Thursday, December 2, 2004
Cumberland Island, GA
Chasing a cold front out St. Catherines Inlet
I can honestly say, I gave it my best shot (well . . . sort of), but failed to push on through to the Florida state line again . . . happy to not make it . . . well, sort of. It was a high price to pay for our outside passage. But we did give it a shot. The idea of crossing the state line must have left me with an ill feeling.
A cold front blew through, leaving us with good winds to put some southern miles under our keel. Up early yesterday (Weds. 10/1), we set out St. Catherine’s Inlet, south of the Savannah River, heading toward St. Simon’s Inlet and St. Simon’s Island, GA. On the trip, we would pass three other optional inlets, which we could use as needed. Turns out we would have the need.
The previous day’s wind left some swell from the southeast, while yesterday’s winds blew opposite out of the northwest, causing this funny cross swell. It wasn’t bad; we’ve seen far worse. So, we set sail south towards our destination and were making great time. We were sailing at an honest 7.7 knots for the longest time. Any ordinary Westsailor will tell you that we were doing very well. On this trip, I can say that we have really learned to make this boat move! Then, it happened:
Remember back a few articles, I gave a long treatise on marine head management? About how to tell when our onboard head and holding tank are full? Yes, that is right, the head backs up. At the time we sailed out the inlet, it was something at the back of my mind. Vanessa has become some sort of pooping machine and goes far more than normal for a small human her size, but I wasn’t sure if even she could have filled up our twenty gallon holding tank in such a short time. Well, she had, and in the funny, double swell, the head backed up, letting us know it was time for an immediate pump out.
“Guess what time it is?” asked Vanessa, popping her head up from below deck.
“Don’t tell me, the head is backing up and needs to be pumped over?” I said, more of a statement of fact than a question.
“Yep. You want me to do it? I will.” she asks.
“No, I’ll take care of it.” I respond.
“Good, cause it is disgusting and I really don’t want to do it. It needs to happen now” she says.
Crap. Literally and figuratively. It is not the end of the world, as we are out side of the three-mile limit and can legally pump directly over board. Now, before you start sending me email notifying us that we have offended you by misusing our natural resources, consider this: First, one blue whale digests an estimated eight tons of food daily, creating enough whale poop to exceed the combined discharge of more than 5,000 sailors, and when that whale has to go, I don’t think he’ll pull over to an approved pump-out station. Second, we use no chemicals in our tank, so we are pumping natural effluent into tidal waters, which nature will “flush” and handle just like it does the blue whale and all the other sea creatures in the ocean; we are not filling up the ocean with chemicals that are actually harmful to the environment, just adding our share of pooh! Plus, we rarely ever pump out at sea; it just doesn’t happen that often. But yesterday, it was one of those “stink” or swim days. Down below I go to pump pooh!
The funny double swell was kind of odd and I was unable to finding its rhythm, which didn’t help my situation any. Then, I made my big mistake: I lifted the lid of the head to check just how full it was. Not good, let me tell you, as it was F-U-L-L! The odor alone is nasty, but by adding in that unnatural swell, I knew I was in trouble. I stayed with it until all the pooh was pumped over board, but just wasn’t able to get that odor out of my nostrils. I finished rapidly, running up onto deck gulping gobs of fresh air.
“Oh my god!” cried Vanessa, “You are completely green!”
“Yeah, that wasn’t good. I . . .”
Now, at this point, you think I’d deserve a little bit of sympathy, but she actually starts to laugh at me. I can’t believe it. I mean, she’s the one with the pooping problem, and I’m the one who pumps her poop out, getting sea sick in the process, and she is laughing at me. Then, she has the gall to try to be “helpful.”
“Why do you go forward get some fresh air . . .” she starts before I cut her off.
“Why don’t you just not say anything?” I snap.
“Oh, I’m sorry . . .”
“Shhh! Really, I’m not trying to be mean, I just need to concentrate right now at keeping my breakfast down.”
Finally realizing the seriousness of my situation, she starts, “I’m really am sor . . . ”
“Shhh! Don’t say anything. Don’t even look at me,” I reiterate, seriously needing every ounce of concentration at that moment.
She looks around, her mood becoming quite somber, realizing the seriousness of our problem. We are off-shore, in the Atlantic Ocean, and I am the one with the majority of the sailing knowledge and I am also the one who might just have a problem and be potentially out of commission.
“Uh-oh! I don’t think I am going to make it,” I state in complete realization that I am about to get another taste of my mornings oatmeal, banana, and three and a half cups of coffee. Now, most of you, when you have to “drive the big white bus”, “bring forth offerings to the porcelain god”, “toss your cookies”, or what ever way you so eloquently describe the process of vomitosis, run immediately to your bathroom toilet. In this situation, that would have just given me another, completely different, smelly mess that I would have to pump over, so I just cut out the middleman. I get up, move forward, open the side gate, sit on the cabin top and prepare to bring forth offerings to the almighty Neptune, planning to puke directly into the ocean. Grabbing a firm hold on the gate stanchions, I’m ready.
Have you ever noticed, with the high level of pre-vomit anticipation, there is a giant pregnant pause before the actual moment comes? There I was with a white-knuckled death grip on the rail, tense and braced for what was about to happen and, as Bill Cosby says, “would not be surprised to see my shoes come out of my mouth!” I was ready. Bring it on!!! But, no. Not me. I started to feel as if maybe I’d got lucky and it wasn’t going to come up after all. Oh, thank goodness! But, just as I released my grip, just as I was about to sit back and relax, relieved, my stomach muscles contracted, my body reacted, stiffening, and, almost involuntarily, I was leaning over the side of the boat chumming the cool waters of the North Atlantic Ocean. And it was a doozy! I reacted with such force, I lurched forward, like an olympic ski jumper coming off the ramp. I was so stiff, you could have walked me like a plank! Lucky I had that death grip, or I’d have fell over while throwing up.
“Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed, returning to the cockpit.
“I’m so sorry. If I’d of know it would make you sick, I’d of never let you go down there to pump out,” she cried.
“Oh, well, that had to be done, or we’d have huge mess on down below. I’m just mad I lost my breakfast.”
“Well, you are sea sick,” she reasoned.
“Yeah, but our cruising kitty is gone, I can’t afford to be feeding the whole ocean!”
“What?”
“Hey, the fish around here have to make their own way,” I say, making light of the situation. “I don’t plan on feeding them my food. Even if it is partially digested. Besides, it’s not even rough out here. We’ve been through far worse, so what’s the deal? After six months of this, now’s the time when I get sea sick?”
Binga, vomit free, in her fancy boat clothes
Binga, waking from her Dramamine induced nap pops up on deck. “What’s the matter Daddy?” How do you explain to a two year old I’ve just turned my guts inside out into the sea? The wind begins to build and I realize we have up too much sail, as we are pushing along at a sustained eight knots and the boat is sailing on an excessive heel. Time to reef that main. Who is going to go forward and do it? Vanessa has her hands full with Binga and isn’t really familiar my newfangled, jury-rigged, jiffy reefing set up, so I nominate myself to go forward to shorten the main sail. I get the job done, but not without a couple of side trips to the rail to puke some more.
I return to the cockpit again. Binga looks at me in complete bewilderment. Vanessa tries to explain my situation to her before commenting, “You are a very productive sick person.”
“What do you mean,” I ask, whipping the residual spittle from my chin.
“Most people, when sea sick, are worthless blobs on deck, but not you. You go forward and do all the stuff you normally do, you just take these little puke breaks. You set a line, run to the rail, where you vomit before returning to finish up with the line. Then, you go to the next thing, run to the rail, vomit, then return and finish. It’s impressive.”
“Well, it’s just us out here and I have to keep doing my part. You already have your hands full driving the boat and dealing with Binga,” I add, just as Binga takes her vomiting turn. Vanessa, with a towel, manages to catch all of Binga’s vomit while continuing her conversation with me, as if all this puking is just normal everyday nonsense. Binga’s vomit, to me smelled of true stomach vomit, and was completely disgusting, as where mine looked like coffee with the consistency of oatmeal and the taste of bananas – breakfast revisited. Funny, though, as Binga is such a little sailor. After tossing her breakfast, she was hungry and dove right into a new banana. At least it might help with her odor problem if she goes again. I’m already use to the reused banana taste.
Now, we have a real situation. Binga is sick and I am barely managing, leaving Vanessa as the last bastion of wellness aboard. If she goes, we are in dire trouble as she is essentially sailing the boat by herself. With her holding on, I can at least help with sail changes in between my bouts of vomiting. If she gets sick, we’re screwed. We’d already left St. Catherine’s Inlet over the horizon and weren’t going back. We were passing Sapelo Inlet, making it an unreasonable passage as we would have to back track some and the wind would be on the nose — not good for my current condition. We set sail for Doboy Inlet, the next place down the coast for us to get in off the ocean. As we sailed along, my ears popped, helping me to feel slightly better. Now I understood. The residuals from the colds we came back with from our Asheville holiday were affecting me and Bing by messing with our equilibrium. Congestion! Damn! At least I had temporary relief with the ear-popping thing.
Looking back at Doboy as the sun sets
But it didn’t last. As we rounded the channel marker and headed for Doboy, I went forward again and began pulling down sails. This involved going all the way out onto the bowsprit to pull down our yankee. Oh shit! It was a roller coaster ride out there and I pulled that sail down and lashed it like a rodeo cattle roper in less than three seconds before sprinting back, grabbing hold of the standing rigging, and leaning over for one last, great storm of digestive disturbance. Binga summed it up best, as I heard her little voice exclaim from the cockpit, “YUK!”
Sunset on the ICW
What is really amazing is after all this misery, we entered Doboy Sound, where the water was calm, and everything just went away. Then, I, like Binga, got cravings for food. Nothing like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, followed by some chips and salsa and a couple of beers to make my misery go away.
After all this, we dropped the hook and spent the night somewhere in the ICW. Having no place to go back outside and come back in at, we just motored casually down the ICW to our current destination: Cumberland Island, GA. From here, I can see across the St. Mary’s River and into Florida. There it is staring at us – the beginning of the end of our cruise. Let’s see, this Cumberland place is a National Park and is suppose to have a nice beach and a herd of wild horses. Binga loves the beach! Vanessa loves horses! Perhaps we’ll stay here and check it out. Florida’s not going anywhere. It can wait until I’m feeling much, much better.
– Steve