John Valois
(inducted 2011)
King Neptune,
I had previously sailed with Joan Lappin on her boat, Joie de Vivre, so when she told me she was planning a cruise to Maine and thinking of going offshore, outside Cape Cod, I jumped at the chance to come along. Joan had already sailed the boat to Nantucket with other crew; Margo Taylor and I were to meet her there for the offshore leg of the trip. I had not previously met Margo, who is a pretty serious racing sailor, and I was a little taken aback when she hopped into the cab with her arms full of laundry and a grocery bag packed with unopened mail. “Just got back late last night from the Lobster Run”, she explained – where she had been navigator on the winning boat. We spent the ride to the airport getting her mail (mostly issues of Practical Sailor and yacht club bills) and her delicates sorted.
First light in Nantucket Harbor
Once we got to Nantucket our voyage began somewhat inauspiciously. We had stowed our gear and were heading in to top off with fuel, water, and ice in preparation for our departure the next morning. No sooner had we slipped the mooring than with a ragged cough and a belch of black smoke the engine went AWOL. There we were in the middle of a crowded mooring field, slowly drifting down onto another boat. Captain and crew engaged in a mad scramble, grabbing fenders, trying to restart the engine, debating whether to try and raise the sails, and radioing for assistance. Our valiant efforts prevented any collisions, and with some help from a passing launch we managed to get back onto our mooring. After spending the next couple of days with a mechanic getting the Joie de Vivre into shape for an offshore passage, we finally set off at first light.
Sunset, somewhere in the Atlantic, no land in sight
Once past the Nantucket Shoals and safely through the shipping lanes, we turned to head north – next stop, Maine. Eventually we realize just how isolated we are: no land and no other boats in sight, no chatter on the VHF. Dusk brings a strange feeling – shouldn’t we be back at the dock? With nothing between us and the horizon, the sun shrinks to a tiny orange dot, like a candle burning down to a dull, glowing wick before finally snuffing out completely. I have a vague sense of trepidation – a feeling that maybe being this far from land on a small boat at night is not wise – but there’s nothing to do but sail as the darkness closes in on top of us.
That night the moon doesn’t rise until nearly midnight, and the sea and the sky are indistinguishable shades of black. I keep sensing things on the edge of my vision – or my eyes are playing tricks on me. Was that a clump of seaweed, or a half-sunken shipping container, or just starlight glinting off the waves? Whatever it was it disappears into the dark before I can grab a flashlight. Once the moon does come up the effect is largely psychological; I’m no longer staring into inky blackness, and it feels like the world has depth again, but I still can’t really see anything. It’s definitely spooky sailing at night, but beautiful too, and the stars are more amazing than I’ve ever seen them on land.
Sunrise over an eerie calm, somewhere in the Gulf of Maine
At one point in the middle of the night Margo and I are standing watch. Far off but dead ahead we see a blinking light and are puzzled. It is clearly not another ship, and we’re still too far away to see any lighthouses. The chartplotter was acting up, so we checked and rechecked our DR on the paper chart, scratching our heads and trying to figure out what it could be. One thing they don’t teach you in navigation class is how hard it is to read a chart at night with those damn little red lights! We continue on, and the mysterious light steadily nears. In the dark it’s hard to judge distances, and after an hour or so we realize that the light is closer than we thought; soon it’s passing no more than 100 yards off our beam. Turns out it’s a NOAA weather buoy. It would make a good navigational challenge to try and find it again, out there in the middle of the ocean, without GPS, but we did it just by luck.
Greeting the dawn at the helm after a long night watch
The watch schedule, with only three of us, is grueling, but eventually the sun rises, and not long after we make our first sight of land. We pass Monhegan Island, lonely and isolated. The wind picks up and we sail into Penobscot Bay, one eye marveling at the beauty of the rugged Maine coast and the other focused on dodging lobster pots as well as more serious charted hazards. We reach our destination and tie up, tired but invigorated.
Father Neptune, I hope you enjoyed my story and grant the Joie de Vivre safe passage wherever she sails.
Your humble servant,
John Valois