Debrief Part 2 - Pre-Race Transit

We stayed on the boat Friday night 9 May, and woke up the next morning and got off the dock about an hour after sunrise. We motored out of Oak Harbor Marina and into Lake Pontchartrain for about a mile before hanging a sharp port turn to head underneath the I-10 Twin spans. It's really the double twins as they are hilt deep in the construction of a new bridge to replace the ones damaged in Hurricane Katrina. The cool part is that they drove steel piles into the lake bottom to tie up construction barges and they only have about 2-3 feet freeboard from the surface, so needless to say, avoiding them is important.

Then we skirted the edge of the Lake down to the Rigolets (pronounced like the gum Wrigley's). It's marked as a channel, but I wouldn't call it much more than a glorified ditch. It's about 12 ft deep, and on the lake side it drops to 3 foot flats pretty quick. Again, did not want mishap this close to home. Then we turned to port into the Rigolets, which is a narrow winding estuary that leads into the Mississippi Sound. Tides and runoff really rip through there, resulting in going from the 12 ft depths of Lake Pontchartrain to 150 ft deep!! I am certain that some kind of Cajun Swamp Kraken lives in there but have yet to encounter it.

We motored through the Rigolets and approached the CSX Railways Rigolets bridge, which I think is a New Deal project, and looks it. It was damaged in the hurricane as well and is in a constant state of repair, welding leads and junk everywhere. Behind us, we saw a sail, which shortly passed us, Blue Heron under motorsail, also on their way to Pensacola to participate in the race. On we motored into now unfamiliar waters that ranged between 3-20 ft deep. But we were in the ICW (Intracoastal Waterway), the interstate for barges and towboats, moving fuel, grain, aggregate, space shuttle booster tanks, and anything else you could imagine along the Gulf Coast and even around the Florida Keys and up the East Coast of the U.S. seaboard. We stuck to the channel and tried to stay out of the way of all the Cap'ns pushing loads through.

Blue Heron was now a couple miles out in front of us and veering off to the Southeast to take a shortcut through Cat Island pass. It is a great time saver and the skipper knew the waters well, there is a marked channel, but surrounded by extremely shallow shoals. We decided to play it safe and keep to the ICW. By this time it was about lunch, 90 degrees, few clouds and humid.

And on we motored, we weren't familiar enough with the waters to raise sail and there wasn't enough room to manoeuvre. Two hours later we were at the Ship Island Channel, which is between Ship and Horn Island, we turned hard to starboard heading nearly due South and out of the channel. This channel is 25 ft. + deep and sees car carriers, bulkers, tankers, ocean barges, and even warships. Plenty of room for us. We motored into the wind heading out. By this time it had grown cloudy and there was a short sea running into the inlet. In the pass itself the seas grew to 4-6 ft. and extremely short, we were pitching up and down a good 10 degrees and really slamming into the bottom of the waves, slowing us from 5.5 knots down to 2 or less. We kept banging our way through as best we could. I looked behind me and saw a 500 ft. car carrier rocking out through the channel, doing at least 15 knots. I steered over to the port (east) side of the channel to her room, and reduce the likelihood of getting crunched, as best as possible. As he glided by through the waves that were making shit fly all over below, some dolphins came shooting out of his bow wake, getting a solid 20 ft. of air. They both made it look easy. A couple of the crew were hanging out at side shell openings about 30 ft above the waterline. Smokin' cigs, doin' not a damn thing. Easy.

After a half hour of beating ourselves silly we cleared the bar and motored another couple miles south before making a southeasterly turn. Then we set sail. Full main, full jib, full staysail. We were heading off close to close hauled, trying to get offshore a bit further and gain some sea room. It was gettin' on to sunset about this time. Mary went below and knocked up some pasta with Cajun Power spaghetti sauce. I had been in the sun all day and was hungry and chowed down.

I was beat. I'd been at the helm all day long. Mary took the helm and I went below and hit the rack. Dark was falling. I was out in no time.

Around 2100 (9pm) the wind picked up, the seas picked up, and Mary was smoking along at 7.5 knots. A storm rolled in blowing 25+ knots, gusts to 28. We were somewhere near the Mobile Bay Bar. Then she started running out of water. She was in 45+ feet of water, which dropped to 25 feet, which dropped to 12 ft. That's when I heard the yelling for me to get up there. The charts showed the Mobile Bay bar with lots of tiny little sand spits, but none of them indicated such shallow depths. We thought we were far enough offshore, but we were wrong.

I rolled out of the rack. We were in 6-8 foot steep seas pitching like a fork. I grabbed the chart and rolled it out on the salon dining table. I won't be macho and admit I don't get seasick, I do. But it has to be the right combination of factors, the frequency of the motion, what I am doing, etc. Reading chart in stuffy cabin on pitching boat? Yes, that'd be the one. And the more I started to concentrate on the chart, looking at all the little obstructions, the poorer I felt. Then, and I only know this because Mary told me, we hit a series of really big steep waves, probably 10 ft.

And a quick digression here. We only had one significant issue with the boat on the way over. There are scuppers that drain water from the main deck outside overboard by running through a pipe, much like a gutter spout, down through the inside of the boat and out just above the waterline. What we didn't know from sailing in the lake was that over the years a hole had been rubbed in it. When we sailed on the lake, we'd have a cup or two of water on the floor. Well, with 6 ft seas crashing against the side of the hull, they pumped water into the drain, up through the valve and pipe, and out of that hole in the hose like a geyser. So the cabin floor was covered in water. Kind of hard to stand still on a slippery floor.

What I do know is that all of a sudden I was airborne and came down chin first on the table. The table did not break my fall. I took the table with me. I was stunned for a few moments, then thought I should get back up. My brand new ($50) charts were crumpled up from the fall. I stood up. I was immediately thrown down again. Much like a boxer who decides whether to take the 10 count, lose, and go home, I laid on the floor for a few seconds, really not feeling so well. And realizing that I was in my home and was about to run up on a sand bar in a storm, and to lose meant more than money or pride. So I got back up. And was immediately thrown down again. TKO. But hey, there's no referees out there. I realised that the chart wasn't going to help us, and that the best thing to do was to get on deck and help Mary. I looked down, and there was my newest issue of Harper's Weekly, floating around in the water on the floor. Unreadable. Very disturbing.

I made it up into the cockpit and got Mary to put us on a reverse heading back towards where we came, and deeper water. Then I got the engine started. By this time, we only had a couple of feet of water under the keel. Mary and I will argue the point, but she believes that right as we were turning, we fell into the bottom of a wave and scraped the bottom. I'm not sure that we did, but if so, it was just a love rub. Did I mention I was not feeling well? During our tack, a line got fouled, and Mary went forward to free it. I was about as useful as teats on a boar at that point and was good for holding a course at the wheel and that's it. Mary got back, sopped up the water from Old Faithful down below, and took the wheel, at which point I graciously decided to share with our waterborne brothers and sisters the tasty treat that is partially digested pasta with Cajun Power sauce. At this point we were heading nearly due south, past the oil rigs, and slowly getting into some deeper water. In all the chaos, I do remember a PAN PAN call come over channel 16 describing a 46 ft. cabin cruiser that was on fire in Mobile Bay. Our experience was comparatively good.

I passed out in the cockpit for a couple of hours and then went below. Once Mary got South of a couple of rigs, at about 0300, she turned back to the east towards Pensacola. Mary sailed through the night, and was greeted at dawn by a merry band of dolphins charging ARGO, leaping out of the waves, and surfing down our bow wave in front of us. A good conclusion to the previous nights events.

I wake up about 0700 feeling much better. We have some toast and coffee. The sky is steel grey and we hve 4-6 foot long wavelength seas running on our quarter, and we are feeling pretty good. I take over at the helm, and we start to make our way towards the Pensacola Pass channel sea buoys. By 0800 we are at the first buoy and make our way North through the channel. Off to the port side are the two things that we want no part of. The USS Massachusetts, the first US BB battleship is out there, it is awash at low water, and while a great dive, not something we want to tangle with today. And then the Caucasus Shoal is breaking all over the place, a half mile offshore at least. It doesn't look real clean, so I don't call my brother and tell him to get his board and get out there.

We made it into Pensacola Bay easily and started motorsailing in. We passed Pensacola Naval Air Station, the onetime training command of all Naval Aviators, including George Bush, Sr. and John McCain, and other persons more well regarded. The bay was calm, but a squall rolled up on us from behind. It dumped huge raindrops on us for about five minutes, then passed on by, giving us a refreshing freshwater shower after a lot of salt. We turned to head into Bayou Chico and the Pensacola Yacht Club and unfortunately Mary's sacred Baltimore Orioles ballcap went into the drink. We tried several times to recover, but it went down. We motored up to the dock, tied up, and looked for the dockmaster to no avail. At that point, we opened all the hatches and portlights, turned on the fans, and hit the rack for some much needed rest.

The mess that was down below and the other 500 things we had to do before the start of the race could wait.

Apparently, we had ridden a feisty little storm out there. BLUE HERON had gone back in and anchored behind one of the barrier islands to wait it out. I'm not sure if it was the same storm, but the favored yacht in the race, DECISION, a TransPac 52, had run aground on the Mobile Bay bar and damaged its keel. It had to sail into Mobile for repairs. Once tied up to the dock, it was struck by lightning. They didn't compete in the race.

So, this concludes the story to get to the real story. I hope I'll get the time and muse to write it soon. Also, the movie from the trip and a whole heap of photos should be coming out within the next two weeks....so stay tuned.