Looking carefully between the clouds, it was possible to see the white streaks of breaking waves where the weather was obviously rougher. I contemplated the immensity of this great area of our “water planet” and was awed by the upcoming task of sailing back across it from Maui to Victoria-some 2,600 nautical miles.

This was to be my first offshore experience, and I was preparing for my change in lifestyle, following retirement from thirty-three years of high school teaching.

My first glimpse of the Hawaiian Islands was sudden. Maui quickly loomed out of the towering white cumulonimbus cloud banks and revealed itself as a patchwork of rich red soil interspersed with lush green quilt-like patches of pineapple and sugarcane fields.

It was getting dark as I reached Lahaina. I checked on Windshadow’s progress. She crossed the finish line at 1450 HRS, and we joined the ceremony at the dock where ample food and liquid refreshment were provided. She had blown out two spinnakers and had other miscellaneous damage.

The next day I met with the Skipper and the balance of the return crew. This trip was to be run with the emphasis on safety and teamwork. The Skipper is an ex-Navy S.E.A.L. with considerable ocean-sailing experience and expertise. The eight crew were given designated watches to balance their experience. The boat was reprovisioned and after minor repairs were completed, we headed off on July 15.

The trades were blowing at twenty-five to thirty knots which added to our feeling of excitement. The long-awaited journey had at last begun as we motor sailed through the Pailolo channel between Maui and the island of Molokai. We had been told that this channel can be extremely rough so we were naturally expecting some kind of sea as we nosed out into the open Pacific. The tropical land soon faded into the clouds behind us.

Waves became long and steady with a three- to four-foot easterly swell as the afternoon wore on and the light began to fade. During the raising of the blade, our working jib, my self-inflating life jacket demonstrated all its capabilities on the foredeck as a wave swamped me. The crew were amused, and I was very wet in my freshly-donned clean shorts and T-shirt. These clothes never did dry again and ended up overboard (for the sake of hygiene). In this climate we were to soon learn that microorganisms grow very well.

During the afternoon, all crew members got to try the helm to get used to its feel in relation to the action of the boat and the sea. Ken began and continued to convey to us his passion for the interlaced rhythms of the ocean. In this way he welcomed us into “his world”. We sailed on through the night, encountering several squalls. Ken hove to on the first, just to get us used to it. Squalls are usually short-lived with gusty wind and rain. They loom up from time to time as small “islands” of dark cloud, often in the evening, and it was fun to predict whether or not they would pass by.

A word or two on seasickness. Only one crew member had a short brush with this malady and only on the first day. We were all lucky. Each crew member took a pill for the first two days but many of us fancied that we didn’t need them. Seasickness on a long voyage can be dangerous as one can become very dehydrated and in any case, “it ain't fun!”

Sunday 16 July: This day was first recorded in my journal as “wonderful” and it was to be the first of many. There was a clean, blue sky with scattered cumulus clouds. The winds were blowing steadily at approximately twenty-five knots, with a beam sea and a six- to eight-foot swell. The air was warm and we felt relaxed and so privileged to be there. We fished with an eighty-foot line, and squid lure tied to a cleat at the stern.

It was not long before we caught three mahi-mahi, of which we kept two for a delicious supper. These are beautiful fish to see. They are an iridescent yellow and blue with a frontally flatted head and a streamlined tuna-like body. The colours quickly fade once they are out of the water so photographing was done with due haste. Filleted, the flesh of this fish has a sweet tuna-like taste and is flaky in consistency.

The steady winds continued. Daylight hours were uneventful and repetitive. The skipper tried out his homemade knot meter but it was rather too buoyant, so a return to the drawing board proved necessary. The night, however, extended toward the next morning, sporting a close to full moon. It was very bright and illuminated, the wind-ruffled clouds against a starlit background. The waves were spangled beneath the moon as the boat joyfully sheered onward as if it knew its destination.

By July 18 the early morning watch was sailing by the pole star, a much easier method for keeping our intended course than using the compass. It was heads up and onwards. This way we could also take in the majestic beauty of the sky (also good for posture). Soon a small squall threatened to spoil this peace but it passed by with no event. As a precaution against any more this night, we reefed the Genoa that we had been using to maintain speed.

“If you think about it, do it!” This maxim was to be reiterated several times during our journey and probably saved us from not only inconvenience but also dire consequences. This particularly applies to the early reefing of sail at the possible onset of heavy weather.

We arose for our 1200 HRS watch after a good sleep, with the offer of an unusual breakfast of green salad. My venturesome spirit clicked in and I downed it without further ado. The time of day really ceases to matter much out in the middle of a great ocean (except of course to the navigator). One watch merges into another to make one long surrealistic day. We had some more great sailing with a boat speed of nine knots over water. We often had little competitions at the wheel to see who might break the ten-knot barrier. This was to be rare and only later, during stormy conditions.

The sea had an azure blue colour, which is not found in higher latitudes. It is a result of both the high angle of the sun and the acute clarity of the water. The small whitecaps dancing on the wave tops lent an icedrink impression of freshness to the warm day.

There had been no boat sightings (aka “traffic”), since we left Hawaiian waters which prompted the comment,“We own this circle of blue!” from one of my watch. After we caught two more mahi-mahi and released them, we had a sextant lesson, which was both fascinating and informative. We all found it difficult to keep the sun’s image on the horizon and coordinating this with the dipping process required of the instrument. We shall need to practice.

There had been an ongoing water accumulation in the bilge which was cause for concern but we now had another whaler pump installed in the cockpit which seemed to help control the situation. Our “fixup man” decided to keep a daily tally of the number of pump strokes required.

On a more elevating note (pardon pun please), we had seen several flying fish on this day. They leap out of the waves suddenly and glide surprisingly great distances, perhaps as much as a hundred metres. Previously, one had even landed on the deck. Unfortunately when this happens they quickly shrivel and lose the butterfly beauty they once possessed.

Bella nocce! We started the watch with a full starlit sky and no moon. The assembled crew was briefed regarding our approach to the shipping lane between San Francisco and points west. We were instructed to watch for traffic contacts and for debris associated with the ships. Each item was to be reported to the skipper immediately along with relative bearings. The first report proved to be a false alarm as it was only the moon rising through some cloud! However this was considered to be a good practice exercise. The skipper did wryly say, “Tell me when it comes up the other side”.

The wind was fair and the barometer was still slowly rising as we gracefully gained on our objective. We spent most of that watch stargazing and spotted no debris or ships. Our sail plan was a full main and reefed Genoa. We were on a starboard tack as from the start.

This was the night that I first wore my sweater under my sailing suit. Alas we appeared to have left the tropics. The daylight 1200 HRS watch was relaxing, monitoring debris and writing our journals on deck. We referred to the cockpit as our “teak beach”. The distance covered at this point was 767.9 nm and we had chicken stirfry for supper. The next time we would have this dish would be under different circumstances.

At the end of this watch the wind dropped and we changed to the 150 Genoa, our largest sail. These sail changes require efficient teamwork that involves untying the one to be hoisted and then tying down the dropped sail. Often the larger sails are hard to hoist especially under a load.

Putting the luff into the headstay slot, the tying, hoisting and helm control, all have to be coordinated. This often had to be done in the dark, quickly, and often several times in a single watch. This might even be combined with a single or double reefing of the mainsail. Whenever one sail was switched with another the sheets also had to be changed. We soon became adept at tying bowlines with one hand in the dark. The foredeck of any sailing vessel is a dangerous place and all crew had to be clipped on to jacklines at all times after emerging from below. One slip could mean death as it is often very difficult to find and rescue anyone who falls overboard. After a watch of more than four such changes we would sleep well.

Friday, 21 July (0000–0600 HRS watch): Sometimes one has to use the term “beyond description.” This watch was one such time. It was another starlit night; we were still running on the 150 and the winds were very light. There were long periods of silence as each of us retreated into personal contemplation. We watched the moon rise as we tried to keep the boat moving along. Our course was now 020-030 so we were making some easting. The peace of this night, combined with our particular place, brought a lump to my throat and a watering of my eyes. I think it was the indefinable simplicity we all felt and will all remember. Our thoughts were allowed to wander freely.

The sun was now up, with our engine running, while we cleaned the deck etc. Here was the first time we listened to music. We danced to “the Gypsy Kings” with high spirits. At the end of our watch we turned the engine off and glancing over our shoulders we could see a classic weather sign. There were high, cirrus cloud streaks radiating from the horizon toward us. This forecasted an oncoming front which would give us a strong westerly flow and probably an associated low pressure system. For the outcome we would not have to wait long. Saturday, 22 July (0000–0600 watch): I climbed the companionway anticipating some fresh air. I was not disappointed, because the wind was now blowing quite strongly. It was our watch’s privilege to be at the very beginning of the first gale of the journey. The wind increased to twenty-five knots, through to thirty and finally peaked at forty.

This was a ride! It became very noisy down below and the eight- to ten-foot swell was on the beam, that caused the boat to roll considerably. We had sensibly reefed the Main and lowered the Genoa. We had thought about it and had done it!

Two large thermoses ended their days on the galley floor and sleeping was reported difficult by the other watch who were fastened into their cocoon-like bunks. Dolphins had visited us just before we reefed and we mused at the possibility that they were trying to tell us something. In any case these animals are considered lucky omens to sailors.

In our bunks most of us wear ear plugs to filter away annoying sounds of conversation and higher frequency deck noise. The lower level sources remain audible so one has an idea of what is happening. The interior of the boat has different modes of movement which parallel what is occurring outside. Sometimes when we would be moving fast, the boat would vibrate and pitch from stem to stern as if one was on a very bumpy road. There would be intermittent bangs as the bow rose and fell, crashing onto the incompressible brine below. At other times the ride would be soft, with a slumber-inducing roll and yaw. This, combined with the creaks and muffled snaps of the blocks and halyards,was soperific.

We were all very much into a rhythm out there in the middle of the Pacific. There was always the “circle” which from day to day, hour to hour, changed in mood and appearance. This “fluid hologram” could, to us, never be boring. It was powerful, gentle, soothing but always deserving respect. It knitted together the great jigsaw puzzle to which we all belong. Whether I was in my bunk, at the helm or doing necessary chores, its influence could always be felt. I felt I was in the right place at that point in time and I know I shall return.

We rose for the 1200-1800 HRS watch to a washed, cloudy sky, the wind had settled to eleven knots. We raised the 20 Genoa and shook out the two reefs in the Main. We sailed along contentedly, taking our usual share at the helm. We were trying to pinch up to the north to avoid dropping too far into the high-pressure system that other returning boats reported they were in. In such a place there would be very little wind and an excess use of fuel would be necessary to escape.

Sunday, 23 July: Very little good wind and certainly not in the right direction. We motored for most of this watch to keep our course on the right track. The other watch did see albatross and twelve or so dolphins after we had gone to bed. We were still hoping for stronger wind but sailing on a port tack. Having heard over the sideband radio that there was a Low to the north, we hoped that this would perk things up a bit.

By July 24 we experienced a problem with bacteria. The eggs had begun to spoil and the remaining ham was a write-off. There is only so long that these items will keep without full refrigeration resources. This boat had had battery charging deficiencies from the start; the alternator was simply not large enough to adequately keep up with the demand.

The High to our south was consolidating and growing extensively. Some boats were locked in, especially Turicum. Soon after, she lost half her rudder, and was further slowed in her progress although they never actually got to the point of asking for assistance.

By July 25 we were in the westerly wind on a beam reach with a course good for Cape Flattery. The weather was cloudy with sunny breaks. Here was some great sailing. The skipper was happy and so was the boat response! At this time the bilge water problem had seemed to have been completely solved but there was to be more to this that was at first obvious.

Supper was messy. My beef stew decided to fly across the boat and spread itself on the upholstery of the dining table seat. In the future I resolved to “gimbal” my bowl in my hand instead of leaving it to its own devices on the table.

July 26: Continued sailing under a single reefed Main and blade. We were in the true westerlies and the wind had started to build as the light faded. Soon we were putting in a second reef and by 0330 HRS it was necessary to lower the blade. The sea must have been eight to twelve foot but we could not see for certain in the dark. Winds were peaking at thirty to thirty-five knots with a beam sea. The waves came roaring toward us, lifting the boat up and in most cases pass under benignly. The occasional one would break at the side to give us a salty shower. Steering was a challenge but one of the crew who had a passion for the wheel, was in “his world”. He would deny this kind of emotion to any but his wife but this was my observation and I stuck to it.

The bioluminescence, caused by single-celled planktonic organisms, was spectacular. We had the added bonus of a school of dolphins who would rush alongside and dive under the bow. All that could be seen of each was a serpentine glowing form curving through the inky black waves. This reminded me of the scene in the Spielberg movie “Raiders of the Lost Ark” where the arc of the covenant was opened and the fiery entities streamed out, whirling ghostlike around the onlookers. Each breaking wave was visible as white phosphorescent froth that could be seen as flashing tongues clear to the horizon.

The air was much cooler, indeed somewhat chilling. At night I was wearing a full weather suit and fleece undergarments to stave off the creeping hypothermia of the early morning hours.

There was a new crisis. We had mysteriously lost all freshwater from our main tanks, leaving only the emergency jerry-cans. This necessitated a rationing system for the rest of the trip. While not devastating, it was to be rather inconvenient. Lack of sufficient water in our position could have proved very serious if other problems were to arise. We suspected that our previous bilge water buildup was in fact a leakage from the freshwater tanks.

We had a lazy day listening to jazz while the engine was on, charging the batteries. Each day-watch we would wash the dishes from the previous group and indulge in ever descending frivolous conversation. However at no time, during the whole journey, was there any negative comment levelled at any other crew member. This I found gratifyingly unique considering that we were at such close quarters. The wind had switched to the NW.. onwards to the Cape. We had 716 miles to go.

Friday, 28 July: The winds were light with the sails luffing annoyingly. Our improvised boom vang that had replaced the real one following an earlier blow had broken and had to be fixed in the morning. The engine was started and we ran under power for the most of the night followed in the day by more engine and little wind. The highlight was that we saw a group of whales though we were not sure of the species as they were too far away.

We could see the ominous threat of a front following us behind so we were ready for further sail changes. By the end of our watch we had switched the Genoa to the blade. The next watch would reef the Main as necessary.

The prediction was correct, as early on July 29, we awoke to thirty knots of wind and driving rain. It was dark with bioluminescent fire all around us and we were running on a double reefed Main and blade. At first the helm was easy to handle with a course of 020 degrees, even though the wind howled with spray everywhere. But gradually the waves built as we screamed along at more than ten knots. The sensation was somewhere between a freight train and a continuous seismic tremor. Clatters and bangs were everywhere in the rigging. The shaking, the rolling and the flashes of light from within the already luminous foam created a surrealistic experience that is difficult to describe.

Thoughts wandered from “Why am I here?” to an almost smug feeling of appreciation of the uniqueness and very personal nature of the situation. I wished my family and friends could share in this, then I would not have to struggle to explain it. The helm became more and more difficult to hold the required course. I began to hope that we would not be asked to go on the foredeck to lower the already tortured, aging blade. It was now making a noise like a gunship helicopter as the leech flapped with the turbulence created by the pieces of mylar panels stripping from the kevlar base cloth. Yes, I was thinking about what we should do but we did not do it. The wind roared and the night’s progress seemed to be suspended.

The skipper finally decided to “heave to” for the rest of the night as a compromise instead of risking an accident on the foredeck. We would not lose too much ground and we were not in a race anyway. The boat immediately slowed and began to bob rather sadly and squirm in the twisting rollers..perhaps she had been enjoying the fray.

Our watch came to an end and we retired with wet clothes..very fatigued. Unfortunately during our sleep, crewmember Angie had slipped on water that had spilled on the floor from toppled containers. She had hurt her back and would be out of commission for a few days.

As an example of irony from this night, I recall a comment from Lane:
“I was battling with the helm in thirty-five to forty-five knots and the rain was stinging my face when Dave emerged from the companionway and cheerfully said,
“The chicken and ginger stirfry is quite delicious! When will you have some?”

The 1200-1800 watch bought “All hands on deck!”, a cry from the skipper. We all scrambled up on deck to discover that the blade had been ripped beyond repair. We hauled it down in the remaining gusts from the previous night?s turmoil. They were, at times, as strong but seemed more benign in the daylight. Lane particularly enjoyed playing at the helm in the spectacular rollers while we rigged the staysail ready for future use.

We were all complemented on our speed of response to the “all hands” call, though I was in my undershorts and Lane had been sleeping for the only time in the nude. He did however emerge on deck fully attired.

By Sunday, July 30, the sea was calmer with much less wind so we hoisted the staysail. This only made about a knot difference so we lowered it and ran on the engine for the rest of the night. We had 326.5 nautical miles to go. The midday watch saw fog and the wind had risen which allowed us to make nine knots.

July 31: A large ship appeared on our radar to our stern and was closing fast. It was first sighted at eight nautical miles but the gap was quickly reduced to two miles.. concern developed. I was at the helm and we could see a large, brightly-lit freighter looming up on our starboard stern quarter with its engines throbbing threateningly. On glancing over my shoulder the definitive comment which burst out was,
“holy shit!”

The skipper soon asked for “hard a’starboard” and I responded by bringing Windshadow round from 060 to 180 degrees under power. Luckily our adversary slipped away into the night, allowing us to gather ourselves with relief and return to our original heading. Carrying the 120 Genoa and double reefed Main, we trudged on through the fog and darkness with increased vigilance on the radar.

This vessel had not answered our radio calls and probably didn?t even notice we were there. This is a common situation, where large vessels are often manned by minimal crews, who may not pay full attention to safety. No other vessels were seen for the rest of the watch. Our regulated cups of water were flowing more freely as we neared our destination. Soon we would leave the SE winds and the unstable air and slip back into the North Westerlies. A push to Cape Flattery with good speed was anticipated. I stripped the husk off one of the two coconuts we had carried from Hawaii and pierced the nut to release the milk, which was shared. A quick blow with a hammer exposed the “meat”which we also passed around, soaked in Kahlua.

We were fast heading for Buoy Juliet at the mouth of Juan de Fuca strait.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East and Juliet is the Sun.” (Thank you, William Shakespeare.)

August 1: Starlit night, west-NW wind, gusting to thirty knots. The seas built to fifteen feet as we climbed the continental shelf and the crests became closer together. We all saw the sunrise as we dodged fishing boats and freighters, getting our first look at the mountains of Vancouver Island in the distance. ?Land ho!?

Fog to begin with as we headed for the buoy. We stopped for a ceremony with “Juliet” which involved rum all round. The skipper consigned his shot to King Neptune and we also threw in the second coconut to please the Department of Agriculture. No plant materials from other countries should be imported without special permission and we did not want any delays at Customs.

This great journey ended as we secured to the Customs dock in Victoria inner harbour around 2100. We all celebrated in the expected way.

We are all so grateful that we had such a firm, fair and knowledgeable Skipper. Thank you Ken, for making this an experience of a lifetime. Thank you Angie and Sue for your extra efforts. Thank you to the rest of the crew for tolerating each other with never a negative comment.

Especially, thank you so much Walter for introducing me to sailing. I am hooked! (Windshadow is owned by Al Byers who, unfortunately, could not be on the return trip for medical reasons but did race. Many thanks to him for conceiving this whole adventure as an ocean sailing experience.)