Visiting Crew

Ed Note: Andrew McCue was a member of Rocky Mountain Semester XXI at HMI. In April, he joined the crew of Sila in the Cape Verdes and this is his visiting blog post:

Andrew enjoying one of his first days offshore

I remember laughing aloud when I got the email from Molly. Last October, I was working on a farm in North Carolina, when Molly Barnes floated the idea of joining the crew of Sila for a few long passages my way. Just a few months out of college, a little ocean-cruising was precisely the kind of adventure I was seeking, and I could not contain my joy when it fell right into my lap. The trip, which finally evolved into this two month sail from the Cape Verdes to the Azores had all the makings of a great adventure : it was a novel experience, which sounded fun, and promised to be scary from time to time. Indeed, as I prepared for departure in early April, all kinds of anxieties wormed their way into my head. What if there were storms? What if I didn't know what to do on my night watch, when everyone else would be asleep? What if I got seasick? What if something went wrong out at sea? Am I really prepared for this? Will I enjoy it? 

Within hours of my arrival in Mindelo, almost all these worries were abolished. Christopher briefed on the safety aspects of the sturdy Sila, who seemed to me eminently sturdy, well equipped, and well manned. By the time we left Mindelo bound for the Azores, I was ready and eager to start my first ocean passage despite a lingering anxiety about stormy weather, I felt sure that this boat and this crew would see me safely through to the end of the voyage. 

I grew up on the ocean, so there has never been a summer when I haven't sailed. Whether in Salem Sound on Boston's north shore or in the Solent on Britain's south coast, summer meant sailing. More specifically, I learned to race and love racing sailboats. My sailing experience when I joined the Barnes family in Mindelo consisted of afternoons' worth of sailing - days where I always came home to a drink and a shower afterwards, and which afforded me the flexibility to stay home and dry if the weather looked nasty. Ocean passages, however, are wholly different experience. 

A few days into my first passage, I had learned how to sail Sila - to trim her sails to the requirements of the wind pilot, to keep her up to speed and on course. The first and largest difference I noticed was simple: scale. On a light racing sailboat, every decision is made to increase speed, adjustments are given 30-60 seconds to effect a positive change before they are abandoned, and the world is shrunk to the coast around your home port and the race course itself. On Sila, effective sailing required giving the boat 5-10 minutes to "settle-in" to adjustments, decisions must consider speed but also comfort and safety, and everything is bigger. The waves are bigger, the wind is stronger, the distances are longer, the time is greater. 

I can clearly remember the night watch when I fully acclimated to this grand scale: April 15th, the 4th day of the passage, sometime around 10:30pm. On this beautiful night, I was struck with a burst of perspective in which I saw myself from above, a small boat in the middle of the ocean. There I was, a 23 year old guy sailing a boat across an ocean, in the middle of the night, while my friends searched for or began their first office jobs back at home. Again, my joy bubbled out in some extremely pleased laughter: what an adventure! What a privilege! This good feeling carried through many other moments on passage, especially the various dolphin visits (always playful and fun to watch), marveling at the bioluminescence stirred up by our wake at night, and learning to use a sextant with Porter and Jack.

 Andrew taking a sun sight

An excellent first experience of ocean passages was capped off with excitement in the approach to the Azores. On my final night watch of the passage, the weather got up into precisely the conditions I had feared at the outset of the voyage: strong winds which occasionally overpowered the autopilot, driving rain, large waves, and an enormous tanker very nearby. At night, on my watch, while the boat slept. I should probably mention that my life's experience of sailing has long been colored by an intense nervousness around strong winds - I'm generally afraid of losing control of the boat. So when these nightmare conditions (for me) came up, I was extremely grateful for Christopher's willing and clear help. Be able to sail safely through that gale was easily the most rewarding moment of the entire two month trip. It was a moment of growth where my fear came to town, and I was able to keep going.

Coming into Horta the next day produced the same feeling of accomplishment and relief as coming back to civilization after a prolonged hike in the backcountry. In such times, the feeling of wonder at modern facilities and luxuries is entirely renewed for having gone without. The unexpectedly difficult transition was the lack of forward motion, of progress. The effect of immobility on a 47 foot home like Sila is a massive reduction in the size of your world. While the novelty of living on a boat that isn't moving wore off rather quickly, the boys were certainly able to keep me busy, and as a result, I have now learned to play Oh Hell, Poker, Cribbage, Carcasonne, and the boys' own invention "the sailing game."

Andrew with Porter and Jack, affectionately known as "the beasts" on the volcano above Horta

Andrew and The Beasts on Pico Island in the Azores

Among the many things that set Porter and Jack apart from boys their age at home, the ability to entertain themselves with board games and books, or with their parents, is a huge boon. Once marina time was over and we got back to sailing, I noticed something strange: my second passage felt utterly different.

I can list a string of differences between the two passages, but the essence of it was that I no longer had the honeymoon attitude of novelty and the sailing was a little more challenging in the colder, rougher North Atlantic. The biggest change had to do with our fundamental approach to sailing the boat - for three days or so, we did not want to sail fast or efficiently. Slowing down and heaving-to to let a storm pass north of us required a controlled disregard of sail trim and an inverse attitude towards boat speed which was anathema to the racing sailor in me. Slow speed and rain essentially kept us mostly belowdecks and produced a nagging feeling of claustrophobia. One night, not much later, I remarked how much smaller the world feels on a cloudy night. A cruel trick, to feel enclosed out in the middle of the ocean... Molly summed up this peculiarity of life on passage: there is an intense lack of personal space and a ton of alone time.

Nevertheless, some of my favorite experiences of the past two months have come during the solitude of my night watch. With the help of PB and J, and an app on the ipad, I learned to recognize half a dozen constellations that were new to me. On a clear night, the act of picking out Ursa Major and Minor, Leo, Virgo, Polaris, Draco, and Gemini felt like finding some new friends in the vastness of the night sky. Recognizing these constellations on later nights became an entertainment and a comfort on a cold, dark night.

It was on my final night watch before landfall in Ireland that I was reminded of the immense pleasure that lay, not far above in the sky, but just over the side in our wake. Bioluminescence had illuminated our bow wave and wake with enough frequency on my two passages that it's presence was no longer a wonder so much as a pleasant detail. As I sat out to get a look at the sails that night, these little neon specks in the water caught my eye once more. I realized with a pang of regret that I was not likely to see bioluminescence for a long time. These lights in the water had become a companionable presence for me: on stormy nights or on lonely lights, the very frequency of this phenomenon served as a reminder of the extraordinary nature of the ocean. Then, I yawned, passed off the watch to Molly, and crawled gratefully into bed.

My feelings towards the bioluminescence align pretty well with my feelings about the end of this adventure... Bioluminescence is really a natural phenomenon to marvel at, and yet it had become familiar. Something associated with remote places and wondrous nights was an old friend, and it couldn't prevent me from wanting to climb into my cozy bunk and sleep. Similarly, the adventure of ocean-cruising as a way of life has become familiar to me - a sign, I think, of significant growth as a sailor. Now I have come to place where, even my enthusiasm for sailing and playing with the Barnes does not stop me from eagerly anticipating the next adventure, the next change in scenery and lifestyle.

It is a wholly bittersweet experience to jump into an adventure, make it home, and then be ready to leave. When such wonderful things bless a period of time your life, it can be difficult to fully appreciate the impact of the experience until well after the fact. The reality of it is flabbergasting: this nautical adventure is part of my life. I really participated in it. Extraordinary! Worthy of true appreciation and deep gratitude, which are mixed right in with my bittersweet regret at the end of my time with the Barnes and anticipation of my next journey. -Andrew McCue                                          

The Sila crew, about to make landfall in Ireland