Once around

A calm sunset offshore.

The Gulf Stream water flying past our hull is a rich velvety blue studded with phosphorescent diamonds that look like shooting stars. I can see this because I’m throwing up off the side of Billy P. It’s my first time getting seasick. I’ve had the odd bouts of nausea on a whale-watching boat or what have you, but I suppose I’ve earned the experience at this point. After leaving Vero Beach we joined the Gulf Stream about 20 miles off the coast of Florida, and it boosts our regular speed of about 6 knots by about 3 knots. We even saw a few 10s! The speed does make for a pretty lively ride. Thus, the vomit.

Tim and I watched the weather and left the dock on a Thursday in the third week of May. (On the lengthy list of sailor superstitions is the caveat that you should never start a journey on a Friday.) We left Tim’s family on his sister Monica’s dock and began slowly maneuvering out of the neighborhood and through the Indian River to get to the Fort Pierce inlet we’d come into from the Bahamas back in March. As we slipped out on the outgoing tide, we saw Tim’s parents waving us off from the shore—they’d sweetly come around by car to send us off properly.

Very calm seas way east of the Outer Banks.

We sailed away from shore and into the Gulf Stream to get the boost northward and started our rotation of standing watch for three hours at a time and resting for three. If you think of the hours of the day, that means that I was on watch from 3:00-6:00, Tim 6:00-9:00, me 9:00-12:00, Tim 12:00-3:00, all the way around the clock. You eventually become a slightly different creature. On deck you’re alone, then you have a brief interaction telling pertinent information about the weather and the marine traffic, and then you make your way down to take your nap. Then on deck to receive the pertinent information and to start your watch. You feel the planet turning on its axis: the sun sets, the stars come out, the moon rises, dawn’s rosy fingers tickle the sky, the sun rises. After doing this for a few cycles, we landed at Beaufort, North Carolina, for a tank up, some pizza, and a solid night’s sleep. Then out we went and did it all again, all the way up to Ocean City, Maryland. Then again. It took us seven days from Vero Beach to Marion, Massachusetts.

When sailing past Ocean City’s boardwalk you smell funnel cakes —even the houses look confectionary.

Tim and I became strangers in the night. We realized somewhere off the coast of New Jersey that the two of us, never more than 20 feet apart for all those days, had completely different experiences. Tim’s head was, among other things, doing complex math problems, calculating our fuel usage at a variety of speeds. I had been listening to books on tape and singing songs to the nonjudgmental ocean. With occasional bursts of cell signal, I’d been steeped in some personal drama happening on land with my two daughters. He and I tried to have a conversation, and it was like we weren’t speaking the same language, or at least were employing very different dialects.

We spend a lot more time looking at this than looking at each other…

We’re the red boat — following the yellow dots to our destination (in this case, Marion, MA).

Once we rounded Montauk at the eastern tip of Long Island, we could really feel the pull of Home. We missed the dolphins and flying fish, but it was a comfortable relief to once again have to dodge lobster pots. We saw familiar Newport in the distance and took a left after passing our friend, Cuttyhunk Island. After we were securely on a mooring in Marion, our friend Trixie came by car and brought us all kinds of fresh deliciousness to eat, and the most effective electric fly-zapper with which to take revenge on the bastards that had been on board irritating us since several states southward.

Jen, Tim, and Kasey: all so excited to reunite.

Next day our friends Jen and Kasey climbed aboard for the final leg of our trip, which included a short frolic in Provincetown, during which we ate some of the largest steamed clams ever to grace this earth. Crossing Massachusetts Bay to Gloucester we spotted at least six different whales doing their own frolicking. We entered the harbor and secured Billy to our very own mooring that we’d left the previous September.

Labor Day weekend we sailed off that mooring for a beautiful September day watching Gloucester’s annual Schooner Festival race. We’ve been sailing on Billy since we’d returned from our journey, although fairly casually.  We’d had some sweet day sails with friends and family.  We’d gone overnight to World’s End in Hingham with Jenny and Hans.  We sailed around Boston Harbor.  We’d spent some time on my Boston Whaler enjoying some of the smaller scale waters of Cape Ann.  On land we confronted our limitations – reflected on our travels, made plans to pull Billy out of the water for the winter, Tim worked on his physical therapy, I got a job teaching for the year, we generally took care of business.  But on the twinkling green water out past Gloucester’s Dog Bar we watched the schooners sails filling up, their wooden hulls sliding through the water, their graceful tacks. I already knew, but I could really feel that what they’re doing is just a grander version of what we do on our little boat.  I’d seen the schooners before, I always love to watch them, but this time was different.  I was different.

Gloucester Schooner Festival