Lunchtime today (and the lack of boats, rigs, buoys, or other neighbors) marked the reinstatement of a classic tradition aboard the Faith: Naked Stern Diving. Those who have had the pleasure - it's just as great but saltier and the water is a lot clearer and warmer. For those who have not:
1) Secure docking line to one of stern cleats.
2) Remove clothing and secure line to self.
3) Stand on back of boat, psyching self up for potentially last act in life punctuated by comical but dizzyingly foolish errors.
4) Reconsider.
5) Exclaim, "Aw, hell with it!" or other appropriate expletive.
6) Leap into water!
7) Enjoy being towed through clean, clear, warm water without clothes, dunking head under, checking out Faith's underside�.
8) Check for sharks. Or barracuda. Or jellyfish. Ect, ect.
9) Haul back to boat. Quickly.
10) Climb back aboard, happy and refreshed.
It's probably not the projected Mother of All Storms thrashing the shorebound that's been keeping this expanse of the Gulf clear of traffic and obstacles, Brian would like to point out. This is just your garden variety thunder storm. It's much more likely to be the fact that our course has taken us across an Unexploded Ordinance Dumping Site, followed by an extensive Missile Testing Area. We avoided the section of chart labeled "Danger Area," figuring that if they wouldn't even tell us what kind of danger we'd be putting ourselves in, we wanted no part of it.
Incidentally, we pulled aboard a lifevest with a strobe light and EPIRB (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon - not triggered) that was floating by. We'll have to check with the Coast Guard in Clearwater to see if it's anything important. If not, we've got some extra safety gear. If so, good luck to whomever owns it!
Not that lunacy and danger have reigned unchallenged (except by flying fish!) the whole time. The most touchingly beautiful part of the day came late in the evening as Eric plied the helm and I stood watch, drowsily peering at the horizon. A little sea sparrow flew up to the boat, checked us out, flew around the boat, came up to us again and landed on my knee! I'm not kidding! Then it circled us again and landed on the opposite combing from me. There it remained for a few minutes, chirping distractedly until it did a little hop-flap over to my knee again! From there it once more circled the boat, perching on the cabin hatch before finally departing toward the nearest shore. Farewell friend! May the wind rise to meet you!
Day 23: Great progress has been made - we are almost to Clearwater! As this is written we fly with the big surf toward the Florida coast, a mere 60 miles out from our destination. We're about to complete the single longest, uninterrupted sail planned for the voyage. Yea!!! Today was fraught with fabulous winds all morning and afternoon followed by increasing seas into evening. We took down the big jib about three-thirty and set the storm jib, then lowered even it after an hour. The boat is presently like a surfer's dream: Sunset, and the hiss of foam. Angled for the best ride possible, Faith's tack takes her tearing along before a following sea, waves coming up from behind, lifting, pushing, letting her ride the crest, caressing her frothily in departure, lifting again�.
The radio had been playing, a sure sign that all hell was about to break loose. Prior to the wind picking up we'd had somewhat slower going. A rather relaxing afternoon, sunny and warm. The wind rose slowly over the later hours of the day, finally reaching the point where we would have been well advised to drop some sail and rig the storm jib. But as I mentioned, we had music blaring - if computer speakers can be said to "blare". The wind probably started roaring just below the symphonic strains of System of a Down's "Toxicity" album. This is heavy metal at its finest and the adrenaline it was lending us may have factored into our reluctance to abide the suggestions lent us by the elements. I can hear the elements now: "Good afternoon, Sailors! We're going to start really blowing in a minute and�.Hey! Are you listening? Huh. I don't think they can hear me. Hurricane! Haha! They can't hear me. Fine. Maybe this will get their attention."
I was on the tiller when a few flecks of spray splashed me in the face. Looking aft (that's backward or behind), I realized that the waves which had just minutes ago been running an average of three feet were now crescendoing at seven and eight. Normally, you understand, we run a very democratic ship. From time to time, however, fascist rule is necessary to organize our floating social experiment. So it was that debate was temporarily suspended, Eric was banished to the cabin to collect our electronics and stow them, and Brian was exiled to the bow to haul down the jib. To drop the jib efficiently one turns one's boat up into the wind, which for a short time makes the seas seem to behave as if they are twice as ferocious and the wind to appear to go from placid to gale force. Luckily we are experts at changing sails. It only took all of our combined efforts to haul down the jib, stuff it through the forward hatch and bend on the storm jenny (the front sail has a lot of names: Genoa, jib, jenny, to name a few. I think the nomenclature was designated specifically to confuse lubbers. Or maybe it's some sort of twisted sailor endearment connoting an unnatural love for the ship.) Before the smaller sail could be fastened to the rigging, however, those pesky elements had a little revenge in store. Having dropped the big jib, Brian was kneeling in the pulpit (the very front of the ship, if you recall) when a wave came rolling in that impressed all of us. DOWN went the bow into the trough. DOWN went Brian and the sail almost to the dipping point. UP came the wall of water masquerading as a wave. UP went Brian and the sail into the stratosphere. Then the process was repeated with the even bigger-brother-wave immediately following. Brian was satisfied with bow duty at that point (and surprisingly dry). Since then it's been like riding a sometimes splashy roller coaster. Minutes of abject boredom followed by moments of sheer panic. As sailing is supposed to be.
A highlight: just after Brian's adventure we saw a huge sea turtle! It was cruising the surface much like ourselves and dove beneath Faith as she and the turtle crossed paths. It's the biggest turtle I've ever seen in the wild. Might just fit on the floor of the cockpit if it were inclined to come along for a ride.
(Later)
One sea dweller did indeed hop aboard for a short ride - a Kamikaze Flying Fish! Little aquanaut rocketed out of the surf about two miles from Clearwater, targeted dead on my chest. Objective eliminated, he bounced into the cockpit, flapping around and mouthing the word "Bonsai!" in that peculiar way flying-fish-out-of-water do. We released the hostile prisoner with a warning, but he's likely to be a repeat offender.
May the wind be always at your back - or at least just off the forequarters!