Wilson Fitt
07-09-2009, 07:40 PM
I wrote this piece in my log a few years ago when we were returning at night from St Pierre and Miquelon, French islands off the south coast of Newfoundland, to Cape Breton in Nova Scotia. On re-reading, it seems to capture the routine of night sailing, of which I will see a lot in the next month or so.
We are planning to leave next week on a new voyage, this time from home in Nova Scotia to Scotland via St John’s Newfoundland. My wife Thelma will crew to St John’s and I will continue alone the rest of the way. The plan is to store the boat in Scotland for the winter, sail in the Hebrides next summer, store one more year and figure out how to get home after that.
"Christina Grant" is a Bill Atkin design, 38 feet, wood of course. I have posted descriptions on this forum in the recent past that are probably still available.
“The seas became more regular as we came off St Pierre Bank into deep water, higher but with a more even rhythm. Time to reef the main at change of watch just before dark, as the wind has more weight. A familiar routine. Staysail down and lashed as well, the jib is out on the pole to windward.
Dark now, with blasts of phosphorescence from the collapsing wave tops, the red glow of the compass light and the green of the GPS display in the cabin. I peer down at the display: 7.2, 7.4, 7.5 knots as a wave comes up under us and lets her down with a tremendous rush. It feels like we are hurtling into blackness. Then another crest catches her awkwardly, a thump as the wave top collapses into the cockpit, the stern slews around and then the vane gear catches her, pulling the tiller over, leaving another big slew of phosphorescence behind, and the rushing rhythm starts again.
I doze, check the compass, look out over the dodger into the murk, check the cross track error on the GPS. The wind is veering south a bit. Adjust the vane gear, watch and doze again, only to be awakened by a thump as the poled out jib backs and fills.
Watch change. Thelma looms in the conmpanionway. “How is it?” “Fine, more wind. We need to get the jib off the pole.”
Foredeck maneuvering in the dark, then I am down below, struggling out of harness and oilies, staggering to the head for a pee (ship’s rule, everyone pees sitting down like a girl, saves much cleaning). A note in the log, then into the lee berth just vacated. A mess of strange dreams interrupted by the occasional thump and rush as we come off a bigger than usual wave.
Must be time to go up. I check the clock and am five minutes late. “Why didn’t you call me?” Make a note in the log. Fleece, oilies, boots, hat, harness, slide hatch back, hook on before going outside.
“Anything new?” “Nothing. Visibility has closed down.” “Can I have your gloves? Try to get some sleep.”
Look around, lurch, spray, adjust the vane gear, doze, look again into the murk, check the course, huddle under the dodger and think about the sensible people ashore in their beds.
Then Thelma is in the hatch again. “My watch. How is it?”
We are planning to leave next week on a new voyage, this time from home in Nova Scotia to Scotland via St John’s Newfoundland. My wife Thelma will crew to St John’s and I will continue alone the rest of the way. The plan is to store the boat in Scotland for the winter, sail in the Hebrides next summer, store one more year and figure out how to get home after that.
"Christina Grant" is a Bill Atkin design, 38 feet, wood of course. I have posted descriptions on this forum in the recent past that are probably still available.
“The seas became more regular as we came off St Pierre Bank into deep water, higher but with a more even rhythm. Time to reef the main at change of watch just before dark, as the wind has more weight. A familiar routine. Staysail down and lashed as well, the jib is out on the pole to windward.
Dark now, with blasts of phosphorescence from the collapsing wave tops, the red glow of the compass light and the green of the GPS display in the cabin. I peer down at the display: 7.2, 7.4, 7.5 knots as a wave comes up under us and lets her down with a tremendous rush. It feels like we are hurtling into blackness. Then another crest catches her awkwardly, a thump as the wave top collapses into the cockpit, the stern slews around and then the vane gear catches her, pulling the tiller over, leaving another big slew of phosphorescence behind, and the rushing rhythm starts again.
I doze, check the compass, look out over the dodger into the murk, check the cross track error on the GPS. The wind is veering south a bit. Adjust the vane gear, watch and doze again, only to be awakened by a thump as the poled out jib backs and fills.
Watch change. Thelma looms in the conmpanionway. “How is it?” “Fine, more wind. We need to get the jib off the pole.”
Foredeck maneuvering in the dark, then I am down below, struggling out of harness and oilies, staggering to the head for a pee (ship’s rule, everyone pees sitting down like a girl, saves much cleaning). A note in the log, then into the lee berth just vacated. A mess of strange dreams interrupted by the occasional thump and rush as we come off a bigger than usual wave.
Must be time to go up. I check the clock and am five minutes late. “Why didn’t you call me?” Make a note in the log. Fleece, oilies, boots, hat, harness, slide hatch back, hook on before going outside.
“Anything new?” “Nothing. Visibility has closed down.” “Can I have your gloves? Try to get some sleep.”
Look around, lurch, spray, adjust the vane gear, doze, look again into the murk, check the course, huddle under the dodger and think about the sensible people ashore in their beds.
Then Thelma is in the hatch again. “My watch. How is it?”