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june/july 2018cruisingworld.comCaribbean, survive the greedy paper-push-
ers of Panama and be back in our beloved
pearl-strewn Tuamotus in no time.
Alas, a persistent low-pressure zone
just south of Santa Marta, Colombia,
intensifi ed and decided to have some fun
at our expense. We’d just spent a year
tooling around the benign Lesser Antilles,
and it was time for an offshore reality
check. Yes, we knew we were sailing into
gale-force winds and an area of strong
currents, but the low-pressure system was
rudely in our way, and I’m a macho guy.
“How bad can it be?” I asked my
wife, Carolyn, who looked stricken and
replied, “That is always a stupid thing to
say, Fatty. Always!”
It wasn’t the steady 36 knots of breeze
that got us, or the gusts to 47; it was the
weirdly jumbled current and confused
seas. Oh, yes, and the cross swell too. It
was like sailing through a wave-heaped
storm cauldron with huge geysers of
water clapping together into random
mountainous wave trains.
Translation: It was rougher than I’d
anticipated.
I have another confession to make:I’d just spent the past year shaking the
money tree by giving cruising seminars,
during which I was forced to listen to
myself publicly proclaiming some small
degree of intelligence coupled with a
massive dose of bravery. And, well, it was
impossible not to start to believe some
of my sophomoric drivel! So, evidently,
Mother Ocean and Neptune had a little
meeting and decided to take De Fat Mon
down a peg or two.
The fi rst incident took place just after
midnight, when the steering line that
connects our Monitor windvane to our
cockpit wheel broke. I was dozing au
naturel in the aft cabin when we unex-
pectedly jibed, were caught aback, sharply
heeled and started to round up. All this
before I could say, “ Where are my shorts?”
Normally, jibing our storm staysail
isn’t too bad, but in these boisterous seas
(think waves breaking astern and some
coming aboard) it was somewhat exciting,
believe me.
At once, I rushed on deck, pantsless,
shoeless and brainless — evidently, the
exact combo Ma Ocean and King Nep
had hoped for. It was overcast. Numeroussqualls were about. There was no moon,
and the seas looked like dark, looming
liquid mountains. Our intermittent
compass light (the problem was hard to
troubleshoot and fi x because the bulb
always worked in harbor) oriented me
as to the vertical. I grabbed the helm,
glanced at the Windex aloft and forced
Ganesh’s bow back down in the 30 to 40
knots of wind trying to round us up.
Sad to say, Carolyn, my partner offshore
for 48 years, found this all amusing, espe-
cially my clothing disarray, so to speak.
In the cockpit, there were snapping lines
and a spinning self-steering clutch on the
wheel, right at belt level.
She’s a bit of a feminist. “Ah,” she said
with a smile from the companionway, “the
advantages of an inboard rig! Watch the
soft bits, honey. ”
Then just when I had things back on
course, our compass light strobed off.
Then on. Then off.
“Damn it,” I hissed to her. “I haven’t
been this disoriented since Studio 54.”
She sounded amazed. “Bits of the
1970s are starting to fi lter back into your
consciousness?”
Gosh, she was in a playful mood!
I ignored her and instead concentrated
on the blinking compass light while
attempting to keep the careening
surfboard of a boat on course.
“Loose connection,” I blurted out at
one point. She knew that I’d replaced the
compass light switch just before we left
Great Cruz Bay.
“Perhaps the problem is in your
brainstem,” she said, misunderstanding
me completely.
In order to save money, we keep most
of our electronics belowdecks to prevent
water intrusion. In this case, I had to have
Carolyn hand me the electric-powered
autopilot head so I could connect its wires
while steering with my hips amid the
lumps and potholes. Occasionally, she’d
shine her fl ashlight out at me, just to spice
up the challenge.
“Give a man some modesty!” I bellowed.
“Must be scared,” she teased back as
she tossed pieces of clothing my way.
Finally, I managed to dress, if wearing
one shoe and inside-out sailing shorts
qualifi es as such.
“You are a fashionista,” she said, then
added coyly, “Should I grab the camera for
your many fans?”
“No time for posing,” I said hastily after
the Robertson autopilot was engaged and
tracking. “This SOB must fi x the Monitor
ASAP, OK?”
“L-O-L,” she replied.
It was a wild, storm-tossed night, and
we both felt giddy. We came here for
adventure, and we were getting it. WhatClockwise from top left: The Cap’n celebrated his arrival in Panama with a
sporty new shirt. Caribbean jack-0f-all-trades Davis Murray swings the com-
pass on Ganesh. Control lines on the Monitor windvane must be led through
holes in the rudder shaft. Time and sunlight takes a toll on control lines.CAROLYN GOODLANDER