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atlantic
June 2009 
Sailing into the Night
Posted on Sep 6th, 2007
by 
Professor
Professor
SAILING INTO THE NIGHT by H.M. Johnquest
Just this last Labor Day eve she launched a borrowed kayak into the dark Connecticut River and was swept away by currents into darkness. My sister, Amy (www.bannerqueen.com) Johnquest, said she "found out immediately what it's like to try to steer a gyroscope." Okay... sounds like... fun. She struggled just to return to the landing and vowed not to go back out; she didn't think she would make it back after a longer voyage than this little preliminary trip of being swept away in a moment only to have to fight her way to reclaim safety. Bummer beginning. She was scared. But wisely she was not alone.
Amy told her friends to go ahead without her but Jeff intervened and "gallantly offered to take over that runtish, scrappy and unruly craft. Loaning me his kayak -- a long sleek and easy to glide vessel -- I was amazed at the huge difference in manageability." The kayakers paddled in the dark upstream to an island, they landed, found a place to sit, and watched the moon rise over the river. "Big smileness," she wrote. Now she wants to buy her own kayak. That's a good trip.
For encouragement, I related my first night-sail which was also my first time out on a good-sized sailboat, the Pearson Triton 28. Friends Paul and Sandy had invited me simply because I had never navigated a sailboat at night. This would be a treasured gift. The sun was sinking, its soft atomic colors were fading. In the twilight we motored away from the docks, past old boat-houses, pilings and piers and beyond into the void, a darkened Sandusky Bay. Save for a few red or green buoys winking and bobbing and marking the channels, our little running lights were alone coursing across the water. After raising sail and cutting the engine, we shushed into the night, sailing silently all out and about for a couple of hours. I was thrilled and I learned plenty.
Thank God that first night sail was an exhilarating heavenly experience. Even if peaceful, it whetted the appetite for many a night sail; some would prove to be more ostentatious than others. Night sailing is a viable option depending on the weather. One takes advantage of conditions when and where one can and/or they'll take you. Here's a good example.
********************************
Heading south along the East Coast, my cousin Marty Root and I were fit to be tied up at a little marina in Atlantic City, New Jersey -- because of foul weather and repairs -- for two days we worked on the boat, a DuFour 29. I kept an ear on the weather radio and waited for a break. There were changes in the autumn air. The rain had stopped, winds were shifting coming from the North. I'd had enough of waiting and I lept into a narrow window of opportunity to get the show back on the road. We sailed at 8:00 p.m. into the Atlantic and headed South and down into tropical storm Fabian. The big storm wasn't due to hit for a few hours; we thought we could make Cape May as strong North winds blew, speeding us on our way, pushing, running us further southward.
We sallied past the firey red, orange, and yellow blaze of Atlantic City casino hotel signage which tinged the sails with pastel colors spread out before us wing and wing. Those glitzy hotel lights advertise for miles even past the horizon on a clear night at sea. But we ran close along the coast and after Ocean City, the New Jersey got pretty dark. Phosphorescent plankton shimmered in our bow wave and rippled alongside beaming a little more brightly leaving a light green glow in our wake--marking our passage behind us and fading away into the black ocean.
We almost made it to the Cape May inlet before the storm front hit us. We had already shortened sail to reefed main and storm jib and donned the foul weather gear. By dead reckoning, we were approaching, we thought, Cape May inlet. We saw lighted piles of rocks. Winds worked around to the West and buffeted the boat in gusts and whipped up waves heaving oddly. It was the front of a full gale. In the next two days we'd hear over the marine radio two boats calling "may-day, may-day". Yet instead of sailing right in, we went out to sea to see the number on the marker buoy and check it against the number marked on the chart. I wanted to be sure we were precisely where we thought we were. We thrashed about and things got worse as we sailed storm-tossed to get near enough to read the markings by waving a flashlight beam at the wildly bobbing red blinking buoy. It was the right one.
The boat was over-canvased. We droped mainsail, lashed it, cranked up the diesel. Now motor-sailing with the propellar pushing and the little storm jib pulling like crazy, we fetched the inlet directly. Lucky for us we had stayed out to sea to check that buoy number -- because it went wild out there with storm front winds shifting, veering and backing wily nilly at 50 miles per hour yet with plenty of dancing sea room -- instead of getting dashed against the rocks.
By the time we gained the inlet, the wind was a steady freight train roaring out the narrow rocky inlet. The waves, smaller, more orderly, came rolling like trestle timbers awash, wave crests breaking, sea foam spraying, shooting cross troughs, hissing and stinging into our faces. Under motor alone we would have been blown slowly back out to sea. So, with all that wind-power right on the nose, with the storm jib set, we could zig zag, tacking, motor-sailing, sail angling into the wind, leaning far to starboard, then far to port, sailing and turning from breakwall to breakwall, flying back and forth along the narrow rocky inlet, about a dozen quick short tacks skillfully executed (thank you, Marty) before we made it through into the unfamiliar safe harbor in the dark.
Even though I had already plotted the course on the chart, and which "four-second green flash" lighted-buoy to look for next, and on what compass bearing, and approximately how far to enter the harbor before changing to the new course, I could not see the "four second green flash". My compass said I was dead on the right bearing. But in any strange harbor at night, four seconds is a long time between winks of light. Shore lights distract; some blind your night vision. Car headlights or taillights in the distance can mislead one's eyes off course. In a gale, visibility varies moment to moment. Eight seconds, twelve seconds, no green flash. Maybe I hadn't factored in enough leeway, or too much; I could be blowing off course and into shallow water in no time. Things had been going relatively well up to this point but now I panicked, my heart pounded.
Suddenly, it just came out of me, a prayer. There was no time to think out a properly holy prayer and I know this may sound incredibly trite or banal, I said, "Jesus! Help me see the light!" I swear, right away, there it was. Four seconds later it blinked green again; I changed course several degrees compensating for drift and thrashed on.
By chance we found in the mayhem an empty set of pilings by a wharf where we tied to for two nights, a day, and a half. We set sail when forecast winds were to diminish to "small craft warnings" for the afternoon. We weren't the biggest boat to take shelter inside Cape May's generous harbor but we were first to set sail in Fabian's aftermath. Several cruisers followed, sailed around us and on ahead -- their sails becoming distant dots across a vast but calming Delaware Bay. That evening in the clearing sky was a fine sunset. I felt radiant... thankful for the light... glad to be sailing again, and for sailing into the night.
c.2007, H.M.J.
Just this last Labor Day eve she launched a borrowed kayak into the dark Connecticut River and was swept away by currents into darkness. My sister, Amy (www.bannerqueen.com) Johnquest, said she "found out immediately what it's like to try to steer a gyroscope." Okay... sounds like... fun. She struggled just to return to the landing and vowed not to go back out; she didn't think she would make it back after a longer voyage than this little preliminary trip of being swept away in a moment only to have to fight her way to reclaim safety. Bummer beginning. She was scared. But wisely she was not alone.
Amy told her friends to go ahead without her but Jeff intervened and "gallantly offered to take over that runtish, scrappy and unruly craft. Loaning me his kayak -- a long sleek and easy to glide vessel -- I was amazed at the huge difference in manageability." The kayakers paddled in the dark upstream to an island, they landed, found a place to sit, and watched the moon rise over the river. "Big smileness," she wrote. Now she wants to buy her own kayak. That's a good trip.
For encouragement, I related my first night-sail which was also my first time out on a good-sized sailboat, the Pearson Triton 28. Friends Paul and Sandy had invited me simply because I had never navigated a sailboat at night. This would be a treasured gift. The sun was sinking, its soft atomic colors were fading. In the twilight we motored away from the docks, past old boat-houses, pilings and piers and beyond into the void, a darkened Sandusky Bay. Save for a few red or green buoys winking and bobbing and marking the channels, our little running lights were alone coursing across the water. After raising sail and cutting the engine, we shushed into the night, sailing silently all out and about for a couple of hours. I was thrilled and I learned plenty.
Thank God that first night sail was an exhilarating heavenly experience. Even if peaceful, it whetted the appetite for many a night sail; some would prove to be more ostentatious than others. Night sailing is a viable option depending on the weather. One takes advantage of conditions when and where one can and/or they'll take you. Here's a good example.
********************************
Heading south along the East Coast, my cousin Marty Root and I were fit to be tied up at a little marina in Atlantic City, New Jersey -- because of foul weather and repairs -- for two days we worked on the boat, a DuFour 29. I kept an ear on the weather radio and waited for a break. There were changes in the autumn air. The rain had stopped, winds were shifting coming from the North. I'd had enough of waiting and I lept into a narrow window of opportunity to get the show back on the road. We sailed at 8:00 p.m. into the Atlantic and headed South and down into tropical storm Fabian. The big storm wasn't due to hit for a few hours; we thought we could make Cape May as strong North winds blew, speeding us on our way, pushing, running us further southward.
We sallied past the firey red, orange, and yellow blaze of Atlantic City casino hotel signage which tinged the sails with pastel colors spread out before us wing and wing. Those glitzy hotel lights advertise for miles even past the horizon on a clear night at sea. But we ran close along the coast and after Ocean City, the New Jersey got pretty dark. Phosphorescent plankton shimmered in our bow wave and rippled alongside beaming a little more brightly leaving a light green glow in our wake--marking our passage behind us and fading away into the black ocean.
We almost made it to the Cape May inlet before the storm front hit us. We had already shortened sail to reefed main and storm jib and donned the foul weather gear. By dead reckoning, we were approaching, we thought, Cape May inlet. We saw lighted piles of rocks. Winds worked around to the West and buffeted the boat in gusts and whipped up waves heaving oddly. It was the front of a full gale. In the next two days we'd hear over the marine radio two boats calling "may-day, may-day". Yet instead of sailing right in, we went out to sea to see the number on the marker buoy and check it against the number marked on the chart. I wanted to be sure we were precisely where we thought we were. We thrashed about and things got worse as we sailed storm-tossed to get near enough to read the markings by waving a flashlight beam at the wildly bobbing red blinking buoy. It was the right one.
The boat was over-canvased. We droped mainsail, lashed it, cranked up the diesel. Now motor-sailing with the propellar pushing and the little storm jib pulling like crazy, we fetched the inlet directly. Lucky for us we had stayed out to sea to check that buoy number -- because it went wild out there with storm front winds shifting, veering and backing wily nilly at 50 miles per hour yet with plenty of dancing sea room -- instead of getting dashed against the rocks.
By the time we gained the inlet, the wind was a steady freight train roaring out the narrow rocky inlet. The waves, smaller, more orderly, came rolling like trestle timbers awash, wave crests breaking, sea foam spraying, shooting cross troughs, hissing and stinging into our faces. Under motor alone we would have been blown slowly back out to sea. So, with all that wind-power right on the nose, with the storm jib set, we could zig zag, tacking, motor-sailing, sail angling into the wind, leaning far to starboard, then far to port, sailing and turning from breakwall to breakwall, flying back and forth along the narrow rocky inlet, about a dozen quick short tacks skillfully executed (thank you, Marty) before we made it through into the unfamiliar safe harbor in the dark.
Even though I had already plotted the course on the chart, and which "four-second green flash" lighted-buoy to look for next, and on what compass bearing, and approximately how far to enter the harbor before changing to the new course, I could not see the "four second green flash". My compass said I was dead on the right bearing. But in any strange harbor at night, four seconds is a long time between winks of light. Shore lights distract; some blind your night vision. Car headlights or taillights in the distance can mislead one's eyes off course. In a gale, visibility varies moment to moment. Eight seconds, twelve seconds, no green flash. Maybe I hadn't factored in enough leeway, or too much; I could be blowing off course and into shallow water in no time. Things had been going relatively well up to this point but now I panicked, my heart pounded.
Suddenly, it just came out of me, a prayer. There was no time to think out a properly holy prayer and I know this may sound incredibly trite or banal, I said, "Jesus! Help me see the light!" I swear, right away, there it was. Four seconds later it blinked green again; I changed course several degrees compensating for drift and thrashed on.
By chance we found in the mayhem an empty set of pilings by a wharf where we tied to for two nights, a day, and a half. We set sail when forecast winds were to diminish to "small craft warnings" for the afternoon. We weren't the biggest boat to take shelter inside Cape May's generous harbor but we were first to set sail in Fabian's aftermath. Several cruisers followed, sailed around us and on ahead -- their sails becoming distant dots across a vast but calming Delaware Bay. That evening in the clearing sky was a fine sunset. I felt radiant... thankful for the light... glad to be sailing again, and for sailing into the night.
c.2007, H.M.J.
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