It’s hard to build up to this story.  The videos would have helped.  The first 24 hours were trying beyond belief.  I knew I needed a north wind, but hated everything the north wind brought with it: cold, rain, clouds, and no sun.  I ran down the shipping fairway so that I wouldn’t have to worry about changing course every 30 minutes or less to avoid an oil rig or gas well head.  That part worked, but sharing a marine highway with everything from cruise ships to trans-pacific tankers makes it hard to catch a nap.  Freezing in my cockpit, seasick, unable to eat or drink, no sleep possible made me understand why so many well meaning cruisers sell their boat after the first crossing.  I was shaken, shaking, and scared.

Dawn on day two and I am as cold and miserable as I’ve ever been.  Wind and seas continue to build and I recall asking s/v SOEL on the VHF, “It gets better, right”?  It did.  By the third day, hump day, I was eating and sleeping at will and loving every aspect of what I was doing.  The sun was out, the seas where huge, but had a long period and Jargo was riding to them easy.  Steering problem.  Heartbeat in check, it will hold until I make landfall.  Flying fish everywhere launching themselves to graceful flight escaping the whale, Jargo.  Hurricane IKE ration for dinner, a military MRE, pork rib that’s the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted.  It even had clam chowder and nacho cheese.  This pork rib must be the same greatness that has fueled the McDonalds McRib phenomenon.

Wednesday.  God I love the sun.  That greatest of all maritime beacons somehow gives me hope that all is going to be OK.  Winds are fluky and I get caught by a surprise front that scares the hell out of me.  Find the iPod and give it a charge.  Music.  Good, bad, and ugly, the music casts a spell over the boat and I cruise along fueled on the dream, the dream of realizing a dream.  Too excited to sleep.  Hail a cargo ship for weather, the first I’ve seen in three days.  Reports a strong gale from west Cuba to the Yucatan, my course.  Not good.  Time to motorsail like hell.  Surfing the waves at 9 knots.  Mexican fishing fleet is out in force.  No f’ing lights.  No sleep.  Can’t tell what the fishing boats are about.

Thursday – THURSDAY!!!  GPS says I’ll be at anchor by noon tomorrow.  Really hate the Yucatan Channel.  Tall waves, back to back.  Maybe a 2 second period, if that.  Like being in a washing machine.  Land HO!!  Isla Contoy.  Almost there.  Finally have Isla Mujeres in sight.  22 hours on watch.  Too tired to be excited.  Need to be there.  Almost to Punta Sul, the south rock, ready to drop sail and motor to the anchorage.  Engine quits!  Oh god no, please not now.  Trim main to maintain course.  Must round Punta Sul under sail and get into the lee of the island to begin working on engine.  Chart says may be able to drop anchor if need be.  Cleared Punta Sul.  Trim main sail to hold course for main channel and drop below.  Fuel vacuum gauge reading through the roof.  Engine can’t pull fuel.  Alter course and trim sail again, then remove the fuel pick up from the diesel tank.  Eventually find a clog in the petcock and get it cleared.  Bleed the engine and go back on deck to restart.

NO NO NO.  Back on deck and I look down.  Rocks and coral.  Boat is about to go aground.  God no please. NO, no, not now.  A quick glance at the depth sounder, 29 feet, deep water.  Tears.  Huge, giant, alligator tears.  I am in no danger.  I haven’t drifted off course.  I’ve done it.  Like a ton of bricks, I’ve done it.  I am in the crystal clear waters of my dream.  Tears again, extreme joy.  God I am tired.  Radio call from SOEL wanting my status.  Respond on VHF, “getting naked on route to anchorage”.

Anchor down.  No good.  Winds too high and too spent to stand anchor watch.  Call to marina for a slip and help getting in.  Good crowd to help the singlehander.  Someone calls me Captain and hands me a Pacifico beer.  God it’s good.  My first in a week.  A few pleasantries.  Boats secure.  Sleep.  Deep, deep, unmoving, undisturbed sleep.  A sleep of death.

Lee Winters
Phone: (281) 336-0855
Satellite Phone: 8816-316-59853

Web: www.SailingForSOS.com
Email: Lee.Winters@SailingForSOS.com