And so our 2016 – 2019 South Pacific travels came to an end during the early morning hours of August 29th, 2019, in Port Townsend Bay, in Washington State. We unceremoniously put the transmission into neutral and drifted with the tide. We did not shut the engine off even though we had earlier been concerned about being low on fuel. It no longer mattered.
There wasn’t much to say. We were cold and exhausted. Completely drained, there was no more adrenaline to go on. Trying to anchor near shore and wait for daylight seemed like too much work—and too risky. We’d already had enough fun for the day. The only thing lifting our spirits was the fact we had made it here at all. Few people understand how close we came to losing the boat and everything we carried on board.
Maybe two hours earlier, a young-sounding voice had hailed us on the VHF radio, saying she was United States Coast Guard, and asking if we had arrived at Port Townsend yet. We had not, we said, but expected to before sunrise. The Coast Guard had been requesting periodic status reports via our Garmin InReach for a week. This was the first time they had called us by voice on the VHF. For the past 500 miles of open ocean and another 100 or so of protected inland sea, we had been steering the boat by controlling the tension on two ropes. These lines, on either side of the cockpit, ran over the side and back to the rudder where they were tied to the Sayes’ Rig tiller arm which we had had reconstructed last February, and had taken back to Fiji with us. Pulling on either side of that tiller arm was the only viable means we had of controlling the direction of the boat. Even then, it was a clumsy and imprecise process, often requiring a coordinated effort from both of us to affect even a small change in direction. One of us would let out line on one side while the other pulled it in on the other. Once the turn was made, the process was reversed to return the rudder to neutral. It didn’t always go so smoothly, and in big swells, it was mostly an exercise in frustration.
For years, we had looked at a big sailing adventure to the South Pacific as kind of a culmination of a lifetime of varied experiences. It seemed like we would have opportunities to draw on just about every past interest we had (and a whole lot of interesting new things to learn) and put them all to use during a sailing trip of this magnitude. And, after successfully reaching our “stretch goal” of spending time in New Zealand, the final leg home from Hawaii would be the victory lap of perfect sailing conditions around the top of the stationary “North Pacific High” of gentle summer winds and seas that would take us north from Hawaii and then east, all the way to the entrance of the strait of Juan de Fuca, which lies between British Columbia, Canada and Washington State. That was the expectation of how this would be wrapped up.
The problem however, was that for at least the second year in a row the summer high-pressure ridge appeared more imaginary than stationary. Still, the passage started out with high hopes. Our pleasant stay in Hawaii had taken a little longer than planned, but we weren’t really complaining (key word being Pleasant). The blown-out jib had been repaired, Costco runs had been made, and two successful trips to the Honolulu West Marine store had lightened us of plenty of cash. We even stocked up on cheap paperbacks from Walmart. The trade winds filled in nicely with a steady 20 knots, gusts to 30, and were forecast to continue for at least several days.
The winds did cause a slight problem while we were still in the marina: we could get our jib onto the deck, but couldn’t raise and furl it. The wind was too strong with respect to the direction we sat in the slip. The other problem would be getting out of the slip if a 30 knot gust hit at the wrong moment while trying to back out. We spent a lot of time watching the action of the gusts on the movement of the boat in the slip, and timing how often the gusts occurred and how long they lasted. We noticed that right around sunset, and just before sunrise, they seemed to calm some, but otherwise it was constant all day and night. The marina allowed us to stay until evening if we wanted to. So at sunset on July 17th, we chose our moment and backed out of the slip without major incident. So far, so good.
Once we got out and around the point and into the channel to head north, we thought we’d be in the lee of Oahu. Maybe we were, but the wind was still a steady 20 knots. We’d already loaded all the sail slides into the Reef-Rite furler so raising the jib was just a matter of cranking up the halyard while the boat motored into the wind. When the jib was up, we took off like a rocket. We were doing 7 knots on the jib alone. All indications (and, perhaps, wishful thinking) were that this would be a quick and easy trip home.
For the next several days we experienced some rough seas, but not too bad. We experimented with the jib and staysail, sometimes furling the jib either partially or totally. On day number 8, we finally raised the mizzen sail. We were going a little slower now, which the mizzen helped to offset, but not a bad speed at all. By day 9, everything was about as laid back as it gets. It seemed we didn’t need to change a thing. In fact, we hardly even needed to do anything. The boat just kept sailing by itself. The air temperature was a little warm, but comfortable. We took turns sleeping, watching the stars, reading, listening to music. I finished the fourth book and started looking around at some of the books Robyn had left behind to see if I could stomach reading any of them, many being what I would call teen girl fiction, or whatever. We decided we had crossed the halfway point, and celebrated.
By the start of the third week we ran out of wind. Those excellent trade winds, and maybe whatever the winds are called that came after them, had just up and quit. Our friend Joe, from our Baja buddy boat, Slainte, had been keeping in contact with us from home and became our weather router, checking various internet sites to supplant what little weather data we could get ourselves. By July 31st, we decided that the stationary North Pacific High was nowhere near forming as expected. Even worse, the weather had become cool, cloudy, damp and depressing; we had fog, even. We went for days without seeing the sun at all. The weather put a damper on more than our spirits. Without a steady 24-hour wind to spin our wind turbine generator, or all that bright sunshine on the solar panels, we consumed more electrical energy than we generated. We would need to burn diesel to recharge the batteries. Since the center fuel tank was left empty because of the rust, we only had half our usual fuel capacity. We motored through a dead air patch for eleven hours, using it as an opportunity to recharge the batteries, but still had only found a light wind.
On day number 20, we ran into a strong thunderstorm. Unlike the many tropical convergence zone squalls we sailed through closer to the equator, this one was different. It didn’t follow the same pattern and was more stressful just because of that. It was an unknown. Lightning seemed to be close all around us. By the time it had passed, one of the three GPS units we use was having difficulty. It showed our speed over the ground as being impossibly high and erratic. This particular GPS feeds our SSB radio and Pactor modem with our position and time of day, which is used to help determine distance and radio propagation to the nearest Sail Mail stations. Fortunately, after turning it off and allowing it to re-boot, it seemed to work normally again. That one lightning storm was the only one we experienced between Hawaii and home.
When the GRIB files from the SSB, and the spot weather forecasts from the InReach, both predicted areas of wind ranging from the low 30’s up to the 40’s and even into the 50 knot range, we consulted Joe to help us find a way to avoid them. We ended up going in different directions only to decide a day or two later that we needed to go back the other way. The forecasts seemed to change daily. We tried to get weather fax’s from the Point Reyes, CA transmitter for more detail, but had trouble receiving them. We eventually learned the station was experiencing technical difficulties. We could not move fast enough to get around the predicted winds. We ended up choosing to sail into rough seas in order to get ahead of what was supposed to be an even rougher area with stronger wind coming later. We wondered if a seasonal weather window was closing, and rather than trapping us at home, this time we would be left on the outside and unable to get back in.
The winds hit us exactly when and where predicted, starting in the middle of the night. Oddly, I could hear them coming across the water before they reached us several seconds later. At first, it was refreshing to once again be moving at full speed over relatively smooth seas. But over the following 24 hours, the winds increased, and continued. The waves grew to substantial (and impressive) size. Steering was difficult. We went into a kind of storm-survival mode. We made a decision to continue trying to sail and make progress rather than heave-to or take more defensive action, not that there was a lot we could do anyway. We were back on track toward home, even if the actual speed over the ground was much reduced due to the large seas. We had been through worse before, after all.
We convinced ourselves that the wind was abating. We saw fewer high gusts and the waves appeared to be getting smaller. But as soon as we would convince ourselves we were almost through the wind field, it would increase again. I had gone below to try to get fresh GRIB files to see how close we were to the predicted calm zone that was supposed to follow right after the wind, when Julie yelled down that we had lost steering. I heard her, but of course asked what she meant. She said that it felt like maybe a cable had come off. The steering wheel turns a sprocket, over which is a chain—like a bicycle chain—which moves as the wheel is turned. Attached to either end of the chain are steel cables which run over several pulleys, down through the deck and back to a quadrant attached to the rudder post. Turning the wheel moves these cables which turns the rudder. Over time, they can loosen up, or conceivably pull out of the fittings at the end. Convinced this was the problem, we looked for the lose cable, but found the steering system to all be in order. Turning the wheel turned the rudder post but not the rudder itself. Therefore, the failure must be internal to the actual rudder. We were out of control, 500 miles off the Washington coast.
The wind was definitely calming down now. The sun had set and it was dark. We felt that the Coast Guard should be made aware of our situation but we weren’t completely ready to ask for assistance. I knew that once the Coast Guard was contacted and the situation explained, we’d likely have two options. They might divert a commercial ship to our location to standby, or they might want to evacuate us, likely scuttling Mysticeti. Since we were well out of VHF radio range, I wasn’t sure which SSB frequency to use to try to contact them, or if a helicopter could even make the 1,000 mile round trip.
We drifted all night. The compass showed we were pointing south and the GPS showed our speed at up to 2 knots. We were going in the wrong direction, getting farther away, back in the direction we had come. It was a rough night, trying to deal with all the ramifications, possible outcomes and make an appropriate decision. So many tough decisions.
In the morning we realized something unexpected. We were actually drifting backwards! Although pointing southwest, we were moving northeast, toward our destination. While I had spent the night unable to not think about losing the boat, Julie had been working on ideas. We tried putting in the vane for the Sayes’ Rig since it takes control of the rudder directly, but that didn’t seem to work for some reason. Although, the Sayes’ tiller arm bolted to the rudder made it possible to drop two lines through the opening at the end, grab them with the boat hook, and tie them off so we could pull the rudder from either side. We ran the lines to the port and starboard jib winches. With the staysail and mizzen, and our jury-rigged rudder control, we managed to turn the boat around and head off in the right direction.
In the meantime, Joe had done what we had been reluctant to do: contact the Coast Guard and describe our situation. Working with them, we established a direct communication channel using our InReach. We could now text directly back and forth with the Coast Guard. They asked plenty of questions, including the amount of fuel we had, our fuel burn rate and our cruising speed. We asked about our options once we reached the straits and the town of Neah Bay, just inside Cape Flattery. We knew we wouldn’t be able to maneuver into the fuel dock there with our current steering arrangement. The Coast Guard reported that they had contacted a Canadian research vessel in our area who could supply us with some diesel if we needed it right away. Another decision. Transferring fuel from them to us in ocean swells seemed risky. We opted to go with the wind we currently had and head toward the strait as directly as possible, dealing with fuel if the need came up later. The weather looked good to get close to shore without unnecessary delay.
We watched the miles remaining to Neah Bay tick downward. 365, 360, 355… We cheered each significant step closer that we still had some steering ability. Eventually, some dark shapes on the horizon, which could go either way as being clouds or land, solidified. On day 42 since leaving Ko Olina Marina on the island of Oahu, at 4:00 PM local time on Tuesday, August 27th, on a clear and cloudless typical Pacific Northwest late summer afternoon, 62 nautical miles due west of Cape Flattery, we declared that land was in sight! The dark shapes on the horizon were mountains on Vancouver Island, at least one of which had a large snow patch clearly visible through binoculars. The next morning we were close enough that the cell phone pinged a Canadian cell tower. We could start making phone calls to arrange where we would go and what would happen next. We still had plenty of fuel remaining to motor all the way in.
Ideally, we wanted to be hauled out immediately at the Port Townsend Boat Haven yard, but the marina office said they were booked up out two weeks. They promised to find a space to tie to if we could call them after they opened at 8:00 in the morning. Vessel Assist could tow us in to whatever dock the marina indicated. We needed to call them three hours before we wanted them. But it didn’t take long to decide that at 3 AM, cold, tired and drifting, we were in actual distress and needed them immediately. This thing wasn’t over quite yet. We still had work to do with the tow lines, etc. But the light at the end of the tunnel was definitely brightening. Joe said he was coming to help tie us up.
We met Joe at the Port Townsend fuel dock, where Vessel Assist had taken us. By the time we arrived, it was about 8 AM and the marina was opening anyway. We left the boat and went to breakfast with Joe. While at breakfast we learned that a scheduled haulout had been canceled and the time slot was available to us. Vessel Assist was called back, and by the time we paid for our meal the boat had been moved from the fuel dock to the haulout pier. Our presence had not been required. Everything was pretty much a groggy blur anyway. Once the boat was clear of the water, the problem with the rudder was plainly evident. It was broken just behind the rudder post, nearly all the way through. We had been extremely lucky it happened so close to home, and had held together the rest of the way in.
Although not in the way we expected, our once-in-a-lifetime ultimate sailing dream trip of more than 15,000 nautical miles has completed. Right back where it had started from. We will never forget all those people we met along the way, especially those who educated and helped us, entertained us, and proved to us that although the Earth is big, the world truly is small; and the help and understanding provided by our friends, family and neighbors, including our flexible and understanding mail carrier, and especially Joe and Cathy from s/v Slainte who we trustingly followed out into the ocean on our first day; and the Vessel Assist crew who gave up sleep to come to our aid and take control to get us into the marina; and the US Coast Guard, who kept a watchful eye on us from the time they learned we were in trouble until we were safe and secure. As one of life’s great adventures, it all could not be beat.
See Dad, I told you I was going to sail to Tahiti someday.
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