Kathryn’s Voyage Blog

Publish Date: Friday, August 13, 2010
Location: Greenwich Bay, Rhode Island
Coordinates: 41° 41.111′ N  71° 26.792′ W

When reading Dave’s recent Night Watch blog, you can almost hear The Eagles in the background singing, “I’ve gotta peaceful, easy feeling…”. You can feel his sheer bliss and joy of being at sea.

Unfortunately, someone changed the soundtrack for my night watch, and all I heard was the theme song to Jaws, “Dah…duh… dah…duh!” It wasn’t a large, man-eating shark I was trying to avoid, but instead, it was large boat-smashing fishing trawlers, and small boat-snagging fishing floats hiding amongst heavy fog. What’s that about? For those who have shared this journey with us for awhile, you know I’m still trying “to get my mind right” about fog. I know it’s a state of mind. I know we have great trusty instruments. I know it will come with experience. And truly, I’ve been doing better, but fog…at night…come on now!

Our second night at sea we switched our standard watch times around a bit because of our early arrival in Narragansett Bay. It’s Three@Sea’s first trip up the bay, and Dave and I both wanted to be awake to see the area, and navigate these new waters. So my watch began at 1:45 am while still in the Atlantic, just past the tip of Long Island. I was off to a nice start with a cool evening and a 2-3 foot southeasterly swell. I was proud of myself for handling our course change properly, and beginning our turn around Block Island heading for the mouth of Narragansett Bay. That’s when things began to change.  You could feel it in the air first, a dampness hanging like a wet shawl around my shoulders. “Ahhh”, I thought, “what a nice break from the heat of the Chesapeake. You can almost feel the first hints of Fall in the air.” I settled back in the Captain’s chair with a smile on my face, glad we had made the move north.

Not so fast, missy! A few minutes later the lights of Levity (the boat we’re traveling with) blinked out of sight. What the heck is that? I went to the door and peered into the darkness. I never imagined that darkness could be swallowed up by fog. What can be darker than a moonless night? Apparently, a moonless night with thick fog! What’s strange about it is, it’s not necessarily darker, it’s just that there’s nothingness. No horizon. No sky. No water. You’re just floating in nothingness. Except my nothingness had radar contacts. Holy smokes! Mild panic took hold of my body. I could feel my heart racing faster, and a cold sweat break out on my hands. “Breathe,” I told myself, “just breath…you can do this.”

The next 2 hours and 17 minutes of watch (but who was counting?) was filled with the classic angel and devil scenario on my shoulders. However, the debate of my consciousness was not about right versus wrong, but about confidence and fear.  My first reaction was to wake up Dave. I have supreme confidence in his abilities, and the two of us working a problem together is always best. However, he could use the sleep, and I should be able to do this. I’ve stood plenty of night watches without incident, and we’ve been in fog before. “The key,” I told myself,  “is to calm down, think clearly, use the tools at my disposal, and proceed cautiously.”

First, let’s see if we can sort out the contacts on radar. The contact a half mile off my starboard bow I knew was Levity. The contact  a mile off my port side amidship was a navigational buoy, clearly indicated on the chart. So, my focus became the other three contacts, to see if I could discern what they were, and where they were going. Oh, I hoped they had radar too. I made sure all the windows and doors were open so I could hear the fog horns. The old cliche “minutes felt like hours” certainly applied that night.  As boats moved closer, I would stand at the top of the stairs in the pilothouse, ready to sprint down to wake up Dave. But I fought the urge by making a deal with myself that I would keep trying for five minutes at a time. At the end of five minutes, if I just felt like I couldn’t do it, I could go wake him up; But if all went well, I’d try another five minutes. And that’s how I stood watch for the next 2 hours and 17 minutes, until the agreed upon wake up time of 6:30 am arrived.

The fog seemed to undulate in and out, as if it were breathing, providing visibility of less than a tenth of a mile out to about a quarter mile. Boats came and went on radar, and the occasional fishing float would nudge at the waterline. The scariest moment was shortly after 4:43 am, just after Levity radioed to say they had made a 45 degree turn to avoid a collision with a yacht that appeared out of the fog. That yacht was heading my way.  Oh drat (or something to that effect)! I could see the two contacts on radar near each other, and then one moving towards me. Should I correct course now with the boat still about a half mile away? Should I slow down? Turn? What would that signal to the three fishing boats scattered about my port side. Arrgh! I should really wake Dave up—what an idiot I’d be to run into another boat trying to prove I can stand watch in night fog when I really can’t. Breathe and think. I’m not going to run into another boat. I’m only going 5.2 knots and there’s probably more visibility than I think, even though I can’t see a thing.  As I watched the contact for another minute or so,  it was clear they were on a course to pass well off my starboard side. As I peered into the fog, I could see their steaming light and starboard navigation light pass me by at least a tenth of a mile away. Whew! Breathe…

Long ago, early in my career, I remember hearing a motivational speech about how one’s world can get bigger or smaller based on whether you stay inside your safe, well-defined box, or whether you step out into the unknown and expand your box. The essence of the talk was that the unknown is never very comfortable.  He used learning how to drive a manual-transmission car as the perfect example for expanding your box. We all remember how nerve-wracking those first few times you’re stopped on a steep hill were, and you need to get the car in gear and move. Your heart is racing, your palms are sweaty, and honestly, you’d rather just put the parking brake on, get out, lock the doors, and walk away. But ultimately you don’t, and you lurch your way up the hill. Gradually it gets easier, and finally you do it without thinking. Your world has just gotten a little bigger.

Our whole journey has helped to make my world a little bigger. By nature, I’m a cautious person when it comes to safety. I like to tackle things when I know full well that I can do them. Today, I sit here writing this blog, knowing my world is a little bigger than it was the other night. I had the right tools and the right training—I just needed the confidence to use them. Therein lies the natural tension of finding the ideal balance between spreading your wings and flying, and taking a few more practice runs.

The evening of our arrival, we sat enjoying a fabulous fresh fish dinner with Bill and Rosemary on Levity (mahi mahi Bill caught while cruising). We toasted our successful passage, and shared stories of the transit. When talking about those few hours that morning in the fog, Bill was completely non-plussed by the event. When I shared with them how utterly nervous I was, he was surprised because I sounded so calm and cool on the radio, seeming to have the situation completely under control. The truth is I did. Is that the theme song to Rocky I hear playing?  🙂