About fifteen hours after leaving the Gulfstream, on the morning of the third day at sea, during the second leg of the Bermuda 1-2, the winds had filled in steady from the northwest at 15 knots. Fred Boursier and I had about 240 miles to the finish line off of Castle Hill at Newport. The breeze overnight had been mostly light and variable, but instead of taking advantage of the conditions and resting up for bad weather, we’d spent most of the time awake, doing anything to keep the boat moving.

By early afternoon, winds had veered to the north and were starting to blow a steady 30 knots. The sea state deteriorated rapidly and some waves were starting to roll over at the top. We were sailing with a reefed jib and a triple-reefed main, on starboard tack, headed upwind, steering about 310 degrees, 40 degrees away from the heading to the finish. In my two years of campaigning Acadia in France and during the Mini Transat, I had never used this sail combination; it was the bare minimum before switching to the storm sails.

Two-hour watches started to grind on, seeming to last the entire evening. A near constant spray covered the boat and it started to rain. Looking forward became increasingly difficult; I found myself gazing to leeward, trying to prevent the full onslaught of water from hitting me in the face. Acadia launched off a wave, fell damn near straight down and then crashed into the trough, jolting me from my dazed state. Abandoning attempts at sleep, Fred moved to the small perch on the aft side of the keel box. I leaned forward and yelled below for him to turn on the shortwave receiver so we could listen to Herb Hilgenberg. Inside the cabin, it was loud and the movement violent…just turning on the radio was a chore, and listening to the static filled voice of a Canadian is not easy, especially if English is your second language, as it is for Fred…we traded places and I went below.

Herb Hilgenberg, also known to mariners as South Bound II, has been providing free weather routing services to any sailor in the Atlantic Basin for the past 20 years; all you have to do is sign on and be on the radio everyday at 1600 Atlantic Time. During the busy months, mostly in the spring and fall delivery season, Herb might be conversing with 60 boats a day. On Acadia, we only had a shortwave receiver, no transmitting capabilities, but chances were that Herb would be talking to boats in transit between Newport and Bermuda. In 2000, when moving a 70-footer from England to Newport, I signed on with Herb and I often found myself not following his advice precisely, which can lead to an on-air lecture. Since then, even when I have had the ability to communicate with him, I often stay silent, hoping to piggyback on another boat’s forecast.

 “People who write books about this and recommend these routes should be thrown in jail!” Herb’s all too familiar accent crackled across the radio. He was in the middle of lecturing a cruiser about the risks of riding in the Gulfstream, a common strategy used by sailors going from west to east across the Atlantic. The problem, according to Herb, is that you are constantly subjected to foul weather and this risk far outweighs any benefit from a fair current dragging you across the Atlantic. I had listened to many of Herb’s tirades over the years – often, during deliveries of larger yachts, we’d break out the cheese and crackers and open a bottle of wine for the Herb show. With no such luxuries on Acadia, I just sat and waited. I must admit that Herb’s rather agitated demeanor on that particular day made me laugh and cheer him on. I had also always found the contrast a bit amusing, Herb tucked into his basement in Ontario, Canada, sipping on coffee and looking at computer screens, talking to boats at sea that were getting the shit kicked out of them.

As I waited for Herb to talk to boats in our part of the ocean, I gazed around the inside of Acadia.  I now had around 10,000 miles on her; even for me, it was hard to believe it was possible to sail such a basic shell of a boat that far. I tried to imagine sailing at sea once again on a large boat – one with a galley, nav station, head, floorboards, hell, even a dodger. I felt the boat make a slight dip then move hard to the right; I was caught slightly off-balance and had to grab the steel keel handle that sticks up inside the cabin. Mini sailors often wear helmets inside their boats; I did not bother. While I’d never been injured by being thrown around the cabin, the bare steel that I hung onto had the potential to cause some serious problems in an out-of-control movement; I reminded myself to wrap foam around it for the next offshore trip, though I had begun to question if there would be a next time.

I struggled up to fiddle with the noise blanker on the shortwave radio, hoping to make Herb more lucid;  while
playing with the knobs, I briefly disobeyed the hard and fast rule while underway, especially on a Mini: “One hand for you and one hand for the boat.” Acadia rolled hard to port…I was thrown onto a sail, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Fred totally enveloped in water, hanging on the upper lifeline with one arm, desperately trying to stay on the windward side, which was now almost vertical. Water streamed below through the cockpit door opening, and a small gap in the Spartite, securing the mast in the partners, let the sea pour in. I grabbed a bucket and the sponge and started bailing.

Twenty minutes later, South Bound II, on 12.359 upper-side-band, had conversed with a boat 100 miles ahead, a competitor about 50 miles behind and someone in Bermuda waiting for a weather window to head for Long Island. The low was basically parked near the rhumbline and conditions would persist for a couple of days. Herb indicated that the weather would moderate further west, away from the storm center, though we were racing to Newport, not Cape May. We settled in for a hard upwind battle.

When I came on deck to relieve Fred, we decided it was time to get back to the rhumbline. In preparation for changing tacks, I clipped in with my safety tether and crawled forward to push down the new daggerboard. I then reached below and opened the valves to flood water from the windward ballast tank to the leeward tank, and finally, I freed up the canting keel control lines so the keel swung to leeward. Acadia was now heeling at about 45 degrees, even with the triple-reefed main totally luffing. The purpose of shifting the water and pre-canting the keel prior to coming about was so everything was in the proper position on the new tack. The only thing left to do was move the gear below to the new windward side and pull up the new windward daggerboard. The problem with doing all of this in advance is it makes the boat very hard to maneuver in high winds and big waves. I indicated that I was ready, so Fred jammed the helm over; we barely swung through the wind and onto port tack.

I climbed below and started slinging all the gear to the new windward side. The wave action was more brutal on this tack, and every time I went to grab something I fell against the back of the cabin-house or into the ballast tanks. I wondered how the hell I did this – solo – for 19 days straight in the Mini Transat Race, though in reality, most of the strong winds in that race were reaching and running, a much more manageable point of sail in any conditions. And during the southeast tradewinds in the Transat, for eight days close-hauled towards the coast of Brazil, the winds were 20 knots, not 30. Wind forces increase exponentially with speed, so 30 knots is not 50 percent stronger than 20 knots. In relation to force, it exerts 2.5 times the load on sails, rigging and hull profiles. The increase in wave size between the two wind speeds is also significant; going from an average of 6 feet in 20 knots of wind to 12 to 15 feet in 30 knots.

I crawled into the aft leeward corner of the boat, a narrow dark space, reaching for full water jugs and gear bags. The hull flexed beneath me, and the sound of water and the drum of waves against the carbon skins made me nervous, even though I had experienced it many times before. Water was in all the aft spaces, trapped by the frames, so I studied the rudder fasteners, the escape hatch and support structure for any signs of fatigue. The boat rolled to port and then seemed to punch into a wave, followed by silence. The sound of water flow on the hull had disappeared. I knew what was coming next, so I braced myself in this coffin-like space. Seconds later, Acadia belly-flopped into the trough like she’d fallen off a cliff. A vibration resonated through the hull as the 600 pound keel bulb twisted back and forth on the fin. Imagining that it might be possible for the hull to fracture or the keel to fall off, I scrambled to get out of the confined space, dragging a water jug with me. Crouched over and able to only use my arms for lifting due to lack of headroom, I slung the container to windward. I collapsed and waited two minutes before going back for the next jug. The bow dipped down and Acadia shuddered, a wave enveloped the entire boat.

When I ventured on deck to take over the steering, I remembered the windward daggerboard was still down. Moving forward, I tried to watch the white tops of the waves out of the corner of my eye and untangle my safety tether at the same time. Once over the daggerboard trunk, I quickly stood and pulled on the carbon fiber handle. The board came up 12 inches and stopped. I pushed it back down and pulled again; it stopped with a thump. I glanced over the windward side. The daggerboard, broken and hanging on by a few fibers, was skimming the surface, looking like some horizontal stabilizer, as if it was designed that way. As I debated what to do, the last few fibers let go, and the board disappeared into the deep. It is probably still on the way down.

I consulted with Fred and we decided to partially raise the leeward board, hoping it wouldn’t meet the same fate. When the keel is canted 35 degrees off centerline, there’s minimal lift from the keel fin; the daggerboards are then used to help to keep the boat from making leeway. These airfoil shapes are essential in helping a sailboat perform well to windward, and even in light air, I have found the daggerboards help the boat point, mostly because the profile of the keel fin is so small.

I took over the steering and Fred instructed me to have one arm wrapped around something at all times. I nodded in agreement; my seahood and the Velcro enclosures that secured the front of the drysuit around my face left only enough of a gap for my eyes. I was extremely uncomfortable -- the fleece lining chafed my face, my feet ached from water sores, my ass felt like I was sitting on sandpaper and I was cold; yet despite the high winds, chaotic seas and physical discomfort, I was dead tired. I started talking to myself, repeating absurd phrases over and over again: “Roseanne Roseannadanna…I hear you, Roseanne, Roseannadanna. Give me peace, Roseannadanna.” “Wilson, where the hell are you? Come on Wislon, help me out now.” As every other wave sent sheets of water across the boat, I cursed out loud, trying to use every profanity I could think of, and when I was finished with English, I went on to French and Spanish.

In addition to blathering to myself, I would also think about some horrendous situation, like what it must’ve been like that last hour on the Titanic. In comparison, we had it pretty good. I have played this mind game many times in rough weather and it often helps to bring things into perspective. I have also sailed enough at sea to know this stuff cannot last forever… a time will come when you are dry, rested and gazing at the stars. Though a Mini is an extremely light (2000 pounds, race ready with food, water and safety gear) skittish boat, so it does not take much before you are hanging on for dear-life. When the weather is really snotty, I would imagine the experience to be similar to riding a mechanical bull under a waterfall, for hours and days on end.

It got to the point where a wave would slam the bow every ten seconds and send spray over the entire boat; about every minute, we would submarine into a steep wave and a wall of water would sweep the decks; and every few minutes a breaking wave would appear through the blackness and crash down on the Acadia or pick her up and toss her down sideways.

Falling sideways off a wave is how I suspect the first daggerboard broke, and despite the second one only being partially down, two hours later, when we tacked back to starboard near the rhumbline, we found that one had also broken. It too skimmed the surface for a short while before heading for the abyss. We had about 150 miles to the finish, pretty much dead upwind, and our ability to go to windward was now severely hampered.

It’s at times like these, after damage to the boat or equipment, when you’re beat-up and dead tired, that thoughts of calling it a day enter your stream of consciousness: “How far away is the nearest port, and is it in some direction that’s less brutal than the current one?” “How will I get the boat back home from there?” “What will people think if I throw in the towel and say I’d had enough?” “Is my equipment failure so extreme that no one would question my decision to not carry on?” “Would I be able to live with my decision to call it quits?” These thoughts and more raced through my mind for five or ten minutes as I came to grips with the situation.

After I broke my mast racing from France to the Azores, 600 miles from the finish, I sat on deck for five minutes, frozen, staring at the sea, as hundreds of thoughts sped through my exhausted brain while the broken rig lay over the side. In these situations, it’s a morass of amazement, exhaustion, fear and denial. As your mind weeds out the background noise, you come to the realization that you’re safe and the boat is safe. People often ask me if I am ever afraid on my boat at sea. Fear for my life or my wellbeing seldom enters my thoughts; fear of a major breakdown, and consequently not being able to finish a race because of it, is always present… these races take so much time and money to prepare for and the last thing you want is to be sidelined by mechanical problems. Talk to any Mini sailor and they will always say this is their biggest fear.

Ultimately, your pride and competitiveness kick-in; you begin to look for solutions, options, jury-rig possibilities, whatever it takes to get to the finish. And all the while, in the back of your mind, you know that those who helped make the trip a reality are cheering you on, family and friends watching you suffer on the computer screen and offering up words of encouragement that carry on through the airwaves. In addition, there are the organizations and businesses that have helped every step of the way. For this race, it was the Mystic Seaport who so graciously let me use what was now their boat; they also provided an excellent work space over the past winter and complete access to their equipment and staff. The Stonington Harbor Yacht Club Sailing Foundation Champion’s Fund provided the hard cash for new sails, modifications and entry fees; I would not have been out there without their support. Dodson Boatyard, helping as they have since the beginning of my Mini madness, provided a base of operations, carte blanche in their marine store and full access to equipment and personnel And my partner at the Dog Watch Café, David Eck, fully supported me taking off for three weeks at the beginning of the summer madness in the restaurant business. 

 For all of these reasons, and probably more that I fail to remember, I always try to carry on, not turning back and not deviating, and that decision is never a bad one.

We slogged away on starboard tack, at 300 degrees, about 50 degrees low of the finish. We left the keel mostly centered to try and get some lift from the fin, stacked everything to windward as best we could and made sure the water ballast tanks were full. We were headed for Long Island, pushing to the west of the rhumbline. The following morning, when the finish bore due north, and we were headed off to 290 degrees, we tacked back to port. I looked at the digital compass… it was oscillating between 85 to 90 degrees. With no daggerboards, we had tacked through 160 degrees and were headed due east, pointing back towards the fleet behind us. The seas were running 15 feet and the wave angle was more head-on; the boat speed, 6.5 on starboard tack, struggled to get up to 6 knots on this tack. There are times when you have to take your lumps to get back to an ideal place on the course, but I could not deal with these sort of lumps. We tacked back to starboard, headed for Long Island and waited for the wind to die, hopefully followed by a lucky shift to the west.

Later in the afternoon, the change came. The wind quickly dropped to about ten knots and went northwest, so we flipped over to port. By sunset, the seas had almost gone flat and the wind backed to the west – we were now on a direct course for the finish. By early the next morning, the breeze had become light and variable, shifting northeast, then east and eventually, as we ghosted by Block Island, we were sailing from one small puff to the next, sometimes upwind, then downwind, reaching, tacking. It took ten hours to cover the last eight miles into Newport. We drifted across the line at 2:20 on the morning of the sixth day at sea, the sixth boat to finish, beating many of the larger competitors.

There to great us were [Acadia’s designer] Rod Johnstone, Bob Johnstone, John Johnstone, my mom and their sister, Bobette Johnstone McCracken and my good friend Arturo Pilar. They’d been floating around for seven hours waiting for us to finish! It was the first time that all of the siblings had been together on a boat in 45 years.

Fred and I were relived to have finished, and when we arrived at the Newport Yacht Club around 0400, we stood in the club showers for 45 minutes. I was thankful Fred had been on-board and quite frankly could not have imagined doing the leg without his expertise… Fred has raced Minis across the Atlantic as well, so the pain endured in lousy weather and the difficulty of breakdowns, were not new experiences for him. We both came to the conclusion that it might be time to move up the next size short-handed boat, perhaps the Class 40.