Done

Plan all you want, but you never really know what the future has in store. 

We made it to Cape May, pretty well intact. We aren’t very happy with the performance of the head; it’s leaking small droplets of outside water every time you pump it. And we’ve discovered that the propane grill is not lighting properly so steaks need to be cooked inside. Minor issues. But we noticed that the ice box isn’t quite as cold as it had been when we first started out a few days ago. This is more serious. Maybe the refrigerant is low? That had happened nine or ten years ago, in fact getting so low that we burned out the compressor, starting a small fire in the galley area. Not good! We had to have extensive and costly repairs done, and we were told how to monitor the coolant to make sure that never happened again. Now, what was it that guy told us? The repair was done so long ago that neither of us remembers much of anything. Clearly we haven’t been doing any monitoring. 

Phone calls ensue. The outfit that makes our refrigeration system, Seafrost, is located in New Hampshire, and Cheri, the woman who runs the business, spends quite a bit of time trying to help us. No one in the area of Cape May repairs Seafrost systems, and even if they did, getting someone to make a house call on short notice in peak season is simply out of the question. After sending videos and photos back and forth, Cheri thinks we are indeed low on coolant, but that we can fix the problem ourselves. All we need are some inexpensive supplies from an auto parts store. So instead of relaxing at the beach and resting up for our passage to Block Island, we spend the day biking to hardware stores and Ubering to Auto Zone. 

Wait - we have to put what onto where?

The parts aren’t exactly right though, so that means more work the next day, and more phone exchanges with the ever-patient Cheri. Our system is so old and out of date, we apparently need an adapter to make the new parts work. We’re planning on leaving for Block the day after tomorrow, not enough time to have the adapter sent to us here, so we have Cheri send it to a marina at our destination, and we’ll just get some extra ice to put in the fridge until we get there.

So with only one day left to enjoy Cape May, we bike to the beach, have Mexican for dinner, and then return to the boat, ready for our epic passage. 

We’ve chosen our departure day carefully, checking the weather updates, looking at the intensity and direction of the winds. The last few times we have made this passage, the wind petered out, and much to Rick’s disappointment, we ended up motoring most of the way. This time the winds look to be steady and strong, and he hopes to save the motor and do some real sailing. 

    My method of dealing with possible seasickness during a long passage has always been to slap on a scopolamine patch, and then use Zofran - the nuclear-option anti-nausea med - if necessary. I have learned to really hate those patches. Dry mouth, metallic taste, dulling of personality, all seemingly worse as I get older. Often the seas were so calm in the past that it seemed I had gone through those side effects for nothing. I decide to go with just the Zofran this time, and leave the patch in its package. What could possibly go wrong?

As soon as we are through the short canal and into the open ocean, I am immediately aware that the motion is different here. How could I have forgotten? It’s too late now for a patch because it would take four hours to take affect. I settle into the cockpit for a rocky ride, assuming I will adjust. Keep looking at the horizon, breathe, keep your eyes away from anything close, breathe some more. Odors are always magnified when feeling nauseated, and the smell of sunscreen, normally kind of pleasant, is now disgustingly cloying. It doesn’t help that the head is more seriously afflicted than we realized, backwashing contents from the holding tank into the toilet bowl, creating a smelly mess.

Rick and I had both noticed an unwelcome clicking sound while underway, new this year. It doesn’t happen when the engine is running, only when we are under sail, so when we first heard it in the Chesapeake, it seemed innocuous. But about three hours into this voyage, Rick is curious, and goes down below to investigate. The sound is ominously loud down there, and he thinks it is coming from the drive shaft, which turns the propeller. This is significant, because Rick had done some work on that drive shaft just in the last year. The cutlass bearing was machined by someone who knew what they were doing, but Rick had snugged up the aperture with a little extra epoxy, and now he's worried his fix has failed, and could be doing damage to the bearing or even to the engine. We are under sail at the moment, but it is dangerous to be out in the middle of the ocean without an engine. You need it in case a bad storm develops, or your sails or rigging fail, or God forbid, someone falls overboard. 

While Rick is stewing over these possibilities, I am already succumbing to gut-wrenching seasickness, retching into the bucket we always keep handy. I have taken as much Zofran as I’m allowed for the next eight hours and it is clearly not having the desired effect. I only have one job while we are underway; don’t get seasick, and I have failed miserably. I am getting terribly dehydrated because I can’t keep water down, and now I’m developing painful muscle cramps in both legs. I can’t stand up to stretch them because the boat is bouncing around with terrible force, and I’m still nauseous and afraid I will throw up all over everything if I can’t keep my head close to the bucket. I am truly in agony. 

This job of mine, to take care of myself, is not a small or unimportant duty. Rick, as the captain of our tiny craft, is responsible for everything and everyone aboard, and since he is single-handing, he needs to be able to concentrate on the task at hand, not to be worrying about me. Now, seeing his wife so afflicted, Rick can’t help but be distracted, and miserable himself.

The winds are doing exactly as predicted, we should not have been surprised. But we are so out of practice, we both have forgotten what it’s like to be out here under these conditions. We should have chosen a less ambitious plan, a day with less wind, but it didn’t look like there would be a day like that for at least another week, and we were seduced by the idea of getting to our Block Island paradise as quickly as possible. We both underestimated my seaworthiness, but also the deepness of Rick’s exhaustion, still not having recovered from the effort of getting the boat ready in the first place. Tending the sails and keeping us on course require great strength, and Rick is feeling his age.

This is the moment. Rick has what seems to be a complete epiphany about his time with sailing, and suddenly he is done. 

“We need to turn around,” he says. “We’re going back, and I’m selling the boat.”