JangadaCat.com

But I have a boat, and that means work. I spent a day tinkering around (always fun) and then decided it was time for my maiden solo voyage. Granted I have never sailed a boat—any boat, never mind one this big—by myself. But there’s a first time for everything, and this was the time. Woohoo!!!

I eased Jangada out of the marina and into the narrow, shallow channel out of the harbor, through the maze of channel markers (many of which were missing—after all, this is Mexico…) and out into the sea. Everything was perfect. After motoring clear of the large freighters that were anchored around the oil refinery at the end of the harbor, I decided it was do-or-die time: hoist the main and go sailing.

I headed Jangada into the 10-knot breeze directly from the north and cranked up the main. Luckily I had bought a new double-handled winch handle since the huge fully battened mainsail weighs several hundred pounds. It is, indeed, a BEAR to hoist and it took me a solid fifteen minutes to get it up, keeping the reefing lines, lazy jacks and dousing lines all clear and running free as I cranked (that in itself is a full-time job for a crew person).

Then out came the jib, I turned off the motors, bore away and off we went. YeeeeHaa!!! We’re sailing!!!! This is SOOOOOO much fun! Jangada was making 5 knots at 45º to weather in 10 knots of wind. The sun was shining, the water was sparkling and I was zipping along all by myself. Those ‘Around Alone’ guys have nothing on me, I’ll tell you. Within five minutes I wanted to continue, alone, around the world. This was living large. This was what life is all about.

I set the autopilot and walked around the boat, inspecting everything like a good captain is supposed to do. I checked my course on the computer. I coiled lines and trimmed the sails. I checked the wind and looked for whales. I went inside and fixed myself a sandwich. And I smiled a lot. Big.

An hour later, as forecast, the wind started to build. I was heading northwest towards the main coast under full sails as the windmeter read 12….15…..18 knots. From my limited experience I knew two things: first, the wind would probably continue to build; second, Jangada develops a good case of weather helm (the rudders ‘freeze’ and the boat wants to round up into the wind and stay there) if fully rigged in anything over 20 knots of wind.

Briefly I thought about putting in a reef and reducing the jib a bit. You know, the conservative thing to do. The smart thing. Naa. A few days before I had met another guy on a 42’ cat in La Paz who told me he had never reefed, even in 25 knots. He said he didn’t even know how. If he could do it, so could I.

The wind continued to build. 20 knots….23…..26….. Things were getting… exciting. As expected, Jangada started heading to weather, confusing the autopilot and making all sorts of radical noises. The pressure on the mast, boom and rigging from a big set of sails on a 42’ boat in high winds is enormous.

At the same time, of course, we were sailing faster and faster, Jangada and me. 8 knots… 9….10…. and this was heading upwind. I have no doubt that I could have easily done 15 knots on a beam reach. Indeed, whenever I would bear off a bit the speed indicator would jump, but I had a destination in mind and hopefully things would hold together until I got there.

Jangada was right on the edge of control. With a reef or two things would have been just fine, but I was far too excited (and lazy) to think about any sort of reasonable behavior. Suddenly a wild buzzing noise erupted from one of the fishing poles I had set. Oh great, a fish; perfect timing. I ran to the bending pole and whizzing reel, tightened the drag and began winding in line. It wasn’t a big fish—probably 20 pounds— but with 10 knots of boat speed it was all I could do to bring it in. Twenty yards out it started skipping along the surface, wondering, no doubt, what the hell was pulling it so fast. Ten yards from the boat the line went slack. Damn! I reeled it in and discovered a bent hook. Guess that fish was bigger than I thought.

Then it was time to tack. Uh oh; hadn’t thought about that one.

With even one other person on board this would have been a cinch, even in high winds. Alone… for the first time… with no practice… this was going to take a bit of thought. First I had to figure out how to manage everything—turning the boat to a new course and having it stay there, not too far but just far enough so it wouldn’t stall, releasing the old jib sheet and winching in the new one at the same time so the line wouldn’t flog around violently and kill someone (me). This is basically an easy process, but doing it alone brings on a set of entirely new challenges, especially on a cat where the jib winches are at opposite sides of a very wide boat.

I devised a plan using the autopilot to steer while I simultaneously release one jib sheet and hauled the other one in. Three, two, one…. GO! I pressed the autopilot and as the bow came into the wind, released the jib sheet and began to pull on the new one. Then everything stopped. Dead. Right into 25 knots of wind. The jib flapped madly, the main crashed back and forth, and Jangada just stayed put for a moment until it decided to go back to where it was, even though the jib was now set on the wrong side. SHIT! What the hell just happened???

With the autopilot still set to the new course, the jib sheeted to the wrong side, and the gusts bearing down on us with new ferocity, things were not going well. Since the autopilot was still set to turn, Jangada began trying again, all by herself, but this time with virtually no forward speed to carry her (and me) through the tack. She stalled again as I frantically ran back and forth between the jib winches, releasing and tightening and trying not to get killed by the flying lines and crashing boom.

Anyone watching this frantic maneuvering in the middle of the ocean would certainly be convinced that I was either mad or drunk. Or both. Or maybe just dumb.

I shut down the autopilot to try to figure out the problem. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t set the new course far enough off the wind on the new tack. I had only set it for 60º difference from my existing course, figuring that we were headed 30º into the wind and I wanted to head 30º into the wind on the new tack. But in order to gain enough speed to make the tack, I had beared off to 40º before starting the tack. Try again.

Same result; Jangada would head right into the wind, go another 10º, then turn back just as I was trying to sheet in the new jibsheet. Between the adrenaline and running back and forth between winches and the helm I was getting exhausted. This is not good.

Back to the autopilot. I had added 10º to the new course but it still wasn’t enough—it only brought us 30º off the wind and I was discovering that we needed more. So I gave it another 10º. Same result. I tried again. Then I tried to do it without the autopilot. We made it through the wind and all the way around. Suddenly we’re going dead downwind and jibing. I couldn’t control the helm and didn’t have the time to trim the jib and steer at the same time unless I had twenty-foot arms.

After two more tries I finally made it, I’m still not sure how. The problem is how to control the boat as it enters the new course; too little angle and it stalls, too much and it goes out of control. That and simultaneously sheeting in and out on the jib at just the right time while monitoring everything else going on. I think I have to study this more, and then practice (preferably with someone else on board to tell me what the hell I’m doing wrong).

A few minutes later I discovered at least part of my problem: the wind had clocked around another 15º in the middle of all my maneuvering, significantly changing my new tack angle so that I was actually still heading considerably upwind when I thought I was more on a beam reach. Pay attention, TURKEY!!!!

Half an hour later I was at the entrance to Puerto Balandra, a stunning turquoise bay with a wide entrance ringed by jagged cliffs and white beaches. There were 4-5 other boats anchored.

I was still under full sail and flying along smartly. I considered heading to weather and taking down the sails before entering the bay…. But decided that an old salt like me would instead cruise smartly in through the anchored boats to a spot further into the shallow bay (which only a shallow-draft cat can go) where I would drop my sails right at my anchorage. Like a pro. Very impressive. Like Joshua Slocum: we don’t need no stinking motor! Oh boy.

I slid silently past the boats and headed upwind to slow my progress. Luckily for me the bay is protected and the direction of the wind was such that it was not howling through the narrow gap at the far end, which would have pushed me firmly onto the rocks.

At just the perfect spot I started an engine and put it in gear to hold mit in place (whimp), hauled in the jib and dashed to the mast to manhandle the corpulent mainsail down to the boom. It was a chore. The main halyard kept getting stuck in the jam cleat that just happened to be on the opposite side of the mast from the dousing line that I needed to pull down the sail. You’d think that such a heavy sail would come down easily by itself, but that’s one of the rules of a sailboat: nothing works the way you think I should. I put in another 10 miles sprinting back and forth to either side of the mast and the end of the boom to try to keep the sail in the lazy cradle as it came down. Again, this is no big deal with at least one other person. Alone? It’s a challenge.

Then I dropped the anchor in 15’ of crystal water, let out 70’ of chain, set the bridal, turned off the motor and just stood there on the deck. WHAT A DAY!!!! This was insane!!!! How much fun was I allowed to have in one life????

That lasted all of 30 seconds before I was again consumed with boat chores. Set up the solar panels, zip the lazy cradle, coil lines, secure the boom…. and then dive in the water. The water temperature was perfect as I swam around the boat, scrubbing here and there, inspecting the props, rudders and through-hulls, and diving on the anchor. Half an hour later I was relaxing on the rear deck with a fresh, icy margarita and Jimmy Buffett serenading me.

As a brilliant orange sunset finished off the day I sautéed a big pile of local shrimp, garlic, tomatoes, white wine and jalapenos I had bought from Martin, the local farmer who sold produce outside the marina entrance every morning. I finished it off with fresh mangoes, papaya, pineapple, limes and a couple of succulent melons of which I have no idea of their names. Two more margaritas really finished me off.

During the night the wind came up strong and I got up to check things. I could see the other (monohull) sailboats rocking wildly in the swell under a half-moon, and I was glad to be on a nice stable cat. Once again: Jangada rules!

I spent the following day reading and writing, swimming and kayaking, eating and relaxing, and tweaking various things on the boat. A little zip-tie here, burning a rope end there….ahhh! Perfect! I finally took a trip up the mast for the first time. It’s quite tall, you know. I thought about that self-snapped photo of Ellen MacArthur (the tiny, young, brilliant solo ocean racer) on the top of her mast fixing something or other in the middle of the southern ocean as her 60’ boat Kingfisher was flying along at 15 knots beneath her. This brings new meaning to the word ‘adrenaline’.

In fact, as I was zinging along the afternoon before I thought quite a bit about solo sailing and what it would be like to go around the world alone. I don’t think there’s anything quite like it in the world of sport other than perhaps a solo climb of a big—a very big—mountain. Most people assume that sailing is quite boring. Obviously these people have never sailed in anything over 10 knots of wind. There’s more excitement, adrenaline and energy in solo sailing than almost anything else I can imagine (and I’ve only done it once, so far, but I’ve done lots of other solo adrenaline sports: kayaking, climbing, skiing, hang-gliding). No, sailing is not boring. Especially solo sailing. It holds your attention. Quite.

Some of the most memorable moments in my life were solo efforts. Remote, wildly dangerous climbs in northern Canada, Patagonia and the Himalaya. Linking thin, dicey turns down steep, icy couloirs in Alaska—you fall, you die. Windsurfing alone from the mainland to a remote island off the coast of Thailand; crossing the Molokai Channel in Hawaii without telling a soul where I was going. Pushing the envelope, living large. But I don’t know if I could handle the endless day-to-day stress and energy requirements of 20…30… 90 days at sea. No, that is something reserved for a special breed. The few, the proud, the crazy!