Editors
note: Esther Granville & Sean Prendergast came to Oriental
in December with a broken mast. They both made repairs, made
friends, and touched hearts during their month+ long stay. Here
is a report from Esther from February 4 as they make their way
south...
After our
first long passage, Sean and I are safely in Charleston, SC.
HURRAY! The experience was trying and exciting, and reminded
us that the ocean is nothing to mess with...
We left on Sat morning from Southport, NC, at the opening of
the Cape Fear river. We had been waiting for our weather window,
and it came just at the right time. Winds in the area are typically
westerly this time of year, which would be undesirable for this
passage, since our boat can only point about 45 degrees into
the wind. After motoring through the "ditch" from
Wrightsvlle Beach, we chilled out for a day with the expected
North East winds on their way to push us 130 miles southwest
to Charleston.
Esther
& Sean during their Oriental visit |
The trip
began with a calm on the water- so calm that it was nearly unbelievable
that we were in the Atlantic. Maybe 5 knots of wind, barely
moving along. By nightfall, we had travelled about 20 miles.
At 6 pm, it was my turn to take the first watch. At three hour
intervals, we should each get enough sleep to keep us alert
on the water. We watched the sun go down on the water as a slight
breeze picked up. Now we were moving, the deep turquise color
of the water darkening, only lit with a water trail behind the
boat that sparkled with phosphorescense. I radio to Kevin, our
travel parter, who is on his own 26 sailboat. Kevin can hear
us on his radio, but it is malfunctioning and he cant transmit
a message back to us. We can however talk in code, since we
can hear the "click click" of his transmitter if he
pushes the button down on the radio. One click for yes, two
clicks for no. We dont know exactly where Kevin is out there,
but we know that hes doing ok.
Sean took over from 9-12, where I was able to sleep lightly
for a few hours. Still calm. When I went out for my next watch,
I sat down, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. We use a glow
stick to light the compass and keep our heading, but the best
way to make way is to find a star and keep it lined up in the
shrouds. Just to my left, a splash in the water. A little skittish,
I look to my left, making sure that there was nothing in the
water that we were going to hit, and imagined a monsterous whale,
playfully capsizing our boat. Many times I would contemplate
going overboard. Would that be the end of me? Would it be possible
to survive these cold waters? Then I saw the delightful form
of a dolphin's dorsal fin cut the surface of the water. What
a beautiful sight. One lept up, slapping itself hard back into
the water, making a big splash. I saw that this was a pod of
dolphins as I watched between six and ten of them, all swimming
just beside me. They swam under the water to the right side
of the boat, and I could feel their mass brushing under our
hull. one of them came up so close beside me that I could hear
the light suction sound the dolphin makes when it takes a breath
of air. As our English sailing friend Phil recently wrote in
an email, I knew that the day I wasnt fascinated by the sight
of a dolphin anymore would be the day I should stop sailing.
When I went back out for my next watch at 6 am, the wind was
blowing hard. We had already changed to the storm jib, but it
was getting rougher. The sun was up within that next hour, making
me a little more secure in dealing with heavy seas. I focused
on my heading and looked back regularly to keep the waves moving
toward the stern.
I had my eye on a cargo ship, and suddenly, BOOM! A wave crashed
directly over the stern of the boat, knocking the rivets right
out of the engine hatch hinge, filling our cockpit with water.
I yelled "water!," and Sean jumped up to check it
out. I was sopping wet, looking down to see that the scups were
draining this water. Was there going to be another one of these
waves coming? Was this it? Was our boat going to sink? I look
behind me, another wave of this set raising the boat. Sean says
"surf it!," as I hold tight to the tiller, keeping
the wave from pushing us sideways and capsizing the boat. Sean
tells me that these were rogue waves, created when two or three
waves with similar energies combine into one. they always come
in sets of three. Sean goes back down below, I'm ok, and that
wave must have been unusual.
At eight
thirty, another wave over the transom. Im soaked, I'm scared,
and Im ready to go below. The weather isnt going to get any
better today, I can tell. Sean takes over for the better part
of the day, while I sit below contemplating, "was it all
worth it?" He is now allowing the jib to do its own job,
while he focuses astern to keep the waves at our backs. We have
secondary waves hitting the starboard, periodically submerging
the boat in a blanket of water. Some of them pitch the boat
briefly on its side, and I hear Sean bracing his body to stay
in the cockpit. The safety harnesses that we wear lend a slight
sense of security.
I look at our charts, and we realize that we are about 50 miles
due east of Charleston's MoA bouy, and its time to pinch tight
if we are going to make it. We are heading west but need to
head North, as the waves are pushing us south. We had our life
jackets and flares ready- just in case. Finally we are about
5 miles from the buoy, it's been a hard fight but I get the
feeling that we have gotten through this one. I am navigating
for Sean- we need to head up, head up! We are basically moving
sideways in the opposite direction of the waves, turning to
ride with them when a big one comes along. We fire up the engine
and lower our sail to fight these waters and make way to the
channel. Sean looks at me with concern in his eyes. After taking
waves over the side of the boat for several hours, he tells
me he's going below. He thinks he's becoming hypothermic. How
selfish of me to allow him to take charge for that long. I had
let my fear take over.
I am relieved because I can see land- finally, as well as some
markers that will lead us into the channel. As I travel into
the breakwater, I feel a lifted intensity. We are not going
to die today! Thank you, my little Sea Otter, you kept us safe
and sound today! I think in concern about our friend Kevin.
I radioed to him a couple hours before. I told him that we were
8 miles due east of the MoA. Two clicks meant that he was further
away. Single handing his boat through this weather made me nervous,
especially when he couldnt really communicate any problems he
might be having. As I looked back onto the breakers we had finally
found refuge from, there was Kevin, sailing just behind us.
What an amazing feeling to know that we were all going to be
ok.
We dropped the anchor in the Ashley river, just on the waterfront
of historic Charleston. Seans friend, Mackey, insisted on picking
us up. As we stepped into his car, filled with three college
kids who had been partying their butts off that Superbowl Sunday,
I couldnt really speak of the experience that I had just been
through. How surreal it felt to be on land again, completely
exhausted from lack of sleep and the final release of racing
adrenaline. That night Sean and I slept in a real bed for the
first time in a while, and I had dreams about being on the water.
Happy
as can be.
Esther
Read
more about Sean and Esther in The
Shipping News
