n otherwise.  My frugal husband would not consider cutting the whole dinghy loose.  Trying to bring the dink along side Marquesa to perhaps do something was also out- we could have done serious damage to Marquesa in the process.  Despite tears and begging and pleading, my husband donned a life vest, grabbed an adjustable wrench and an emergency beacon (in case he went over, I could spot him), put down the ladder and made a jump for the dinghy, trying to time the up and down motion just right.  I'm sobbing, at the helm, and can barely watch.  He FELL into the dinghy, and thankfully, when he hit, he didn't bounce out.  He unscrewed the second bolt, and pitched the damn thing into the Gulf.  Thus, "King Neptune was Fed a Snack."  (And you thought I meant my puking overboard, right?)  Truth be told, the motor was over 40 years old (I told you my husband is frugal), it hasn't ran right in some time, and it had gotten progressively worse on this trip.  We would go exploring in the dinghy and it died on us repeatedly.  It started hard. It ran hard. It just plain sucked.  On this trip, we had already decided that this summer we would shop for a new motor for the dinghy, so it was of no great loss to pitch it into the Gulf of Mexico. If something would have happened to Cap'n in the process, though?  I couldn't have bared that kind of loss.  Unthinkable.

By 3am, I realize the cat's litterbox is still in the cockpit, and he is somewhere in the mess down below.  In all the pitching and rolling, pans flew out of the oven, all of our clothes went flying all over our stateroom, and general stuff and things were dislodged from their traveling spots.  It all was in a mess on the salon floor.  I was convinced that Willis needed his litterbox, so Cap'n got up from the helm to take it down below for me.  I was curled in a ball in the corner of the cockpit at this point, and could not get down the ladder one. more. time.  Just as Cap'n lifted the box up and over the companionway boards to go down the ladder, the handle on the litter box broke.  I kid you not.  Cat litter, and cat shit, and clumps of cat piss, and even cat puke was now all over the mess that's already over the floor down in the salon.  Screw it.  I am not going down there, and Cap'n was needed back at the helm.  I'll deal with it later.  Much later.  They say "Sailing is 95% relaxation and 5% sheer terror/misery."  Truthfully, I was never really afraid (except when Cap'n got in the raging water).  I didn't like the howling wind.  I didn't like the waves.  But I wasn't really afraid.  I trusted Cap'n, and I trusted Marquesa to take care of us.  But when the litterbox contents went flying all over the warzone that was my home, and I was so beyond sick with seasickness to do anything about it, THAT was misery, y'all.  Remember, I'm a little on the OCPD side ;)

By 3:30am, we snagged another crab pot.  Are you freaking kidding me?  We slogged at about 2.5 knots for a good 15 minutes, which was really beating us up with waves.  Cap'n had no choice.  I had no choice.  He had to go in the water, AGAIN.  No amount of crying or begging or pleading was going to change this decision of his, so I didn't.  But, he couldn't wear a life vest and still get under the boat.  And there's no place to put an emergency beacon in your birthday suit.  Armed with his dive mask and knife, he let down the ladder again.  Against my better judgment, Cap'n was leaving his boat for the second time in over an hour.  (Will this night ever end?)  "This was Not How This Passage was Supposed To Go."  While Agnes held our course, I held the 100 gazillion candle watt spotlight (Thank you, Mike and Suzie), and Donne hung off the end of the ladder looking like a flag on a flagpole.  I was praying he would not lose his grip with just one hand on the ladder, and the other on his dive knife.  He kicked his way up and under the boat, and with one swipe of the knife, he cut the crab pot free.  Praise Jesus.  He handed me his knife, and I turned off the spotlight so I wouldn't blind him as he got back on the boat.  I then freaked out for the second time.  After I made my way back in the cockpit and put the dive knife back in his holder, I thought he was right behind me.  I turned around, expecting to see him in the cockpit, tying up the ladder for the second time.  I had a towel in my hands ready to hand to him.  Only, the ladder was still down, and he was no where in sight.  Oh. My. God.  I tripped and fell over myself trying to get to the back of the boat to look for him.  I'm yelling for him, but he can't hear me over the wind and the waves...we are quickly coming back up to speed minus the drogue of the crab pot.  I'm thinking, "There's no way he can hang on in these waves at this speed."  I'm yelling for him, scrambling to get back to the stern.  I look down at the water, and as my night vision adjusted, I see him.  He's simply squatted down on the ladder, taking advantage of the moment to do his own business.  If I weren't so relieved to see his bare butt, I could have killed him.  Dude, you have GOT to communicate with me!  Lord have mercy. 

All I can say is 57 years old, five stents in his heart, and after two heroic efforts in less than two hours (on no food and no sleep), "My Husband is a Beast."

And so it went on, the rest of the whole entire night. "8 Foot Seas and 25-30 Knot Winds."  Occasionally, there were gusts even higher.  It was so LOUD, y'all.  I can't imagine being in the 100+ winds of a hurricane.  Those of you who know me well, know I hate all LOUD things.  This is a girl who loves the quiet.  Who lives for the quiet- either in a log cabin in the woods, or at sunset on the water- anywhere.  This wind was so loud and so violent, that it tore a hole in our bimini, and it blew down our radar detector sometime in the night.  We found the radar detector after the sun came up; it was lodged in one of the bimini rails.  As for the bimini, I had already been in contact with Laura (the canvas lady who sewed our new dodger and helm cover this year) before we left for this trip.  She will be making us a new bimini when we get down here after Christmas next year.  For the record, we already have about two extra B.O.A.T.S. to save up for next season- a decent used motor for the dinghy and a new bimini.  And we aren't even back home or back to work yet. It's only money.

Agnes continued to work all through the night and into the next morning.  (Thank you, Peter, for bringing her back to life when you were here in February!)  After sunrise, the wind and waves FINALLY abated.  It still blew a steady 15 knots, but we were much more comfortable under a double reefed main, and full jib.  As we got closer to the Keys, the waves dropped to all but a moderate chop.  There IS a God!  I finally went down below to survey the mess, and to make Cap'n a well deserved breakfast (A hot pot of coffee and a pop tart, lol).  I had no interest in eating yet, but Willis was making a recovery and wanted his breakfast too.  I scooped up what litter I could, threw the clumps overboard, and got him settled back into the cockpit with us.  In spite of everything being covered in a salty grime from the waves and salt spray, the cockpit was the cleanest place on the boat.
My stomach was still too locked up eat anything, or to care about cleaning up the mess down below. 

The rest of the morning, it was an easy and pleasant sail back to Banana Bay.  Willis and I dozed some, and Cap'n even closed his eyes for a minute or two, while Agnes toiled away. We arrived back in Marathon at 12 noon, making nearly 150 miles in 27 hours.  Donnie's first words to Paul, the dockhand, as he tossed him our lines were, "We Got our A**es Kicked."  While Paul and I were still adjusting and securing the dock lines, in Marquesa's home slip #34, Willis immediately bolted from the boat and made a beeline for the mangroves.  "Willis May Never Speak to us Again."

So, all is well aboard Marquesa....now the clean up begins.  The plan is to stay here at Banana Bay this week taking care of the last of the projects, catching some sun at the pool, and enjoying our last week with friends.  We plan to move the boat over to Angler's Drive on the canal next Tuesday, and hopefully have the Jeep packed and headed for home on Thursday or Friday at the latest.  At any rate we will be back home, in Indiana, the first weekend in May.  G'nite, y'all!