Confused Seas

Sailing from Nombre de Dios, Panama to Cartagena, Colombia

This is Clouds Form Over Land, weekly writing about resilience, imperfectionism, and our relationship to the earth.

Although there are exceptions, a vast majority of the times we share our plans and progress sailing from California to the Chesapeake Bay, two questions arise.

1. How big is the boat?

2. Have you hit any bad weather?

The other day I met someone who rode a horse from Montana to California. This uncommon slice of shared history gave me a glimpse of what it's like to be on the receiving end of such odd transit stories. 

How big was the horse? People still do that?

We have a few stories on the shelf that can get the heart pumping, without unpacking too much trauma or sailing terminology with newlymets. For the most part though, weather indicators and modern technology help us stay in port while the big storms blow over. 

This time of year, we were looking for the “least bad” time to sail east to Cartagena from Panama. The breeze was blowing directly from our destination and sailboats require an angle of about 50 degrees off the wind to create lift and generate forward motion. The full trade winds typically fill in around Christmas and make this passage impossible until March, or perhaps merely foolhardy. 

We spotted a “least bad” weather window and went for it. 

Waves were up and active in the channel exiting the marina and two friends waved goodbye from the lighthouse. One friend, Mike, shouted “perfect day!” and then hustled back to his boat to hail us on VHF for one last cya later. We set the sails in a moderately strong breeze. A distinct transition from turquoise to dark blue hinted that the waves may dull in deep water, but did not deliver. Our nerves settled slightly and we dropped into the watch schedule. A passing boat hailed, a family we met a few weeks prior. When we arrived here, we only knew one boat sailing in the Caribbean. Now we were a few calls short of a radio show.

The weather in the Pacific is slower, building up along large stretches of water without influence from the topography and heat of land masses. The Caribbean is a shiftier sea, so we hired a weather expert to help us demystify the timing of our next passages. Gosh did it feel good to call in some help. The team suggested using our motor to achieve a closer wind angle than possible under sails alone and head straight toward Cartagena. We set the autopilot and the playlist.

A few hours later, all three stomachs aboard were churning as we launched over waves. The wave height was 5-7 feet with a period of 5-7 seconds. The direction of the waves was mostly straight on, the wobbly remnants of water reflecting and distorting off islands around the Caribbean. This patterning was a boon for ancient mariners to hone in on where land was located, but a discomfort for us with our fancy charts. It's one thing to watch Moana and another to feel these patterns relentlessly bumping into each other and thrashing the vessel about. 

We’ve all been seasick before, but never simultaneously. The usual protocols set in: simple foods and water and ginger for the humans, hibernation for the cat in her cozy den. We all dislike using the engine out at sea. The noise and vibrations add more stimuli for the inner ear to handle, at a time when they’re already working in overdrive. Diesel is limited compared to the wind and spare parts for any mechanical failings can be hard to find down here.

Later that night, I spotted water up over the floorboards at the change of watch. Umm. OK. Uhh.

Down below, I lifted one floor board and a huge splash of water showed the bilge was full to the brim. The automatic float switch on the pump had clocked out and something else was letting water in at an alarming rate. One of us held the manual switch while the other checked for potential water sources, monitored the bilge pump’s progress in lowering the water, and tossed their crackers over the side of the rail. The pump was outpacing the leak, but we hadn’t found the source of the seawater yet. Scott checked behind the starboard settee and felt a steady dripping. At the edge of his grasp, he could tell that a hose had slipped off the end of a waterline thruhull — this fitting that usually facilitates water exiting the boat was now ushering it in.

I duct-taped the manual bilge pump switch to the on position.

In a flurry with more interludes of vomiting, we hove-to to get the boat on an even keel and cease progress further offshore. We emptied a cupboard to get access to the top of the thruhull. Kombucha containers, soggy notebooks, and four binders of instruction manuals found new homes in our bed and galley sink. I stuck half my body into the cupboard to try to reattach the hose. Scott lay with his arm extended to finagle the fitting from below. After lots of wiggling, it still wouldn’t slide on.

Time was moving fast and slow. Seasickness was the devil on our shoulders saying, “just rest!” but there was salt water in the boat. My mind was like a drum beat: fix it or sink, fix it or sink, fix it or sink. The situation was manageable, but we needed to manage it. Something shifted. We realized the hose didn’t need to be reattached now if we could stop the water some other way. I reached for two wooden bungs, removed the hose, and tapped them into place with a rolling pin luckily at hand in the cupboard.

Bungs in place, bilge empty, off-watch back to the bunk.

The full moon had a spotlight on us, rising astern and arching over the bow by morning. We'd been watching it grow during the past two weeks of preparation. Getting our exit paperwork in order with Panama, improving how we rig the storm jib, researching the route, eyeing the weather, and stowing everything neatly to grab in case of emergency. The reflection of the sun on the moon’s face was a comfort. We cast aside the more aggressive angle towards Cartagena, shut the motor down, and updated the course to Isla Fuerte. The next 24 hours passed in the haziness of four hours on watch, four hours off. The playlist continued to run. The sea state calmed as we went at the pace of the sails and laid into the course, but was still far from comfortable.

A few times, seeing the matter-of-fact marking of “Caribbean Sea” on the charts struck us both with feelings of gratitude to have gotten this far and to still be underway.

Finally closer to Colombia and south of Cartagena, a man and his son guided us past some fishing lines and pointed out a spot near Isla Fuerte. We set the anchor and crashed on the settees. They came back to sell some new-to-us tropical fruits and fish. Cypress was out of hibernation as soon as the anchor was set and delighted on lots of fish for dinner. Our capacity rebounded with each anchorage on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights. We inched closer to Cartagena in 25-40 mile increments during daylight. By the last stop, we were feeling refueled by meals, rest, and sorting out the boat.

People want to know how cramped and dangerous the journey has been, perhaps to be reassured that life is more comfortable on land or that shaking up your circumstances is regrettable, only for the exceptional, or just not worth the hassle. 

My inclination is to smooth out the rough edges or discount our efforts by saying if we can do it, anyone can. Most anyone can fit a round peg in a round hole and hit it with a rolling pin. Add confused seas and sail yourself forty miles offshore and it’s not easy, but still made of simple steps. You would do this to save your life, or at least to avoid the uncertainty inherent in boarding a liferaft.

The challenging part was leaving the dock in Alameda, California, and then leaving every dock after that. Learning the tipping point of preparation necessary to make the next jump. Trusting that you will rise to whatever occasion. I believe that there’s nothing extraordinary about our qualifications as sailors. We aren’t supernaturally brave. We didn’t come out of the womb with a sextant in hand. If anything, we are just incredibly stubborn with a soft spot for doing the millions of tiny tasks that keep the boat moving. And we really like sailing.

Cartagena and civilization on the horizon. December 9, 2022.

Can Do List:

1. Make a meal for a friend who is nearing the edge of their capacity. Are you the friend? Someone surely would love to help.

2. Add a plan b to winter travel plans in case of icy roads or other obstacles.

3. Transit in an unusual way this week.

4. Join me for an hour of mending tomorrow night at 7 PM Eastern. Reply to this email to be added to the Zoom invite. Backstory here and here.

Written in the spirit of not letting what we can’t do get in the way of what we can.

Did you try any of these? I’d love to hear about it.