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| Our comfy bunk in the V-berth, complete with "mattress and springs", sheets, and a sleeping bag for the winter. This is our bedroom most of the time, except when making passage. |
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| The V-berth as catch-all while we are underway. Everything got stuck in here, including a whisker pole. Obviously no place to sleep! It's uncomfortable, if the sea is at all rough, because this is the bow of the boat. If David had been sleeping here on night two, he'd have waked up in a hurry - probably on his head on the sole. |
[Hilde's log] We have survived our
third Gulf crossing and are ensconced in a marina in Bayou Chico, in
the Pensacola region. Technically, we are in Warrington, FL. After
two days plugged in with electricity, and three nights of decent
sleep, we’re about to emerge from the exhaustion that is just part
and parcel of a Gulf crossing. A couple of people have commented on
how little time the crossing took. That’s because we didn’t go
far south. We basically headed out to the commercial safety fairways
and then scooted along parallel to the coast, about 100 miles out,
before heading in at an angle to Pensacola. Had we headed for Tampa
or further south along the Florida coast, the trip would have been a
lot longer. When we leave here, we are looking at another five day
voyage to get to Punta Gorda, just south of Tampa. We will be here in
this marina for about a month, fixing what broke and getting our
energy back.
I have also been
asked what our plan is. Do we have a route, destination, goal –
i.e., what are you doing? I don’t have a clear-cut answer. We both
retired in May and are, first, thrilled to get out of Houston and
environs. Too many people, too much pollution. We are choosing to
live on the boat and travel to reclaim some joy in our lives. On
land, our lives feel constricted and predictable. On the water, life
goes technicolor and there is a sense of adventure. We find ourselves
smack in the middle of God’s breathtaking creation – sun, sky,
and sea – and our hearts fill in a way that they just aren't
living on land. When we take a break in an anchorage, it’s peaceful
and still. When we take a break in a marina, folks are friendly and
welcoming. It’s a very pleasant way of life (also rough and ready
and without conveniences...but who cares?).
The overall plan is
that we are going to sail and voyage until we don’t feel like it
any more, or until David’s 93 year old mom needs us to help her,
whichever comes first. We envision a cruise of at least a year to
five years, but who knows? We have no fixed destination or goal. As I
said to David, if we want to hole up in Pensacola for the rest of our
lives, we can. No agenda, other than keeping ourselves in a mild
climate. Since we are shivering in a cold front here as I write this,
that looks a whole lot like a lot further south for the winter.
Neither of us is a fan of cold.
We left Kemah on
Thursday, November 2nd, about noon, headed for an
overnight anchorage at the Texas City dike. I wanted to squeeze in
one last sleep! We filled up at the fuel dock across from Portofino
and then headed out into the bay, where we were greeted with leaden
skies, 24 knot winds, and choppy water. As we lumped our way to the
ship channel, the whole idea of leaving was upsetting. I had a couple
of good cries below, mostly just releasing all the stress that had
built up over the last month, and some sadness at parting with my
car. I know, ridiculous, but I bought her new and loved her. She’s
gone to a good home, but still. Fortunately, by the time we reached
Redfish Island, the wind had calmed down, the sun was out, and the
trip was benign, albeit noisy with the motor chugging away.
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| Taken from our anchorage at the Dike the morning we left for the Gulf. This big ship was headed into Houston. Each ship that passed sent us rolling gently from the wake that travels all the way to shore from the ship. |
We anchored off the
dike in about 12 feet of water, lopping back and forth with the
passing of each huge ship making its way to Houston up the ship
channel. I made a good dinner that night and a big bowl of oatmeal
for each of us the next morning, knowing they were probably the last
square meals we’d have for awhile. That turned out to be an
understatement.
We hoisted anchor
and slipped down the ship channel, past the ferries and various early
morning fisherfolk, the sun eating up the mist on the water and the
cool air flowing over us. Just past the south jetty, we put up the
sails and promptly headed for Corpus Christi (i.e., west, not east).
I don’t know why we expected to sail south, since that is the same
direction of the ship channel to Galveston, and there is no sailing to
Galveston. We wrestled with the sails and basically tacked back and
forth over a horizontal line for a couple of hours before giving in
and motoring south. By that time, we were both thoroughly seasick.
Explain to me why,
no matter how bad the weather is in the bay, we never get seasick.
But just let us get three feet into the Gulf, and down we go. Every
time. This trip was no different. We took ginger pills and they did
help (nobody puked) but we still felt miserable for two days. Neither
of us ate a bite and we hardly drank any water. Fortunately we had a
gallon of water on deck or we wouldn’t have had that either. Going
below to use the head was torture.
By the third day I
had recovered enough to make us hot jello (the jello you get after
you add the water but before you put it in the fridge to set) and
sipping that helped the nausea and settled the sharp hunger pangs.
About two hours later, I made another batch. A few hours later, we
sipped some soup. Gradually, we got some energy and some perspective
back. The next day, I reheated some meals I had cooked in advance,
and we each had very small portions. David was recovered; I came down
with a cold. Seriously?
Our first night
watch wasn’t too bad, other than the seasickness and the two hour
watches. The second night out we were motor sailing through oil rig
“cities” (10-12 oil rigs close together) and although we didn’t
have much in the way of wind, the boat shuddered and hobby-horsed its
way through five foot waves and troughs, all headed in contrary
directions. My theory is that the currents swirling around and among
the rigs create the contrary seas. There was certainly no wind to
blame it on (maybe 8 knots). The bow of the boat would leap up and
then slam down in the troughs, seawater bucketing over the deck. At the helm, I was sick as a dog, mad as a wet hen, and totally frustrated,
since every time we hit a trough, the boat basically stopped before
ploughing on. I don’t know how David slept through it. (We sleep in
the main cabin in the middle of the boat when making passage, and
that is a very stable place.)
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| "Bed" in the main cabin, where we take turns sleeping underway. Wads of sheets that didn't stay put, jacket and life vet wadded up at the "foot" - the good news is, you're so tired you just faint. Most nights I slept in my life jacket and sandals. When there is an emergency, no time (and no light) to get dressed. |
The last straw was
when one contrary wave picked Raven up and slapped her down in
such a direction that the sails tacked and we were headed back to
Corpus again. I yelled below, David came up, and we got her headed
back on course. Then we just cut the motor. Sailing in chop is much
less stressful than motoring, as the boat rides the sea instead of
blasting its way through it. Less stressful or not, when I made my
way down for my off watch nap, I was having mutinous thoughts of
desertion the second we touched land.
Fortunately, that night was the nadir. The next day dawned sunny, our seasickness was mostly past us, we ate something, and life looked good again. Enjoy the videos below to sail with us. (left click on the text, left click on the link that appears, click on the x in the upper right hand corner of the video frame in Google Photos) - please let me know if these do not play correctly. The Wifi here is a joke and I am having a hard time checking the links.
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