READY ENOUGH TO GO?

By Mike Benjamin, SV Exodus, President SDSA

By the time you read this, Ronna and I will either be on our way from Bermuda to the Azores, waiting for a weather window, or repairing the next system aboard Exodus that has chosen this precise moment to act up and demand attention like a selfish child.  Exodus, like most boats, has a really poor sense of timing, but I love her unconditionally.

Offshore passages are often described in grand and romantic terms: endless horizons, starry nights, self-reliance and adventure.  The quiet satisfaction of crossing an ocean under sail.  All true, of course. 

What gets less attention is the anxiety-producing period before departure when the boat, the weather, your own body and mind, and the universe seem to gather in in unison and ask, “Are you really sure you are ready; how do you feel about another obstacle?”

Since we left St. Martin, it feels as though we have been running a gauntlet just to reach the starting line for the Azores.  The first challenge was refrigeration, which failed at exactly the moment we were preparing for a five-day offshore passage and had stocked the freezer full of prepared meals.  No problem provided your passage menu consists entirely of crackers, warm cheese, and regret.

Refrigeration, for those unfamiliar with offshore provisioning, is not a luxury.  It is the difference between a well-fed crew and people quietly calculating how many more days they can survive on peanut butter before mutiny becomes a reasonable topic of conversation.

We deal with these problems, because that is what cruisers do.  As soon as a system fails, we spew a series of expletives; then we stare at it wishing it would just f***ing work, which is not a repair strategy but does provide important emotional clearance; then we settle down and troubleshoot, improvise, call people, read manuals, and eventually make the repair.  Then it breaks again, and we fix it for real the second time.

Then came the passage from St. Martin to Bermuda, where we had the pleasure of sailing through a front with severe lightning.  Few things focus the mind quite like watching lightning flash around the boat at sea, with your EPIRB and phones sitting protected in the microwave oven, while pretending that your calm exterior is fooling anyone.  It is a special kind of serenity, the kind where you suddenly remember every expensive electronic device aboard and begin silently bargaining with Mother Nature. 

Fortunately, we were not hit.  I am deeply grateful for that, and I would like to keep it that way.  I have many goals in life, and becoming a first-hand expert on lightning strikes is not one of them.

Now, as I write this, we are anchored in St. George’s, Bermuda, preparing for the next leg to the Azores.  A weather front has stalled over us, bringing steady winds around 30 knots with gusts into the high-40s.  Exodus is fine. Our anchor is holding, which is currently my favorite feature aboard.  I love my anchor!

There is nothing quite like preparing for an ocean passage while watching other boats drag through the anchorage.  It adds a certain motivational quality to the day.

We have seen boats drag their anchors.  We have seen collisions with damage serious enough to cancel passages.  We have seen boats arrive with tattered sails after encountering even stronger conditions outside the harbor.  There was even a Mayday call.  So yes, the atmosphere has been festive, if your idea of festive includes foul-weather gear, anchor alarms, no sleep and repeatedly looking out the companionway with an expression of disbelief.  It can’t possibly blow harder…then it does.

This is one of the great realities of our cruising life: we move from pure bliss to abject terror with very little warning and absolutely no proper transition.  We do this why?

One minute you are drinking coffee in the cockpit, admiring the color of the water, and congratulating yourself on your excellent life choices.  The next minute you are sleep-deprived, staring at the chart plotter, envying land dwellers who seem so relaxed.  Land people, I have noticed, rarely discuss whether their kitchen might drag into another kitchen at 2 a.m. 

Then just yesterday our water maker sprung a leak and I learned that one of the registered Azores Rally boats had to drop out due to a cascading series of issues.

Passage preparation has a way of exposing weaknesses, real or imagined.  The boat is never quite ready.  The weather is never quite perfect.  The crew is never quite rested enough.  The final list is never final.  In reality, the final list is just a ceremonial document, created to give the illusion of control.  There is always one more thing to check, one more forecast to compare, one more locker to open and clean, one more strange new sound to identify, and one more trip ashore for something we suddenly cannot live without.  By the third “final” provisioning run, dignity has usually left the vessel.

There is also a peculiar psychology to passage prep.  Excitement, anxiety, confidence, doubt, optimism, dread, and then a sudden urgent need to reorganize a locker that has been perfectly adequate for three years.  This is normal.  Or at least common, which is not quite the same thing. 

Of course, none of this means we should be casual about leaving.  Quite the opposite.  The reason we obsess over preparation is because offshore passages deserve respect.  Weather matters.  Systems matter.  Rest matters.  Judgment matters.  The ocean is not impressed by our schedule, our reservations, or the fact that we already told everyone we are leaving on Tuesday.

Eventually, though, you reach the elusive condition known as ready enough.

Ready enough does not mean everything is perfect.  It means the boat is prepared, the crew is capable, the weather window is acceptable, and the remaining uncertainty is the normal kind, not the irresponsible kind. 

That is usually the best we get.

And then, after all the planning, repairs, weather watching, second-guessing, and last-minute errands, the actual moment of leaving is often strangely quiet.  Lines are slipped.  The harbor falls astern.  The land begins to fade.  The noise of preparation gives way to the rhythm of the passage.

Then, if we are lucky, comes the part we were chasing all along. 

The stars.  The watches.  The sunsets.  The long horizon.  The small routines.  The satisfaction of a boat moving well.  The astonishing realization that after all the chaos, doubt, and unnecessary locker reorganization, we are actually doing it.

So, as we wait in Bermuda, watching the weather, checking the boat, hoping the anchorage remains orderly, and waiting to see whether the universe has any other ideas, I am reminded that leaving is not a single act.  It is a process, often messy, occasionally ridiculous, and always humbling. 

At some point, if all goes well, we will go.  Not because everything is perfect, but because it is good enough.  Not because we are fearless, but because we are prepared.  Not because the ocean has promised us anything, but because this is what we came to do.

And if the refrigerator keeps working, the anchor keeps holding, and the universe runs out of roadblocks, we may even leave on schedule. 

In cruising, this is what we call ready enough.

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