Facing Open Ocean Alone, Part 2

BY ADRIAN JOHNSON

On Halloween day I take my time getting ready. Showers are rolling through and the winds are light. I motor to Wilson Point, hoist sails, secure the engine, reset my trip logs and start beating in a light westerly. The wind eventually picks up to 15 kts or so and, just as I am hoisting the #4, jumps into the twenties. The chop isn't excessive, though, and after a couple hours of beating I'm abeam Port Angeles, where the wind eases a bit. It's a long way to Cape Flattery, but I'm well rested and happy to be sailing in waters I don't get to see much.

The sun goes down and it's a clear but chilly night with a full moon. I'll occasionally set my timer and grab a quick nap down below, sometimes 10, sometimes 20 minutes. I don't really fall asleep but it feels good to get out of the cold, close my eyes and rest. I have a thought for the Halloween party back home, but it's a good to be here. At 03:00 on November 1^st I change my clock to Standard Time and live that hour again. In the early morning the winds become light, and I'm starting to feel the swells from the ocean.

The setting moon has been outlining a dark shape ahead that is keeping me from napping. Looking at my chart it seems like it could be Tatoosh Island, 10 or 15 miles ahead, but that should be hidden from view by the Cape. As the dawn breaks I realize my island is actually a tree floating about a hundred yards in front of me. It's a 60 or 70 foot pine, with roots and branches and couple birds are perched on it, bobbing in the swells, slowly floating out to sea.

The tree and I drift past Neah Bay at dawn and eventually the wind turns to a light easterly. It takes me almost all morning to get past Cape Flattery. With the light wind and 12 ft swells the boom is swinging over my head, so I rig a preventer and try to keep my mind off the flogging sails. In the early afternoon the Cape is starting to fade in the mist and the ride is smoother, with the wind off the beam. I hoist the genoa and go about my daily activities of, well, mostly eating. Singlehanding keeps me pretty busy.

By mid afternoon I'm getting sleepy, and starting to hear voices on the boat, which I've heard is pretty typical for solo ocean sailors. The lapping of the water against the hull is like a quiet conversation between familiar voices. The wind spins south and I peel to the jib and aim the boat at my waypoint. The sun is going down for the second time since I'd left Port Townsend. The horizon is completely empty except for a continuous flow of vessels on the shipping lanes, but I eventually leave those behind. There's a group of fishing boats working to the south of me.

 I make some breakfast sausage and spaetzle for dinner. As I pass through 50 miles out, two sets of very bright orange lights are glowing on the horizon in front of me. I can't tell how far they are. The AIS display is blank. The lights seem stationary. Oil rigs? I didn't think there were any out here, but double-check the chart to be sure. I'm nervous about aiming the boat between the two brightly lit objects.

Eventually I come close enough to see seagulls flocking around the lights. They're just trawlers headed slowly back inshore, the bright lights shining off their bows completely masking their running lights. Night sailing is such a strange game. Once I pass the trawlers I am completely alone.

The wind is turning to the southwest, and I can't sail directly towards my turnpoint anymore. I'm not excited about the prospect of beating through open ocean. The night is turning cold and I'm getting tired, despite longer naps. Rain has been coming through and most of my clothes are damp. Waves occasionally splash into the cockpit. Some water has made it into the boat and my spare clothes bag is getting damp.