Episode #2 - Serenade Meets The Gulf Stream

(All previous blog postings can still be viewed at SV/Glory Days)

"You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice."        Bob Marley

Six wonderful weeks of cruising in the Bahamas was coming to an end.  It was time to make final preparations to cross the Gulfstream and sail back to the States.  

Serenade, had proven to be a worthy vessel exceeding all my expectations since purchasing her last fall. 

Final preparations made in Little Grand Cay

(Future posts will chronicle the winter highlights of sailing the Abaco Islands but this post will highlight the exciting return trip I completed solo and how it made me a better sailor. Sort of reverse order you might say.) 

Charting the departure from the Northwest Abacos, I made my decision to leave the afternoon of April 25, 2018.  

I lingered for few final hours exploring Double Breasted Cay where I met a nice Canadian couple aboard their catamaran, Lady Amelie, in my final hours before departing.

It was a bit ironic because this couple had just arrived in the Bahamas and I was just departing.  We shared stories about the Gulfstream and our paths to get here. 

My plan was to begin the journey by sailing 40 miles to the edge of the Bahama banks at a location called Manatilla Shoals.  Here, the shallow banks of the Bahamas meet the Atlantic Ocean.  At Manatilla Shoals, logic told me it should be a relatively easy 12-14 hour sail due west to enter the U.S. at Fort Pierce, Florida.  Although South winds were predicted, I soon learned the best made plans do not always pan out. 

The "banks" of the Bahamas are those clear shallow waters that form a "shelf" from the great depths of the Atlantic. Here I would anchor in the shallow water for the last time before leaping off the edge into the Atlantic where depths are in the thousands of feet deep and where anchoring is no longer an option.  It seemed like a good plan at the time.  Little did I know what would be in store for me at Manatilla Shoals.  

In order to get myself staged to cross the Gulf Stream I departed Double Breasted Cay at 2 pm on a picture perfect day.  I started my 40 mile mission to the edge of the banks.  Winds were ideal as I headed due west on a broad reach.

When you head back to the States this time of day you are literally "sailing into the sunset" as the saying goes. It was a poignant moment and I savored every bit of it. 


The first 6 hours of my sail to the shoals were the ultimate sailing experience... warms temps, sunny skies, and steady breezes pushing me directly into the sunset. I was ecstatic. I sang songs and danced on the deck while trolling my favorite green skirt fishing lure. 

Before long the fishing reel started screaming and another fish was about to come aboard. Yep, I had caught  another big Mutton Snapper while trolling behind the boat. What a great omen and blessing. 

Everything was perfect and I was high as a kite on adrenaline. I rode on the bow of the boat giving thanks to God as I drew closer to the end of a wonderful journey.

Click the link below to view a short video about my departure and my mutton snapper:

Crossing the Gulf Stream  Sailing With Joe video


I considered putting this fish into the fridge whole but then I said, what the heck. I might as well clean him now and be done with it.  So here is my big cabin table prepared for surgery of this monster fish.  Ten nice sized snapper steaks were soon filling my freezer/fridge. 

As I grew closer to the Manatilla shoals the winds began to increase. 15knots had increased to 20 and then 25 knots. The fetch of the seas seemed to get worse.  By the time I arrived at the shoals at 10:30 pm the conditions had worsened even more.  It was dark as smut and the chop was getting even more uncomfortable. I was not dancing anymore at this point.

Conditions were not great to anchor but there was not much choice. I wanted to get some rest before the big day ahead of crossing the Gulfstream back to the states. So down went the anchor in rough seas. 



Conditions soon worsened even further. I tried but sleep was just not possible.  The boat rocked and rolled in the night, and I felt more like a cork bobbing in a washing machine than the peaceful anchorage on the banks I had envisioned.  

I paced.  I pondered. I prayed. I wondered what I would do. Serenade continued to rock like a bucking bronco. She desperately tried to set herself free of the anchor that held her to the floor of the sea.   As midnight passed I was convinced that sleep was not going to happen and I would be better off to just start sailing into the dark abyss of the Atlantic towards America.  

It was 1:30 in the morning when I made the decision to weigh the anchor and leave the Bahama banks far earlier than planned to head out to sea into the pitch black night. 

But by now the seas were so rough that I dreaded the thought of crawling onto the salt sprayed deck to raise the anchor in these conditions.  The bow of the boat rose and fell in the night but there was no other choice but to get started.  I donned my life jacket, safety harness and tethered myself in.  

I nervously clipped my harness into the jack line and carefully crawled my way to the bow of the boat to raise the anchor.  Releasing the snubber line on the anchor rode would be the first order of business. It turned out to be a daunting task. 

As much passion as I have for single handling, the one area that is most difficult by yourself is to retrieve an anchor during rough seas.  There is so much tension on the anchor chain that it is nearly impossible to crank it into the boat under such tension.  So in order to get the anchor up you have to create some slack in the anchor chain.  This means crawling back to the cockpit and using the engine power to steer forward in small increments to create some slack in the anchor chain so you can begin to crank it in.  

This maneuver took a series of 4-5 trips back and forth from bow to cockpit in order to get the chain reeled in.  Each trip I am adjusting my tether line which is the only thing that keeps me from falling overboard should I lose my footing or be hit by a rogue wave. 

No one in their right mind goes on deck in these kinds of conditions without being harnessed in securely.  I was literally crawling on the deck that night taking every precaution not to lose any grip of my footing or hands.  

Finally the anchor was up and secured to the bow sprit. I breathed a sigh of relief. The stress on the boat's anchor and bow roller had been intense. Little did I know tomorrow I would discover damage to the bow roller. Clearly, the strain on the ground tackle from the constant rise and fall of the boat during high seas was too much.

Now that the anchor was up it was time to get my bearings and figure out which way to go to get this baby moving out to sea. Thankfully Serenade is an Island Packet, I thought to myself. They are built like tanks and can take these kinds of conditions. 

So here I am, finally on my way as the boat crashes through the waves searching for a heading.  At night you can only depend on your instruments to guide you and the Garmin plotter soon had me back on course in a matter of minutes. 

Next order of business was to raise sails or at least the mainsail. Even in hazardous conditions I have found that having at least one sail up tends to stabilize the lateral movement of the vessel making it easier to steer. Having a sail up seems to tame her a bit. 

In order to raise a mainsail you have to point the bow directly into the wind so you can hoist the sail without it getting snagged on the spreaders or the shrouds.  So here I am, I got her pointed into the wind and I use the winch to crank the sail to the top of the mast.  Now I can better manage the vessel with use of this sail in the event there was ever an unexpected engine failure. "Don't even go there." I tell myself. 

Serenade and I slowly make our way towards the edge of the shoal when it suddenly occurs to me that I had not even thought to reef the mainsail. What was I thinking?! It wasn't on my radar to do in advance because the afternoon winds had been so mild in the glow of that April sunshine. Reefing means reducing the area of the sail.  It is done for extreme winds where less sail up is the safer alternative.

There is nothing worse than to have too much sail up in case the winds speeds increase later.  If that happens you could be screwed. Always reef early. 

At this point I collect my thoughts and decide that I really should reef her down before I step off the edge into the deep unknown of the Atlantic.  Reefing is the last thing I want to do at this point but I know it is the smart thing to do.  

In these rough conditions, this would prove to be an arduous  feat. But after my ordeal to get the anchor up, what's another tough task in the night?  So here it is 1:30 in the morning when I take a double deep breath and begin the process to reef the main.  This means dropping the main sail partially down, then climbing onto deck to tie off 3 separate reef lines that will secure the loosened sail to the boom.  Easy enough in calm seas.  Quite a different story under these conditions. 

Tethered in, I crawl onto the deck and tie off three reef knots while lying on my back or sitting on my knees.  Thankfully the auto pilot does a pretty good job of keeping her headed into the wind at a slow speed while I complete the tying of the reef knots.  By now my knees are getting rubbed raw because I refuse to stand upright on the deck while the boat is in such an erratic fit bouncing up and down violently in the night.   

Wallah! Finally!  
The last reef knot is tied! Next I use the winch to tighten the back haul which tightens the reefed main to the boom.  Then I use the winch again to raise the mainsail to its altered height on the mast... mission accomplished.  Sail area reduced. 

It's not the prettiest reef job in the world but it will do.  Now I am ready for the Atlantic. Or as ready as I can be. 

Finally underway!

Much to my chagrin the weather forecast for south winds is not holding true.  Instead, I am faced with 20 knot winds coming straight out of the west.  My only choice is to head due north. My plan is to maintain a north heading with a gradual shift to the west. Sails are tight hauled in order to point as close into the wind as she will allow.   

After a few hours of this north heading I realize my 12 hour passage west to Fort Pierce is now only a dream.  Ain't gonna happen.  So north it is! Onward!

By dawn I have made some north progress but practically zero progress westward toward Florida.  Time passes on and by early afternoon I notice I am drifting too far to the east.  At this rate I will be more likely to find England than the Florida coast!

 When I check the bow I discover the toll last night's rough weather has taken on the bow roller.  Notice in the photo above how the hardened stainless steel of the right side roller has been severely bent to the left.  The force it took to bend that metal is beyond me.  Since I won't be anchoring anytime soon I put that worry into my back pocket for another time. Carry on I say.

Around noon a spooky feeling comes over me.  As frigate birds fly above me, I now realize that I am still 75 miles from any Florida shoreline and there will be no way I can possibly make a landfall in daylight hours.  For once I feel all alone and a little nervy. 

With strong west winds still in control I make an executive decision to drop sails and use the engine to motor due west into the chop.  The best speed I can make into the wind is 4.5 knots but I forge ahead.

After changing course I found myself lost in thought staring blankly into the open sea ahead when suddenly something happened that was a first for me.  

Out of nowhere a huge whale crosses directly across my path no less than 20' off my bow. It happened so fast I had to ask myself, "Did I really see that?!"  Yes, I did. My first whale siting.  He was too close for comfort too. 

It was like he breached in front of my bow in an flash and then went right back down never to be seen again.  My spooky feeling from earlier just got spookier.  Although they mean no harm, there are stories of whales colliding with boats.  Rudders broken off or hulls being cracked. Boats even going down. 

It all happened so fast but I figure it must have been an Atlantic right whale as shown in this google image.

This image is identical to the creature I saw so near my boat.

At this point I realized this is serious stuff out here.  I decided I should go below and rethink things.  Just to make sure, I checked my emergency "ditch bag" to be sure it was stocked properly with emergency supplies ready to deploy on short notice.  Next, I tested the EPIRB (emergency locater beacon) and stowed it back into the ditch back along with 3 gallons of water and other various and sundry things in the event of abandoning ship in a dire emergency.

I decided to consider the whale crossing a good omen rather than any fear element.  I continued motoring into the west for several more hours with only the mainsail up. Before long I was making better speed and getting ever closer to the Gulf Stream.  The winds were becoming a steady 15 knots out of the south now and I was able to kill the engine. 

The Gulfstream is an oddity to me.  Yes, it is like a river flowing north within the Atlanta Ocean.  I have crossed the Gulfstream 3 time previously, and each time I had to wonder just exactly when I arrived in the stream.  For this, my 4th crossing, there was no doubt. The Gulfsteam had found me.  

The color of the sea became a rich hue of blue like none other I'd seen and had sort of an oily appearance to it. Evidently I was now criss crossing the Gulfstream making about 5 knots.  I thought to myself, "What if I turn my vessel due north now and go with the flow?"  

Sure enough, with the ever slight turn of the helm my speed immediately increased from 5 to 9 knots.  I was definately in the Stream now, even hitting speeds of 10.5 knots.  

Riding the current of the Gulfstream is like no other sailing I have known.  It is truly amazing to feel and experience sailing in such a rapid current.  I made  a fast 60 miles north in about 7 hours. Suddenly it seemed like progress was in the works as the Florida coast was now only about 40 miles to my west. 

Hauling ass on the Gulfstream

With this great weather and speed in the Gulfstream it was tempting to consider continuing on sailing for another all nighter.  But I was tired and I didn't know how much energy I could muster for another night and day without sleep.  I had taken short cat naps during the day, but that is no substitute for real sleep.  So after about 6 hours riding the current, I altered course and redirected my ship due west for Port Canaveral.  The 40 miles west seemed like an easy enough feat even though I would arrive long after dark.  Little did I know what was in store in the remaining miles to Florida.

A friendly hitchhiker

The final leg to Port Canaveral started out great.  By now the wind had finally clocked more from the south and I was able to make good time on a broad reach point of sail crossing over the Gulfstream instead of running with its current.

Dusk settled in and the winds picked up a little more as did the size of the swells. Soon I was riding a following sea and making great time getting nearer and nearer to my goal.  I didn't like the idea of entering an unfamiliar port in dark but there was no choice but to carry on.

Soon cruise ships were visible exiting the port as they carried their customers to the exotic islands that I had left behind.

Winds increased to 25 knots and I held on as Serenade sliced through the waves. I was running an even broader reach now with the mainsail sheet almost fully extended.

Soon the city lights of the mainland became visible on the horizon.  Closing in on 5 miles from the port entrance I decided to drop sails now rather than fight that battle so close to land in these kind of seas.  Besides, the winds were not letting up and getting sails tucked away for a port entrance would take some skill and stamina that I was growing short on in my tired state. 

The final 3 miles in the night to Canaveral were the most challenging.  Waves crashed into the beam of the boat and salt spray covered the decks.  Soon I would make it to the first set of red and green channel markers.  Thank God no ships were exiting the inlet as I neared.  Bang! Another wave. Bang! Another wave! I held on and forged ahead. 

As I carefully threaded the needle between the red and green markers the lights of Port Canaveral grew brighter. Thank God for instruments to steer by.  I radioed ahead to see if I could tie up to a fuel dock at a marina there.  The marina was closed but some fellow granted me a yes.

Finally, within a half mile of the rock jetties of the port entrance a rogue wave came out of nowhere to clobber me on the port beam.  I saw it coming and braced myself for the biggest one yet.  With this collision between water and fiberglass I noticed my dinghy had become untethered and was flailing about from the davits that held her.  The last thing I wanted now was to lose my dinghy at a time like this so close to port.  

Conditions did not allow me to free my hands from the wheel or I would've re-secured the dinghy.  Luckily she did not fully detach yet but I couldn't be sure.  

Within minutes I entered the calm waters behind the sea wall and took a huge deep breath of relief.   The dinghy was dangling from the stern barely in tact, wobbly but not lost! Yay! 

Once behind the sea wall suddenly everything was calm and peaceful. What a contrast I thought.  It had not been the most graceful entrance into Port Canaveral at 11 pm, but I was safe and grateful to be here.

Ever so slowly, I motored a mile in the calm protected waters making my way to the well lighted dock at the marina. By now docking my boat into the outgoing tide was the least of my worries.  I swerved her smoothly into a starboard tie up by making a gentle 180 degree turn that landed her perfectly to the dock, cleat to cleat, for a welcome respite.  

A rock band at the local bar blared loudly but I did not even care.  No one in the crowded bar had a clue I was here or what I had just been through. I was exhausted and I collapsed in the spirit of blissful relief for brief moment.  

But I was still wired from the adrenaline and sleep seemed secondary for now.  So at midnight I spent the next hour hosing down Serenade with the marina's high pressure water hose.  My lady was soon free of all the salt spray she had taken on for me.  She would greet the dawn clean and ready for the next nautical mile ahead of us both.  Mission accomplished. 

The crossing turned out to be 175 miles in 32 hours instead of the 70 miles in 12 hours I had planned. In total, Serenade had taken me 1255 nautical miles since departing St. Pete 60 days ago. 

I would have sweet dreams tonight. 
Tomorrow I would wake up in America.