An Irresponsible Adult

Chapter Four


The start of the Bemuda One-Two was a light air drifter. The wind was from the north, so the fleet was pushed across the starting line. Robin was on her way at 11:40 a.m. and we had a respectable start, but soon the lighter boats were well ahead of us, most of them flying spinnakers of one sort or another.
By early evening, Robin was off Block Island. She stayed there until around midnight, becalmed. Then the predicted northeast wind began to stir, and soon we were moving along at up to 7 knots.
On Sunday morning, I shortened sail when the wind speed hit 21 knots, raising the staysail and dousing the genoa. I had already put one reef in the main. Now, at four o’clock in the afternoon, the genoa is flying again in 10 to 14 knots of wind and we’re making 6.5 knots or better, sailing down the rhumb line.
The sat phone works but its data kit does not get me out, so I’m having to dictate this blog. Outfitter Satellite Phones tells me it is a problem with the server. Actually, they told me that last night. I haven’t heard from them since, although they said they are working on it.
I’ve been sleeping as much as possible, although I have been unable to get more than a half hour at a time. And I’m eating light and the stomach has been stable. The overcast sky has put an emotional damper on the day, but otherwise we’re doing fine 114 nautical miles out of Newport.

I have written this blog on my laptop at Robin’s nav station, a countertop just inside the companionway on the starboard side of the cabin. To send the blog, I phoned Michael LaBella, one of my great editors at Soundings, and dictated as he typed. The blog gives only a hint of what has transpired in the last 29 hours.
The troubles began just outside the entrance to Narragansett Bay. In the distance, in the misty fog, I could see the racing boats that were ahead of me. They were passing by the shadowy form of a large ship. The monster appeared to be anchored offshore. It definitely was motionless. I began making mental calculations regarding which way I should pass the ship, since it sat squarely on the rhumb line. The autopilot was steering as I fine-tuned the sails in an attempt to keep within sight of Mirari, the closest boat.
The ship would not be the only obstacle ahead. Local yacht clubs – the New York Yacht Club and others – were participating in an offshore race outside the mouth of the bay. I could see they were crossing my path ahead, coming from the right. They would have the right of way if we got close. So I was keeping a close watch, peering under the boom and over and around the black canvas dodger mounted over the companionway. The dodger is like half of a rounded tent with plastic windows. Its purpose is to protect the sailors from spray that gets blow back when the boat pounds through waves. Robin’s dodger is one of the best I’ve seen for providing protection. Sitting forward in the cockpit, you are completely under the dodger. I had the life raft lashed on the port side of the cockpit under the dodger. On the starboard side, I had a red Honda gasoline-driven electricity generator tied to the dodger’s aluminum and wood frame.
In the hectic morning before the race, I had stowed everything that I could and brought to the cockpit all the items I thought I would need. But now, clear of Newport Harbor, I took some time to arrange items, tie things down and fetch gear from the cabin that I had forgotten or that I didn’t need until now. As I worked, I noticed a pilot boat steaming by to port, headed offshore. It posed no hazard to Robin since it was on a parallel course, and I gave not another thought to that vessel’s significance.
It was only minutes later, as I continued with my chores under the dodger with occasional glances outside for traffic, that I was reminded of what happens when a pilot boat heads offshore. It’s journey is for one of two purposes: To pick up a pilot from a departing ship or to deliver one to steer an arriving ship into port.
In what had seemed a very short span, the pilot boat had reached the big tanker that was squatting on the rhumb line. A pilot had obviously climbed aboard and given the captain the order to put the behemoth into gear. A series of loud fog horn blasts caused me to look up. Ahead, I saw the towering bow of the tanker, steaming toward Providence at the head of the bay and about to run over Robin.
The wind was light, but it was enough. I punched a control button to turn off the autopilot, pushed the tiller hard to port and turned sharply to the west, away from the rhumb line. I heard no angry comment on the radio. That should have made me suspicious. Normally a ship’s captain will give the operator of a small boat a piece of his mind after a close call. Only much later would I learn the reason for the silence.
Ever more slowly, once the tanker had passed, I picked my way through the club racers, finally free of Rhode Island’s shoreline. Off to the southwest, I could see Block Island, no more than ten miles away. As evening approached, I crept closer, until the northern end of the island was nearly abeam of Robin. And then the wind died completely. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon. On the radio, I talked with Dan Stadtlander. He was still moving, at least a half dozen miles ahead of me. By now, all the boats of the last fleet to start – the mini Transats, hot 21-foot racers that were competing in the Bermuda One-Two for the first time – had passed me and I had to assume that I was solidly alone, the tail end of the race fleet.
Dark settled over the ocean. I began setting an egg timer for 20 minutes. With my foul weather gear and boots on, I curled up shrimp-like on Robin’s bridge deck, just outside the companionway, my head propped on a small pillow resting on the vinyl life raft valise, my feet curled around the Honda generator, my hips and torso resting on a flattened cockpit seat. When the egg timer alarm sounded, I sat up and looked around. I hoped for wind, but there was none. There were also no boats or ships, at least not near me. The club racers had gone home for the day. The Bermuda One-Two boats were all out of sight.
Daylight dimmed to black, and then there were pinpricks of light on the Rhode Island coast and on Block Island. Occasionally, there were the lights of boats or ships. When I saw them, I turned on the engine – allowed under the rules as long as the engine was not used to move the boat – and started the radar. [Without the support of the engine’s alternator, the radar would drain the batteries dead.] Nothing was close to me in the early evening, and actually there were very few lights in view.
But around ten o’clock, I started seeing the lights of a tug boat with a barge to the west. I checked the radar and saw the two blips, apparently headed toward me. I removed the VHF radio microphone from its hook on the side of the companionway and called, giving my location off the GPS and asking if the tug captain saw me. There was no response.
I was not concerned because according to the radar, the tug was perhaps five miles away. If he was making 10 knots, it would take him at least a half hour to reach me. So I set the egg timer and slept for 20 minutes. When I looked this time, the lights appeared to be closer, and the radar confirmed that indeed the tug and barge were about two miles away. I called again on the radio. Again, there was no response.
This time I didn’t set the egg timer, but I did doze off for a few minutes, and when I awoke the running lights of the approaching tug were very close. I could see both red and green lights, meaning the tug was headed directly for me. I decided it was time to switch to Channel 13, where ships and tugs conduct their routine conversations. [Channel 16 is the normal hailing channel between all mariners, but I had learned over time that in some cases, commercial captains will respond only on channel 13. This had happened on the trip up to Newport when I was trying to call a tug captain off of Atlantic City.]
I depressed the microphone button and announced my location, the fact that I was drifting and in a race, and I asked for the captain of the approaching tug and barge to respond.
“Where have you been?” an angry tug captain demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour!”
In spite of the lack of breeze, I did my best to steer away from the tug, which passed astern of Robin as I pointed back toward Newport. It was only later that I understood what had happened. I had left the radio on channel 72, where it was tuned for the start of the race. When I made my calls to the tug, I thought I was on channel 16. My voice had no audience on these waters, and calamity was nearly the result.
It was a test that I had muffed. But as if to announce that we were on to other tests, the wind came moments later. Robin began sailing steadily to the southeast. The autopilot did its work, pushing and pulling the tiller in little thrusts with an accompanying zipper sound – zip, four inches to port; zip, three inches to starboard. I shortened the sails as the wind built, and I resumed my napping, snug in my foul weather clothes, fairly comfortable as I braced my feet against Robin’s heeling, kept dry by the dodger above me.