My First Passage – Grenada to Los Testigos

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Our first passage from Grenada to Los Testigos.

After a month in beautiful Grenada, it was time to begin heading west. The winds had not begun to abate and if we waited longer, the weather may not have gotten any better. So following the old sailor’s adage, “Sail with the winds you have, not the winds you want” we decided to no longer postpone our departure and head west. It would be difficult to leave Grenada. We had just begun to make such good friends, and Hog Island is such an amazing place, but its not much of a journey if we don’t keep moving.

Our next destination would be Los Testigos, Venezuela. In Spanish Los Testigos translates to ‘the testifiers’ or ‘the witnesses’, but feel free to create your own more humorous meaning. I was especially anxious to begin moving because this would be my first ocean passage. I had no idea of what to expect. From talking with the other cruisers on Hog Island I had begun to hear a mixed variety of impressions on sailing. Some gave up stories of relaxing passages and easy going experiences while others forewarned of horrifying life or death situations. I suppose it all comes down to your experiences. And how well you prepare.

We pulled up anchor around 4:30pm on Wednesday, May 27th. The plan was to sail through the night and arrive the next morning in Los Testigos. The plan was to sail roughly on a southwest heading. The winds would be at our back so it was nearly a downwind sail, with only our Genoa sail partially unfurled. If we maintained a speed of 5 knots an hour, we could sail throughout the night and reach the islands the next day. This way we could avoid having to make landfall in the dark of night. We would also be sailing with the current which would help.

With the engine on and the anchor up we slowly motored out of the little bay that had become a familiar and comfortable community of cruisers and friends. Sitting on the foredeck we waved goodbye to the friends we had made on other boats. Perhaps we will see some of them again further on down the line. Over the past few weeks I’ve been amazed at the people you continue to run into and meet in some of the strangest places. We motored out far enough offshore and then unfurled the genoa sail. The sun had begun to set on the horizon and Alyson and I watched patiently hoping to see the infamous green flash, but the sun only disappeared into a haze of orange clouds and vanished.

Shortly after sunset we began our watch system with each crew member taking shifts of 2 hours each. My first watch on my first passage was more intense than I had expected. Around 8 o’clock that night the winds began to pick up. The waves seemed to hit the boat from every direction, and for a new sailor it felt like trying to sail across the wash cycle of a giant washing machine. We each wore harnesses that were tethered on to the boat which were much more necessary that I had imagined. At times when a rogue wave would slam into the side of the boat I thought I would be thrown across the cockpit and out the other side. I had to develop some “sea legs” pretty quickly.

I was surprised that the boat can actually do a lot of the work itself. Quercus did especially well steering herself for most of the trip using the wind vane mounted on her transom. The wind vane is a device that uses a couple of vanes or paddles that attach to the tiller and this keeps the boat steering on the correct compass heading. This makes sailing much easier since the helmsman doesn’t have to constantly steer the boat on course. Which would have been a struggle in the seas we were traversing.

I also learned a lot about diligent watch keeping. You wouldn’t think there would be so much traffic out on the open sea at night, but we spotted several large ships, and as luck would have it a good majority of them were right off our bow. Each time you spot lights on the horizon you have to be able to identify the type of ship from the combination of lights they show. Then you have to determine whether you are on a collision course with said ship. It’s a very serious business because a large cargo ship could easily plow over our little 36’ sailboat. Which wouldn’t be very good for the continuation of our blog.

Within half an hour of my first watch I spotted a large group of lights coming into view right off our port bow. The glow seemed so large that at first we thought it must have been an oil rig although there were none marked on any of our charts. Since we couldn’t see any visible navigation lights on the ship, the skipper sent me below to turn on the radar and see if we couldn’t gather any more information.

While sitting up in the cockpit, I had been certain that we were having a pretty rough ride, but I wasn’t prepared for the sensation of going below deck. The sensation was exponentially intensified. The boat rocked and heaved so much it seemed near impossible to move. I had to constantly brace myself against any stable surface within reach. The waves beat against the hull like sledge hammers and there were constant crashes and poundings of all the stowed gear banging around in their lockers. All you could do was hang on. I imagine that it must be what a rodeo clown feels like bracing himself in the barrel waiting for the impact of the bull.

As luck would have it the radar decided not to cooperate at this moment. As I prepared to make my way back up top, the heat and the still air below began to settle on me. I could feel the sweat begin to pour off my forehead and a foreboding lump formed in my throat. Sea sickness was setting in. I quickly headed back up top and reached for the port railing.
I stuck my head over to give the sea back anything I had ever taken from it, but the sea wasn’t there. All I could see was the twinkling of the stars above the horizon. The boat had heeled so much on its side that I was only staring into sky. My feet began to slide down beneath me and I held on until we came rolling back over. Then I hurled. Yep. I hurled Big Time. Like a coke bottle opened to soon after dropping it. Real bad timing though because whatever I gave to the sea was immediately returned to me by the next crashing wave. I’m glad I did it though because I felt like 60% better afterwards, although I don’t feel compelled to take any rides in a fighter jet anytime soon.

The rest of the watch went pretty smoothly. The lights on the horizon turned out to be a cargo ship that was heading south and was soon of our heading and out of our way. After my watch I went back below to plot our course on the paper charts and handled myself much better below this time. Its difficult to sleep on your first passage out. I thought I would never get any rest and I don’t think any of us really did. The waves were so rough and made such a racket that it was impossible to sleep through it. I lay in the V-berth trying to get as much rest as I could before my next watch. The only ventilation came through a small crack in the forward hatch, but I ended up having to close it after a wave splashed over the bow and cold sea water came pouring down on my face.

The first 8 hours of the trip were very rough. We ended up having to change course once after a very close encounter with a large ship laying fiber optic cable across the sea floor. Alyson can give you the details as it happened on her watch. We had to adjust our course from southwest to nearly due south at just 2 ½ knots with the engine on. The proximity of our two boats to each other was so unnerving that it left the entire crew exhausted by the encounter.

My second watch was much better. The weather had begun to ease and the seas were relatively much calmer than before. Everyone had gone to sleep after the run in with the cable ship and it seemed that I had the whole boat to myself. It was really very peaceful and quiet. There were no ships and the stars shown with an amazing clarity. The waves had developed a more routine pattern off our stern. Standing in the cockpit felt like surfing as we slid down each passing crest. Quercus sailed beautifully. She handled the rough weather like a powerful little tank and under calmer conditions sailed comfortable and calmly. This was the experience I had set out to find.

We made landfall (my first landfall) at around 9 am the next morning. Los Testigos, a giant mountain island rose out of the water. We pulled in the Genoa and started the engine. Here’s a photo of me driving the boat.

John as helmsman

It’s an exhilarating sensation to bring in a boat to your first landfall, especially, to one as beautiful as Testigos. It seemed so isolated and serene. The water was crystal clear and the frigate birds soared over the green mountain landscape like prehistoric pteradactyls. Coming into the little bay I saw a large jelly fish floating along which had to have been 4 feet in diameter. This was only the beginning of the amazing wild life we would find here.
After nearly 19 hours since Grenada, we dropped anchor in a patch of sand and said hola to Venezuela.

Los Testigos Sunset