An Irresponsible Adult

Chapter Three


The wind is out of the north, and as the start of the race nears, the breeze has filled in. Robin is moving with authority under sail power alone at about 4 knots. The blue and white flag on the boat that marks the end of the starting line has just gone down. That and one long blast on an air horn indicate there is less than one minute before Class 4, our class, is free to cross the starting line. My VHF radio is tuned to channel 72, where the race committee is augmenting the flags, horn blasts and cannon reports by telling us how much time is left. This is unusual in a sailboat race. Normally, each captain has to keep track of his own clock. The thought crosses my mind that in such a long race, the committee would rather avoid recalling a boat that starts too soon, let alone issuing a general recall of all the boats in the class. So we’re getting a break.
I made my turn toward the starting line about a minute ago and finally rolled out the genoa. As the seconds tick down, I am tightening the sheets on the mainsail and the genoa, increasing the power that is stretching Robin’s sails and, thus, building her speed. I don’t know all the boats in our class, which comprises older, smaller, slower boats. I think ten of us are starting. I have met three of the other sailors in the class, but right now I’m not looking for their boats. I’m just hoping I don’t get to the line too soon.
After we cross the starting line, our course will lead us southwest out of Narragansett Bay through a narrow passage between the rocky shores of Aquidneck Island, home to Newport, and Conanicut Island, also known as Jamestown. If the wind holds – if it continues to blow with some strength from the north – this passage will be like a cruise in a 1953 Mercury down a boulevard. Things could be much worse. The normal wind here on a summer afternoon is from the southwest. That would be directly on Robin’s nose and would require tacking west and east to get out to the ocean. But come to think of it, it is not yet summer. Maybe this northerly wind is normal in early June.
We’re still in Newport Harbor, but suddenly – I don’t remember hearing the canon fired – the starting line is behind us and my new friend, Dan Stadtlander, is on my starboard side, his dark blue Bristol 39, Mirari, sailing in lockstep with Robin. It is amazing. Much of my life until now has been lived like a cliché. Suddenly, I’m doing something entirely new. Dan, another novice in this race, and I are on our way to Bermuda, ready or not! That, of course, is an important phrase. In many ways, I am unprepared for what I have just begun. Months of work accomplished a lot, particularly on the boat. I finally got around to tying tapered wooden plugs by all the bronze through-hulls – valves that let seawater into the boat to cool the engine or flush the head or that drain the cockpit, the head or the sink. The plugs are there in case one of the valves fails and something is needed to keep the ocean outside the boat. On the stern pulpit – a stainless steel railing that curves around the back of the boat – I have mounted a drogue and 230 feet of Dacron line. The drogue is a cone made of fabric that can be tossed off the back of the boat and used as an anchor at sea to slow or steer Robin in an emergency.
I began work on Robin in earnest some time in March, after the ski season had ended. At the same time, I began preparing myself for the voyage. I attended two seminars here in Newport. One taught methods for getting enough sleep when sailing alone. The other was an introduction to understanding weather forecasts. I understood the part about sleeping. I still needed work on the weather stuff, but I put that off. The procrastination lasted until late May, when it was time to sail from Annapolis for Newport. The rules of the race required me to be in town five days before the start. I figured I’d have plenty of time during that week to learn everything I needed to know about both the weather and the Gulf Stream.
It turns out that I knew no more about what happens before the start here in Newport than I knew about what to expect after the start, out on the ocean. You have to be there to understand. I got to Newport on Sunday morning at 11 o’clock after a 40-hour sail from Cape May with my former boss and sailing friend, Bill Haldeman. I had six days to prepare for the race, and I had no obiligations until Monday, when Robin was due to be inspected by a race official to assure I had come with a seaworthy boat that complied thoroughly with the many race rules. I knew I had a couple of things to finish – minor things, really – so Bill and I showered at the Seaman’s Church Institute, toured Newport and had a couple of good meals. When I checked in at the Newport Yacht Club, home base for the Bermuda One-Two, I was told I could have Robin inspected on Wednesday if I wished. That gave me two days to have everything shipshape. So Bill and I did more touring Monday morning, waiting for his wife, Suze, to arrive and take him back to New Jersey.
Tuesday I felt pretty confidant. I had talked with a fellow competitor, Lindsay Lowe, who was sailing in a faster class of boats. She had completed her safety inspection. She had managed to talk her way past a couple of deficiencies. She didn’t have the required two can openers aboard, she explained to the inspector, because she was going to eat power bars. She had failed to get a ship’s bell, but the inspector let her pass because she had a pan on Flying Tiger, a Hobie 33, that she could bang.
I had to pick up a flare kit that I was renting, and I planned to do that Wednesday before the inspection. I also had to put 18-inch-high race numbers on Robin’s sides and cabintop. I had made the numerals for No. 32 out of blue duct tape. It was a ratty solution, and I was still trying to find out how the other racers came up with such sharp looking numbers. I knew I’d find an answer, but the duct tape was there for an emergency.
My good friend Curt Michael arrived Wednesday morning with his cousin, T.J. Tarbox, prepared to help me put the finishing touches on Robin. First, we had a hearty breakfast at the Seaman’s Church Institute. Before we left to pick up the flare kit, I discovered the answer to good race numbers. The other skippers had bought numbers from sailmakers, vinyl numbers with adhesive backs. So before our scheduled noontime inspection, we drove to a sailmaker near the flare rental place and took care of all the outstanding chores. Once we passed the examination, I could settle down to study the charts to Bermuda and learn more about the upcoming weather.
I was therefore stunned when Robin failed the inspection. The rest of the day and Thursday would have to be spent scrambling. I had to get a proper medical manual. It was on the list but I had simply forgotten it. And I had to prove that all the required equipment was inside my sealed life raft. The $1,700 I had paid for the raft had not bought me such a list. Where would I get one?
For now, however, I had friends who had come to give me a good sendoff, and I felt a responsibility to show my appreciation. Two more guys – Capt. Louis Lagace, a commercial clam boat owner, and Mike Troy, a folk singer – came to town and we all went out for dinner. It was a great time, except that my mind was elsewhere, wondering where all the time had gone and when I was going to begin looking at the nautical charts that would be my roadmap to Bermuda.
And then there was the issue of the satellite telephone.
I began writing a blog on the Soundings Magazine web page on March 26. I had made 69 entries on the blog, almost one a day since the beginning. Here’s an example of what I had just written about Robin’s inspection.

Ted Singsen, the inspector, arrived on time and, once aboard Robin, asked if I had completed the checklist. My mind froze. This is probably a survival instinct learned from all those college final exams I faced unprepared. I had to tell Ted I didn’t, so he went to get me a blank one. When he showed it to me, I recognized it as one I had almost fully completed and had on board. I found it .
But neither Ted nor the three of us had had lunch, so we adjourned and returned to Robin after eating. As moments of truth go, this inspection was a very friendly one. Ted went through the list. Could you show me a wooden plug at a through hull? I showed it. Do you have a second compass? I did. In the end, I was short three items. I had completely forgotten to get a book on first aid. The life raft company failed to give me a list of the survival equipment inside the raft. And I had zoned out on the fact that I had ordered a waterproof spotlight online that was to be delivered to the club offices, so I didn’t have it on board.

Writing the blog was fun. It didn’t take a lot of time. The plan from the beginning was that I would continue to write from Robin after the race started. I would do that by renting a satellite telephone. Soundings agreed to reimburse me, so I had ordered the phone. But I had failed to order a crucial item that would allow me to send email messages on the phone. It was now on order and scheduled to arrive at the Newport Yacht Club. I am as skilled with electronic devices as my grandmother, who did not live to see them invented. I had hoped that I would have the phone in hand for practice transmissions, but as of now, the “data kit” had not arrived. So I busied myself on Thursday with laundry and applying the sail numbers to Robin’s hull and cabin. My sister, Janet, came for a visit. We had a nice meal together. And by the time I settled into my berth on Robin, I had not opened one chart all day long.
But that was okay because on Friday, at the skipper’s meeting, I would attend a weather briefing, learning no doubt all I needed to know about both the weather and the Gulf Stream. And after the meeting, I would email weather router Herb Hilgenberg in Ontario. He had promised to give me a forecast for Saturday, race day, and also give me coordinates for the best place to cross the Gulf Stream.
It was a good thing that all this information would be handed to me. Friday morning, Monica, her brother, John Cusick, and John’s wife, Tina, arrived. We went to breakfast. The data kit for the satellite telephone arrived some time during the day. I emailed Herb Hilgenberg, letting him know that I would be looking for his weather and Gulf Stream comments later in the day. I found Ted Singsen, who checked off the final inspection items. Then Monica and I took a launch out to Robin. It was time to secure everything on board, to clear the deck and stow the dinghy on the foredeck. I took the satellite telephone components out of their boxes for the first time and put the installation CD in my laptop. In minutes, I found I was unable to transmit an email message on the phone. John Cusick is a computer whiz. I told Monica, no doubt in very serious tones, that we needed to go ashore and solicit his help.
Until now, I had done my best impersonation of a gracious host for each of my visitors. I felt a responsibility. But now, I was on edge, not a particularly hospitable shipmate. There were less than 20 hours until the race began, and I was overwhelmed, trying to go through a mental checklist of all the things that needed to be completed. Monica is our list-keeper. My lists are always mental. This means they are easily added to – and easily forgotten. But if I forgot something now, it could mean real trouble once I was offshore. Added to those vague concerns now was the satellite phone problem. So I kept to myself and I could feel the tension building. I felt bad about my behavior. Monica had been enthusiastically supportive. Unlike the wives of many sailors, she was eager to be part of this race. And here I was, withdrawing, uncommunicative. So on top of the layer of stress that was natural to this situation, I added a film of guilt. And that is not at all what this adventure was supposed to be about. Indeed, if entering the Bermuda One-Two had any theme, it was the shedding of a lifelong habit of assuming responsibility for others.

**

That was yesterday. Now it is not quite noon on Saturday. With Mirari to starboard, Robin is passing between Aquidneck and Conanicut Islands. The sky remains overcast, the temperature moderate – perhaps in the 60s. There are boats ahead of us – all of those in the four classes that started before us – and behind us. I am busy with the sails, looking for some edge because the wind has eased a bit. I see Dan trying to raise a light air sail on Mirari. He had sworn he wouldn’t bother, but both of us can see boats in our class pulling away from us in our flight toward the ocean, each with a billowing spinnaker. I decide to try my own light-air sail – a bargain shop $150 antique “blooper” that I purchased at the last minute and have never before flown. With the electric autopilot steering, I go forward and manage to get the sail – pale yellow, pale blue and white – to fly off the port bow. This requires dousing the genoa. Immediately it becomes clear that this is not a good trade. Robin has slowed sharply. I lower the light sail and unfurl the genoa again.
Mirari is in front of me. Then Dan steers to port, heading directly for Aquidneck’s rocks as he struggles with his sails. I can hear him cursing. He has made a couple of sail changes while I’ve been fooling with my own rig. We’re both seeing the fleet pull away. I pass Mirari, but then Dan tacks back and finally gets into a groove. I make a choice to sail a bit farther west than he is traveling to avoid any shoals. Since I haven’t made a detailed examination of the charts, I’m trying to stay on the safe side of the buoys marking the shipping channel. Dan sails inside and puts some distance between Mirari and Robin. Evenutally, I will steer onto the same course Dan is following as he aims for Bermuda. I know that the rhumb line – the straight course between Newport and St. George’s, Bermuda – is 162 degrees magnetic. But for now, it could honestly be said that, with nothing plotted on my charts, I really don’t know where I’m going.