We’re heading south to spend the winter in the Caribbean.
The Plan
I’d recently retired and was planning to spend the entire winter in the eastern Caribbean. While I already had made the offshore passage from New England to the islands of the Caribbean a dozen times via Bermuda, this voyage would be special. The family was coming along.
Julie and our two kids were no strangers to boats. Julie had been sailing with me in Maine since before the kids were born. She and the kids later joined me one winter in the Caribbean, but they’d yet to make the offshore passage. Our daughter Ren (short for Renaissance) was 10 at the time; our son, Havana, was eight. By the time we left Maine, both kids were savvy boat rats. They could swim by the time they were two, row a boat by four, and by six, they could paddle their own kayaks and sail a dinghy. All three were more than ready for this adventure.
The Boat
Searcher, a Bowman 57 ketch, was the right boat. I’d already made two previous passages to the Caribbean on her and knew her abilities and limits. She’d been built and outfitted for the Marian-Bermuda Race, which she had completed a dozen times. There were five cabins, 11 berths, a large midship cockpit, Hood in-the-mast furling systems on both masts and more electronics than I needed.
It took all summer to prepare Searcher for this extended voyage and by the first week of September, she was ready. We packed up and left Rockport, Maine to meander slowly south along the New England coast. We spent a month in Martha’s Vineyard, then moved to New Bedford and finally arrived in Newport in late October to join Hank Schmitt’s rally, known as the North American Rally to the Caribbean.
Finding Crew
For the voyages to Bermuda and the islands, we needed two more hands to help steer. A free crew request in the SailOPO.com newsletter resulted in a half dozen replies with resumes. A young couple, recent college grads Rod and Emily, appeared suitable. Rob had sailed his family sloop on Long Island Sound and Emily had been brought up on Castine Harbor, across the bay from us in Maine. Two weeks prior to our departure, the couple spent a weekend with us on Searcher in Newport Harbor. By the end of the stay, Rob and Emily had been “kid approved.”
Boats began arriving in Newport for the rally the last weeks of October. We moved Searcher into a slip at Newport Yachting Center, took on fuel and water, changed the oil and bought provisions for the voyage. Rob and Emily arrived and moved into the forward crew cabin, then helped us stow gear and hoist and secure the dinghy, kayaks and bikes on deck. The evening prior to our departure was Halloween. We joined the crews from the other 30 yachts for a farewell dinner at a local pub while Julie took the kids trick-or-treating.
The Offshore Weather Briefing
Our scheduled departure for Bermuda was to be Sunday, Nov. 1, weather permitting. That morning, Hank held a weather briefing at the Newport Yacht Club. The first two days, conditions would be a challenge. Winds NE to 30 knots, gusting higher, seas building. Those NE winds, against the NE flowing Gulf Stream, would kick up some nasty seas. Expect moderating conditions on Tuesday and Wednesday. However, a front would exit the New England coast toward the end of the week with near-gale winds and high seas from the NW impacting the route on Thursday and Friday. This led to a great deal of consternation and discussion.
One of the more experienced skippers, Murray Jacobs, a burly, outspoken Aussie and veteran delivery skipper, summed it up: “Take your lumps at the beginning or at the end.” It was time for decision-making. Among the assembled crew of 80 eager men and a few women, the unanimous consensus was to delay – three hours. A few skippers left immediately. By 1500 that Sunday, the majority of the 30 boats had headed out of Newport. They would take a beating, with winds reaching 40 knots on the beam. It was expected to be a cold, wet and challenging, yet swift night. Most would arrive at the Gulf Stream Monday night, only to heave-to, waiting for the wind and seas to abate. I felt uneasy about subjecting my novice crew to near-gale conditions their first day out. We’d wait.
Underway to Bermuda
With slightly better conditions, we departed Monday morning at 0900. The skies were gray and overcast. A cold, raw NE wind on the beam was blowing 25 knots. It was cold on deck; temperatures were in the low 40s. The boat settled down to a comfortable 7 knots under staysail and half the main. These were Searcher’s preferred conditions. The crew was fine for a time, then one-by-one, sea sickness slowly took over. Everyone except Emily was sick for 24 hours. By Tuesday noon, everyone onboard had recovered.
We crossed the Gulf Stream Tuesday night in 15 knots of northerly wind without even realizing we were in the Stream, except for the change in temperature. By Wednesday morning, we were all in shorts and tee shirts.
The day brightened, the sun came out and the sky turned blue. Life on Searcher settled into a pleasant routine. The kids were in the cockpit playing board games with Rob and Emily while they were at the helm steering. Each of us stood a three-hour solo watch hand-steering, once during the day and once at night.
On Thursday afternoon, a bank of ominous dark clouds appeared astern. The predicted cold front with strong NW winds would overtake us in a few hours. At around 1000 hours, a squall hit the boat and we took a knockdown. The boat heeled over, its lee deck awash.
“Go with it!” I yelled to Rob, who was at the wheel. “Don’t fight it! Run with it!” As the squall moved away, Searcher recovered and righted herself. The NW winds continued to build throughout the night and into Friday. By Friday morning, 100 miles NW of Bermuda, the winds were blowing 30 knots, with higher gusts.
We were in “the slot,” running 10 degrees off dead downwind with a small staysail forward and most of the mainsail rolled in. There was just enough pressure on the sails to keep the boat from wallowing, jibing or rounding up – both dangerous events we needed to avoid. Besides, we were doing 8-plus knots in near 30 knots of wind.
This kind of sailing requires total concentration on the helmsman’s part, as steering is critical to staying in “the slot.” Moreover, the NW swells continued to build throughout the day. At first, the 10- to 14-foot waves were fun to play with, sending Searcher sliding down their surfaces with a burst of speed. The crew shouted out the boat speed on the GPS and she accelerated.
As a wave advanced under Searcher’s stern, we could feel the boat lift, tilt forward and for a brief moment, as Searcher teetered on the crest, the entire ocean was spread out before us. The sea was flecked with whitecaps, a landscape of undulating hills and valleys, but these hills were moving fast, rising and falling, chasing us south. As the larger waves broke and collapsed, they’d leave behind a swirling pool of white and light blue water that looked, at first, like shallow water. I remained in the companionway all afternoon, watching the waves advance on our stern, coaching Rob, then Julie and Emily at the helm. The seas were building up to 15 to 20 feet. Occasionally, a rogue wave would sweep down from astern, and its bearded crest would break on both sides of our wake, sending white water tumbling down past Searcher’s hull. Searcher was in her element; she’d been built for this. But we were nearing her upper limits. I wanted to take the lead myself but understood my role in the companionway, observing and coaching, which were needed more. I shortened the watches to just an hour each.
As the afternoon wore on, the size of the waves became my major concern. Thirty miles NW of Bermuda, I called Bermuda Radio on the VHF to alert them of our approach. This is always a welcome point in the journey because it marks the beginning of the end. Bermuda Radio acts like a flight controller at an airport, lining up the boats, recording information on each yacht and advising on the weather and clearing procedures. Searcher and I had been to Bermuda before, so a lot of her information was on file, shortening the conversation. “Call us again when you pass Mills Breaker buoy,” came the kind voice from Bermuda.
As darkness came on, the winds began to moderate. The wind indicator no longer registered in the 30s and breaking waves were fewer. The danger passed as the night came on. With darkness, we could now see the loom of Bermuda’s lights illuminating the low clouds hanging over the island. Safety lay ahead. Now the issue was to skirt the reefs that extend out from Bermuda for miles, marked only by a few lighted beacons, and then thread through the narrow entrance to the port of St. George’s.
Bermuda has two prominent lighthouses, St. David’s Head and Gibbs Hill, but the first light we saw was the rotating white and green beacon from the airport. We jibed to clear the reefs and slid past Northeast Breaker Light, which marks the northernmost extent of the reefs. As we came into the reef’s lee, the seas flattened, but the wind still blew 25 knots. The issue now was to pick out the navigation lights that marked the entrance into Town Cut, a narrow, cliff-lined channel into St. George’s Harbour. I called Bermuda Radio as we passed Kitchen Shoals light, then started the engine. The wind came around on our bow as we made the turn to line up with the red, blinking channel buoys. Rob and Emily fought down the staysail and lashed it to the lifeline. I’d been through here a dozen times, but never at night. My anxiety level was still high. There are unlit markers to port. I called Harbor Radio on my handheld VHF, telling them that with this wind and a tired crew, I did not feel it prudent to come alongside the customs dock to clear in, but would prefer to anchor out and clear in tomorrow. After consulting with the officials, they approved our request.
My heart swelled with joy as we slipped into tranquil St. George’s Harbour. After a boisterous four-and-a-half-day run down from New England, we’d reached Bermuda. The anxiety I’d been experiencing since departing Newport drained away. My family, crew and boat were all safe. Judging from the smiles on the faces around me, my crew felt as relieved as I did. It was 2130 when the boat stopped. We got the anchor down, put the deck and cockpit to rights, and went below to a warm and dry cabin. We shed our foul weather gear, life jackets and harnesses and broke out the champagne. The kids, who’d been cooped up below most of the day, were jabbering away, swinging from the overhead handholds, glad to be out of the wild weather. We were safe and at rest. We were in Bermuda.
A week later, we hauled, washed and catted the anchor, turned Searcher’s bow east, passed back through Town Cut, turned right at Spit Buoy and headed south to the British Virgin Islands 850 miles away. But that’s another tale for another time. n
David H. Lyman, from Camden, Maine, is an author, award-winning photojournalist, offshore sailor and boat owner. He’s a regular contributor to Cruising World, Caribbean Compass, Ocean Navigator, and other magazines.