By its very nature, embarking on a new phase in life involves facing some unknowns and, at some point, requires a leap of faith (a stomach churning experience in my case, because my digestive tract really doesn’t react well to the unknown…).  For us, the first big step was pulling out of our driveway in Milton with our drastically pared down life packed into my brother-in-law’s truck and father-in-law’s trailer.  If you want to read about it you can find the story here, but fair warning it was a bit of a gong show.  I think the next big milestone was stepping off the dock in Norfolk, VA knowing the next time we set foot on land would be about 700 miles east into the North Atlantic.  Thankfully that journey went more smoothly all things considered!

We spent a lot of time planning and in my previous post I covered some major aspects of our voyage south that went pretty much as expected.  For part 2 I’ll also cover the things that surprised us and reflect a little on how we handled them now that I’ve got the benefit of hindsight and a couple weeks separation.

The Wind

Let’s start with what sailors have a reputation for spending inordinate amounts of time talking about, thinking about, and complaining about, the wind.  In the lead up to our passage Megan and I would dissect the various forecasts and look in a lot of detail at the wind direction and strength in order to judge our expected boat speed and anticipate our comfort level with those wind conditions.  When it came to forecasting and routing, we probably spent 90% of our time talking about the wind and 10% of our time talking about other factors.  Rookie mistake.

One of the biggest awakenings I had was realizing the direct force and direction of the wind on the boat was far, far less influential on the comfort level of living while at sea than we thought and quite a ways down the list of things we needed worry about when on the ocean.  Of course, there are always exceptions.  For example we sheltered in Bermuda while a cold front packing 45+kt winds rolled over and relied on our anchor and chain to hold us off the shore which was a little nerve wracking, but that scenario is more about anchoring than sailing.  Within reason, at sea the wind’s impact on the boat was actually not a big deal at all! 

I suppose in retrospect this realization should have been easy one to come by, after all any sailor worth their salt is able to adjust the sail plan, sail trim, and course in order to manage almost any wind conditions.  With this being our first ocean passage experience we/I naively put the wind conditions up on a pedestal, perhaps because they were the easiest to wrap our heads around.  In actuality, there were a host of other factors, that were much more important to consider.

The Motion

The huge importance of the sea (wave) state’s impact on the boat was the next surprise.  Not that we weren’t expecting the waves to have a big impact, just that the reality of motion at sea and how all-encompassing it can become is something you can’t really appreciate until you’ve done it.  We definitely appreciate it now!

Yes the ocean swell and the waves on top are ultimately driven by the wind, but they certainly do not always match the wind direction at any given time, and to add to the fun it’s often possible to get wave and swell coming at you from different directions as one weather system passes and the next takes over.  Oh and one can’t forget and one-off waves that are up to twice as large as their counterparts and may end up coming from different directions as well.  The most comfortable wave pattern is from the aft quarter and consistent.  The most uncomfortable pattern is from ahead and mixed up all over the place (think washing machine that also slows the boat down with every wave).  Then there’s everything in between.

Luckily Matriarch is a very well-designed ocean boat so there are handholds everywhere within easy reach and the cockpit is sheltered with many comfortable places to brace yourself.  When the ocean isn’t playing nicely I really can’t imagine dealing with it otherwise.  The best I can describe the experience of being below decks with a good-sized swell is like trying to live your daily life with someone standing beside or behind you at all times constantly pushing you off balance, sometimes gently, sometimes very aggressively, and never predictably.  Frankly it’s exhausting.  Every little aspect of life, from going to the bathroom, to putting on your clothes, to brushing your teeth, putting in your contacts, eating your bowl of oatmeal, or trying to sleep becomes much, much more difficult and sometimes impossible. 

We were fortunate that even though we experienced a lot of mixed swell and waves on the bow, we got through it with only some minor mishaps (other than the general discomfort).  Our iPad was shattered when it went flying across the cabin taking a one-off wave broadside.  One of our heavy custom cutting boards tumbled over a 2-inch fiddle and off its secure place on the counter and took a sizable chunk out of the cabin floor (thankfully not a foot).  Andrew and Heidi learned they could levitate as they were trying to sleep in the v-berth up in the bow.  We didn’t move as fast as we expected when going into the swell, but we moved faster than expected when the swell was behind us (top speed 14.4kts!).  Looking back on it, it’s really surprising how much motion you can get used to over a period of days.  When we arrived in St. Martin after a week, I felt remarkably more comfortable and stable on the boat with the movement that had become second nature than I did on land where I was staggering down the sidewalk like a drunken sailor.

In hindsight we should have paid more attention to the various wave forecasts available along side the wind forecasts; however, I don’t think it’s possible to really appreciate what those numbers mean until you’ve gone out and experienced it once.  Now that we’ve done it, we’ve learned the lesson and the next time will see us more mentally and physically prepared to handle the movement, and perhaps some wiser decision making when it comes to routing (and storage of expensive electronics!) as a result.

The Noise

The noise, good lord, the noise.  What’s that thumping?  What’s that grinding?  What’s that knocking?  Is that sound normal?  Is that the sound of something breaking?  I just want some quiet so I can sleep!  Unlike the motion, this is something I don’t think anyone can get used to, but just maybe it could be minimized to tolerable levels with a combination of really careful preparation and plain old experience.  And the best earplugs known to humankind.

Since this was our first time offshore with Matriarch we were expecting some get-to-know-you time where we got used to all the ‘ok’ noises that are normal and expected.  The noise of the wind in the rigging.  The noise of the water rushing by and the waves slapping, sometimes bashing, against the hull.  The sound and vibration of the engine when it’s running.  What I wasn’t expecting was the cacophony of those usual sounds mixed with all the other noises of doors that had just a little bit of movement in the latches, items in lockers and rolled back and forth just enough to create a rattle or knock, the cups and water bottles someone left in the sink that clink and crash against each other, the swim ladder that rattles a little bit, and the list goes on.  By the time we realized how loud, tiring, and anxiety-inducing the constant racket could be when the swell was up and the boat was really rocking (see previous section), it was too late / not practical to do anything about it besides little fixes here and there.  Not a lot of fun.

Before we go passage-making again, I think we’ll spend a lot of time going through the entire boat in an effort to eliminate all the little noises that come from things moving around with each roll of the boat.  That way we’ll hopefully be down to the usual noises of the sea plus anything that we really should pay attention to, versus just all our junk rattling around in the lockers.

Anxiety

I break this topic out into its own section because, separate from the motion and noise and general stress of being responsible for the crew and vessel (you know, otherwise known as our family and our home), we found the combination these factors to build up with wonderful synergy and became surprisingly anxiety-inducing.  Fortunately not to the point where we needed to break out the medical kit and find our “special meds” to manage it, but significant enough that preparation for our next passage will take it into account.

We knew going in that Megan and I handle stress very differently with Megan expressing it outwardly and me internalizing it.  The benefit of Megan’s outward expression is she can clearly articulate what’s bothering her, getting it out in the open so we can deal with it head on.  The downside is when she’s expressing a lot of anxiety it can ratchet up my own unease pretty quickly (my fault, not hers) (Megan’s editing note: this is not a “fault” thing Greg, it just is what it is).  And then I bottle it all up, assessing what’s happening, deciding what’s ok what what’s not, and making plans for how to deal with it, all in my head so when it comes out as a “Ok we need to do ‘x’ and do it right now” it comes as a surprise to everyone else…and not a welcome one because it wasn’t discussed freely. 

I think as the days went by we recognized these things and worked, with some success, on finding a better balance in how we each dealt with the mental aspects of our passage.  Some things we couldn’t fix and just worked around, such as Megan deciding not to sleep in the aft cabin because the noise was too stressful for her to relax back there.  Some things we could fix like identifying a particular sound that was really bothering us both then systematically tracking it down to be sure we knew the cause and solution.  Even just talking with Megan (or more accurately Megan talking with me) about our different management styles helped us both to be more conscientious about each others needs. I expect applying what we learned from the wind, motion, and noise sections above will also dramatically reduce how much stress we feel the next time we’re offshore.  Otherwise there’s always that special section of the med kit…

Having Fun

So are we having fun yet? Maybe surprisingly after re-reading the above, the answer for me was yes.  Not that every single moment was fun, or that I didn’t have time where I thought “I f’ing hate sailing” but fun in the sense that the moments in between the crazy were really good and I don’t think could be replicated elsewhere.  I think anyone who’s done an ocean passage would say it’s not really about fun anyway, rather about having an adventure that relatively few people have, going to a place that relatively few people go (the ocean on a small boat), and, in our case at least, doing it all with the people closest to you.

I’ve read from other sailors that it takes about 3 full days at sea to get into the routine, find your groove, and relax into the experience of being out there which is a really, really, special one.  For me I found it was more like 4.5 days, but I suspect the next time around I’ll be able to get more comfortable, more quickly. Would I plan to do multiple long ocean passages per year just for the thrill of it?  No, that would be crazy in my opinion.  Would I go offshore again given what we know now?  Yes, most definitely and most likely have an even better time than the first go around.