Uncle Juicy is a Cal-40 sloop, owned by Joe Dubey. When I joined her crew on July 13, we were 5: Bill Maclean skipper, Don Maclean, Bill’s brother, Jim Lengenfelder, former SSSS Commodore, Loren Carmichael, young veteran of numerous nautical escapades, and me.
The boat had raced in the Vic-Maui Race to Lahaina, scoring a very respectable second in class and sixth overall. Bill and Loren had been in the race crew, and so they knew the boat better than the rest of us.
On Maui, the day before leaving, Loren, Jim, and I drove up Mt. Haleakala to the crater. We saw how much ocean is out there: a whole lot. Here is the story of our passage across the North Pacific to Neah Bay and Port Townsend, told through excerpts from my journal.
7/15/98 Wednesday Morning discussion over breakfast on our balcony at the old Pioneer Hotel across the street from the boat basin in Lahaina: Latest weather faxes show the windless East Pacific high as dumbbell-shaped, lying west to east, with the narrow area a few hundred miles due north of us. Consensus is that we might as well go for it, and try to plunge through the narrowest section of the high, hoping to find wind both south and north of it.
1400: We depart Lahaina, a few hours after several other race boats. What a strange sensation: All around us are hordes of tourists with guides, on the land, then local tour boats, and then people parasailing or out for catamaran-snorkeling day trips; while we head out to cross the Pacific Ocean.
Beating up Pailolo Channel between Maui and Molokai, very rough and wet under #3 jib and reefed main. The trade wind bends around the NW tip of Maui and comes roaring down the Channel, and it is hard work on starboard tack to weather the big rock off Cape Halawa, at the eastern tip of Molokai. As we clear the Channel, we are gradually lifted by the NE trade wind, and at the same time start to feel the real ocean swell.
7/16 Thursday 0930: First full day out from Lahaina. The ocean is a deep, luminous blue, not at all like the swimming pool aqua of coastal Hawaii. The land was gone after sunset last night. A ship is far out on the western horizon. The seas are finally down enough for the autopilot to work. Wind 10-15 knots NE. Course 339 magnetic, Deviation 12 E.
The scop patch is working well, but I did not have much appetite for chili last night. Had trouble sleeping before 2400. Too excited. Very sleepy on watch until 0400, then slept well. Weather clear, with trade-wind clouds, heavier cloud banks to the south where the islands must be. Two fishing lines trolling astern. Currently setting full main and #2 jib.
7/17 Friday: Getting into the rhythm of watches: 4 hours on, 6 hours off, with two people on watch all the time. One person rotates off every two hours, and nobody gets stuck with the lousy watches every night, as your schedule changes every day. Bill wakes me as he goes off; then I do my first two hours with Jim, who then wakes Loren. I do my second two hours with Loren, then wake Don as I go off. Everybody is conscientious about not slacking, and it has become customary at night for the guy going off to offer a hot drink to the others still on watch.
This morning we motored quite a bit. We caught a small mahi-mahi, then stopped the boat for a swim. Very refreshing, and exhilarating to think about all that water under and around us. Wind here and gone over and over. But a gorgeous sunset, just after dining on mahi-mahi in the cockpit. Cocktails, too: Hana Bay Rum and juice. And just at sunset, 4 humpback whales cruised by, going south. And yes, the green flash was observed tonight at sunset, as it was last night. We are a happy crew.
7/18 Saturday: Bill has switched us to Oly time, PDT, 3 hours later than HST, so we are all pretty confused about when to eat, when to go on watch, etc. This morning we reached through a rain squall, with NE wind just after dawn, and had quite a mess getting the #1 down, #;3 up, and a reef put in. The #3 stuck badly halfway up, and the boltrope had to be cut to get it out of the slot. It should still be usable, but with difficulty.
A worse crisis was the head getting stuffed and breaking down. Bill took a number of things apart and cleaned it out, cursing all the while, and then largely reconstructed it while re configuring the plumbing. I completed getting the hoses together by remodeling a plastic tee in the discharge line. The whole thing took hours of disgusting effort by several people. By midday the head was back in operation.
The weather is hot, with decent 10-15 knot NE wind, and we are making 6-8 closehauled on starboard tack. This is where we should be windless in the high, but we are not complaining. We run the engine at times when speed drops to 3 knots.
I have identified a large bird who perched on our spreaders as a red-footed booby. The sea has been a deep, electric blue that I can not remember seeing before.
7/19 Sunday: Squally during the evening and night, so we have done several reefs/ unreefs and jib changes. Wind still NNE, occasionally up to 20 knots, otherwise 10-15. Today it continues to be perfect tradewind sailing. Saw quite a few flying fish yesterday and today, bizarre creatures. Pretty warm, but not uncomfortable, due to the wind. Parades and towers of fluffy cumulus clouds all around the horizon. I sit for long periods of time simply contemplating the amazing size of the ocean and its infinitely varied waves. We have seen a few birds today, but not close enough to identify.
Bill is carefully monitoring weather faxes, but the reality often does not match. In the afternoon, occasional squalls with sprinkling of rain. Making good progress. At 1550 PDT we are at 29-10 N, 154-13 W. 1805 nautical miles to Tatoosh Island.
7/20 Monday: By afternoon we are skirting the western edge of the 1025 mb high, centered about 300 miles east of us. Our barometer reads 1026. At 1435 PDT, 1135 local, we are 1648 mi. from Tatoosh. We have been logging 6.5 to 7.5 knots for the past 24 hours, cracked off somewhat on starboard tack with the #1, and reefing and unreefing the main from time to time. Noon yesterday to noon today we made 166 mi. Winds 12-20 NE. Seas are about 6 feet. Water temp down to 73 today from 75 yesterday. Much cloud cover, with clear area to the east. Still warm enough for shorts and T shirts during the day, but I put on jeans and fleece vest and windbreaker for my night watch.
Dolphins came in last night, jumping in a spray of foam and exhaling “pooof!” Saw range lights of a ship far off, heading SW. We are now at 31-41 N, 153-35 W, roughly as far north as Ensenada, but barely east of the Island of Hawaii. Saw a black-footed albatross this morning soaring without effort through the troughs. Also a few shearwaters I could not identify.
Eating punctuates the course of the days. I made chicken fajitas last night. Jim made banana bread this morning. I have gotten used to the short periods of sleep by napping often. The Autohelm is steering most of the time except in squalls and when following seas on the quarter throw the boat around too much.
7/21 Tuesday: Since late yesterday, we have been under stratus clouds, with occasional long seams of blue, like open leads in an icefield. Baro shows 1026, 1028. The fax says we are going across the middle of the high, which has consolidated from far west to the coast. We continue north, looking for the low up in the Gulf of Alaska, with an occluded front on its SE edge.
At lunch time today, we are at the latitude of Monterey Bay. Last night was quite chilly, and a jacket was still useful this morning. Today we were visited by a troop of pilot whales, maybe 15 or 20. One crossed our stern only 10 feet away.
Don says the dark albatrosses we have been encountering were called “gooney birds” by the sailors when he was in the Pacific in W.W.II. He worked in an aircraft repair unit on Eniwetok and Kwajalein, and the albatrosses tried to land on the runway the way they did on water: feet out front to brake. Of course they pitchpoled! Sometimes they could not get enough lift to take off, and the sailors would help by launching them off buildings or ships into the wind.
The wind has become generally much lighter, so we are reaching with a light spinnaker, with the autopilot on! Swells only 1-2 ft. Breeze 5-10 knots NE. Bill and I improvised the outboard pole fitting back on to the pole: it was the victim of a bad pop-rivet repair. Also the solenoid had to be removed from the propane line. It would not open.
Loren is baking bread. Bill induces me to discover the virtues of peanut butter with pickle relish. Bill entertains us with stories of his checkered driving career, and also with his history on NS Savannah. The cloud cover makes life in the cockpit more pleasant.
1725 PDT: Really banging around. Clear with very little wind, but we are still creeping along. Various boats on the 1700 radio net report wind to the east and north of us. We are not motoring, to conserve fuel.
Good leadership from Bill: endless energy, despite constant attention to detail. Mostly we let him have his way, but Loren occasionally engages in passive resistance. Bill and Don argue good-naturedly and snipe at each other. “Your mother raised you wrong!” Don is unfailingly courteous. Jim is steady, energetic, and looks very happy. Only he and I are letting our beards grow.
7/22 Wednesday: Jim wonders if we will return to find major changes in the world. I find I have no interest in listening to the news on short-wave. We seem to be suspended on this disc of ocean, under a bowl of sky. Beyond the horizon there is no end to the ocean. We are perhaps 1400 miles from Cape Flattery, but it still feels an infinite distance. In fact, we are about that far from any land. It does not bother me. I have no pressing concerns other than the current lack of wind.
Motoring on 010 at 5 knots toward the occluded front that the fax says should bring a SE wind. We have used the drifter and the spinnaker for hours at a time with success, but always they end up banging and slatting fitfully.
As I went off watch at 0200, a half dozen dolphins came in to play in our bow wave for 30 minutes: little torpedoes, making phosphorescent zig-zags, then bursting out into the air in an explosion of bright light. Loren and I sat on the bow talking to them. And so watch follows watch.
1025 PDT: Booming along on a beam reach, starboard tack, as usual the last several days. Wondering why the wind is easterly, not what it should be. However, since it is 13-15 knots apparent, we will be happy with it.
Bill says he would like to be reincarnated as a gooney bird, so we refer to every bird we see as “Bill’s cousin.”
7/23 Thursday 1415 PDT: 37-10 N, 150-00 W. Making about 3.2 knots on 025. Wind has gone to SE, light but enough to make light chute work. Must play the tiller very quietly in 3-5 knots apparent wind. Otherwise the chute collapses, the main collapses, and everything goes bang-bang-bang-bang. Once off the helm, the best spot is on the lee side near the mast. There is shade and breeze off the sails and under the boom. The high has expanded hugely and we are creeping along in the northern portion of it. About halfway through the voyage on mileage, but it may be a slow second half.
This morning the engine temp alarm went off, and Loren and Jim found a tiny leak in the freshwater side of the heat exchanger. We decided we can live with it: refill it with fresh water. If necessary we can refill it with salt water, or even just bypass it and run sea water right through the engine. Anything is fair in repairs at sea.
Last night there was a magical sky filled with stars, punctuated by brilliant meteorites; reaching with the drifter and main until dawn. A ship went by, heading SW, distant about 3-4 miles. Dolphins swam with us in the hour before dawn. The discussion, passed from watch to watch, was on whether the universe, and time, are infinite.
Today Bill was finally able to talk to his wife, after many frustrating attempts, through KMI High Seas Operator in San Francisco. He asked her to call everybody’s family and let them know we are OK.
7/24 Friday 0938 PDT: Today we seem to have a major change: Last night about 0200 we sailed into a light rain squall and out of the wind-starved center of the high. The wind has clocked around to ENE and is steady at 5-10 knots, enough to keep a chute up. Cloud layer is high stratus. We are finally north of 38 degrees, the latitude of San Francisco. Dolphins again during the night. Sea temp down to 69. The air is distinctly cooler. Three dark little storm-petrels with white stripes have followed us for the past 3 days.
Don and Bill are having another protracted discussion about on whether or not it is correct to hate onions; it provides a comedic distraction for the rest of us. During the days of calm, Loren has retreated to reading book after book. Jim remains even-tempered and motivated: the North Dakota archetype at its most appealing.
7/25 Saturday 1420: Last night was cold and damp. We are now north of Crescent City CA. These endless cycles of 4 hours on, 6 hours off have messed up my ability to sleep when necessary. I kept falling asleep this morning on watch, even standing up. There was, however, a spectacular dawn, with a network of neon pink lace covering half the sky.
We are again enfolded by a giant high pressure area, and have been going north and a little east on what should be the west edge of it. Now the faxes, to which Bill genuflects thrice daily, show the high shifting northwards during the next 48 hours, so we will try to work eastward as much as possible, maybe even tacking onto port to approach the coast. We hope for westerlies on the east side of the high.
Barometer constantly rising; now over 1034 mb. Still over 1000 miles to go, but the voyage feels on the downward slope. Pretty good sailing the past 24 hours, about 135 miles noon-to-noon. Close-reaching with chicken chute through the night, then close-hauled with the #1. A brief pause in the wind at dawn, then back to 5-10 knots. Put on foulies and fleece to keep warm last night, but comfortably warm in T-shirt, jeans, and sandals this afternoon.
My mind has taken to vivid and frustrating dreams during these short sleeps and naps. The various books I have brought fail to hold me. The only book I have finished is a trashy suspense novel. I wish I could get some walking exercise, but this is of course impossible.
At least we have had steady wind for 2 days now. The sea is very smooth, with a light NE swell, and little ripply waves, picking up to whitecaps once in a while.
For the past few days, we have been seeing uncountable thousands of velellas, little jellyfish-like creatures with transparent semi-circular sails, placidly heading downwind.
A beautiful sunny afternoon, lying on the cabin top, reading, writing, listening to Radio Australia on the short-wave. Jim and I have been getting cribbage lessons from Bill, who is a demon player from years in the Merchant Marine. The rules are too damn complicated.
A few dolphins cruise by.
2200: Saw 4 or 5 humpback whales just at sunset. One breached, and one waved his tail. In late afternoon, about 1700, we caught 2 albacore tunas in quick succession. They were so beautiful it was hard to kill them, but it was not hard to eat the first meal from them.
Loren boiled the heads and skeletons to make a broth, then added the stock to pieces of fish, onions, canned tomatoes, potatoes, and spices. A wonderful stew. Had fresh bread today and yesterday, also baked by Loren. He seems quite the all-around guy, and perpetually cheerful.
Bill decided that the high is moving NW, so we gave up what wind we had in favor of motoring more easterly. At sunset it seems to have paid off, with a little breeze filling in from the N, perhaps signifying that we are on the east side of the high and will be able to lay C. Flattery. We are on port tack for a change, course 055.
Also picked up some velellas for examination: blue tentacles underneath like anemones. All across the sea they glint in the low sun.
7/28 Tuesday 1230: Have not written the last few days because of the weather. The breeze that filled in Saturday evening continued to build. We kept reducing sail, until yesterday we were under #3 jib alone. Autopilot could not handle the seas. The wind was N, and we have been close-hauled on port tack. The result was that all life in the boat stopped except steering and trying to stay dry and warm.
Our apparent wind meter goes up to 30 knots, but it was pegged a lot of the time. I think it was probably blowing 35-40 on the nose. We can not head far enough north to lay Cape Flattery, so we are hoping for a lift. We are about 680 miles out. Yesterday we made 148 miles, noon-to-noon, but only 7 miles of northing. This morning the wind is down to 18 knots apparent, and we are making 5.7 knots to the NE.
Jim has been quite seasick, and is just now starting to eat. I felt pretty uncomfortable despite a new patch, but did eat a little chili beans and rice last night, then some fresh tuna this a.m. It was so utterly miserable that we considered running off for Astoria, Newport, or even San Francisco, but Bill is implacable and never seems to run out of energy. Now under #3 and double-reefed main.
I really hit my limit these past 2 days. With the boat bucking and crashing everything became a major task. Just going to the head was an expedition and it is hard to let loose when the rest of your body is hanging on for dear life.
Early this morning I went forward to move the topping lift from where it was shackled at mid-boom, up to the mast; then get the ties off the main and raise the main up to the second reef. Just doing that took about 30 minutes, crawling around on hands and knees, changing harness points, reacting to all the sudden lurches.
The boat pounds a lot, and when she does, it is like living inside a bass drum. The noise level has been incredible, and once in a while the engine has to be run for 2 hours to charge batteries. I have been tired enough to sleep through this. Well, okay; now I can say I have done this, and I do not have to do it again.
7/29 Wednesday: Yesterday and last night we let the Autohelm steer, as the conditions improved greatly. Watch keeping became sitting in the companionway and pushing a button occasionally. Unfortunately, this morning the autopilot died. Loren and I took it apart and spent the a.m. on it but were unable to fix it. The motor contacts had obviously been broken and jury-rigged before. We had no soldering iron and virtually no other electrical stuff. It was frustrating. Oh, well, only a little over 500 miles to go.
This boat is wide open spaces and few handholds. We have all taken spectacular tumbles. You can not move anywhere without hauling yourself there. The motion is very lively, jerky, and unpredictable. Everything is wet, of course. And there is no bilge, so water just rolls around. Standing on the curve of the hull itself, with no floorboards, makes the galley area particularly treacherous.
The north wind is slowly backing west, so we may just be able to weather Cape Flattery without tacking back to the NW. At this point everyone is ready to be home. We are thinking we might reach Flattery on Saturday.
Last night on the 1700 call-in we learned that Fastrack, one of the other Vic-Maui boats about 150 miles NE of us, hit a whale. It stopped the boat which was traveling at 6-7 knots. The whale then rammed her on the port bow, leaving blubber in the hole. The outer skin of the hull was destroyed, but the inner skin was intact. They are checking with Coast Guard Point Reyes every 6 hours, but continuing on to Juan de Fuca. We are closest to them, so we are keeping a close check.
I thank my son Sam for my polypro socks. They are essential. And at least we still have fresh tuna to eat.
7/30 Thursday: We have run out of propane. Plenty of cold stuff to eat, but it is discouraging. Everything is wet, and the motion is violent and unpredictable. My bunk, with the lee cloth tied up, is the only place I do not have to hang on. I was standing at the toilet, hanging on with both hands, and the boat ran over a wave top, went into free fall, then neatly pounded my head into the overhead twice. All of us are bruised. Still we all joke about it.
Now about 430 miles SW of C. Flattery, and on course 015, good enough to weather the Cape. Today is overcast, wind NW 15-25. Lumpy seas.
7/31 Friday 2115: Yesterday evening the weather started improving and, feeling the shore looming, we called home. At that point we were out about 350 miles, off Newport OR. Then, at about 2230, I tried to get into my bunk, the pilot berth on the high side, and must have lost my grip when the boat lurched. Woke up 3 hours later with a bloody lump on the back of my head. Bill says I must have done a backflip and hit my head on the side of the boat above the opposite pilot berth. There was quite a bloody mess there.
I was never unconscious, but I did not know where I was, how I got here, or who these people were. Gradually it all came back, but I have no memory of falling or of the 3 hours afterwards. It took 2 hours to raise the Coast Guard. Somehow the Canadians at Prince Rupert answered first. CG Pt. Reyes wanted to send a helicopter from Astoria to take me off, but by then I was awake/ aware again and refused.
By late afternoon I was tired of lying around, and went on deck, then steered for a few hours until 2000. I have volunteered to resume my watches. Everyone was as supportive as can be, and very relieved at my recovery. I feel I should hold up my end, especially as Jim is sick again. Also, I will do better mentally if I keep working.
Beautiful weather this afternoon: clear and bright with some cumulus. Seas moderate at 6-8 foot with wind NW at 15-20 knots. We can crack off, be more comfortable, and still weather Cape Flattery on port tack. The wonderful sailing helps my sense of recovery and optimism. A note: yesterday the guys used frozen tuna chunks in lieu of ice on my head!
8/1 Saturday 1700: Now at 47-40N, 126-00 W. We should round Tatoosh about 0400. Will bypass Neah Bay. A beautiful day. 20-25 knots of NW wind. We are sailing 020 at 7-7.5 knots with the #2 and the double-reefed main. We are all tired, but have that going-home feeling. Bright sunshine, heavy spray, big breaking waves. No sight of mountains yet; they are covered with clouds, but everyone is looking for our landfall.
8/2 Sunday: Arrived in Neah Bay about 0630. What a night! We had our first contact with North America in the late afternoon, as we passed close by a fish boat, and the crew waved back at us. At first, as the sun went down, the breeze just moderated, so that as the evening wore on we had a lovely close reach on a smooth sea with almost no heel at 7 knots. The growing half moon was low in the SW over our wake, and a pleasant excitement about landfall was in the air.
But the wind got lighter and too light, and there was a growing mist. We had seen a number of fish boats during the evening, but by 2330 or so their lights dimmed. It was obvious that fog was coming. A way point was set north of Tatoosh Island, in the channel between Tatoosh and Duntze and Duncan Rocks.
As we got closer, between 0200 and 0300, the Tatoosh light, high above us, faded out in the fog, and we became embayed in the rocks around the base of Tatoosh. We stared though the thick fog as black shapes emerged, barely discernible in the dark and fog; and the gulls were crying. Many quick turns, a 180 back on our course, then west, then north, then east, and we finally made it through. With our angle of approach, on course 030, we should have set the way point farther west.
Into Neah Bay in the dawn. With our personal gyros set for being at sea, we tacked wildly walking up the dock. We knew for sure that we had reached Washington when we found the espresso stand at the head of the dock. After hot drinks we showered, and then settled in for a big high-cholesterol breakfast at the Makah Maiden Cafe; and of course we called home. Then we rolled back on board with propane and hamburger buns.
1045: Motoring through fog with a weak sun trying to burn through. We have no charts east of Port Angeles, so I have extracted some lat/longs from the US Coast Pilot to use as GPS way points. Am I glad I came? Absolutely! Would I do it again? Not in this direction!
2100: Arrived just at dark at Pt. Hudson Marina, Port Townsend. Spent the day cleaning up, packing up, eating, and drying everything in the afternoon sun. Really glad to be here, but I will miss this extraordinary group of people and that sense of mission we shared. We do not feel ordinary, but nobody else in Port Townsend appears to notice anything unusual about us. Re-adjustment is going to be difficult.
Carl Applebaum, Sandpiper