Ashley on the Hornpipe - Life on the Hornpipe

“Shore leave!” Yell Joe and Tracy, just about every time we get off the boat. It’s a little nautical joke, something sailors would yell after months at sea, heading into town lookin’ for women and booze. Shore leave means that we have been given permission to pursue to luxuries of life, not usually afforded to the endless blue days of a sailor. Shore leave means that, for a short precious time, for those sea-sick or just plain sea-weary, life will goddamn stay steady, stop moving: stop lurching us forward, jamming us backward, against walls, against counters, against every square inch of the boat, back and forth and back and forth, legs wobbly and stomach tumbling. Shore leave means land, and all of the comforts and indulgences that go with it.

Monday the 17th, for the first time, we motored through the night. Together in shifts, working as a crew, six people, in two pairs, staggered every two hours, we managed to drive continually south for twenty-eight consecutive hours. This is what it took for the Hornpipe to blow its way down Long Island Sound, past Connecticut, past New York, and land safely in Sandy Hook, New Jersey. From just after sunrise that Monday morning, until long after sunset, the Sound staged a mad battle between wind and current. The war was waged in the waves below us and the sufferers fell to the battle blows of sea-sickness. By the end of
the day, even the most steady and sound of stomachs were sloshing back and forth with each new passing swell. Hours went on like this, minutes, slowly (Nadine informed me that our speed kept in knots translated to about 7 mph…later corrected by Tracy that we are actually traveling the rapid pace of 11mph), nautical mile by nautical mile, waves swelling, approaching, and crashing against the bow: up and DOWN. Down and UP. Stomachs somersaulted. The tiny little Fishers Hornpipe in a great big sound full of fury. And this was just the daylight hours. Night came and our shifts continued, two at a time, every two hours. Joe and I passed the hours of 3-5am watching the first two bridges that mark the beginning of New York, the city, draw closer and closer. The late night ferries between Long Island and New York, passed us by suddenly from our stern and then doubled back just minutes later, shuffling little people in big heat-conditioned cabins, back and forth, back and forth, like our stomachs. We handed our shift over to Rob and Nadine, and returned later for our final 9am-11am watch shift, only to see the lights of New York far in the passing distance beyond the stern. We slept through the whole glorious city, we missed the Statue of Liberty, the sky scrapers and lights, but we got some much needed sleep between shifts. Our ragged crew arrived at our destination point just past 11am and after a few projects on the boat and some tidying up after days at sea, for the first time on this voyage we were granted “Shore leave!”

And what a luxury it was. Tracy suggested late into the night, that she might contact her grandparents who lived about an hour away from this harbor that we were hoping to wait-out an oncoming storm in. It was also time for Joe to set sail in another direction; he had a job interview in SF and so had to catch a flight from New York and Tracy’s grandparents agreed to help him catch a train the next day. We were met at the marina (where we were clandestinely occupying one of the abundance of moorings left unused during the boating off-season) by her grandmother Barbara and her step-grandfather Gary. We, layered in the same foul weather clothing that we had been wearing for days—I was wearing four pairs of pants, three pairs of socks, one tee shirt, one long sleeve, a sweatshirt, a down vest, a down jacket, and two hats, for example—piled into their SUV with bags of dirty clothes to wash and bags of clean clothes to change into. We fit like sailors in a clown car, every square inch was filled with us. The next twenty four hours with Tracy’s grandparents who extended us the most charitable and wonderful hospitality. No women or booze; but, who needs women or booze with grandparents like that? The fed us and fed us: immediately bought us lunch at a delicious local deli, cooked steaks for dinner with fresh salads and sides then served a grand plate of fruit for dessert (no scurvy here, yarrr!), and for breakfast it was sausage AND bacon, breakfast breads and muffins, eggs and fruit. The food they nourished us with speaks only as a small example of the ample kindness and generosity that they provided us in their lovely home. Their company was delightful and their home revitalized the spirit of our crew. As we pulled away from their house the next day, heading back to our little sea faring home vessel, I realized that shore leave certainly was something to yell about.

Speaking of things to holler about, we pulled into the marina, ready to hop on our little dingy and motor back to the FHP. Two unexpected factors prevented this from being an easy transition: the pouring down rain and the sheets of ice that had solidified around the dingy at the dock, since just the day before. The dingy was iced in. Gary, bless his heart, waited in his car with all of our bags as the crew disassembled the motor from the dingy and moved it from one side of the marina to the other in rain wet enough of to take the shore out of our leave. Eventually, the FHP made it into the marina to refuel and refill our water tanks. We stayed docked there until the next morning, on the sly, cleverly slipping in by nightfall and out by daybreak, so as to evade the oppressively high docking fees. Yarr, so very pirate. For one last night of shore-bound indulgence, we walked into town just a few blocks to take in a movie, the Cohen brothers remake of the classic western True Grit, at a local theater. The vulgar sailors that we are, we ate until we were drunken on the sweet nectar of movie theater butter saturated popcorn.

We began our next three day push with our sailor desires gratified with the wild indulgences of movie theater popcorn and grandma’s house… Okay, so maybe were not the toughest scoundrels to have ever sailed the big blue watery road, but our next passing surely proved that we were worth our sea salt.

We headed back to the open ocean. The coastal weather report warned of an upcoming snow storm which meant that we had to motor, motor, motor, down, down, down south, constantly, day and night, to make it to our next stop in Norfolk, Virgina, before the storm set in. Our crew was now one man short, down to five. So, our watch schedule (watch being when two rotating members of the crew managed steering and navigating the boat up top, out in the cold, frozen, wind-chilled air) now meant that a new member of the crew rotated on every hour. Instead of us working two hours on and four hours off, we were now down to two hours on and only three hours off. The next forty-four consecutive hours on the sailboat looked like this: fifteen minutes before you’re on watch, the person about to get off of shift wakes you up, bundled in your warm sleeping bag and blanket nest, your heated cocoon of joy, you reluctantly climb out as your body shrivels and flexes inward, a visceral reaction to the just sub-freezing temperature in the cabin. You scramble to layer and layer up quick. If you are particularly savvy and have a system in place, you may arrange to layer up while still partially (or totally if you are really crafty) in your sleeping bag, so as to reduce the total arm hair raising, chicken pock making, oppressive coldness of the cabin air. Once you have layered adequately for watch and are bundled up like that little kid from A Christmas Story, you may grab a snack like a snickers bar, or else a heated beverage like coffee or just plain hot water (like Nadine). Then, you open two of the little rectangular hand warmer pillows and place them in your preferred location: boots, mittens, pockets, etc. Then, you head up on deck and proceed to sit, or maybe stand if you can bare the windchill that cuts your face above the protection of the bimini, you might stand for a bit. Maybe half way through your shift you do some push-ups to stay warm. You and your watch partner take turns steering the boat, trying to stay as close as possible to the charted line on the GPS, an experience which can be equated to just about the least action oriented video game ever created. You might talk with your watch partner. You might share fun-facts, like that you were the North Dakota State Freckle Champion (Nadine), or talk about important things: like your ethics or beliefs, or the way you experience the world. You might tell stories. You maybe share a little bit. Or maybe you put a tape in the tape deck and rock out to Tina Turner. You will talk about how cold it is, and perhaps, how warm it is going to be… someday… soon… farther south… Or if it is too cold and your faces are buried in jackets and scarves, and layers upon layers, you might just sit there quietly and watch the world go by at eleven miles per hour. When you are done with watch, after you have woken up the person whose shift follows yours and they have climbed above deck ready to take over, you climb down, and quickly bury yourself back deep, deep in your cocoon of warmth, awaiting the next shift. Perhaps you might make some food first, maybe food for the whole crew if you are feeling generous, fried eggs on a bagle or pots of hot something…Mmm.. hot something…or turn on either of the two propane heaters (El Senior Numero Uno, or Dos) in order to thaw out your socks before bed. Then, you lay, maybe read, then sleep.

This is the cycle. Over and over, forty-four hours: sleep, watch, freeze, thaw, eat, sun up, sun down, full moon, ships pass, ocean swells, watching the GPS count down the hours to the next destination: forty seven, thirty-two, twenty-two, twenty-five—loose speed—nineteen—pick up speed, ten, six, two, anchor.

And now here we are in Norfolk, Virginia. The beginning of the safety and security of the intercoastal waterway. The promised land. Where everything is sunshine, where things begin to get only warmer, and better, from here on. Where unicorns roam the enchanted waters and melt the falling snow with their breath. Here is magical and what we have been waiting for.

“Shore leave!” again, as we are met by the hospitality of Island School F10 student, Will Overman and the Overman family who have extended their warm southern hospitality and agreed to feed, house and facilitate our ship repair needs for us for the weekend. Last night, Friday the 21st, we were rejoined by Jonny, flying in from The Bahamas, to sail with us for the remainder of the voyage. Back to a crew of six. Also yesterday, we were met by Will in the morning, and set to work fulfilling the less glorious duties of shore leave: chores, shopping, and boat maintenance. Matt and Rob stayed on the FHP and began the considerable task of rebuilding and rerouting the entire exhaust system—a task not necessary in an absolutely necessary kind of way, but a good idea generally—which they decided to undertake over the weekend so as to address an inefficient and less than desirable exhaust system already in place. The magnitude of the project can be summed up in a single detail: it required that they drill a large hole in the cement hull, while the FHP currently floats anchored in the middle of a body of water, during the middle of a month long voyage, a feature that excited Rob and alarmed Nadine. After a day spent on the project they decided they needed another day; so today, Saturday, half of the crew returned to the ship to work while another sect of the crew was set to the proper celebration and revelry of shore leave.

This is how Jonny and I ended up spending the day with the Overman boys. We took a long walk through a beautiful wooded park in Virginia Beach, visited a delightful historic lighthouse, and ate a cornucopia of sea fare at a local beach front restaurant, with the charming company of Bill and Will. Oh, how I love shore leave. I love it. I love it. I love it. I am a better sailor than I thought I would be, and I can endure the tough and dutiful life on the Hornpipe, but oh oh oh how I love shore leave. And tonight, we are looking forward to the third incredible meal prepared for us by the lovely and incredibly kitchen-saavy Denise Overman, bless her delicious food-cookin’ heart.

Then, after some more wonderful and spirit-lifting hospitality, and after finishing up some other side projects and boat maintenance tomorrow, back to the water, the cold, and back to the little sailboat that feels a little more like home each time we return to it.