February 14, 2018

    It wasn’t supposed to happen but you could sense the impending timeframe looming in the background.  Many different cruisers had previously warned us against committing the cardinal sin in sailing… scheduling a particular day to be at a particular location.

     Understandable where the philosophy comes from.  There’s so many variables that come into play when traveling by sailboat:  weather and wind (affecting speed and comfort of travel or even if travel is possible), distances between anchorages, tides and currents (which may control passage under bridges or through certain waterways), mechanical difficulties… the list goes on and on.

     In perfect conditions, it’s still a snail’s pace that you are moving at.  Under engine power we average five to seven knots; under sails alone, it’s probably closer to five.   We may settle for three knots if it means not running the engine, but under good sailing angle in a brisk breeze we can make eight knots comfortably.  At ten knots, Exit starts feeling much less in your control; and heeling over past fifteen degrees becomes nerve racking for all but the hardiest of racers (Kris reminds me often that she loves sailing and hates heeling).  On average, not much faster than a brisk walk.

     In some cases, the weather delays or slower speed only set you back a day.  But those days can add up quickly.  And regarding passages like crossing the Gulf Stream between Florida and the Bahamas, we have heard of boaters having to wait one or two weeks for a north wind to subside, making the crossing even safe to attempt.

     And that’s where the time schedule becomes the most problematic.  When decisions are based upon the pressure of a timetable rather than sound judgement, things can go south quickly.  On the other hand, some people never get anywhere based upon a never-ending wait for perfect conditions that never show up.  Balance has to weigh in here… wait until sound judgement says opportunity is knocking and then don’t hesitate; open the damn door.

     We recognized this when we told our lifelong best friends, Shannan and Vicki, to book their airplane tickets to Nassau, Bahamas for March 7.   They were the only people who came all the way to Borneo to visit us while we lived there, and now they would come to visit us on Exit.   We were still well up the East Coast at this time (I believe still in the Chesapeake Bay), but we had three months to get south to Florida and make the jump over to the Bahamas… no problem.

     Now the time had whittled down to three weeks.  Certainly within our grasp but, still, we knew we couldn’t let any more time slip by or we’d be backing ourselves into a corner.

     With the hopes that our fuel issues had finally been definitively put to rest, we decided to make another run for Ft. Lauderdale heading offshore, instead of crawling slowly down the ICW.  We’d make far better time offshore.  Then we could stop for a final pause before jumping across the Gulf Stream somewhere between Ft. Lauderdale and Miami (getting south of Bimini before crossing meant not having to fight the two and a half knot northbound currents).

     The forecasts all said SE winds for the foreseeable future.  Not promising for sailing.  But the weather and seas looked favorable so the decision was unanimous – take the opportunity to press on, motorsail if necessary, and sail whenever possible… plenty of time. 

 

February 8-13, 2018

    It was mutually agreed that this was another one of those times when bringing in an outside expert would be money wisely spent, despite the fact that we seem to have difficulty ever stopping the hemorrhaging flow of outgoing cash.  

     We have been told many times that BOAT is an acronym for Break Out Another Thousand.  While one would be hard pressed to dispute this, it seems to me that just about any home (especially one recently purchased and moved into within the last six months) more often than not qualifies, in similar fashion, as a vacuum cleaner of funds.

     In fact, I would go so far as to hazard a guess that anyone who moves into a home requiring no additional expenditures for a year either isn’t paying attention to their home, or must have spent such a ridiculous amount of money up front that they are – number one: obviously working with a budget that is far outside of even my imagination, and number two: still probably spending ridiculous amounts of money on things their home may not actually need but is getting anyway. 

     But, anyway… I digress.  Where was this going?  Oh ya… money wisely spent on an outside expert.

     Sometimes the outside expert needs to be a big gun: a full blown company complete with impressive name, high training credentials, specialized tools and equipment, and an accounting department to sort through all the money they are billing out for.

     Other times the outside expert needs to be a guy with a tool box who has been turning a wrench for fifty years and simply knows what the hell they are talking about and doing.  He, or she, is the company and they don’t need an accounting department because they don’t charge nearly as much money and spend it all on more tools anyway.

     In this case, it turns out we would require both.

     First we brought in the one man show… a diesel mechanic named Butch.  In his late sixties (I’d guess), Butch had the tool box, 50+ years of diesel engine experience, and definitely knew what the hell he was doing.  He even had an apprentice of sorts with him.  Looking to be twenty-something, the nameless apprentice’s job seemed to be watch, listen, get shit for Butch, and stay silent… he was pretty good.

     Butch poked around for a bit.  We started the Perkins.  Butch listened for a bit.  Then he said I’d done about all I could as far as troubleshooting and on-the-fly repair (I took that as a compliment).  He added another copper washer to the makeshift rubber washer I had put on the lifting pump cap and then recognized that the entire lifting pump mount was loose – definitely a bigger air leak source and one that I had missed.

     He then went on to say he could spend the entire day charging us for work; but, in the end, we would be haunted by this ghost continually until we had our fuel tank cleaned out. 

Butch’s explanation went something like this:

    Dirt is obviously a potential problem in diesel; but water can cause just as much grief.  Water can be removed with the Racor filters our Perkins is equipped with; however, inside the fuel tank that water fosters the growth of algae and bacteria which then collects at the bottom of the tank as sediment.  The sediment is made up of live and dead organisms as well as their waste.  Especially, in rough seas, the sediment gets stirred up potentially clogging filters or blocking fuel lines.  This becomes a bigger problem as the tank is less full and the concentration increases.  A fuel tank only partially filled also allows more condensation to happen inside the tank which propagates the growth further.  Diesel additives only partially solve the problem as they don’t actually remove the material already built up; physically removing the particles from the tank is the only way to get ahead of the issue.  Keeping the tank full helps slow the growth process as well.

     Exit had been sitting on the hard with less than half tank of fuel for over a year.  Plus, her aluminum fuel tanks are already more susceptible to condensation.  Both times we experienced engine problems were in rough seas where the tank would have certainly been stirred up.  The concentration of sediment in the bottom of the Racor and the speed at which the replacement filter had already begun to discolor all seemed to fall exactly in line with what Butch was describing.  Furthermore, he said the fuel starvation would have become much more problematic as the engine was put under a load, which was probably why we were able to limp in just over idle speed but couldn’t run at 2000rpm.

     So, viola!  It seemed by cleaning out all the built-up crap inside the fuel tank we had our solution.  Only Butch said we’d want to bring in the big guns for that.  With an integrated aluminum tank, we couldn’t remove it for cleaning which left two options: either pump out and dispose of one hundred gallons of diesel followed by getting inside the tank and scrubbing it out (a messy and arduous nightmarish task by all stretches of the imagination) or hire someone with equipment capable of doing it all in place (less cheap but also less mess).

     After explaining to me how to go about completely tearing apart, cleaning, and reassembling the Racor filter housing (which, with a smile, he said I would be learning how to do today) he tightened the lifting pump, recommended we keep the diesel tank topped up and change fuel filters more often as preventative maintenance, charged us a couple hundred dollars and went on his way.

     Progress anyway…

     A few phone calls later we learned that the only big gun with equipment capable of cleaning our two hundred gallon fuel tank, Universal Fuel Systems (at least it had the impressive name), was based a couple of hours away in Tampa.  However, we also learned that they just happened to already be at our very marina and could stop by  later.

     When Stacy, the UFS guy, arrived, he explained that their equipment allowed them to draw the fuel out of our tank at high pressure, send it through two high capacity filters, then return the clean fuel to the tank.  All the while, the tube drawing out the fuel is being stirred around the bottom of the tank by the tech, helping to churn things up and suck the sediment from the bottom.  

     The up-side was, since he was already at the marina, he could wave the travel charge and only charge us $400 instead of the usual $750… sweet.  

     The down-side was, with the way Exit was positioned and the layout of the dock, we were just short of the hose length needed to get between the fuel tank on the boat and the equipment on the dock.  Despite trying, we just couldn’t get Exit in close enough to the dock to make the stretch feasible.  Furthermore, choppy water and fifteen to twenty knot winds prevented us from moving to a better spot (especially with an engine we couldn’t rely on) at that time… shit.

     Unwilling to attempt moving the boat based upon current conditions, or risk a high volume fuel mishap from heavy equipment on the dock being dragged around by a boat in choppy water, we had to forego an immediate fix that day.  

     What really sucked, not only was the job now going to cost us $750, but we would have to wait a week to get back on their schedule… arrrrgh!

     Fortunately, the way the marina rates were structured, the weekly rate for a slip was the same as three single days.  After three, we got four free; so we really didn’t pay any more for the marina slip during the wait.

     One of the nights, a five million dollar yacht tied up on the T-dock right next to us.  They stayed for only about five hours, apparently just long enough for the crew to give the boat a good freshwater cleaning and the captain to get thoroughly trashed during an extended happy hour.  Then they untied and motored away into the night… oh, Florida.

 

     The real silver lining of the whole situation came with the realization that, during our entire week’s stay at the marina slip, not once did we have to plug into shore power, run the engine, or start the generator to keep our batteries charged.  The solar panels delivered one hundred percent of what we needed.  In fact, during the first two weeks of running our new solar system, we had generated nearly 20,000 watt-hours of power – the equivalent battery charging of about 60 hours of generator run time.  With every day that passes, we become more and more vehemently certain that going solar was the best investment we’ve made regarding increased self-sufficiency and getting off the grid.

     With the better part of a week to work with, we managed to get a substantial amount of stuff accomplished while tied in the slip.  I became exceptionally familiar with the Perkins fuel system; by the end of the week primary, backup, secondary and generator fuel filters had all been disassembled and reassembled a multitude of times.  There was time to catch up on other general engine maintenance as well, like oil and belt changes.

     During that time, Kris broke out a duffle bag which held sail repair materials and absolutely went to town – she repaired our genoa sail right out on the deck (some of the stitching needed serious attention), as well as made fender covers from the legs of cheap XXXL sweat pants we had acquired at a Walmart earlier.  Pretty damn creative… and probably a hundred or couple hundred bucks cheaper… ka-ching!

Plus another sixty five foot vertical trip for mast top maintenance.

     By the end of the week, we were chomping at the bit to get moving again. We had only been off the boat one day on an Uber run into town for a few provisions, some knickknacks, and definitely more spare filters.  The day Universal Fuel Systems returned, the sky was clear with no wind, and we eased Exit over to the fuel dock without any difficulty.  Stacy and his assistant Mike hooked up their high pressure filter system and got to work.

     No doubt, there was stuff coming out.  At least two, big, softball-sized dark masses of muck passed through the opaque rubber hose into the filter system.  Smaller bits and chunks could be seen as well.

     Eventually, the fuel tank was sealed back up and the algae exorcism was deemed complete.  At $750.00, it was no drop in the bucket.  However, just replacing the diesel in the tank would have cost us at least half that.  And, in the end, if it means the trusty Perkins can function in rough seas without being choked by algae, then that’s money well spent.

February 7, 2018

    When it comes to offshore passages, we don’t have much to compare with.  The planned passage from St. Marys Inlet to Ft. Lauderdale, FL would only be our third.  

     Once again, it seemed a bit ambitious but very doable.  At 300 nautical miles and an anticipated 2 days 10 hours to complete, this would be equal to our previous two (and only) offshore passages combined.  But our approach from the start has been to approach things conservatively and keep trying to push ourselves further and further as we gained experience and a bit higher comfort level.

     Having finally completed our solar installation project, we had already gotten off the dock at St. Marys Boat Services and worked our way back towards the mouth of the inlet so we wouldn’t have to wait on tides and currents on the day of our departure, anchoring just off Cumberland Island.  With two nights waiting on favorable wind and weather, we had the opportunity to do some sightseeing ashore Cumberland Island during one of the days.

     Once owned by the ultra wealthy Carnegie family, Cumberland Island is now a protected park.  Driving privileges are maintained only by locals who were named specifically in an agreement when the private island transitioned into park status (on occasion, these permits have to be reapplied for).  Residents of the island are comprised not only of people, but apparently there is also a population of wild horses.

      The area of the island at which we came ashore is a campground accessed by ferry service.  We discretely used the dock to tie off our dinghy, hoping we would not be approached by a park ranger after realizing we had not brought any money with us to cover the $7.00 entrance fee designated on a payment box.

     We spent only a couple of hours on the island but had a great time wandering down a trail that cut through an amazing forest of (I believe) Oak and Cyprus trees which surrounded us, incredibly bent and gnarled in every direction with strange and eerie gray mossy foliage hanging from the branches.  The trail lead us to a beach on the opposite side of the island which faced out looking upon the vast Atlantic Ocean… our destination in less than 48 hours which now seemed to beckon to us.  Various groups of sea birds, including our now favorite pterodactyl-like pelicans we have grown so fond of seeing, scattered across the surf and beach hunting for food.

     While we could have easily spent additional time at the beach or wandering further to see the Carnegie Mansion ruins, both the chill in the air and the final preparations we needed to make aboard Exit pressed us back to our floating home with some of the afternoon still left to accomplish things.

     We awoke at 6:00am on the 5th, eager to get underway.  The forecast was promising with clear skies and 15-20 knot winds expected from the north.

     By 7:55am, our anchor was secured on deck and we were motoring for St. Marys Inlet against a two knot current.  The skies were clear and a gentle five knot SW breeze seemed to bode well for the day, though the wind direction was not at all as expected and would turn out to be a preview of erratic wind shifts during the entire passage.  A half hour later, a lone dolphin passing by in the opposite direction was interpreted as a good omen.  Though we were still motoring, we had cleared the inlet and raised the mainsail by 10:30am. 

     At 2:00pm, we had just passed Jacksonville, FL when the shifting winds, now east-northeast at eight knots, finally allowed us to unfurl the genoa sail and shut down the engine.  The difference between having a diesel engine running continuously at 2000rpm and the utter silence of moving under only power of sails is indescribable.  When you need the engine, it’s sure nice to have; but we’ll take sails only any day if given the choice.

     The log entry at 4:20pm reads, “Rush’s 2112 playing in the cockpit.  Not hot, but not cold either… life is good!”   I am momentarily distracted by the memory of a similar 2112 moment aboard the Thailand Express train outside Bangkok nearly ten years ago.

     With not another soul to be seen in any direction, the stunning sunset thirteen miles offshore was ours to enjoy alone.

     That night, as the wind started dying, it began to clock around to the south, making our sailing angle more and more difficult to maintain, especially with a knot of current pushing against us.  Just after midnight, we were finally forced to start up the engine when we could no longer maintain even one knot of forward momentum.

    Throughout the night we saw almost no other traffic, except for a few dim glows far off on the horizon.

     In many way, though they seem very intimidating, night passages are easier as long as the weather makes for comfortable times in the cockpit.  The ambient light from the stars, and especially a good moon, is more than adequate to sail under.  Furthermore, navigational markers are often easier to spot once they are lit up, as are ships whose direction can be more easily deduced by their red/green navigation lights.

     As the first traces of sunrise began to creep over the horizon, Kris was able to shut down the engine and enjoy a brief stint of using sails only; but the breeze tapered off within a few hours, once again forcing us to fire up the Perkins.

     Though our luck with wind was not holding very well, our luck with rockets attained a Las Vegas Jackpot level.

     I had seen an update on Kris’ phone last night about a rocket launch scheduled to occur on February 6th.  Kris did a bit more research and informed me when I woke up that, indeed, there was going to be a rocket launch that day.  We were ecstatic.  And this was not just any run of the mill rocket launch… it was the launch of SpaceX!  

     We gave up on trying to calculate the odds of us unwittingly passing by the actual launch pad at Cape Canaveral within hours of the scheduled SpaceX launch aboard a sailboat that allowed us a better vantage point than anyone else outside the immediate launch area… we settled on less than 2:6,000,000,000 as we appeared to be the only two people on the planet at that location at that moment.

     There was a restricted security area clearly designated on the chart that encompassed the launch area stretching to about three miles offshore which we tracked south alongside of, making sure to stay well on the outside of the line.  However, there was also a less obvious criss-crossing pair of lines that extended fifty miles offshore which were more ambiguous to interpret. 

     It was the US Coast Guard who, just after noon, hailed us on the VHF radio and politely informed us that we were about to enter a Booster Rocket Recovery Area which was restricted to all traffic until the launch, scheduled in about three hours, had been completed and the two booster rockets had been recovered.  We were instructed to turn around and fall back about a mile to the north where we could await a confirmation announcement on VHF that it was safe to proceed.

     It goes without saying that we turned around.

     The ridiculous notion of submitting an insurance claim regarding a collision with a booster rocket…

     … or the idea of potentially experiencing our fifteen minutes in the spotlight by appearing on a CNN video with a headline caption scrolling across the screen “Rogue Sailboat Forces Scrub of Long-Awaited SpaceX Launch”…

     … neither one particularly appealed to us.

     After retreating back beyond the rather innocuous and bland looking yellow buoy (apparently a supreme marker which NASA uses to indicate you are clear of the risk area for being hit by rockets), we sailed in circles for about three hours, eagerly anticipating the scheduled launch time of 3:45pm.

     Eventually, our prime private viewing position we had stumbled upon was invaded by a small fishing boat and big power yacht, who also stopped behind the line of danger to witness the event.  Still, we had a lot of water all around us and plenty of space in every direction.

     At precisely 3:45, we watched as a massive plume of smoke begin to emerge from the base of the launch pad.  Billowing both out and upwards, it quickly engulfed the entire launch tower.  Moments later, the unmistakeable shape of SpaceX, only a bright white cylinder from our vantage point, lifted clear of the apex of the exhaust cloud.  As the rocket climbed higher and higher, it emitted an impressive trail of orange flame which tapered off far behind it.  

     We certainly didn’t expect the massive sonic boom that followed shortly thereafter.

     We also didn’t realize that the booster rockets which had been fired were designed to automatically return to designated landing pads after separating from the main rocket.  After SpaceX had disappeared from view and we thought the show was over, suddenly two bright orange flares appeared in the sky.  We watched in amazement as the two booster rockets, now firing a second time, descended slowly in unison making what appeared to be a completely controlled landing back to Earth.

     We were less surprised by the second set of sonic booms.

     Afterwards, it seemed pretty remarkable to have had the opportunity to witness what may very well have been the birth of a whole new generation of space travel and exploration.  Our timing, though completely random, could not have been more perfect in the end.

     By 4:00pm, Exit was back underway motorsailing with SE winds of only six knots, which really didn’t matter since we we basically headed into the wind.  At least the seas were gentle with only one to two feet of rolling swell.

    It took us about eight hours to get past the Port Canaveral inlet channel, and we reached the point of Cape Canaveral itself just before midnight.  

    We wanted to hug the point as much as possible, trying to avoid any opposing current from the Gulf Stream which was growing closer and closer to shore as we headed south.  At the same time, the point had a number of very shallow shoals and rocky areas we had to stay well clear of. 

    With SE winds building quickly to 13 knots, three to five foot confused seas, one knot of current against us, and a shitload of lights from fishing boats all around the point (which could be quite difficult to interpret direction, speed, and intent in the dark), getting around the point was quite a messy affair.

     By 12:30am, we were clear of the point and all the fishing boats and had returned to our plotted course.  During the next few hours, things remained uneventful despite the weather continuing to build.  The wind angle continued to force us to run the engine, though we kept the main sail up to try to eek out an extra knot or two whenever possible.

     Then, at about 3:20am, my stomach knotted up as I clearly heard the Perkins engine began to hesitate.  For about five seconds, the engine rpms dropped from 2200 to 1600.  With an audible groan, I tried to wish the engine to fight through it… which seemed to help as the old girl picked back up to regular speed and continued on as though she had merely experienced a moment of diesel indigestion.  I made a note in the log book to change filters in the morning, or if Kris experienced the problem again, before that.  My watch was going to be over at 4:00am and I was looking forward to sleeping.

     However, at 3:45, all prospect of sleep went overboard when the engine again began hesitating.  As the engine speed continued dropping, it became obvious that the Perkins was about to stall anyway, so I shut it down.

     With 15 knot winds and five to eight foot seas in front of us, there was no way to maintain any speed.  Without any speed, we would lose steering.  I called down to Kris that I needed her in the cockpit asap while manually steering the boat, trying to change our angle so we could build back enough speed to control the boat while, at the same time, minimizing the waves from hitting us broadside as much as possible.

     When Kris came up on deck, it became clear that the only options to maintain maneuverability were to point us directly offshore (deep water, safe but headed straight into the waves) or directly at the coast (limited time till land became a problem, but much less pitching about in the waves).  We opted to head towards shore, giving me a couple of hours to try to sort out the engine before we grew uncomfortably close to hard things.

     It seemed obvious to be a fuel starvation issue, same as we had experienced in August heading for Norfolk overnight.  Same conditions too – rough seas had probably stirred up stuff in the fuel tank, clogging the fuel filters.  

     Exit has a backup Racor fuel filter system; but, when switched over, the engine wouldn’t start at all.  Either I was misinterpreting how the valves needed to be oriented or the problem was affecting both systems.

     So I commenced with the process of switching out the primary filter, hoping we could at least regain temporary engine power until morning light would make for easier troubleshooting and work.  While changing the filter out, which was a foreboding dark gray color, I noticed lots of sediment in the bottom of the Racor fuel bowl.  After changing the filter and bleeding the system, I turned the key.  Thankfully, the engine started up straight away and seemed all good.

     Thirty minutes later, as I was thinking I might be able to go below and get a few hours sleep, the Perkins started hesitating.  The rpms began dropping, and the engine died again… shit!

     Back to the drawing board.  With the fuel filter as dirty as it was, I anticipated similar problems could be occurring at the secondary filter (on the engine) and/or the fuel lifting pump screen.  This meant digging in even deeper.

     Finally, around 6:30am the engine fired back up to life… and thirty minutes later it promptly died again (just as I was again headed for my pillow)… fuck!  This was becoming a drag!

     After another hour of trying various approaches, it seemed apparent that the Perkins was not in good health and this would not be an easy fix.  Kris had been manually steering us for four hours by this point.

     We agreed that battling against the wind and waves for another forty miles to reach the first safely navigable inlet to the south was not a very feasible option (it would be nearly twice that zig-zagging back and forth to maintain an angle of sail).  

     Port Canaveral was some twenty-five miles behind us – not the right direction, but a hell of a lot more appetizing.  We could comfortably sail a nearly straight line to the channel, and the waves would then be following us, making for much easier going.  So, by 8:30am, we were sailing back towards Cape Canaveral.

     I spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon trying to sort out the Perkins, but achieved only limited success.  After endless bouts of trial and error, all I could conclude was that our fuel tank (still nearly half full but now at the lowest level it had been in months) must be full of crap that was chronically clogging the filters and lines and we had an air leak in the fuel system that repeated bleeding did not seem to be helping.  

     The source of the air leak seemed to be the cover cap of the lifting pump.  Air was getting past the screw holding the cap down, and trying to fabricate a replacement rubber washer on the spot did not fully stop the leak.

     By 3:00pm Kris was circling just outside the entrance of the Port Canaveral inlet channel, awaiting a final verdict on the engine.  We had already made a call to TowBoatUS, just in case we didn’t have engine power to get us into a marina.  However, it struck us as odd when they indicated they had no “Notified, On Standby” mode.  Either we needed the tow or we didn’t.  We had also been on the phone with our old St. Marys friend Tom, who gave us great advice both on the engine and the entrance to Port Canaveral.

     By 3:30 we committed to an unassisted approach from a couple of miles out.  The engine was barely holding on – as long as we kept the rpms no higher than 1500 (just above idle), and I poured a tablespoon or so of diesel into the well of the lifting pump cap every few minutes to keep it from sucking in air, it seemed the Perkins would be able to make it in.

     We timed our approach to minimize any surrounding traffic as best possible, dropped the mainsail about halfway down the channel, and slowly limped into the harbor with very mild conditions. 

     Finally, around 5:00pm, we arrived at the Port Canaveral Marina.  It had been thirteen hours since the engine had conked out and more than fifty-three hours and 231 nautical miles since we had left St. Marys, GA.

     We both nearly fell asleep in our beers and a very mediocre dinner at Fish Lips; but, what the hell?  We were safely tied up for the night and would finally get a good night’s sleep… the Perkins could now wait till morning.  We had been hit with another challenge and successfully waded our way through it… hopefully, McGyver would have been proud!

 

February 4, 2018

    As always, things have taken longer than we had originally anticipated.  Once every task we undertake aboard Exit is approached by multiplying a time factor of five into the equation, we should start staying right on schedule.

     Fortunately, we had Tom Chalkley at the helm for our latest project… installing a solar panel array, which was no simple task.  

     A number of design evolutions along the way, inevitable logistical challenges that cropped up, and certainly my propensity to want to hide all wiring involved (sorry Tom!), resulted in a much longer process than any of us had initially anticipated.  

     At times, it seemed that we had half the contents aboard Exit either stacked inside the cockpit or piled about belowdecks.  

     Nonetheless, Tom’s vast knowledge and experience, aluminum fabrication and electrical capabilities, as well as meticulous attention to detail, resulted in what we feel is a perfect integration of a rather immense system into the existing lines and structure of the boat.  Plus, he’s just a really fucking cool guy!  

     All this, combined with the ambitious vision shared by the three of us, turned a potentially painful, frustrating and less than satisfying situation into a sincerely fun project that, in the end, far exceeded our expectations.  Furthermore, despite the delays, Tom held fast and true to his original estimates, keeping the overall costs within the scope of a digestible budget for two vagabond gypsy cruisers.  

     By the end of the project, we had gained not only the ability to keep our battery banks fully charged using the sun instead of fossil fuel, but we felt we had truly gained a new friend.

     With four stationary 180 watt solar panels fixed atop a solid aluminum frame mounted to the existing stern arch and a 100 watt panel attached to the aft rail on either side (which swing up horizontally when in use and can be dropped down flush against the vertical railing), we now have a total of 920 watts of solar capability.  Conscientious awareness of our electrical consumption should provide us nearly, if not complete, independence from having to rely on the engine or generator to charge our batteries now.  

     In addition, five independent solar controller modules equipped with Bluetooth allow us to both monitor and compare individual panel performance as well as follow the daily power generated by the system.

     As an added bonus, we had Tom fabricate an aluminum gutter that’s attached to the back of the solar panel frame which we can route to the fresh water tanks via a hose that can be easily attached and detached.  This means the panels not only generate power but also serve as a rain catch.  A filter canister to strain the water through and cheap digital water meter hooked up in-line (allowing us to monitor how much water is being collected) round out the system.  

     We already are convinced that adding solar capabilities to Exit has been the most cost effective and best investment we have undertaken since purchasing the sailboat.  Exactly how much power can be generated remains to be seen, but we are ecstatic about the overall results.  

     Furthermore, we believe that the system will most likely pay for itself by the year’s end in reduced diesel consumption and wear and tear on the generator and batteries.  Monitoring the performance of the solar array will be a pleasure as we have drinks in the cockpit using ice generated by the sun… nice work Tom!

January 4-25, 2018

    As it turns out, in addition to learning more and more about sailing every day, we are enrolled in a full-time and never-ending curriculum of diesel mechanic, electrician and plumbing training courses aboard Exit.

     Obviously, the more we can do ourselves, the more confident we become in our own abilities to deal with whatever may arise (typically at less than opportune moments), not to mention the amount of money we save if we don’t have to pay someone else to come aboard and sort things out for us.

     However, with that comes the responsibility to recognize and acknowledge when something is far deeper in scope than we have any business delving.

     If something is already broken, the risk of digging into it to see if we can sort it out becomes much less concerning.  If it works, the last thing we want to do is break it.  If it doesn’t work, we still have to be careful that we don’t make things worse, resulting in even more expenses than we were facing before.

     As was the case with our refrigeration upgrade in Annapolis, sometimes the best we can do is to research the shit out of something, trying to educate ourselves as to how things work as well as learn what equipment and technological options exist.  Then, after multiple conversations, turn things over to a qualified expert that we trust (usually based upon someone’s recommendation) who can actually see things through to fruition.  

     In these situations, the key is to ask lots of questions and, as much as is possible, help along the way (or at least watch closely) so we better understand the system and are far more likely to be able to do maintenance and/or troubleshooting ourselves, when needed.  

     We are learning quickly that, while technology can be learned, equipment installed, and systems understood, there are always going to be variables, unknowns and unforeseen challenges that will crop up.  Sometimes experience is the best, or even only, tool that will get the job done right.  This can be especially true when modifying, “upgrading”, or changing entire systems out.  

     Our entire motivation for reaching St. Marys was to hook up with an electrical engineer, named Tom Chalkley, who we were going to work with to equip Exit with solar power.

     The vast majority of boat owners either rely on plugging into shore power at the end of the day or use an onboard generator to recharge their battery banks.  We didn’t want to be slaves to either.  Solar was imperative for us as live aboard cruisers.  We wouldn’t be at marinas to plug in, and running our main engine, or the $10,000 genset, for a few hours every day solely to charge batteries was an expensive prospect when you calculated the cost of diesel, maintenance, and wear and tear.  Solar panels could give us the ability to keep our batteries charged all the time without ever starting up the engine or genset.

     Ultimately, our goal for solar self-sufficiency was both environmentally and economically based.  

     We are reminded of the economic incentive every time we fill up our 200 gallon diesel tank.  Diesel isn’t cheap and we have to burn diesel to run the engine or genset. 

     Environmentally, the goal is to get off the grid as much as possible… reduce our overall footprint incrementally regarding both consumption as well as waste. 

     From the standpoint of practicality, we learned an important lesson about our need for solar charging during our first offshore passage.  Though we had  experienced the luxury of being able to sail without needing the engine for twenty two hours, sixteen hours into that we found our electronics (especially important things like the radar and chart plotter) starting to cut out.  Our battery banks had depleted to the point we had to fire up the generator while underway to recharge the batteries.  Hopefully, the solar panels would alleviate just such a problem. 

     Tom had worked things out with Rocky, the owner of St. Marys Boat Services (both a boat yard and a virtual community of dozens of sailors on the hard working and living on their boats), to allow us to tie up to their dock while Tom did the work.

      Rocky was quite the enigmatic character.  While always incredibly hard working and polite enough, it was two weeks before Kris finally coaxed a smile from him.  Make no mistake though; his hospitality in allowing us to stay at his dock, even after the two to three day project had extended beyond two weeks, went above and beyond.  Reluctantly, he took less money than we would have paid for one week on a mooring ball anywhere else.

 

     I’m pretty sure the boat yard will retain the title of “most unique dock space we have ever used” for quite some time.

     It was one of the last yards to haul out at and do extensive refits that actually let boat owners do their own work.  It was amazing how essentially a small community of sailors, living on their boats on the hard while they did various repairs, had emerged here.

     Some, like us, were “short term” residents, counting our stay in days or weeks (we were one of the few boats that wasn’t hauled out).

    Others were either working on intended long-term projects, or had fallen prey to the spiraling trap of a re-fit black hole, never seeming to launch due to an always growing list of things that needed doing.  The lucky ones were still counting in months; one very nice couple we befriended had been working on their catamaran four years.

     Nestled behind a tiny grass covered island less than 200 feet by 50 feet in size, the boat yard dock was accessible only at high tide via a very narrow channel that approached the dock from about five hundred feet out and had to be followed for about one thousand feet when departing.  During low tide, exposed mud on either side of the island increased the size of the island by nearly three-fold and restricted the channel to dinghy use only.

     The main dock was only about fifty feet long, so Exit pretty much took up the entire length of it.  

     Fortunately, it was a floating dock which raised and lowered with the tide changes, some ranging as much as eight feet.  This made it much easier considering our lines were tied to the dock cleats, and otherwise would have needed to be adjusted constantly.

     Unfortunately, the dock had less than five feet of water under it.  This meant that twice a day, at low tide, the floating dock stopped floating and merely rested at a tilted angle on the mud.  Tied alongside, Exit likewise followed suit, twice a day listing slightly to port as she rested awkwardly on the mud.  At times, there couldn’t have been more than a foot of water under our starboard side (facing the dock), and we were actually able to see our through-hulls, which should have been under the waterline.  

     One sailboat (still floating but totaled by Hurricane Irma), tied to a dock directly astern of us, stood strangely upright, even as the water disappeared at each low tide, leaving only mud underneath it.  It should have been listing over at almost a forty-five degree angle, except for the fact that it’s keel was embedded firmly in three or four feet of mud.

    Nearly six months ago, we had spent weeks on the hard in Deale, MD before launching Exit; subsequently, we had spent weeks at anchor working our way south; now we would spend weeks “on the soft” in St. Marys! 

     Despite its’ quirkiness, we came to feel quite welcome as the new kids on the block at St. Marys Boatyard Community.  The fact was, we were just just a couple of additional odd-ball cruisers who seem to fit right in.

     We had heard rave reviews and only the highest of praise regarding Tom Chalkley’s work.  As an electrical engineer who had worked for the power company, his electrician credentials were solid.  He had done numerous solar installs on yachts already, owned a sailboat himself, and could do all the aluminum frame design and fabrication that would be required.  His work was meticulous and well designed; and, as we learned, he was incredibly laid back and easy to get along with.  Talking to people in the boatyard, if we mentioned that Tom was doing the solar work for us, we always got the response, “Good choice.”

     With solar collection, one of the biggest concerns is that of potential shading.  Any shadow across a solar panel, even only a small portion of it, can render the panel almost completely ineffective.  This makes it essential to place the panels away from things like the the mast, which can cast a very large, hard shadow.

    Our bimini has plenty of space on top, but we wanted to retain the ability to remove the cover once we reached more tropical climates, as well as maintain a line of sight from the helm to the sails and top of the mast.  This required us to  allow the solar panels no further forward than the backstays.

     The massive aluminum stern arch was an absolutely perfect structural support for a solar panel frame.  However, the radar, five antennas, stern navigation and transom deck lights, all attached to a vertical strut assembly mounted at the center of the arch, concerned us in regards to the potential shadows they would most likely cast.  Yet, options to redesign the mounting strut, shorten it, or change its’ angle all seemed to create additional logistical complications, marginal gains, or aesthetic issues above and beyond the overall nightmares that would inevitably accompany any relocation process.

    After much discussion revolving around equipment options, energy needs and conservation, space constraints, budget limitations, and design considerations, we came up with a plan that would net us 920 watts of solar panels (four 180 watt panels plus two 100 watt panels) –  plenty to keep our batteries fully charged if we showed some energy-use restraint.

     In the end, simplicity won out over grandiose re-design…

     …no modifications to the existing structures and minimal additional holes; four fixed panels mounted on a sturdy aluminum frame above the bimini, between the stern arch and the backstays, integrating smoothly into the existing boat lines; and two additional smaller fold-out panels mounted to the aft railings to make up for any potential shadows cast by the radar.

     …minimal intrusion and maximum wattage of panels that can be fit in.

     As is often the case, the design phase took longer than expected.  Tom’s keen attention to detail and desire to fabricate not just a generic, utilitarian mounting frame, but rather a custom-designed as well as aesthetically pleasing frame engineered specifically for Exit’s layout, meant that a lot of ideas and options bounced back and forth.  We appreciated this, as it allowed us to fine tune many details before committing to something that would be hard, if not impossible, to change or modify at a later stage.

     It also meant pulling off panels we had never been behind in order to determine wiring routes, and eventually run the wiring, from the access points on top of the arch to the battery switch locker belowdecks in the salon.

     Once the design was essentially finalized, and the cockpit and aft berths were chock full of gear from the aft deck and interior lockers we needed access to, Tom set to work on the aluminum fabrication.

     After numerous reassessments, rough assemblies, and final fittings, the actual structure of our new charging system began to take form on Exit, piece by piece.  Slowly, our solar vision began to physically materialize.

January 3, 2018 

    I’ve always hated Florida.  I know I’ve already said this.  I still do.

     I understand that, to a certain degree, this is probably unfair and unfounded.  There are many very friendly and helpful individuals in Florida I will, at some point in the future, probably need to reach out to hoping they have not read this.

     It just seems to me that, when it comes to the never-ending onslaught of wtf news, bullshit behavior, and uncovered revelations of people being bad human beings we are constantly bombarded with, Florida is disproportionately represented in the headlines.  This can be political, financial, environmental, social, religious… you name it.  

     Either you are laughing right now and saying, “you too?”, or you are rolling your eyes saying, “what’s your deal?”

     Florida is polarizing… definitely not for the non-committers.

     Anyway… my internally calibrated negative polarity against Florida has me eternally scanning the radar for anything I can blame on Florida to reinforce my otherwise potentially baseless and unwarranted hostility.

    So, when we ran aground in the mud less than one hundred feet inside of the Florida state line (after arriving at St. Marys), it appeared that we had already awoken the dragon.

     Shortly after that, we received notification that a gale warning had just been issued for the following couple of days.  Florida was so falling into my stereotype.

    When the generator died the following morning I directed a number of additional colorful expletives at Florida and made mental notes.  Fortunately, an exploded impeller was all that was at fault… something I was becoming well familiar with.

     However, by the time it was up and running again, we decided against picking up the hook and trying to relocate strategically for the threatening storm.  Though it meant we wouldn’t escape the clutches of Florida immediately (!), we felt the best course was to, once again, trust our anchor set and sit tight for a couple of days.  We prepped the boat for the storm and hunkered down below.  Already, the wind was biting and the rain was constant.

     The rather exposed location was not ideal, and for days we got buffeted around much more than we had in the past.  Five knot tidal currents moving in the opposite direction of twenty-five knot winds understandably confused the shit out of Exit; she bounced, shifted, swayed, hunted, drifted, swung, and pulled – the schizophrenic behavior of someone under the absolute influence of two nearly equal opposing forces… but the one thing she never did was drag (bless her cotton socks, as Simon Lloyd, one of our Scuba Junkie family, would say).

     For four days we waited out the weather.  During that time, the National Weather Service kept issuing alert after alert. The list of shit thrown at us after we entered Florida became a bit comical:  GALE WARNING;  COASTAL FLOOD WARNING;  WINTER STORM WARNING;  RIPTIDE WARNING;  FREEZING WARNING;  WIND CHILL ADVISORY WARNING;  HARD FREEZE WARNING;  “BOMB CYCLONE” WARNING (the genesis of a new National Weather Service term that was unveiled for our Florida visit)… all this? …in Florida? …really?

     To be fair, the entire East Coast was being pummeled by ridiculously extreme cold weather.  We heard a report that the  Chesapeake Bay had been closed at Norfolk to all incoming and outgoing boat traffic due to buildup of ice on the water, as much as five inches thick in places!  

     But I have nothing against the Chesapeake Bay so I’m gonna let that slide as global warming… Florida, you don’t get off so easy.

December 31, 2017

    Midnight… just one of twenty four hours that pass every day.

     Except for the fact that midnight is the fleeting moment when yesterday, today, and tomorrow merge into one.  Today becomes yesterday while, simultaneously, it becomes tomorrow.

     Midnight… December 31… really no different than three hundred sixty four others that pass every year.

     Except for the fact that it is the fleeting moment when last year, this year, and next year merge into one.  This year becomes last year while, simultaneously, it becomes next year.

     Both a little bit of Twilight Zone mixed with a little bit of pixie dust… no better makings for an epic party.  New Years Eve contemplation and soul-searching seems to be as much about reflecting back as it is about looking forward.

     One year ago Kris and I were on a tiny island in Borneo, Malaysia.  The same island we had spent most of the last eight years on.  

     From the standpoint of managers, we were at the end of our rope.  

     In the end, I suppose, whether the task was more than two people were capable of doing or whether we bit off more than we could chew personally, is not really relevant.  As managers for Scuba Junkie’s Mabul Beach Resort, we put forth the same 150% effort we had demonstrated since arriving in 2009.  Our tanks were empty and we simply had nothing left to give.

     From the standpoint of being Scuba Junkies for life, we could never have hoped for more.  

     The invitation extended to us by owners, Ric and Tino, to work as dive instructors at one of the most diverse and amazing locations in the world, was truly the catalyst in building our confidence that we could actually make a living internationally in the dive industry.

     Though we were mentally frayed by the end of 2016, the experience we amassed as divers, instructors, residents, and eventually even as mangers in such a remote location was priceless.  In addition, we had gained an international network of friends and Scuba Junkie family we could now reach out to, regardless of where in the world we found ourselves. 

     The mutual decision to up the ante one step further and buy a sailboat rejuvenated our sense of exploration and adventure, strengthened our resolve, and re-energized our ambitions.   

     Though we had already been studying her online for a year in Borneo (after Swiftsure Yachts first posted the listing), Exit seemed just outside of our grasp, both financially and timing-wise.  Kris and I had watched many other boats listed and sold during that time; we fully realized the chances of Exit still being on the market when we were ready were slim to none.  And then, as if in a seemingly perfect convergence of circumstances, good fortune, and tenacious ambition, we acquired Exit within only about three months of returning to the States.

     Suddenly, we again found ourselves in unchartered territory with a steep learning curve… loving every minute of it!  The support of our friends and family make the adventure even more rewarding.

     2017 has been an incredible and amazing year… unforgettable experiences coupled with an unbelievable list of firsts for us.  Yet, we have only scratched the surface; only sailed part of a single coastline on a planet two-thirds covered by water.

     Since climbing aboard her in July, we have always known that Exit would take care of us… she can certainly handle more than we can.  But, with every passing day, we learn more.  

     Shallow draft and deep commitment… we wouldn’t have it any other way.

December 30, 2017

    The Atlantic Ocean… still awesome, still relentless, still unforgiving.  Our first offshore passage (technically possibly more of a coastal passage) had taken us a maximum of twenty miles offshore.  We certainly felt a sense of accomplishment; we had been tested in many ways.   Yet we recognized these tests had actually been quite restrained in their scope.  We still respected Poseidon enough to feel fear during the drama of lowering our mainsail.  

     A second offshore passage, just days after our first, hopefully was more a testimony to our enthusiasm than overzealous ambition.  From Charleston, SC we hoped to get all the way to St. Marys, GA, just over 150 nautical miles away.

     The timing on this voyage would be much more hit and miss regarding how far we could get.  Although we expected not to be more than twenty five nautical miles offshore, we anticipated both wind and waves would be facing us much more than following us this time, so we weren’t so confident in our ability to make good time.  If progress was too slow, we needed a bailout inlet to fall back upon so we could avoid arriving at St. Marys after dark.  

     We regretted not having our staysail sorted out on our last passage.  Months before, we had set it up once, but never had actually sailed with it.  

     Last time, we had the benefit of tailwinds, which allowed us to get away with using the genoa sail in winds that, probably, were too strong for that amount of sail.  This time, the wind would be in front of us, so having the smaller staysail available could prove invaluable.  Better to furl the genoa and utilize the staysail in heavier winds than lose momentum having to sail under mainsail alone, or heel over excessively and get an extra pounding because we left the genoa up too long.  We made sure to rig the inner forestay and running backstays, as well as set up the staysail on deck in preparation.

     We got up before sunrise so that we would be ready to start pulling up anchor as soon as it was light enough.  As the sun began to peak over the horizon, we motored slowly away from the graveyard of sailboats we had anchored next to and headed for the Charleston Inlet… and, once again, the Atlantic Ocean.

Exit Log:

07:15 – Anchor up at Charleston Bay – 5-8kts of wind but still managed to make 9.7kts with a favorable 3kt current.

09:00 – Outside the inlet channel ahead of time. Engine off; 9-11kts of wind on starboard beam; gently rolling 1ft seas; making 5-7kts

10:30 – Winds dropped to 5-9kts; making 3.5-5kts

14:00 – Winds have picked up to 10-15kts but having trouble maintaining 5kts forward speed as wind keeps closing inside of 30-40 degrees to our bow, plus 1/2 knot current against us.  Warm sun and clear skies but wind has a bitter bite and is coming from almost 90 degrees south of where we expected it. 

15:00 – Still having to edge 10-15 degrees offshore farther than intended to maintain a sailing angle on these winds.

16:30 – Family of dolphins with baby joined us for about ten minutes playing just off the bow… incredible!  16kts of wind dead on our bow; to get outside of 30 degrees for sails having to point at the land or the ocean.  Furled the genoa and raised the staysail (for the first time under way) in case the wind finally clocks around to the north and potentially increases in strength.

19:00 – Currently 25nm offshore; already 5nm further out than planned.  Winds steady at 17-18kts on our bow; seas building but bigger waves still spaced quite far apart.  Don’t want to head any further out so having to head for shore to try to improve our angle – means no forward progress until we tack again.  With engine running, still having trouble maintaining 3-4kts, plus 1kt of opposing current has us making only 2.5kts of forward progress.  Not sure if we’re feeling the edge of the Gulf Stream or not.

21:00 – Watch change.  Just shy of a full moon is creating spectacular visibility tonight.  Wind hitting 21kts. Having to reef the main while still needing to motor… crazy!

24:00 – Midnight.  Seas are definitely starting to settle down; wind now 13-16kts.  Finally our speed indicator is showing 6kts but still losing a knot to current.  Keeping motor-sailing for now to try to salvage possibility of reaching St. Marys tomorrow.  Not warm but no longer frigid… yay!

02:00 – Mostly rolling seas; wind has FINALLY shifted to starboard beam and dropped to 11-12kts. Now making good at 6kts course over ground even with the 1kt current still against us.  Need to shake out the main reef and adjust the staysail at watch change. Lost autohelm connection repeatedly for 30 minutes and apparent wind direction indicator display down (true wind direction still working). 

03:30 – Watch change.  No more problems with autohelm but wind indicator unchanged. Tightened starboard running backstay and reset staysail tacking block. Wind is now 15-16kts so keeping the mainsail reef in.  This moon is amazing; so bright out here!

09:00 – Down to 2-3ft seas and 10-15kt winds; partly cloudy. Making 6kts against 1.2kts of current so keeping everything as is for now.  Dead on course for St. Marys.  Navionics estimating 6 hours to anchor point; it’s gonna be close. No more autohelm issues but wind indicator unchanged. 

11:00 – Seas 1-2ft with only 7-9kts of wind on the starboard beam; current against down to about .7kts. Cloudy and back to colder. Looks like motor-sailing is the only way to make St. Marys before dark.  Autohelm acting up occasionally again. 

13:00 – Entering the St. Marys Inlet Channel.  Dropped sails half hour ago; thankfully a cinch compared to last time. Clear entry and no traffic to speak of; looks like we made it with time to spare.  Autohelm dropping out like crazy; shitty timing with the upcoming rivers!

*****

     After entering the channel, we still had at least two hours further to motor before arriving at the location we planned to drop anchor at.  As it turned out, it was a good thing we had the time to spare upon arrival.

     We passed through the St. Marys inlet with Cumberland Island National Seashore to our starboard and Fort Clinch State Park to port… Georgia on the right and Florida on the left.  The state line runs right down the middle of the river.

     We worked our way a few miles up a channel that reportedly has a substantial volume of naval submarine traffic passing through.  Fortunately this was not the case today.  While it would have been amazing to see, after a thirty two hour offshore passage we were not looking forward to any probable delays that could be caused by the escort patrol ships; we simply wanted to set the anchor and go to sleep.

     Eventually, we steered into St. Marys River.  Though the river was a third of a mile wide in some places, we had to pick our lines very carefully now.  Chronic shoaling due to high tidal exchanges and strong currents meant that, sometimes, even the charted channel had to be skirted around.

     We had been getting used to taking into consideration, or at least dealing with, the effects of increasing tides and currents.  However, here in Georgia, especially around the inlets at a new or full moon (which would be tonight), tidal currents could reach three to four knots and there would be an eight foot change in the water level between high and low tide.  

     After 2-3 miles we came upon the North River.  We still had about three hours of sunlight left, so we felt we were doing good on time.  

     We were wary of the North River, which ranged from 200-800 feet wide and snaked back and forth in hairpin curves, but seemed to offer more options for possible anchorages. The problem was that extensive shoaling forced us to remain within a  narrow corridor, less than one hundred feet wide in places, that was deep enough to pass through (some of those narrow stretches actually in the wider parts of the river).  

    As we crept forward, I constantly referenced the iPad in my hands (which was uploading our position onto a digital chart in real time) and relaying the information to Kris.  We compared that with what we saw in front of us, and with what the cockpit depth gauge was telling us.

     At times we found ourselves having to, literally, feel our way along.  Chart depths gave us some idea; however, changes in actual depths due to shoaling were constant.  We could find ourselves in water thirty feet deep when the chart told us we should be in twelve feet; or of much more serious concern, find our depth gauge plummeting to five feet while the chart seemed confident we were in fifteen feet of water.  Needless to say, our centerboard had already been raised.

     We were later told this was the common navigational technique of learning to sail by brail.   

     After negotiating around a couple of turns and bends, we gave up.  Trying to nose our bow (not easy to do on the water with something almost fifty feet long that weighs over 40,000 pounds) into areas that appeared to be adequate depth on the chart, trying get an accurate depth reading on our gauge, proved unfruitful and nerve racking. 

      With depths greater than twenty feet at low tide, the passable sections of the river were deeper than we wanted to drop anchor in; but the depths shallowed up really quickly.  In narrower sections of the river, we were almost on the banks before we reached less than fifteen feet deep.  In some of the wider sections, eighty percent of the width of the river dropped to less than two feet.  

    It seemed that, if we put enough chain out for the channel at high tide, we could be high and dry if we swung over the shallower areas on a dropping tide, which was likely with the current change.

What’s the scoop with scope?

No one has ever told the story of how their boat was saved from dragging anchor                       because they left extra anchor chain in their bow locker.                                                                                                              -Quote from someone smart

     Without getting too much into the science of anchoring (I hear that’s what Googly is for), scope refers to the ratio of length of anchor chain (or rope) relative to water depth (plus the distance from the waterline to your deck).  For instance, a boat in 12 feet of water (with 3 feet from deck to waterline) that has 60 feet of anchor chain out is at a 4:1 scope (12+3:60 or 4:1).

     As a general guideline:  3:1 scope or less is, at best, temporary; 5:1 is minimal; 7:1 is typical; 10:1 is conservative (or storm ready).

     Too little scope, on even a well set anchor, can cause the anchor to break free of the bottom, resulting in the boat dragging.

     If we have the space, even in ten feet of water, I’ll not hesitate to put out 100 feet of chain. An electric windlass to hoist 100 feet of chain, as well as a deckwash hose to get mud off of it, make that decision much easier.

     In the end, I’d rather put out more anchor chain than less.  The chain isn’t doing you any good in the locker, that’s for damn sure.

So, we decided to delicately do an about-face and head back to the St. Marys River, hoping to find a spot with a bit better feel to it… and ultimately, when you are trusting your home to an anchor chain, it comes down to certain amount of gut feeling to achieve the trust and confidence needed to sleep at night.

     We ran into the same problem as we tried to sniff out a spot a couple miles further up the St Marys.  It was a low tide and we had to account for the eight feet of depth we would gain, but we just couldn’t get far enough aside of the channel without running out of depth.

     Starting to get frustrated, we decided to fall back on an option we had been offered months before.  Christian and Mary, the first cruisers to introduce themselves to us when we reached Annapolis on Exit, had invited us to tie up to their mooring ball just upriver from here if we were ever in the area.

    We had the coordinates already in our chart plotter.  We steered away from the shore and back towards the channel, well before the green marker in front and to the left of us, which we needed to get around to the other side of before we neared.  

     The current was starting to push upstream much harder with the incoming tide, and we could already feel it pulling Exit along, towards the green marker, as we felt our way back towards the channel, watching anxiously for the number on the depth gauge to start climbing… 

     …we were mid-river, technically in Florida…

     …less than fifty feet from crossing back over into Georgia…

     …and then…

     …from underneath us, came the dreaded muffled scuffing sound and, subtly felt though unmistakable, physical vibration of our underside sliding across mud, followed by the not-so-subtle cessation of all forward progress.

     Despite all efforts, we were going no where in forward or reverse…

     …stuck. 

     Florida had grabbed us and was not letting go… fuck!  I’ve always hated Florida.

     Many people advise to navigate in areas that have questionable depths at high tide; the idea being that, at that time, you have the greatest depths to work with.  The down-side is that, if you get grounded at high tide, you have only moments as the tide is falling to get unstuck.  If unsuccessful, you have to wait until the next high tide to even potentially get off.  That’s nearly a twelve hour wait, and the whole time your boat is settling into the mucky bottom.

     Fortunately for us, we weren’t heeding that advice today (actually, it wasn’t even an option as high tide would be long after sunset today).  It was dead low tide.  I suppose that may very well have contributed to our being stuck.

     However, the up-side was, the tide was about to start rising which meant we would hopefully have enough water under us to move again within about thirty minutes to an hour.

     Our biggest concern was not being able to get off the muddy shoal.  We were confident the rising water would lift us straight off.  Rather, our real concern was that the incoming tide was creating quite a current that would be trying to push us further and further up onto the shoal as the tide rose.

     The solution we came up with was simply to drop the anchor with about five meters of chain.  We hoped as the rising tide began to set us free, the anchor would hold us in place just long enough to get adequate water under us.  We reckoned if we waited a bit longer with the anchor holding us in place, the incoming tidal current would swing us so that we would be facing into the current and away from the shoal – perfect for our escape.

     It worked like a charm.  Before long, we were back afloat and clear of the shoal.  

     Except we were running out of daylight. And, after nearly thirty four hours since we had raised anchor in Charleston, we were utterly exhausted.  

     It was deeper than we wanted, but we said fuck it anyway.  We dropped anchor, chucked out as much chain as we had, backed down hard… and didn’t drag an inch… sweet.  Within about ten minutes, the sun had gone down.

     We had successfully completed our second offshore passage. 

     It was New Year’s Eve… and we were sound asleep just after 9pm.

December 25, 2017

    The Atlantic Ocean… awesome, relentless, unforgiving.  She can entice you with her endless and incredibly hypnotic beauty, but suffers no fools and will smite you in an instant for being careless or brazen.

     Our journey from North Carolina to South Carolina would involve our third overnight passage (the first two were between Annapolis and Norfolk in August).  At 144 nautical miles, it was almost the same distance as Annapolis to Norfolk.  The two biggest distinctions this time would be that we would not have a training skipper aboard; and, instead of traveling within the relative protection of the Chesapeake Bay as before, the course we had plotted from Carolina Beach to Charleston was scheduled to take us twenty miles offshore… our first offshore passage into the Atlantic Ocean.

     We had discussed this at great lengths and fully recognized the gravity of what we were about to undertake.  We had no intentions of pursuing foolish ambitions that would put us in danger, yet this passage afforded us a great opportunity to stretch a bit further than we previously ever had, and would certainly test our abilities towards their limits.

     Exit would follow a near straight line against the coastline that was gradually arcing away from us.  After having traveled fifty miles, we would be approximately twenty miles offshore.  Then, for the next fifty or so miles, the coastline would slowly arc back towards us, until it finally converged with our line at Charleston, South Carolina.  The weather reports forecasted 10-15 knots of wind, with some gusts to 20 knots, and three to four foot waves expected to subside to one or two feet by the time we reached Charleston… about as good as we could hope for.

     We left Carolina Beach just after 10:00am on Christmas morning.  We had about four hours of channels to navigate through before reaching the inlet to the Atlantic Ocean and wanted to time the opposing currents to have a minimum impact on us, especially at the mouth of the inlet.  We also planned on 24-26 hours to reach Charleston, and we thought it prudent to arrive during daylight hours.  This would give us three hours of light before that window and five hours after as a margin for error.

     Clearing the mouth of Bald Head Inlet, we exchanged tentative looks.

     I asked Kris, “Is everything good?”

     She replied, “Everything’s good.”

     And, with that, we turned Exit into the wind, hoisted the mainsail and the genoa, and set our course for the Atlantic Ocean.

     As expected, the wind was right around ten to twelve knots and we estimated the waves that were following us as three to four feet.  It was biting cold, but the dodger did a good job of providing protection from the wind coming from directly off our starboard beam.

    The space in front of us appeared vast and daunting; yet Exit gracefully rode atop the rising and falling waves that passed under us at a slightly faster speed than we were traveling at.  The color of the ocean surrounding us, still not deeper than fifty to sixty-five feet, stood in stark contrast to the waters we had been navigating through previously.  The muddy shades of brown, characteristic of so much of the ICW we had begun to grow accustomed to, suddenly had been replaced by a deep, rich blue color that reminded us immediately of Tahiti.

    It took a while for both us and Exit to settle in with the sails and rigging trimmed as best we could interpret; but, before long, it seemed we had locked into a groove and found ourselves cruising along solely under wind power at a respectable seven knots of speed. 

   We had less than two hours of daylight left when we shut off the engine.  As the sun began to set, the wind started moving slightly aft and increased to a steady fifteen knots, gusting up to seventeen or eighteen and the seas appeared to be building closer to five and six foot waves.  

     Had the wind been forward of our beam, we would have put a reef in the main.  Yet, Exit seemed to be riding very comfortably with the current wind direction so we left it alone.  However, we were less certain about the genoa.  An increase in wind would put the genoa at its limit before the mainsail.  We opted to bring it in while it was still light out and both of us were in the cockpit; and still we managed to maintain between six and eight knots. 

    We continued our two hour watch shifts, with one of us standing watch in the cockpit at all times, until 11pm.  Then we each took a four hour shift so the other could get a bit better rest.  

     By 11pm, the wind had started dropping off substantially.  Between eleven and five o’clock it became schizophrenic, shifting continually between five and fifteen knots and moved to almost directly astern of us.  The waves calmed, and the time was spent trying to coax as much speed from the mainsail as possible.  As the wind fell off to six knots, our speed would drop to three; then, about the time the decision was made to unfurl the genoa, the wind would pick up to between nine and fifteen knots and we would accelerate back to between five and seven knots.

     One thing that had been very conspicuous was the complete lack of boat traffic we saw during the entire night.  A couple of sailboats and commercial boats in the distance.  Not really anyone, which caused us to vacillate back and forth between enjoying the space and wondering if everyone else knew something we didn’t. 

     At one point, a sailboat identified on our AIS as Petronella, which had been overtaking us but moving further offshore, came within about 200 meters of us for some unknown reason but then veered back away and skirted outside of us for the rest of the passage;  nothing else.  

     We hoped we had either under-anticipated the holiday effect on traffic, or maybe just got our first taste of one of the things that makes offshore cruising so desirable… being a tiny object in a huge space to work within.

     By 5am, the wind had begun building steadily.  By 7am, when I poked my head into the cockpit, the conditions had deteriorated into a very messy state.  The wind, blowing steady at seventeen to eighteen knots and gusting between twenty and twenty-two, was coming from far enough aft to pierce directly into the cockpit, leaving very little space to tuck into for protection.

     The waves, which had been forecasted as calming to one or two feet, obviously had not received the memo.  Instead, they had gradually built back up and were exceeding anything we had seen so far.  Certainly five to six feet, with many that seemed more like at least seven or eight feet.  Also, the direction of the waves starting becoming a bit more confused, with most of the waves directed at the starboard side of our stern but some coming almost on the beam.

     We had reached a top speed of 9.7 knots, which seemed amazing considering we were running under mainsail alone.  We cursed the fact that we hadn’t sorted out the stay sail – this was the perfect passage for it… one more lesson learned and one more thing on the to-do list.  Regardless, we were making great time with just the mainsail; averaging seven knots was fine.

     As noon passed and we closed in on the Charleston inlet, we started thinking about dropping the main.  We envisioned a time, hopefully in the not-too-distant future, when we could comfortably sail onto and off of an anchor point, run narrow channels without relying on the engine, and enter and exit inlets solely under sail power.  However, currently our ambitions were to simply get from Point A to Point B without any mishaps.  And dealing with only an engine helped to massively simplify these already higher stress and more complicated situations.

     The question became when to drop the mainsail?  

     Charleston’s bay would certainly be much more protected and, consequently, should theoretically provide much better conditions to lower the mainsail in.  However, we weren’t sure whether maneuvering might be restricted by traffic and/or space limitations.  We also envisioned potential difficulties in the narrow channel approaching the inlet regarding waves, current, and traffic that, under sail, could further complicate matters.

     The charts gave us a fair sense of the inlet but it would require actually seeing it to get a better perspective of what we were dealing with (another important lesson learned – look at actual photos of inlets on Google Maps prior to getting underway to have a better impression).  But, we wouldn’t know exactly how severe the waves and currents really were in the channel until we were already committed… too late to do anything at that point.

     On the surface, we agreed that the safest bet appeared to be dropping the mainsail before entering the channel and motoring in.  

     Looking around we were less certain of that.

     The surrounding waves, ranging between five and eight feet, were bearing down from both behind and slightly to the right of us.  Breaking waves created confused streaks of foam and spray, and washed over the top of Exit’s toe rails onto the deck, occasionally even delivering a splash of sea spray into the cockpit.

     The digital numbers on the cockpit wind gauge jumped up and down endlessly between fifteen and twenty-one, but lingered around the eighteen knot range.  We were running at around seven knots of forward speed.

     Both of us were clearly nervous about what seemed to be the two options before us.  

     Attempting to lower the mainsail facing any direction other than into the wind, especially in higher winds, rarely went smoothly, and often proved disastrous.  Either the sail piled off of one side of the boom or, even worse, the battens got hung up in the lazy-jacks and the sail became stuck partway down.

     Sill, neither of us relished the idea of bringing Exit one hundred eighty degrees full about into the wind, putting us pounding straight into the rolling five to eight foot waves.  The turn would be rough, with the waves temporarily coming straight on our beam.  And, once the full force of the wind was pushing against us, we were uncertain whether or not Exit would be able to maintain enough speed to steer over the crests of the waves and out of the troughs.

     I was confident in Kris’ ability at the helm, I was confident in Exit’s ability to shoulder through the mess, and I was pretty sure I might possibly be confident about being able to get the main down and secured quickly.

     Kris brought us around as quickly and strategically as possible; yet the instability of having the boat roll back and forth with the big swells momentarily coming at our beam was a clear reminder of how vulnerable we were in this orientation.   As we came around, the boat regained its side to side stability but immediately began bucking up and down as her bow began pounding straight into the cresting waves.  

     We were struggling to maintain three knots… just enough to keep forward steering.  No longer riding the wind, our wind indicator now revealed the true speed of the wind coming at us, which was reaching twenty five knots.

     It was now or never.  I shimmied out onto the deck and tucked into the granny bars next to the mast.  As I struggled with a tangled main halyard, Exit crested over a large wave and descended into the trough on the other side. 

     Kris later recounted how, from the cockpit, she watched wide-eyed as we came down the back of one wave, the top of next the wave beyond looking taller than me standing on deck.  As we slid down the back of one wave, Exit’s bow submarined into the base of the next wave.

     Water cascaded over the bow and washed across the deck, giving me my first proper baptism in the Atlantic.  I grabbed ahold of the mast and realized at this less-than-opportune moment just how wise having a tether would be… that’s one we’ll definitely file away for next time.

     With the main halyard finally untangled (having the mainsail stuck halfway down would have been a catastrophe), the sail dropped quickly and relatively cleanly.  A couple of sail ties secured the main until we could go back and clean things up after dropping anchor.

     Bedraggled, but ultimately still mostly dry under my foul weather gear, I climbed back into the cockpit.  The expression on Kris’ face was crystal clear… she was not enjoying this portion of the passage.

     Kris brought us decisively back around so we were once again running with the waves.  Suddenly, this way didn’t seem so heavy after all… 

    We motored into the channel and, ironically, encountered minimal wind and waves, as well as no traffic.  We entered Charleston Bay and found even calmer conditions, plenty of space to bring down the mainsail, and almost no boat traffic… lessons learned.

     Charleston only has one real anchorage area.  It made that decision easy.

     As we approached, it looked as though most of the ten or so boats at anchor or mooring were unoccupied.  Much more dramatic was the exposed top spreader and mast of a sunken sailboat we passed by, as well as three sailboats which lay awkwardly aground on the shore of a nearby island.  These were the broken victims of, and crushed dreams left by, Hurricane Irma.

     Anchoring was becoming more and more challenging as we progressed further south down the coastline.  Four to five foot tides here would produce two knot currents, shifting one hundred eighty degrees in direction four times a day.  Consequently, we would find ourselves swinging around on the anchor chain in a current-controlled “figure eight” pattern, instead of swinging in a typically limited arc dictated by wind direction as we had previously experienced.

      We were careful to make sure the anchor was fully set even though we both felt the fatigue of our twenty eight hour passage. 

     The biting cold of the wind had undoubtably taken its’ toll on both of us.  Yet, had we been beating into the wind, the conditions certainly would have been exponentially more brutal.  

     As for learning experiences, it’s hard to quantify all the information we were exposed to in a day and a half – from epiphanies and moments of clarity, to a much harder to grasp sense that we were finally beginning to gain some level of understanding of the many subtleties required to even begin to approach harnessing the full potential of Exit. 

     We had successfully completed our first offshore passage.  Our 144 nautical mile overnight journey clocked in as our longest nonstop voyage yet; and I would imagine that twenty two hours under sail-power alone will hold it’s place in the Ashby record books for quite some time.  

     Once again, it had been demonstrated that Exit could handle much more than we could.

    It felt amazing… and we wanted to sleep.