Fading light, building seas, a fine time for a nautical anomaly.

Every offshore sailor has a common denominator of fear. We rarely talk about it ashore and never while underway. Indeed, I do everything possible to delete disturbing possibilities from my brain’s over active hard drive when I am sea. It has nothing to do with a so-called perfect storm, equipment failure, an uncontrollable bout of seasickness or some silly superstition. But it is out there, definitely out there, and there is nothing you can do about it, except to trust in the Gods and, better yet, the odds. For somewhere in the darkness ahead, floating at or just below the surface, is a nasty object, maybe a wayward container buoyed by the packaging of a 1,000 Play Stations, maybe a slightly submerged log that eluded the mill and rode the currents far offshore, or maybe a 55 gallon drum that refuses to become a retirement home for lobster. The question becomes the reduced fraction, does that container, lurking like a Nile crocodile behind the next wave, have my name on it?

Enough fear mongering, lets set the record straight: the odds of a serious collision are remote, there is still a lot of elbowroom on the high seas. Just last week I sailed from Ft. Lauderdale to Lunenberg, Nova Scotia, a 1400-mile offshore jaunt that parallels and crosses a host of busy shipping lanes. During the nine-day voyage we encountered a mere handful of ships and fishing boats, and even more encouraging, very little debris. The sea was lonely and refreshingly clean. I have been crisscrossing oceans for twenty-five years, logging thousands of miles, and for the most part I’ve avoided dangerous collisions. Sure we once smacked a pair of love making gray whales in the middle of the Atlantic and hit something hard in the Straits of Gibraltar, but neither incident caused damage or delay. Yet, I must confess, no matter how I rationalize how unlikely a collision is, I do scan the horizon more intently these days. My perspective changed a couple of Novembers ago. On a delivery across the Gulf of Mexico I realized just how gripping the fear is when something goes bump in the night.

The prospect of delivering a powerful Outremer 50 catamaran from Ft. Lauderdale to Galveston, Texas seemed like a nice way to make some money and experience a steady diet of double digit speeds, which leaves monohull sailors like me feeling exhilarated and guilty at the same time. A November crossing of the Gulf of Mexico is an unpredictable affair as you might encounter everything from an early ‘norther,’ to a late tropical storm, to slick smooth seas, to force 4 easterlies, which of course was what I was planning on.

Along with my dear friend Bill Williamson, a steady mate with six decades of sailing experience, I joined the boat’s new owner, Morgan Jones. A freshly retired Dallas attorney, Jones has a deep voice and a penchant for telling wonderful stories. This would be his first offshore voyage, and serve as the boat’s shakedown. Jones planned to refit the boat in Galveston and then head out for a couple of years of cruising. Also along for the ride was his girlfriend, Vicki, whose experience consisted of having read several of my articles.

Catamarans are a blast off the wind and their speeds can have long time monohull sailors seeing double digits and hulls.

We tossed a mishmash of provisions aboard and shoved off on a glorious fall morning. Our plan was to find the narrow corridor between the Gulf Stream and the Florida Keys reef. Unfortunately the stream was almost kissing the reef, plugging us as we reached south. We raised Key West in 26 hours, averaging nearly 7 knots up current, which isn’t bad but not the kind of speed I was fantasizing about. It was tempting to stop but hey, this was a delivery and the old cliché’ holds sway, time is money, we pressed on.

Vicki, who wasn’t feeling well, and that’s putting it charitably, looked longingly at as we sped by the Key West waterfront. She was making that time-honored discovery that sailing writers lie like dogs when they describe the magic of offshore sailing. Staring intently at the rock steady buildings of the last resort, I think she would have jumped ship if she felt she could swim ashore.

The winds clocked to the east and settled in at 15-to- 20 knots, perfect conditions to make speed. We blasted along on a reach, pushing the apparent winds forward as our boat speed topped 12 knots. We were scooting with the big roachy main and screecher drawing smartly. Surfing down the building seas we topped 14 knots, then 15, then 16 knots. This was what I had signed on for. Yet something was wrong. While the speedo was flirting with numbers I’d never seen before, the GPS was dourly reporting more prosaic results when it came to speed over ground; 8 knots, 9, and very occasionally 10 knots. Sailors are a fickle lot, the discrepancy between the numbers was spoiling the thrill of it all. I dug out my handheld GPS to check the unit at the helm. The electronic gizmos stuck together, a cold-hearted digital conspiracy accurate to the hundreth of a knot.

All through the day and into the night our speed through the water and speed over ground differed significantly. It was obvious that we were in the clutches of a foul current, designed to spoil our fun. I studied the pilot chart. Then I remembered reading about the "loop current." The Gulf Stream is born in the Yucatan Channel and while the main body of the current arcs east and then north, gathering steam in the narrow Straits of Florida, a renegade band of warm water sets north into the Gulf before looping back to join its brother waters heading for Ireland. The loop current varies in size and strength, but according to meteorologist and Gulf Stream guru, Jenifer Clarke, "on rare occasions it can be stronger than the main body of the current." Naturally this was a rare occasion. We were sailing smack into the bottom of the loop current, a four-to-five knot sea anchor slowing our progress.

Vicki was doing her best to keep her spirits buoyed but the knowledge that the passage would take longer than anticipated because of the current was not news she embraced. When a pot jumped off the stove as she made a bold attempt to heat water, she exclaimed, "What else can go wrong?" I bit my tongue, realizing that her learning curve was more like cliff diving. Aside from a mean spirited current – things were going great. I decided not to tell her the many possibilities of what might yet go wrong. As it turned out she’d find out soon enough anyway.

Was something washed overboard off a passing ship to cause of an abrupt and damaging stop at sea? We’ll never know.

During the night the winds shifted to the south and piped up to 25 knots. Beam seas rocked the boat as we flew westward. I had the 0200 – 0500 watch. Perched on the helm seat I was enchanted by the burst of phosphorescence as the waves died against the hull. I was also admiring how well the autopilot was handling the boat when suddenly, we shuddered to a full stop! The wind and waves muffled the sound impact but it felt like we had sailed into a concrete wall!

I crashed into the wheel, ricocheted off the bulkhead and slumped to the sole. The boat rounded up and felt dead in the water. With utter, brutal clarity, I was certain we’d stove in the port hull, certain. I’d finally found my container. I am not one to overreact but I needed everybody where I could see them, to organize our emergency response. I pulled myself to my feet and shouted, "all hands on deck." I wasted my breath, everybody was already on a mad dash to the cockpit.

I told Morgan to take the wheel and Bill went quickly for the liferaft and abandon ship bag, just like we had discussed many times over time over the years. I rolled in the headsail, grabbed the spotlight and went forward. I remember thinking, "I hope these cats really are unsinkable." From the trampoline I illuminated the hull. I felt a deep pit in my stomach. My mind was racing, fear and responsibility jostled for the upper hand. Following the beam of light I expected the worst. Surprisingly, no, stunningly, it looked intact. The light revealed the waterline, we were not riding low in the water either. I leaned over the outside of the hull but couldn’t spot any damage there either. Buoyed with hope, I dashed below. Frantically I pulled out the floorboards in the port hull. The bilge was dry – we weren’t even leaking – at least not yet. This was amazing. I wondered if I’d imagined the impact.

Bill made his way to the starboard hull and from the escape hatch in the head shined a light across at the inside of the port hull. He called for me to come take a look. The port daggerboard was wrapped like pretzal around the inside of the lower hull. It had taken brunt of the impact and given way, just like it was designed to do. Miraculously after the collision me must have veered hard to starboard, sparing the hull, rudder and prop shaft. I still don’t know what we hit, but I will always be thankful for the long reach of the daggerboard.

The light of day revealed that the inside of the port hull was badly scarred but a close inspection of the daggerboard trunk showed that it was structurally intact. The board, which was made of cedar with a light layer of fiberglass over, had given instead of the hull. The crushed lower half of the daggerboard soon disappeared into the Gulf and the rest of the board was jammed in place. It didn’t matter, we were all more than content with one good daggerboard on the starboard side. We pressed on for Galveston.