It was mid-afternoon and we were anchored behind Great Stirrup Cay in the Bahamas. Grey clouds rolled in ahead of the cold front we had been waiting for and the wind clocked around to the southwest. Alison and I pulled up the dinghy and strapped it to the cabin top behind the mast. It was to serve as our life raft. We stowed the swim ladder and padlocked the external lockers shut so that they could not open if we were knocked down. The forecast called for 25 knot winds, and 10-12ft seas-- uncomfortable but not too bad. It seemed crazy to have waited for bad weather to leave, but it was the only way to get the thousand miles to windward in an area of pretty constant east to southeast trade winds.
I could tell Alison was nervous, and a thousand nagging doubts crossed my mind. After all the reading, preparation and decisions we were about to face our first ocean crossing together, and on our own boat. I knew that we had made compromises. Our sails and rig were eight years old. True Blue was twenty six years old. We had not bought all of the safety gear that most American boats have on them, such as a separate life raft or a ship-to-shore radio. Intellectually we knew this was valid, but we were not immune to the barrage of advertising and industry driven articles that implies that every device is essential. With an effort I pushed these thoughts down, and looked at Al.
“Time to leave?” I asked.
“Yes”, Alison said, and went forward to raise the anchor. We were off.

* * *
That night the breeze settled in as a light southwester, and the deep water of the Northeast Passage remained flat. As we sailed past Nassau I could see the yellow glow of the city lights, and the towering triangle of lights of the Atlantis casino. As they faded we tracked our progress carefully by the GPS and the lighthouses that marked the numerous reefs that make up the Bahamas. The occasional ship passed us but none came near. Eventually we passed the final light, and were clear of the passage and in the Atlantic. A gentle ground swell picked up as the influence of the islands was left behind.
In the morning the front hit, and it was weaker than we expected. The wind swung to the northwest and the waves picked up to about 6ft. Alison felt a bit queasy from seasickness. We were starting to establish a routine, with Alison making the meals, me navigating, adjusting the windvane and trimming the sails, and both of us standing watch three hours at a time. Through the day it became clear that the front had petered out, and we were not going to get the three or four days of downwind sailing we had hoped for. The rain stayed away and the wind clocked further, coming from the northeast. We kept it in front of the beam, trying to make as much distance to the east as possible, but we were forced to the south. “Oh well,” I thought. We were still north of the 26th parallel, considered the best latitude for making easting.
That night I started to read a fantasy series that Al had brought along, and was soon immersed in a different world. It was the Magician series, by Raymond E Feist, and covered about a foot of shelf space. We stood watch wedged under the spray dodger at the front of the cockpit, and read by the light of a low wattage anchor light. It was nice to read about people having a harder time than we were. The nights on passage were a normally peaceful time. At dusk we usually put a reef in the mainsail so that if the wind came up we didn’t have to do it in the dark, even though we sacrificed some speed. Then we tried to keep the boat going well enough, but tended to put off most jobs until morning. We kept watch the whole time, scanning the horizon for ships every twenty minutes. Off-watch we slept, and while I slept I dreamed, replaying the decisions we had made during the days as though I was trying to convince myself they were correct.
The weather continued to improve, and by morning was coming from the east, which was exactly where we wanted to go. Al’s seasickness was gone. We pointed as close to the wind as we could and kept going. The sun shone now, and reflected off the whitecaps. We were away from the shipping lanes and on our own. The Atlantic was all around us and the USA well behind. We were not making very good progress, but we were free of any responsibilities except the need to run the boat, and that was a liberating feeling.
* * *
Day four of the passage saw us becalmed. We had made about 350 miles and were a bit south of our track, but we had done all right so far. A gentle swell rocked what little wind there was from the sails and we were making about two or three knots to the northeast. Looking over the side I saw that the water was so blue that it was almost purple. We took the opportunity to have a more substantial meal, because we had been living on basic concoctions prepared mostly from cans. Flying fish had been committing suicide onto our decks each night, and we cleaned off the ones we had not removed already. I realised that for the first time since we had left Fort Lauderdale we both looked happy and relaxed. I grabbed a notepad and started to write a story about our going-away party. I had great plans of keeping notes for the whole journey, photographing everything, and shooting video in every country. Might as well start now, I thought. I also started to transfer weather and events from the ships log to the chart itself. I added wind arrows and symbols to record the weather we had. I also added notes on the unused areas of the chart. On a point to point passage you only use a thin strip of chart, leaving lots of space for passage notes, weather observations and forecasts, GPS coordinates, and sail changes. I also calculated the miles we had sailed for the last day, and the running total of miles sailed for the passage. This was to become our standard way of keeping the ship’s log. We lay in the sun a lot and read more books. Gradually the wind filled in, this time from the south, and we started to make progress again. Our planned route was about 1400 miles long, and we still had a thousand to go, but we were still averaging almost a hundred miles per day despite the adverse winds. Over the next few days the favourable winds help up. One day we made 135 miles which was our best to date. We had not used the motor once.
A few days later we were north of Hispaniola, and we started to think of turning south. It was a beautiful day, and scanning the horizon I saw the first sail for the entire trip. We were hard on the light wind, doing about 3.5 knots, and the other boat went past us as though we were standing still. We called them on the VHF and they turned out to be a Hinckley 59 called Zenetia. They were motor-sailing, so I didn’t feel so bad that they passed us, and had only left Miami five days before. The guy we were talking to was Jay, who was paid crew. We arranged to meet in the bar in Tortola when we got there. We had a chat and I asked him where they planned to turn south. Jay had made the trip many times before, and they intended to cut the corner instead of continuing east. It got me thinking about doing the same thing. As they vanished over the horizon we signed off, and had the ocean to ourselves again.
For the next two days we had southeast winds and were faced with either being pushed too far north, or beating into it. The US Coast Guard was forecasting gale force winds above 30deg N, which was only about two hundred miles north of us, so we elected to sail more south. We could always change our plans and visit the Dominican Republic, then hop to the US Virgin Is and then to the British Virgin Islands. We sailed south for two days, making some easting but not much, when southerly winds set in. By this time we were getting frustrated. Every time we tried to go somewhere the wind headed us off. “Go with the flow”, I told myself, and turned the boat towards Africa again.
Two more days saw us directly north of the BVIs, so we started beating south. Conditions were uncomfortable with twenty knots on the nose. We had two reefs in the main, mizzen, and a deeply reefed genoa up. We were sailing at about fifty five degrees to the wind and going four or five knots. Every minute or two we would build up speed and then fall off a steep wave with a crash. That day and the next we made just over thirty miles per day towards the BVIs.
We now had about 350 miles to go, and we had come a thousand already. At thirty miles a day it might take us another ten days. We listened to the weather with cross fingers every four hours, praying for some favourable winds. We were meant to be in the ‘North-East Trade Winds’ for god’s sake, and we had only seen one day of them for the whole trip. Even the east-southeast winds more typical in the Bahamas would have allowed us to make a single tack to Jost van Dyke, our objective. Finally we heard what we were waiting for: a big cold front was sweeping across the south of the USA and should reach us the next day.
* * *
We woke to a gloomy day, but the wind was clocking to the west and we were blasting along at about six knots. Every four hours we marked our position on the chart, making more progress each time than we had made in twelve hours sailing upwind. Our mood lifted with our speed, despite the black clouds rolling in. The Coast Guard was forecasting gusty fifteen knot winds and occasional thunderstorms. Finally the front arrived. The wind rose to over twenty five knots as the day wore on, and we were starting to get worried. Small tears were starting to appear at the seams in the genoa, so we hauled it in tight and went forward with some adhesive sail tape. We had our harnesses on, and Al cut off pieces of tape while I hung over the side and stuck them on both sides of the sail and pressed them together. It stuck, even to the wet, salty cloth. We scrambled back to the cockpit and towelled off, and then just sat there for a while. The repair was holding. Alison went below to lay down. The rough weather was making her feel a bit sick again.
The strong winds held for the next two days, and we rocketed south. Surfing down one wave we recorded over thirteen knots. Our repairs were holding but other seams further up the sail were going too. In the end we furled the genoa altogether, sailing on full mainsail alone. The windvane loved the conditions, steering much better than a person could in the large waves. We couldn’t hope to prepare a proper meal, so Al made salads from canned bean salad or vegetables, corn and tuna or salad. We ate in the cockpit with our feet wedged against the mizzen. Occasionally it would start to rain and we hid below, only coming up for a quick look around the horizon to check for ships. We saw none. Finally on the fourteenth day of the passage the dawn revealed a dark smudge on the horizon. I yelled down to Alison, “Land Ho!” We got the binoculars out and could see the mountainous northern slopes of the BVIs. The bottom was coming up quickly now, and I was concerned about breaking waves. We still had about thirty knots of wind and I didn’t know if the extensive sandbanks we had to cross would be safe. We had too much sail up but I didn’t feel confidant enough to turn across the seas to put another reef in, so we just blasted on.
I needn’t have worried. In a couple of hours we were closing in on the island of Jost van Dyke, a port of entry into the BVIs. The banks robbed the swell of its strength, and the waves became a steep, low chop. True Blue blasted past a couple of charter boats and then ducked into the lee of the islands. For the first time in two weeks we were in flat water. Alison and I stood there in the cockpit, proud of our little boat and ourselves. The boat looked the part, I thought, with her ragged sails, traditional lines and the dinghy lashed to the deck. I had been terrified that Al would hate the passages and we would have to abandon the concept altogether, so the fact that she had handled it so well was an enormous relief. We unlashed the anchor and dropped it well off the beach. Al tidied the boat while I rowed ashore with our passports to check in. I was in line behind another guy in yachty clothes, and I asked him where had come in from. He had sailed the five or so miles from the US Virgin Islands. He asked me the same thing and I felt a childish glee at his reaction to my answer.
I returned to the boat to pick up Alison and we went looking for a cheeseburger and a beer. More than anything else we craved a fatty meal after weeks of mostly vegetarian food, and that first hamburger was to become a tradition we would stick to for the next two years. We don’t drink alcohol or caffeine at sea because it interferes with being able to go to sleep and wake up every three hours, so the beers we had with lunch at Foxy’s went immediately to our heads. I think that we both felt that having made the passage on our own boat and without any other crew made us members of the ocean cruising community. We had made other passages as crew on other people’s boats, but it was not the same. We were exhausted, itchy from the salt, and the ground felt as though it was rocking, but we had made it.