Windhorse Sailing

I was frustrated at the outset. Sailing is never as simple as point A to point B. It should be the best part of the trip when you first set out. All your provisions are fresh and you’ve chosen an ideal weather window. However, I was held up an extra day in Montevideo getting my Brazilian visa. And yet another day making the short trip to Buenos Aires to pick up my new sail at North Sails. I was sailing solo, and without anyone to bounce things off I began to ruminate on all the “what ifs?” Because of my delays

I had missed two days of a low front creating strong winds from the South that could have carried me North 300 miles already. This low would soon blow through giving way to the regular trade wind from the North. North wind promised a rough, slow ride. It should be no problem, but I expected to be working hard. Also I would soon have friends waiting for me in Brazil. I had invited friends to meet me in Florianopolis, which was 540 miles North. I had six days to get there. Six days might not be enough. These friends were Dan McGuire and Joey Bender, two friends who had made a great effort taking time from their work and kids to come share in my adventure. We’re not related, but these guys are closer than cousins to me; they are family. I wanted to be there to meet their arrival.

I rushed to provision and get the boat stowed for departure. It was a chilly sunny day with white caps in the Bay. I was excited to see my friends in Brazil. At noon I motored south out of the harbor into the teeth of the wind for about 45 minutes then I set the sails, made the turn around the “Punta” and turned off the engine. According to my ship’s log at 1pm I was running with a 20-knot wind into a “rough” 10-foot chop. I had the main sail second reef and a full headsail. Underway with the wind vane steering me full speed ahead, I began to relax a little.

In the first 36 hours I made 220 miles north enjoying a strong southerly and a small counter current sweeping me North at 7 knots altogether. Along much of my route 200-400 miles offshore runs what is known as the Brazil current; a strong, two-knot current flowing south. Inside of that current closer to shore sometimes and in some places you get a counter current. My pilot guidebook for the area called for a counter current most of my route. Knowing this provided a boost psychologically more than anything else.

On my second night at sea the winds died down to an imperceptible five knots. It just wasn’t enough to move the Shangri-La. I hated to admit it, but the friendly winds were gone. I furled the headsail and took down the main during the night so I didn’t have to listen to them flapping from side to side as the boat pitched on the calm water. Along the coast a calm like this always means a wind reversal. In this case the low-pressure system had moved through and was about to give way to the much larger and regular high-pressure system. And in the case of the Brazilian coast this meant a N-NE trade wind. For the time being however, 12, maybe 24 hours I could expect to be becalmed. It was an opportunity to rest up for the battle soon to come. I turned on the radar as a beacon to the fishing ships and tankers that might happen along, threw in a CD and jumped in my sleeping bag to get a good night’s sleep.

This sucked. I was wide-awake. I was tired, but far too anxious to sleep. The weather was coming. There was only one answer - a drink. I opened a bottle of Johnny Walker Red given to me by the great Gavino. I had one, two, three, glasses and it didn’t seem to be helping me sleep. Eventually it did help, but only in getting me to sleep. Many hours later I awoke to a day so hot I almost turned the boat around. The hangover didn’t help either. The satellite phone was up on deck and there were little shards of plastic all around. It was like someone else had been on the boat the night before. Apparently I had sent out some e-mails and it would be a while before I figured out what the plastic was all about. A few days later, I discovered the shards of plastic where from the pour spout that I had tried to rip out of the Johnny Walker bottle with pliers, apparently so I could pour faster. Goal accomplished.

It was day three and now all I wanted to do was sleep, but the wind was starting to build. By noon in the blazing sun I could set full sail. All day and night the wind kept building finally topping out at about 35 knots, which is a very strong wind especially when you are heading into it. I hated the ride from here on out. There would be a lot of wear and tear on Shangri-La and me. My friend Howard loved to say “gentleman don’t beat into the wind.” How right he is. Gentleman wait till the season is right or they alter plans and head in another direction. I wouldn’t opt for that luxury. North was the way home and north was where my friends would soon be waiting for me and for my friends I would sail 300 miles in three days and only get 100 miles closer to Florianopolis.

Most mornings from this point I found I was watching the clock, waiting for the hour when I could call my girlfriend Elvia and share my misery. The sea was making a bitch out of me. I wasn’t going to die. I just didn’t want to be there. At this point I would have welcomed even hardship as a distraction to my longing for home. Careful what you wish for, on day four I encountered breaking waves; a sailor’s worst nightmare. Breaking waves are thankfully rare, but extremely powerful.

Due to wind or underlying current, in this case both, a wave can become so steep that it topples over. A 14-foot wave could have enough force to break Shangri-La in half. While the ones I encountered this day were no larger than 4 or 5 feet, they were not a welcome experience. Especially when one broke into my aging headwall and opened a 6-foot tear along a seam. I came off the wind a bit to relieve some pressure and as quick as I could I put in 5 cross-stitches with some thick wax thread used for whipping the ends of lines. As quick as I could was at least an hour. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it would hold. Then on day five I came on deck after some rare shuteye to find my dinghy missing. I had been trailing it behind as cruisers do because I was in a hurry to leave port. Later, while becalmed, I debated bringing it on deck, deflating it and stowing it properly, but I was too hung over. It was a big loss, and it’s stupid, but I felt relieved not to be worried about it anymore.

On day six the wind was still from the north, but not nearly as strong which made for a much smoother ride. Tacking back and forth was still a chore, but it wasn’t worth your life like it had been. I was moving along ok, but felt I could go faster with a little iron spinnaker. The sea had flattened out so I decided to boost my speed with the engine. I started her up. She purred like a kitten. The speed was good, but the heading might be better on the other tack. As I came across the wind the sails slacked and filled again with a healthy snap on the other side. The headwall, though, fell into the ocean. It slid down the forestay and into the ocean as if the great hand of Neptune had pulled it down. I was stunned for a second before I thought to kill the engine hoping the prop didn’t already chew up the sail. It did not. I ran forward to rehoist it. I couldn’t. The Halyard was fine. What broke was the top furler drum leaving the part connected to the halyard at the top of the mast until I could climb up 46 feet and get it. The other half of the part was torn aluminum lying on the deck. I think it was ripped in half by the force of the breaking wave that had earlier hit the sail. I was numb with exhaustion by the time I got my biggest sail out of the water and strapped to the deck. I shot Dan an e-mail that I would be behind schedule.

Without a headwall and the wind dying away the motor was all I had. The hardship here is that I don’t have an autopilot. The wind vane steers using the wind and there was none. I had to stand at the helm and steer for last 120 miles to Florianopolis. At five knots engine speed that is 24 hours. I was numb and determined to arrive the next day. I motored through the night, the day and into the next night. The sea had remained calm, but visibility was poor with torrential rain. I hadn’t left the helm for more than a few seconds in over 24 hours. Because of the rain it was like peeing in the shower. We all do it. At midnight, using the lighthouse and a flashlight held in my teeth to illuminate the handheld GPS I navigated my way through the south canal entrance. This is how you get to Florianopolis. The town lies between the small island of Santa Caterina and the mainland. As soon as I entered the canal the rain began to clear. My cruising guidebook advised a course through the shallow canal to the Yacht Club Santa Caterina 6 miles North. In an hour I would be at the yacht club dock.

That would have been so great. But the cruising guide also recommends local knowledge of the canal as shoals can shift making charts unreliable. Shangri-La gently came to a stop when she ran onto one such shoal. I could see the port lights so I revved the engine in reverse and eased my way off the shoal. Once free I back tracked a little and made my way to starboard before turning back toward the lights. Aground again. On VHF channel 16 no one answered my call, not the Yacht Club, not the Port Captain. I was on my own still. It was 2am so I decided to drop anchor, get some sleep and try again in daylight.

At 6am I poked my head out of the hatch and looked around. It was calm and clear. I called Dan at his hotel. So glad to hear his voice he said, “Stay put.” His plan was to get to the yacht club and catch a ride out to meet me and guide me in with some local help. I could finally relax. I had gone 4 days without shitting, 3 days without eating, and 2 without sleeping. I fried some eggs and stayed put. Then it started to rain and the visibility…disappeared. Dan could see me from the yacht club in the bay on a clear day, but with no visibility it could be like finding a needle in a haystack. I waited a few hours. No Dan. I called the number the cruising guide had for the yacht club. Wrong number. I called my girlfriend. She couldn’t find a listing for the yacht club. After a half hour I called Dan’s hotel again. He had yet to return. I called again, still, not there and still no answer on the VHF radio from anybody. Fucking Brazil!

I took matters upon myself. I pulled up anchor and started to motor south out of the canal on my way around to the north side where I could drop anchor by Dan ‘s hotel. My luck hadn’t changed. The wind was from the south now and I was fighting it again. It promised to be a 10-hour trip, but I would be there that night. I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t up to it, but Shangri-La did. The engine conked out. She had run out of gas. I turned down wind to see if I could get any closer to the port. No I ran softly aground again and this time had no engine to get myself free. Ridiculous.

I called Dan’s hotel a fifth time and spoke to Michael, a manager who spoke English. I apologized for not knowing Portuguese. He agreed that is probably why no one responded to my radio calls. I told him my situation and he said he would take care of me. An hour later the sun came out and the fire department arrived. Michael called the fire department. Two firemen in full issue rescue gear on a big red tug. I’d prepared a few words in Portuguese from my dictionary, but all I could do was laugh. André came aboard and we settled on Spanish for communication, but mostly we just laughed.

We devised a way to pull me off the shoal. With their dinghy André took a halyard and pulled the top of the mast over while the main boat pulled the bow forward. It took some work and some of my dignity, but we worked Shangri-La free. They towed me into the yacht club. When I arrived I was told that I could buy gas and get repairs, but I then had to be on my way because I needed to enter the country at Santos 200 miles north or Porto Allegre 250 miles south. Good thing I needed repairs. I was staying. I pretended not to understand anything else until André the fireman stepped in. Of course he knew a member of the club who spoke English, Luigi my new friend. It was settled. I could stay the week and I would receive full cooperation from the staff. What a great day it turned out to be.

A little while later I saw Dan and I broke down. All I had experienced and accomplished disappeared in the background and there was my friend. Everyone needs to test their metal, but at the end of the day your friends don’t care where you’ve been. They’re just glad to see you. “Let’s get you cleaned up and put some food in your belly. Boy, you look skinny. Where the hell you been?” The next day we were both at the airport to meet Joey’s plane.