It's not so Pacific

The day had begun like any other. John got up and went to work. I did some laundry and went to the store. People we knew from the marina approached me and said “Hey, aren’t you leaving for Hawaii in a few days?” “We’re leaving today,” I replied, much to their surprise. I guess no one believed we were actually going to do it. We found it hard to believe ourselves.
It is difficult to describe the feeling as the lines were cast off from the dock later that afternoon. This 2,000 mile passage was known for making or breaking sailing couples. Did we have what it took? Were we truly prepared? We both had faith in our vessel, a Cascade 36, one of the strongest built fiberglass hulls to ever sail the high seas. Our doubts lay within ourselves. We smiled at each other nervously and sailed out of the bay.
The first sign of what the passage would be like came at dusk, when the wind stopped blowing as we sailed into the middle of the shipping lanes. At the same time the stereo blew out. We motored out of the shipping lanes with no Jimmy Buffet music to sooth our nerves. Five days later, we had traveled a grand total of 250 miles. During most of this time, a sea lion drifted with us, circling the boat and talking at us. I think we were being laughed at because he could move faster than we could. Upon his departure, we were visited by over 100 dolphins, jumping and playing around us. It seemed that almost as far as our eyes could see on both sides, behind, and in front of the boat, there were dolphins. It was an incredible sight; one that was so enthralling that neither of us gave fetching the camera a thought until after the show was over. True to the old mariners’ belief, the dolphins brought us good luck. The wind finally began to blow and we caught a barracuda for dinner.
We sighted a whale on the eleventh day, after which the sun made its first appearance. Plotting our course by sextant alone, the sun was more than a luxury. It was a necessary ingredient in successful navigation. Joyfully, we threw off our clothes and grabbed the sextant, creating a new process by which navigation, and all other tasks, should be done in the nude whenever possible. After confirming that we were still in the Pacific Ocean, we kicked back and enjoyed the deep, clear blue of the sea. We watched our fishing line for our daily mahi-mahi. The minute we caught one, we made sushi and enjoyed a heavenly lunch on deck. Later, we had a refreshing saltwater rinse on deck to sooth certain sunburnt parts of our bodies.
John made pizza on the grill for dinner that evening. Usually we devoured it instantly, but this time we only nibbled, watching the sea uneasily. The water looked the same. There were no ominous black clouds on the horizon, and no wind shifts. But there was an almost imperceptible difference that we could feel in the pit of our stomachs. Perhaps, so in tune with our environment, we could feel the change in pressure as the barometer began a steady plunge. “I think we’re going to get hammered”, I said quietly to John. Unfortunately, he didn’t disagree with me. By the time it got dark, there was no question about it. Both wind and sea had risen at an alarming rate. We shortened sail and prepared for the worst.
John had the dawn watch that morning. As I arose, he said, “You don’t want to know what’s out there.” But I could tell without looking by the motion of the boat and the sound of the wind in the rigging. I got up to gaze at 15 foot seas agitated by 30 knots of wind.
We dropped the double reefed main and ran downwind with the working jib alone. We had an early lunch as the boat crawled up one wave and slid down the next. Little did we know this would be our last meal for 24 hours.
On deck, we struggled to drop the working jib and raise the storm jib in the still increasing wind and seas. We towed a drogue astern on a bight of 300 foot line, to ease our speed and to help keep the boat on a downwind course. Our self steering gear could no longer handle the 45 knots of wind and 20 foot seas. All we could do now was run off and wait for the storm to pass.
The wind was screaming through the shrouds as night fell. The boat’s motion was violent, although she was steering herself well under drogue and storm jib, with the helm lashed. Moving about the cabin was difficult and dangerous to the limbs. John crawled into the quarterberth where I was holed up. We lay together listening to the howling wind, pots, pans and dishes banging together, and canned goods rolling back and forth in storage. Suddenly there was a slam-crash, and the boat lurched sideways. Water spilled through the small gap in the hatchboards and smacked us on our heads. We tangled ourselves up together trying to leap out of the bunk at the same time. John turned on the deck lights, pushed open the hatch and took quick stock of conditions outside. “Did we hit something?” I gasped. “No, we just took a wave over the stern, that’s all,” he replied. “THAT’S ALL?!” I’m wet, you’re wet, EVERYTHING is wet. And now we’re going to get giant monster waves breaking over the boat! I hate this crap!” I cried as the boat fell off a wave with a thump. John admitted to not enjoying this party either. Wet and shaken, we climbed back into our cozy little puddle of a bed. We tried not to bruise each other too much as we got tossed around. Sleep was impossible. Too tired to talk, we each thought our own thoughts. Weather such as this tended to make them profound ones. An experience like this could almost make a person religious. Sometimes it rained so hard that the sound of the falling drops could be heard over the shrieking wind and crashing waves. John muttered something about wishing daylight would arrive. I wondered to myself what difference it would make. I actually preferred not to see the watery mountains that leapt around and over us.
To John’s relief, daylight did finally arrive, revealing that everything on the boat was still where it should be, including the two kayaks we had strapped outside the lifelines on either side of the cockpit. To my dismay, I could now see 30 foot waves. The wind was holding at about 50 knots. Feeling week and dizzy, I remembered how long it had been since we had last eaten anything. I was attempting to put some rice into a pot when the next wave slammed over us. I went for a sail across the cabin, landing on the floor next to the pot. John’s laughter interrupted my string of expletives directed at the sea for the wave, the pot for not sticking to the stove, and at the stove for not hanging on to me. “WHAT’S SO FUNNY?” I roared. “If we couldn’t laugh we’d all go insane,” he tossed at me. I picked up myself and the pot, lunged for the stove, and got everything secured before the next wave wreaked its havoc on us. The little bit of food we managed to consume restored our spirits for about five minutes.
Water had been leaking in one port and both dorade vents, even though they were both closed. Each breaking wave forced water in around the hatch boards, which dribbled down the companionway steps. Water was running over the floor with each lurch of the boat. I began poking around, determined to find a dry spot somewhere. I finished my futile inspection and sat down, dejected and disheartened. John had been periodically checking the bilge to make sure we weren’t taking on water below the waterline. He chose this moment to check it again. He pried open the cover and peered in. “Look, no water in the bilge. Isn’t that great?” I let out a groan, crawled back into the wet bunk, lay my head on the wet pillow, and pulled the wet covers over my wet self. Of course, I thought bleakly, why didn’t I think to look in the bilge for a dry spot?
Darkness came upon us once again, but this time there was a difference. The wind had lessened, only slightly, but to us this was a monumental thing. It meant that there was an end to this torture in sight. This was something we had seriously come to doubt in the last 48, horrendous, gut wrenching, exhausting hours, which felt more like weeks.
Around 2 a.m., the wind had died down enough to warrant putting up more sail. With us still exhausted and the boat still heaving in 15-20 foot seas, it took us almost two hours to sort everything out and bumble through the sail change. At one point, John was standing by the mast ready to raise the working jib as soon as I got the halyard attached. Suddenly the boat dropped out from under me, and as I landed with a painful thump upon the windlass, I let out a really bad word. Suddenly the end of the halyard in my hand was going up, up. “Stop, stop!” I screamed. “It’s not attached yet!” “I thought you said ‘up’”, John replied with annoyance. “That’s not what I said.” I attached the halyard to the head of the jib before I became airborn again.
We were sitting dazed in the cockpit after our exertions when something flew out of the darkness and hit me in the side of the face, just as it started to rain. I leapt up with a yell. We looked down to see a flying fish flopping around in the cockpit. John set it free, and we both began to laugh, harder and harder. We sat in the rain and laughed ourselves silly. We had survived our first ocean storm, not to mention the attack of the flying fish. Deciding to forego our normal watches, we fell into bed, where we slept for three blissful hours. The nightmare was over.
The sun came out later that afternoon. The boat looked like a patchwork quilt, with wet towels, bedding, and articles of clothing hanging from every available space. On the foredeck, we bathed in bucketfuls of warming tropical water and took naps in the sun. As John prepared dinner that evening, he said, “You know, it wasn’t really that bad…”