Goodbye Apalachicola at sunrise Saturday; it was a perfect time (but not quite enough wind to sail the whole time -- it was a motor sail instead). For those who think of the crossing as a romantic, quiet interlude after chugging down the river systems, it goes pretty much like this:
Every statement is answered by "whaaat?", since we've been riding sidesaddle on a Perkins diesel for 30 hours and the only sound that would pierce our eardrums is a crazed chihuahua. Meals are dicey, because if the seas are rolling the cook has to plant feet apart against the cabinets and prepare food as quickly as possible before either the food or the cook slide off somewhere else (picture Richard Simmons on crack). Any venture outside the cockpit means wearing a lifejacket and hooking onto the jacklines, to insure that if you get knocked off the boat by a rogue wave you will thump against the outside of the boat forever afterward to remind the passenger on board to pull you in (a reason to behave as well as possible at all times). Fashion is very important, with costumes remaining in place for about two days and one night. Preparations must be made for cold weather during your watch, so socks may need to be added to the costume, which always makes a bold fashion statement with boat shoes.
On the other hand, the almost-full moon will glisten silver against a sea which looks like chiseled onyx, with whispers of waves against the boat. Dolphins will escort you in groups of two or three, close enough to the boat that you can hear the puffs of air when they breathe. Other boats will be ahead and behind you at times, with only their lights visible in the night. Occasionally a song will come on the radio by Enya, Sara McLachlin, or Chris Botti. When the moon goes down, it looks like a giant pumpkin sliding into an infinity pool. The combination gives you God moments of such beauty and peace that you can't even describe them.
But socks and boat shoes still look dorky, even in a beautiful pea green boat..
