Square Waves

I was reminded yesterday by my good friend and drinking buddy, Steve Heller to keep the audience in mind. For those who are just joining me on this journey, my journey began in Trinidad where I built a new bow sprit from a massive teak log. Under the pressure of a strict schedule to cross the Atlantic to Rhodes Greece where I am to pick up a charter for a very lucrative three week cruise along the Turkish coast I’ve picked a lousy crew who abandoned me in Horta, Azores after a rather difficult crossing leaving me alone with a sixty-five year old alcoholic woman who I have contemplated killing. You find me thirty miles outside the Straits of Gibraltar plowing into a force ten gale. My drunken crew member is locked in her cabin.


My CT 72 is motoring directly into a fifty mile an hour wind under a high sky and blinding sunshine. The coast of Spain lies to port and Morocco lies to starboard. The straits are crowded with container ships and massive super tankers rushing out of the Med no one seems to be going into the Med except me. Timing the tides after a long journey of three days is generally hit and miss. A couple of hours either way and you could be gliding effortlessly with a five to eight knot current or as I am doing bucking a five knot current. I entered a transition point between the Atlantic and its long smooth swells and the Med with its short choppy waves. The waves in the Med are square and generally there is a shorter distance between them. Each wave is shaped like a wall that rushes toward the boat slamming into the bow with great and disturbing force. The yacht rose and fell between the waves with such force and speed I felt weightless. Crashing down the bottom of the waves was enough to buckle my knees every nine to ten seconds. The rigging slackened and shook. The mast waved like a wet noodle at the sky. My sturdy bow sprit dug into the ocean and tossed hundred of gallons of water over the yacht. At times it appeared that my yacht was totally submerged. The scuppers full of racing sea water pouring over the cap rails. At the helm I stood in a constant foot of water. I had donned my snorkel mask so I could at least see. The pummeling wind, the sting of spray and the bite of salt on my skin kept me alert. It took eleven hours to travel twenty miles with the motor racing at top speed. And then around four o’clock in the afternoon someone turned off the wind and told the sea to quiet down all seemingly within minutes. I was officially in the Med.

I went into the customs office after docking wet, tired and very proud I had made it through. The custom’s officer asked for my papers. When he read I had come for the Azores, he dryly commented, “Congratulations you have just sailed through a force ten gale. Welcome to Gibraltar.”

Running head long into walls of square waves is to be avoided. Some fool once said adversity measures character, after this trip I preferred to measure my character by the shot glass. Thanks Steve.
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Murder In The Mind

By Scott Dodgson


The sail from the Azores to Gibraltar is approximately 1000nm which translates into three and half days for my CT 72. Janice, my only remaining crew member was locked in her cabin sleeping off her hangover. After ten hours at the helm I was getting tired. I knocked a couple of times on her cabin door and received no response. I returned to the helm. I have sailed solo many times before so I set up a schedule for myself grabbing catnaps every couple of hours. I would sleep longer during the day. This way other vessels would be able to see me more clearly. I set the alarms on the radar so any ship coming within fifteen miles would set off an annoying buzzing. I decided to wait until morning to unlock Janice’s cabin door and see what was going on with her. She could be dead. I thought there is nothing I could do at this point other than take the body to Gibraltar, where they spoke English and since she was a British citizen they could do whatever they do with dead Englishmen. The thought was strangely comforting. The next morning was sunny and windy. I drove East on a reach with main and staysail reefed in a fresh thirty knot wind. The sailing was exhilarating and exhausting. A CT 72 is a big heavy beast. She moves well enough in light winds, but in big winds she seemed to gather a smooth and assertive momentum as if she were coming alive. I got a glimpse of Janice heading to the galley through the salon. I peaked down the companionway and saw her trying to force the liquor cabinet open with a dinner knife. I exploded with anger. “This was no time to go on a bender!” My experience with alcoholics was extensive starting with my father. There is no amount of yelling that changes their behavior especially when they are on a bender. My strategy is put them into a position where they won’t hurt themselves and anyone else until you can get as far away from them as possible. I know it doesn’t sound very compassionate, but at this point racing across the ocean in strong winds and building seas compassion is safety. I made her stand watch hoping against hope the fresh air might sober her up a little. I just needed a couple of hours of sleep downstairs and I would be fine to carry own. Another bit of information, anything that comes out of a drunk’s mouth is not to be believed. I made her stand watch. I checked the galley and found a two bottles of vodka hidden in the freezer. I went to her cabin and found two boxes of wine empty in the shower. I knew there had to be more hidden treasures but I was too tired and too pissed off to look. I threatened her instead. “I will throw you overboard with an anchor tied to your feet if you don’t shape up.” I meant it. The look of fear in her eyes told me she clearly understood I was capable. I laid down on the settee where I could observe her in the cockpit and watch my back. There is a big gap between wanting to kill someone for whatever reason and actually killing someone that is filled with hideous calculations. Could you actually do it? Could I get away with it? Would I be able to live with the moral grief of such an act? I woke abruptly from this insane nightmare and checked on Janice. I had slept for two hours. When I came on deck I found her drinking from a bottle of gin. I took the bottle and threw it over board. She wasn’t upset. She just watched it disappear into the wake. When she looked up at me her eyes told me she would happily follow the bottle if I ordered her to do so. I told her to go back to her cabin until we reached Gibraltar. I wouldn’t be a part of her insanity. Six hours later I could see the lights on the coast of Spain. The Straits of Gibraltar is one of the world’s busiest choke points for shipping. I chose to the hug the coast of Spain to avoid getting run over by traffic exiting and entering the Med. By morning the coast was in clear view. The sky was clear. The sun was very bright and I was motoring into a force ten gale.

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