First Voyage

With the sale of our boat and my rainy day digging through journals and book manuscripts, the memory of those early days on Chiron has come flooding back.

Recollections of our first sea voyage on Chiron (excerpt from WINTER PASSAGE):

Bob: I am certain that she didn’t know then, and I believe that she doesn’t know even now, how extraordinary those three days in November 1996 were. We had purchased Chiron, a 47-foot cutter rigged sailboat, the month before and had planned to leave it in Seattle until more favorable weather in the spring. But the long-range forecasts were for a very hard winter and the immediate predictions were for a brief weather window in the first week of November. So we made hasty arrangements for the few necessary repairs, arranged moorage in what was to be our homeport of Newport, Oregon, hired a transfer captain, and talked Allen, a sailing friend, into filling out the ad hoc crew. As the morning fog lifted, the weather predictions proved true and we left Puget Sound on a sunny day with light winds.

This was the beginning of Morningstar’s first blue water experience; it also marked the irreversible transformation from a person rooted to the land to a person who would become hopelessly enchanted by the sea. Only three months before she had taken her first sailing course in Portland. Now she sat quietly in the cockpit as Chiron sailed past a slow moving regatta with a kaleidoscope of spinnakers, trying to catch what little wind there was.

Morningstar: By midnight we had exited the Strait of Juan de Fuca and were motoring south, six miles off the coastline of Washington State. I was scheduled to take the next four-hour watch… my first ever, so I was teamed with the transit captain. It was a raw November night and I had put on my thermal and fleece underwear, flannel shirt, wool sweater, socks and hat, plus my bright yellow foul-weather gear and rubber boots. I felt like a little kid on her first day of school, and just as apprehensive.

The nighttime sky was clear and filled with stars. Bob and Allen slept below. I was content to sit in the cockpit and let Captain Ed man the helm, but it wasn’t long before he turned to me and said, “Here – it’s all yours. Just keep this heading and yell if you need help.” With that announcement, our hired delivery captain descended to the warmth of the cabin below, and closed the cockpit hatch behind him. With white-knuckled hands gripping the wheel, and legs spread to give me firm footing, I was left to guide Chiron through the offshore waters of the Pacific… alone.

The first half hour was smooth, rarely requiring adjustments to be made at the helm. I enjoyed the silver reflection of an autumn moon on the gentle ocean swells. But soon scudding clouds swept toward us and we were hit by a squall. The swells became four to five-foot whitecaps that pitched the boat from side to side. The compass needle swung wildly. Water broke across the bow. I was scared and exhilarated all at the same time. As the wind and cold rain stung my face and obscured my vision, Chiron powerfully sliced through the heavy sea. I looked up and saw a star off the starboard side of the bow. To port was a headland beacon and I kept Chiron on a heading between the two. Standing at the helm, dressed in yellow foul-weather gear from head to toe, the taste of saltwater on my lips, I received my baptismal. But the oddest thing was a feeling that I had done it all before.

… PLM