This is a true story.
I’m not sure if it’s a story of survival through sheer grit or one because of and despite complete idiocy. Or more likely, because of divine intervention.
In December of ‘87 or ‘88 my dad had a 26 foot Pearson sailboat, the Tiburon. It was based out of Middle River, MD. He had an opportunity to winter it in the Albemarle Sound in North Carolina, so we decided we’d set out on an adventure.
The trip was to be spread out over two weekends. The first leg, the weekend after Thanksgiving was particularly uneventful, which found us sailing from Middle River direct to Crisfield MD. Weather was favorable and the going was slow because we made the trip mostly under sail.
As a backup we had a 4-cycle 10hp Honda outboard engine to supplement no-wind situations. It was a beautiful trip, and we made it without needing to use the outboard much at all.
The following weekend, the long leg of the trip was a bit less than beautiful.
After work the following Friday we drove to Crisfield and boarded the Tiburon for the final leg to North Carolina. Our plans were to put out that evening and be in Norfolk by dawn. We would then spend the next day, Saturday, navigating the Dismal Swamp canal, and head out by dark into the Albemarle Sound to our winter tie-up near Elizabeth City NC.
The weather was not the most desirable when we put out from Crisfield between 11pm and midnight. It was lightly snowing. On board were my dad, me, my half-brother John, and my dad’s business associate Mike. The plan was to head out to the bay, then turn south to go direct to Norfolk for the remainder of our trip. It was also the point of the trip where we’d be the furthest from land. Fortunately we didn’t deploy the sails, and had planned to run under power as much as possible. We held the normal complement of fuel, plus two five gallon gas cans strapped to the forward deck.
The cabin in the boat was small, able to accommodate two comfortably and three squeezed in at a time. Originally we planned to have two above and two below deck at a time, but owing to the extreme cold we changed that to one topside and three below for three hour shifts. My dad took the first shift from midnight to three am, then I would take a three hour shift from 3am to 6am, and so on, until we rotated through. When off shift we’d sit below, stay warm and sleep if possible.
The rhythmic rocking of the boat made sleep even more probable.
I slept quite peacefully (aka like a rock) until it was time for my shift. When I came topside to relieve my dad I noticed that the seas had gotten a little bit larger. We were well into the open part of the lower Chesapeak Bay. My father was an excellent dead-reckoning navigator. We typically would make about 6 knots under power. We could see the eastern shore from our location, so we knew we were not yet into the mouth of the bay. We were definitely in Virginia and nearing the mouth, though.
I took the helm and was holding the course that he had set. The seas were a little rougher and the wind was beginning to pick up. It was relatively easy to hold that course; I had been in weather like this before. The snow was gone and had turned to a light sleet.
Around 4:30 am, 90 minutes into my watch, the seas began to grow angrier and the wind was picking up significantly. What started as 2 foot waves turned into 4 footers. The cabling securing the mast was beginning to sing a little bit, and I found myself having to deviate from our course to meet the waves at a safe angle, then swing back on course after passing. It was getting to be more work than I could handle.
I called below to my dad, saying “You’d better get up here.” His head popped up from below, he looked around and said, “Oh, shit. Give me the helm, but I want you to stay up here in case I go overboard.”
The winds were blowing 40-50 knots and the lines were starting to continuously sing. You may have heard about it in the past, but when that happens the hearing it real time is truly eerie. It was a spooky melody better suited for suspense or horror films, not in real life; it was a horrific sound indeed.
The wave had grown, splashing ice-cold water over the sides into the cockpit. We were wearing foul weather gear including wool gloves. Thank God the bilge pump was working, it was constantly running throughout this ordeal.
In the cabin the only source of heat was from an open alcohol fed stove. After taking a hit from a wave coming over the side our gloved hands would be soaked. The wet wool gloves only made it worse, they’re much more effective dry. So we would send our soaked gloves below and Mike and John would place them directly on the flame from the stove to dry them out.
Every time we took a wave we’d have to change gloves. It began happening so frequently, sending wet gloves down and getting dry gloves back that the gloves from the stove didn’t even get the chance to get dried. So we were eventually exchanging cold wet gloves for warm damp ones.
Slight frostbite was beginning to set in. It was the coldest I’ve ever been, and I carry a reminder of that trip to this day. There’s a small spot on my left hand, in the “V” between my index and middle finger from the hand to the first knuckle where I have no feeling. I think the only tissue that died in my hands was a small patch of nerve endings.
Seas had grown to over 6 feet at this point, and the cold sleet was intensifying. My dad was an excellent seaman and knew how to deal with the waves. Six foot seas are not that big of a deal in the open ocean, but at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay in the shallower waters the relatively smaller waves can play havoc and easily swamp a small 26 foot craft.
Because of winds and tides, we didn’t have a precise fix on our location. We noticed some cargo ships in the distance that had dropped anchor; they weren’t moving in this mess. We listened on the radio…the Coast Guard wasn’t deploying helicopters. Did I mention thank God the bilge pumps were constantly working? If they had failed we’d have gone down for sure.
We had no idea where we were. I looked in the distance and found a rotating beacon light, green-green-white. I told my dad that there was a military airfield over there, and we may be able to tie up over there. The gale winds were not subsiding. It was about 5:15 and he set course for the lights. We had to turn regularly to avoid being broadsided by waves, but eventually were able to cut our way over to the airport. It was beginning to get light out.
We finally made it to calmer seas and were able to make it to our destination more directly. It was full daylight by the time we found a spot at the base to tie up. A few minutes after arriving, a gentleman in a military uniform came down and informed us that this was a restricted military base and we couldn’t stay here.
We didn’t know where we were, and we told the officer so. He said that we were at Langley Air Force Base. We were shocked that we had made it that far. We had seriously miscalculated the following seas and were much farther along than we thought. The Air Force officer told us that we weren’t supposed to be there, but owing to the weather out in the bay he wouldn’t make us leave. Just don’t leave the boat. We said no problem. He left us alone.
After waiting for the foul weather to subside, about five hours, we put out again and made the trek to Norfolk to pick up the Dismal Swamp canal. It was just evening by the time we made it past the Naval Shipyards and saw up close many Navy ships and submarines. Magnificent sights.
Once we got to the Dismal Swamp it was decided that I make dinner. Heat dinner is a more appropriate description. The alcohol stove had been burning constantly as a source of heat and glove-drying. My dad, Mike and John were topside and I was in the cabin heating the big can of spaghetti and meatballs. As I was serving dinner up to the cockpit I heard a big “FUNT!!!” sound, like a mini explosion. It seemed that while preparing dinner I was sitting on a can of WD40, which soaked the underside of my rubber foul-weather suit. It was then that I learned how flammable WD40 is. The fumes had been ignited by the alcohol stove.
I turned around to see what had happened and was instantly knocked down by the other three guys. I was on fire and didn’t know it.
That’s one way to get out of KP duty.
Needless to say they got me extinguished before becoming fully engulfed.
The rest of the trip through the Dismal Swamp canal overnight confirmed its appropriate naming. It was stark, monochrome. But I must say it did have a unique beauty all its own. “Magnificant desolation,” as Buzz Aldrin would put it. Straight narrow nothing as far as the eye could see, at points.
The next morning we arrived at the Albemarle Sound. We were only a few hours from Elizabeth City when another winter storm blew up. Not as bad as the prior night and still unfortunate, but not for us. As we maneuvered to our destination, a cabin cruiser a few miles from our location was swamped. Five souls were on board, and only four got off. Sadly, a 75 year old family member went down with the ship. We listened to the whole thing play out on the radio; a sobering chapter.
In times like these it’s not unusual to start making deals with the man upstairs. I’m glad He accepted my offer. We put the Tiburon to bed for the winter and went home, with that “adventure” checked off our list.