Celestial all the way

From Ocean Navigator #141
October 2004
The sound coming through the fog was so faint at first that we weren’t really sure we’d heard anything at all. Capella, our 27-foot Irwin, was ghosting on a faint breeze through the soggy gloom. As I looked aft from my post on the foredeck, wispy strands of mist blurred the image of my wife, Danielle, at the tiller.

   Image Credit: Ben Zartman

Straining my ears again for the sound of the bell buoys that lie to the east of Montauk Point, the easternmost point of Long Island, I waffled over a nagging question: Should I go below and turn on the GPS?

Few sailors would hesitate to use GPS if trapped in fog, but this was our sixth day out from Virginia, navigating only by sextant and compass, and I didn’t want to ruin the passage by caving in with the end in sight – figurative though it was. If not for this pea soup, I reflected with a slight shiver, Block Island would be rising out of the waters off the starboard bow.

Image Credit: Ben Zartman

Danielle Zartman consults a chart. Below, she is on the helm of Capella, the couple’s Irwin 27.

“How can you be sure Block Island is there?” Danielle had asked several hours before, when I suggested we put in there instead of sailing on to our original destination, the fabled Nantucket. We’d had to look sharp not to get run over just then, as we’d spied two ships in line bearing down on us just as the fog thickened in the uncertain light of dawn.

“I can’t really,” I was forced to admit, “but we got a good fix last night from Arcturus and Vega, and when that ship relayed her position a few minutes ago, I took a bearing on the sound of her foghorn-”

“But you don’t even know if that was her foghorn we heard!” Danielle interjected. “There were about six of them going off right then.”

It was true. The fog had brought with it a chorus of hoots, bleats and whistles, making it sound as though we were sailing through a whole fleet of big ships. “Well, it seems to match our DR fix,” I added. “Anyhow, there are loads of bell buoys out here; when we hear one we’ll sail straight for it and identify it. Then we’ll know our exact position. If we hear a horn, we’ll know it’s Montauk Point, and leave it well to port.”

My wife’s grip tightened on the tiller, but she said nothing. She’s pretty game about that sort of thing. Besides, we haven’t ever hit anything.

“I think it’s just off to port,” called Danielle, pulling the varnished tiller toward her. It was sounding clearer now, definitely a buoy’s bronze bell.

Image Credit: Ben Zartman

The author uses a hand-bearing compass to get an line of position. Though tempted to turn on their GPS, the couple stuck to their plan and relied on traditional nav techniques.

“What’s the bearing?” I inquired as I went below for another look at the damp chart.

“Pretty much straight north. Oops! I can’t hear it anymore.”

I stuck my head out the companionway. The low growl of big diesels passing by astern was drowning out the feeble sounds of our beacon. “Curse those powerboats!” I exclaimed peevishly. We had been plagued by them quite enough on this passage, roaring around in the fog. They were sportfishers mostly, out in droves to enjoy the flat calm that had lain over the North Atlantic for almost a week. We also had enjoyed the calm, slipping along at about a knot and a half for days on end over a glassy sea; for once getting plenty of rest despite having to hand-steer and watch the whole time. We saw amazing amounts of sea life – tuna, porpoise, countless jellyfish, turtles, ocean sunfish, sharks and whales – that you just don’t see very often when it’s rough.

The powerboats had been the only thing to disturb the peace, plowing foaming furrows through the quiescent sea and causing us no end of concern in times of fog. Our cheeks had grown remarkably sore from blowing our little plastic foghorn, its quack-like sound a puny antistrophe to the sonorous bellows of the bigger ships.

When we next heard the bell, after the diesels had grumbled out of earshot, it sounded off to starboard. Danielle pushed the helm over while I trimmed the sails. We had to find it. If we couldn’t, I told myself, I would cave in and turn on our hand-held Magellan, which had been at rest since we’d been caught in that midnight blow weeks ago off of Cape Fear.

Several times a minute I wiped water droplets from my glasses, the better to peer into the gloom. The buoy appeared all of a sudden, the way objects do in the fog – red No. 2. To leap below and find it on the chart took only a moment. Wow! We were much closer to Block Island than I’d dared to hope!

“The next buoy bears 75 degrees,” I called through the hatch. “We should probably steer 10 degrees to starboard of that, since the tide is setting northwest pretty fast.”

“Okay,” gulped Danielle, adjusting her course. “How far away is it?”

“We should pick it up in about 15 minutes at this speed,” I replied with a glance over the side. Capella is not equipped with a speed log, and we usually guess our speed by watching the bubbles slip past. Danielle had worked out a speed formula that involved tossing a matchstick overboard from the bow and timing its passage along the waterline, but we didn’t have time for that now. I stumbled forward to keep a watch into the impenetrable gloom as the sound of red No. 2 faded away astern.

Image Credit: Alfred Wood/Ocean Navigator

The author’s route from Virginia to Block Island had them crossing the busy shipping lanes to New York.

Sure enough, 10 minutes later we heard the faint sounds of a gong, and soon another red buoy loomed ahead, then swept past.

“This is the last buoy before the entrance,” I called out as a third red marker bobbed by our starboard side a little while later.

“Do you think we should anchor and wait for the fog to lift before we try to run the channel?”

“There’s no lee anywhere on this side,” I answered, digging through a locker for the lead line. “It should be well enough marked that we can grope our way in. Danger soundings to make sure we’re not too close,” I said, holding up our length of line, knotted at every fathom and weighted with a lump of lead.

Splash! The lead was cast and the familiar line ran through my fingers, but it never went slack. “No bottom at 5 fathoms!” I called out. That was good. We wanted to keep a respectful distance, and unless that last buoy was mismarked on the chart, we were only 300 yards away from the island’s boulder-strewn shore. Wiping my glasses yet again, I squinted into the white curtain of fog. What if Block Island wasn’t there after all? What if this line of buoys we were using to feel our way along was the one that leads into Buzzard’s Bay, 40 miles to the east?

Leaving the sounding line flaked out on the foredeck, I made my way aft to where my excellent wife sat steering blindly into the mist. She has no evidence, I thought, of our real position save for my assertions. What if I was wrong, after all? At last my will wavered; I was reaching for the shelf where the GPS is kept when Danielle’s cry of, “What’s that?” arrested my hand.


A Tamaya Jupiter sextant from Weems & Plath.

Gazing along her pointing finger I saw a dark shape off to starboard. Could it be? As we watched, enthralled, the fog thinned and suddenly was gone, revealing a rocky, shingly beach backed by gloriously fresh-green hills, all bathed in warm sunshine. New England! Better yet, unmistakably Block Island!

Before I turned away from the shelf to go forward to the bow and unlimber the anchors in preparation for ending our trip, I reached out and gave our trusty old GPS a pat. Why? Just for luck, I guess.

“I can’t really,” I was forced to admit, “but we got a good fix last night from Arcturus and Vega, and when that ship relayed her position a few minutes ago, I took a bearing on the sound of her foghorn-”

“But you don’t even know if that was her foghorn we heard!” Danielle interjected. “There were about six of them going off right then.”

It was true. The fog had brought with it a chorus of hoots, bleats and whistles, making it sound as though we were sailing through a whole fleet of big ships. “Well, it seems to match our DR fix,” I added. “Anyhow, there are loads of bell buoys out here; when we hear one we’ll sail straight for it and identify it. Then we’ll know our exact position. If we hear a horn, we’ll know it’s Montauk Point, and leave it well to port.”

My wife’s grip tightened on the tiller, but she said nothing. She’s pretty game about that sort of thing. Besides, we haven’t ever hit anything.

“I think it’s just off to port,” called Danielle, pulling the varnished tiller toward her. It was sounding clearer now, definitely a buoy’s bronze bell.

“What’s the bearing?” I inquired as I went below for another look at the damp chart.

“Pretty much straight north. Oops! I can’t hear it anymore.”

I stuck my head out the companionway. The low growl of big diesels passing by astern was drowning out the feeble sounds of our beacon. “Curse those powerboats!” I exclaimed peevishly. We had been plagued by them quite enough on this passage, roaring around in the fog. They were sportfishers mostly, out in droves to enjoy the flat calm that had lain over the North Atlantic for almost a week. We also had enjoyed the calm, slipping along at about a knot and a half for days on end over a glassy sea; for once getting plenty of rest despite having to hand-steer and watch the whole time. We saw amazing amounts of sea life &mdash tuna, porpoise, countless jellyfish, turtles, ocean sunfish, sharks and whales &mdash that you just don’t see very often when it’s rough.

The powerboats had been the only thing to disturb the peace, plowing foaming furrows through the quiescent sea and causing us no end of concern in times of fog. Our cheeks had grown remarkably sore from blowing our little plastic foghorn, its quack-like sound a puny antistrophe to the sonorous bellows of the bigger ships.

When we next heard the bell, after the diesels had grumbled out of earshot, it sounded off to starboard. Danielle pushed the helm over while I trimmed the sails. We had to find it. If we couldn’t, I told myself, I would cave in and turn on our hand-held Magellan, which had been at rest since we’d been caught in that midnight blow weeks ago off of Cape Fear.

Several times a minute I wiped water droplets from my glasses, the better to peer into the gloom. The buoy appeared all of a sudden, the way objects do in the fog &mdash red No. 2. To leap below and find it on the chart took only a moment. Wow! We were much closer to Block Island than I’d dared to hope!

“The next buoy bears 75 degrees,” I called through the hatch. “We should probably steer 10 degrees to starboard of that, since the tide is setting northwest pretty fast.”

“Okay,” gulped Danielle, adjusting her course. “How far away is it?”

“We should pick it up in about 15 minutes at this speed,” I replied with a glance over the side. Capella is not equipped with a speed log, and we usually guess our speed by watching the bubbles slip past. Danielle had worked out a speed formula that involved tossing a matchstick overboard from the bow and timing its passage along the waterline, but we didn’t have time for that now. I stumbled forward to keep a watch into the impenetrable gloom as the sound of red No. 2 faded away astern.

Sure enough, 10 minutes later we heard the faint sounds of a gong, and soon another red buoy loomed ahead, then swept past.

“This is the last buoy before the entrance,” I called out as a third red marker bobbed by our starboard side a little while later.

“Do you think we should anchor and wait for the fog to lift before we try to run the channel?”

“There’s no lee anywhere on this side,” I answered, digging through a locker for the lead line. “It should be well enough marked that we can grope our way in. Danger soundings to make sure we’re not too close,” I said, holding up our length of line, knotted at every fathom and weighted with a lump of lead.

Splash! The lead was cast and the familiar line ran through my fingers, but it never went slack. “No bottom at 5 fathoms!” I called out. That was good. We wanted to keep a respectful distance, and unless that last buoy was mismarked on the chart, we were only 300 yards away from the island’s boulder-strewn shore. Wiping my glasses yet again, I squinted into the white curtain of fog. What if Block Island wasn’t there after all? What if this line of buoys we were using to feel our way along was the one that leads into Buzzard’s Bay, 40 miles to the east?

Leaving the sounding line flaked out on the foredeck, I made my way aft to where my excellent wife sat steering blindly into the mist. She has no evidence, I thought, of our real position save for my assertions. What if I was wrong, after all? At last my will wavered; I was reaching for the shelf where the GPS is kept when Danielle’s cry of, “What’s that?” arrested my hand.

Gazing along her pointing finger I saw a dark shape off to starboard. Could it be? As we watched, enthralled, the fog thinned and suddenly was gone, revealing a rocky, shingly beach backed by gloriously fresh-green hills, all bathed in warm sunshine. New England! Better yet, unmistakably Block Island!

Before I turned away from the shelf to go forward to the bow and unlimber the anchors in preparation for ending our trip, I reached out and gave our trusty old GPS a pat. Why? Just for luck, I guess.

By Ocean Navigator