Sometimes you punt

Looking aft in the cockpit: Gwen reading, Jordan at the wheel and Steve on the right. Photo by John Beaman

Winter 2024

By John Beaman

It was June 2020, and Fika motored out through North Carolina’s Cape Fear Inlet channel with the intent of rounding Cape Hatteras, bound for Norfolk, Va. The wind, however, had other ideas and began building against us.

There is a cut through Frying Pan Shoals, but after a grounding and an assist from Sea Tow at South Carolina’s Murrells Inlet, we opted to go around the end of this sandy spit. By the time we got to the Shoals buoy, another 16 miles out, the wind was blowing 30 from the east, with a good swell building.

The forecast had been for a little less wind, with gusts not expected to exceed 30, so we continued as the waves climbed and the clouds moved in. We could see some thunder clouds in the distance. As darkness fell, we were getting tossed around. Each of us had taken a turn at the wheel, which was real work in these conditions. The chop was steep, in the eight- to 10-foot range, with higher waves that periodically foamed and hissed their way toward us.

Around 0100, we finally encountered the storm we’d been monitoring on radar. Heat lightning had given way to actual lightning strikes, and the rain poured down like Noah must have seen. It passed and, by 0200, we returned to our course, having made a complete 360 in our dance with the radar image.

Daylight was a welcomed arrival, but now we had a different problem. The wind, against us on the run east, was now gone. We did not have enough fuel to motor all the way to Norfolk and had calculated the need to sail up to 100 miles to get there.

With time running out, and with the delays already incurred at Murrells and Cape Fear, we made the difficult decision to put in at Beaufort, N.C. This would be our end point as the crew needed to return to life on land. It was with heavy hearts that we turned 90 degrees and began the 25-mile jog toward port.

The parting of Steve, Ian, Gwen and Jordan was difficult for Susan and me. Our only experience aboard Fika had been with six on board, with laughter, willing assistance, cooperation, shared needs and resources and a comradery that pooled ideas and tackled problems together. Now, there was only space and quiet. We contracted with a professional Maine delivery captain and crew to take her the rest of the way home, prepped the boat, and rented a car and drove 17 hours to our home.

So what happened? Life at sea – on a new, to us, cruising boat – I guess, but let’s start at the beginning and review the evolution of a blown schedule.

* * *

We pulled up at a beautiful home in the Las Olas area of Fort Lauderdale and there was Fika, waiting patiently for us in the canal that fronted the house. Six of us – my wife Susan and I, our friend Steve and his son Ian, and our daughter Gwen and her husband, Jordan – had driven down together from New England. Fighting fatigue and the oppressive Florida heat, we began stowing, shopping, cleaning, and getting to know the boat’s systems. We also established, as one of the first orders of business, watch rotations.

Crewmembers naturally fell into areas of expertise and took on certain roles. With crew availability limited to two weeks off work, we realized we did not have the time to check everything. We and Fika – named for the Swedish custom of spending special moments with friends for coffee and a sweet treat – had barely been introduced. It was June 2020, our new boat was a dream, spirits were high, and we took Fika out into the Gulf Stream for a lift north toward New England. After an MOB drill, we settled in for the first leg.

As darkness fell, the wind picked up, and so did the waves. The east wind running across the northerly flow of the Stream created a chaotic wave pattern which was hard to predict – especially for rusty, land-lubber legs. “John, the backstay is loose!” someone yelled.

Around 0200, these words created a sudden and compelling distraction from seasickness. In the pitch blackness, with waves building all around and wind on our beam, these were not welcomed words. Someone had bumped the release knob on the recently refurbished hydraulic adjuster. Tension was soon restored by pumping the piston, but it was startling how suddenly the rig went limp. We added tape to secure the knob.

We were making good time heading north, up to 10 knots over the ground due to the Gulf Stream boost. It was clear, though, that the waves were taking their toll on the crew. We would need to find relief. As the seas continued to build, we settled on St. John, Fla., 118 miles away. We had seen rain on the radar but no lightning other than frequent flashes of heat lightning that lit up the sky for a fraction of a second against a deep spread of stars and a waning gibbous moon that looked so close.

Securing a slip for the night, we plugged into shore power and turned on the AC. This was restorative. We enjoyed lunch below. The nearby air base provided a constant thrum of helicopters while the pelicans, Bonaparte gulls, recreational boaters and airboat tours dictated that peace was best found internally.

Up early, and clear of the river, the light wind was on our nose as we motored on a northeast heading. Suddenly, I heard a rapid clicking and saw that the anchor chain was flying out of the hold, through the windlass, and over the rollers. The anchor was rapidly racing toward the bottom, and the links were running out too fast to grab. But, as the 200 feet of chain gave way to rope, we were able to cleat it.

The nut on top of the capstan had loosened, the light safety line failed, and nothing secured the anchor. When tightened, the windlass began retrieving the rode, and we soon had the hook back home. New safety lines were immediately rigged on both anchors. We were humbled by this event, thinking how it could have gone very differently the night before, in choppy seas and pitch darkness.

As evening came, we could see storm clouds on the radar, and we were engulfed by wind in the high 30s, heavy rain and eight- to 10-foot seas. Fika was difficult to hold steady on our chosen course, and we again decided to put in at St. Simons, Ga., for a respite. The waves were large, a couple of which found themselves in the cockpit, but the real concern was for an increase in wind or chop beyond what we already had.

St. Simons has a six-mile channel that is open to the weather. After working our way downwind, managing the roll to avoid any broaching scenarios, we entered the channel and made our way across the waves toward the shelter of the harbor. We found a calm anchorage just south of the marina. It was 0330, and everyone was relieved to be stable again.

After a few hours of sleep, a hearty breakfast in the cockpit and the promise of a day that was sunny and calm, we set out. The forecast was encouraging, but once out in the channel we could see wind-driven breaking waves pounding in from the northeast – just where we wanted to go. We tucked our collective tails and turned around.

The frustrating lack of progress reminded us that one of Sir Earnest Shackleton’s more admirable qualities was the ability to change goals when necessary. In our 21st-century lives, this is seldom necessary. But in a sailboat you’re at the mercy of the natural world. It’s often necessary to adjust your plans for the realities at hand.

The next morning the wind was strong, but we were relying on a forecast of 10 to 15 knots and two- to five-foot seas, becoming calmer in the afternoon. As it turned out, neither wind nor waves had seen the forecast. The wind built to 30 to 35 knots, with gusts to 40, and seas pushed eight to 10 feet. But we were determined to make headway, and tried to stick it out.

Steve provided verse after verse of classic songs, and the crew joined in, which surely repelled any wildlife we might have otherwise seen. To reduce sail we attempted to furl the working jib, only to discover that it wouldn’t roll in all the way because the furling line had been inadequately wrapped on the drum. What this meant was that wound in as far as possible, a full third of the sail still remained out. The bow was pitching wildly, and it was difficult to do much of anything up there. Despite giving it our best, the sail was soon ripped beyond repair. We were exhausted and discouraged and turned back to St. Simons harbor.

The morning forecast again called for the wind to ease. Fuel and water were topped off, and we cast off at 0945, motoring through this embarrassingly familiar channel. We had high hopes for calmer seas and greater progress, but it was not to be. Checking the NOAA tropical weather site, we noted yesterday’s storm was listed as one to watch. It was a worthy disturbance, although posted a bit late for our benefit. After several hours in similar conditions, we returned to St. Simons and anchored in our familiar spot with a plan for an early morning departure.

Ian and I weighed anchor at 0230, motoring out in calmer winds and water. Breakfast came with the sunrise: eggs, cinnamon rolls and hot coffee. Everyone was feeling positive, especially after confirming we’d advanced northward and broken free of St. Simons’ clutches. We planned to put into Norfolk, Va., but would first need to stop for fuel. We set a course for Murrells Inlet, which would in theory arrive by noon the following day.

Fika motored on in calm conditions to Murrells, approaching the channel following the chart, which noted 20 to 40 feet of water. To us New Englanders, the whole coastline south of North Carolina seemed to be made of shifting sands and there were places we opted not to go due to warnings about the need for local knowledge or very thin water. Murrells looked okay, and held no such warnings.

We were a half-mile off the harbor when Fika smoothly came to a stop, the bow dipping and the crew grabbing handholds to stay vertical. We had run aground where the chartplotter read at least 20 feet. It was calm, so bumping was minimal, but we felt, viscerally, each wave thump the keel into the sand.

After failed attempts to back off, we called Sea Tow. We were at dead-low tide, so any lift would be welcome. The rescue arrived, and Capt. Jerry began pulling this way and that. After three long hours, he was finally able to take us to deeper water where he imparted a critical piece of local knowledge: “You don’t want to go to Murrells Inlet.” He suggested Little Creek, but we opted for Cape Fear, 50 miles to the north. To us, Little Creek did not have an encouraging name, and looked at least as shallow as Murrells.

Thus began the best sail of the trip. As if waiting for us to be free of the sand, the wind built to 15 to 20, and had us beating on starboard tack in relatively small swells. It was good we had wind. Because we didn’t have enough fuel to motor the whole way. Fika was finally in her element, and all was well.

The midnight watch change found us still sailing toward the Cape Fear Inlet. The wind held, and we enjoyed six to seven knots most of the way. We entered the channel around 0100. Ian was at the wheel, and he soon brought us to the narrow harbor inlet. Gwen and Jordan were at the bow with spotlights, but a strange harbor can be confusing at night. Cape Fear inlet’s strong currents swung Fika toward the large stone banks. In the dark this looked alarmingly close, but Ian applied more power, and we shot through without incident.

We tied up at the fuel dock by 0200 and turned in for a few hours’ sleep before the ferry began hauling trucks next to us. Then we motored back out through the channel with the intent of rounding Cape Hatteras on our way to Norfolk. But, though we did not know it at the time, our delivery was sadly coming to an end.

* * *

Despite our trials – and failure to reach our original goal – this had been an intense experience. No doubt the two weeks aboard Fika were experienced differently by each of us, but it was also a shared group experience that was now unexpectedly over.

Of course, this trip had not gone as we imagined. There were lessons learned, to be sure, but our main obstacle was the weather. In a sailboat on the ocean this usually means too much wind from the wrong direction. On the other hand, the assembled crew was a joy. We each added our own unique contributions to the mix, and had a great time doing so. There were moments of difficulty and anxiety, more than balanced by humor and understanding; there were moments of frustration and stress; but each crisis was handled with cooperation and safety. There were no catastrophes. For all these things, we were most grateful. The planning paid off, and the hand of grace was upon us. All in all, it was a great time with great people on a great ocean. Fika was proving to be a great boat, as well.

John and Susan Beaman are members of Portland Yacht Club and, with their two daughters, have been cruising the New England coast for over 25 years, up until three years ago aboard their C&C 40 Sunago. Now, on Fika, they sail with their two golden retrievers. John is retired from a career in mental-health care and, along with sailing, keeps busy with volunteering, woodworking, reading and writing.