Photo by Jane Grausgruber

The author’s O’day 22. Some may consider it an unlikely ocean going boat, but it proved itself capable for the trip to the Bahamas and back.

The Bahamas are a group of islands that stretch roughly north/south for about 400 miles, sitting on a shelf off the East Coast of Florida. They are separated from the mainland by "the world’s largest river," known as The Gulf Stream. The Gulf Stream is about 50 miles wide, up to 2,000 fathoms deep and moving north, at its center at a speed of as much as 6 miles per hour, traveling on to circle the North Atlantic and moderate the climate on the south coast of England.

In good weather, crossing the Gulf Stream is a snap. From Port Lauderdale to West End, Grand Bahama Island is about 75 miles. From the Port of Miami, it is about 50 miles to Bimini. One usually calculates for a northerly drift of 1 ½ to 2 knots for the duration of the crossing. Crossing the Gulf Stream in bad weather is hell! The worst situation would be to cross with a strong wind from the north, which creates a stomach-snarling pounding hard on boat and nerves alike.

I had been to the Bahamas twice before, and fell in love with the islands, the climate, the people, the clear blue sky at day that becomes filled with stars at night, and the clear blue water. When formulating a plan for a month-long vacation to celebrate my 50th birthday, no other place entered my mind. I needed to leave town, having mistreated all of my friends so badly on the occasions of their fiftieth birthdays!

This trip was going to be special, as I would trailer an O’Day 22 to North Miami Beach and set sail for the Bahamas from there. Why an O’Day 22? Shallow draft; one foot, eleven inches. On my previous visits to these islands I had sailed with 5 foot-plus draft vessels, and found some places we could not access, shortcuts, entrances to anchorages, and we had to stand off shore near some islands we would have liked to tuck in behind. The O’Day is a tough little boat, and, in spite of her shallow draft, she is a perky little sailor. Her only disappointing characteristic is her poor showing sailing into the wind. I talked about my vacation plan with my friend, Peter Janicelli, and it quickly followed that he and his family wanted to go. Obviously, there wouldn’t be room in the little O’Day, so we arranged a Moorings charter for them from Treasure Cay, in the Abacos. Peter would sail over with me, while the rest of his family were to fly in to Treasure Cay and we would all meet there. Mother Nature took a hand in the plan, and as soon as we had the O’Day in the water, and rigged, packed, and ready to venture out the forecast was for strong gales crossing from Florida’s West Coast. And they came! Three nights in a row, we rode out fierce winds in the Intracoastal Waterway, behind Lauderdale Beach. Finally, we bummed a ride to the airport, and Peter hopped on a plane to Treasure Cay, Abaco, as his family were all arriving this day, and he did not want them to get there, and not know where he was. So, alone, I went back to the marina, and tuned in the NOAA broadcast and waited.

Photo by Dick Giddings

Go beyond just listening to the radio forecast and know the weather signs around you. A Mackerel sky means a change in the predominating weather pattern.

The storms eventually passed and although the wind was still strong from the northeast, there was a shift predicted to the south in late afternoon, and for southerly winds throughout the night. My vacation was dwindling fast; I needed to take a nap through the afternoon, get up about 5 p.m., recheck the forecast, and set out for the Bahamas. At 6 p.m., NOAA announced 5-15 knot Southerly winds, 3-to-5 foot seas near shore, and 5-to-8 foot seas out on the Gulf Stream. Good enough. The 5-to-8 footers would hopefully be diminishing, as long as the wind stayed from the south. I packed up, tied down, put on my foul weather gear and safety harness, recalculated my heading to compensate for both the current drift and the southerly wind, and motored out from Port Everglades.

I was in 5-foot seas as soon as I passed the breakwater. And the wind was more like 25 knots than "5-to-15 knots" as forecast. With main reefed and small jib, I found I could make 7 knots speed, in spite of the, now, 5-to-8 foot seas. It was a little uncomfortable, but progress was good, the sky was clear, and the moon was full. I had always dreamed of crossing the Gulf Stream under a full moon and began to see the phosphorescence astern. I settled in for about a 10-hour sail.

Within another hour, the wind was shifting into the east, and I dropped sail and started the engine, we were still holding about 7 knots of speed but now I had seas higher than the spreaders on the mast! Gently rolling, not too bad a chop, but BIG seas: 15 feet, with an occasional 20-footer. I was towing a dinghy, in which I had lashed down three coolers of provisions for our stay in the islands, and two extra fuel tanks. As I started down one of the bigger waves, the dinghy was caught on the crest by a gust and capsized, throwing out the coolers and the spare fuel, and leaving me to deal with a swamped dinghy in 15-to-20-foot seas! I had it to do, so, I slung the tether for my safety harness over the boom and, suspending myself over the side, reached the gunwale of the dinghy, and lifted. While being bashed against the gunwale of the O’Day, I managed to lift the dinghy, dump out most of the water, and collapsed back into the cockpit with sharp chest pains (I had broken at least one rib) with a stress/panic attack and labored breathing and physical weakness. The engine was perking along fine. I set "Tillie", my tillerpilot, for a hastily corrected course for West End, and went below to lie down, setting the alarm to go off in a half hour, and concentrated on breathing deeply, and "coming down" from the exertion and pain. The alarm went off. I had actually been asleep, and I felt a little better, in spite of the gnawing pain in my ribs. I went back to the cockpit, clipped my tether onto the jackline, and checking my position found that I was on a nicely corrected course to hit the opening in the reef straight-on for West End. I spent the rest of the night with "Tillie" and watching out for freighters (I had already seen two passing from north to south with few, or no lights) and anything floating in the water.

Photo by Dick Giddings

The drying out begins. Anytime you see a boat flying these colors, you know they have a story to tell.

By about 5 a.m., I noticed the waves were diminishing, and, although the wind was still right in my teeth, the ride was almost becoming comfortable! At 6, I became aware that the horizon was taking on a different appearance. With the rising sun directly in my eyes, I shouted, "LAND HO!" to nobody in particular, as a celebration of having lived to see it!

At about 8 a.m., I cruised through the opening between the poles, and followed the almost marked channel (on previous visits, I had discovered that you cannot rely on channel markings, or any other aids to navigation, while in the Bahamas) into Jack Tar Marina (now Old Bahama Bay) to clear Customs, flush off the salt, and rest!

The Dockmaster saw my yellow "Q" flag, and signaled me to tie up to await the Customs official. He had to come from Freeport, as it was Saturday, and the office was closed. The Dockmaster was eyeing me closely, (I still had my foul weather gear on, and the hood tied tightly, so that only my salt encusted eyebrows to my mouth were showing) and asked, "Where you coming from, Mon?" I explained that I had crossed the Gulf Stream during the night, and needed a shower, and some rest. He looked, hard, at me, then at my little boat, and back at me, and said, "You are joooooooking, Mon!!!" Several people who had arrived to assist in tying up, jumped on this as an introduction, I guess, and I became Capt. Joe King, who had crossed the Gulf Stream in 20-foot seas, in a 22-foot sailboat! They dragged me around the marina, introduced me, and pumped me for more of the story of my crossing. I learned that there were eight boats here, all bigger than mine (aren’t they all?) who had been waiting for 10 days, or longer, for the Gulf Stream to quiet down so that they could cross to the mainland. And my arrival, in such a small boat, coming off the Gulf Stream they so feared, was nothing less than incredible.

After hanging out some gear to dry in the sun, I crawled into my bunk and slept around the clock. Arising, I surveyed damage to the dinghy and the O’Day, rearranged and packed my gear to ready for the next leg. Two absolutely beautiful days of sailing later, and a little motoring, as the wind died out in the evening, I witnessed "the green flash" for the first time in my life, I approached Marsh Harbor as the darkness settled in, and called for Peter on the VHF. They answered and talked me in to their mooring. After a very excited welcome and my first medicinal bourbon in many days, I began to tell them all the story of the crossing.

It seems that one, or more, power boats from Jack Tar had arrived ahead of me, and already told the story of Capt. Joe King, with some slight exaggeration to emphasize the fact that it was a significant accomplishment. My friends, recognizing that I was safe, and the minimal loss of some provisions could be taken in stride, began to chuckle at the growing colors applied to the story of my crossing! The following day, we took the two boats over to Hope Town Harbor to visit the light house, and to find a restaurant in which to celebrate my 50th birthday! As we prowled the harbor, looking for a free (Not really free) mooring, several boaters climbed up on deck and pointed at me and the O’Day. One of the power boaters from Jack Tar Marina was here, and the story had been told.....but.....now, Capt. Joe King had crossed the Gulf Stream in 40 to 50-foot seas, in a 14-foot sailboat!

I wondered if Paul Bunyan had started out this way! While enjoying the attention, and respect(?) of all my fellow mariners, I was still reflecting on the questionable wisdom that inspired taking such a risk, in such a small boat, and having to keep to a schedule--oh well, I had survived, and with only a few cuts and bruises, and one broken rib. The philosophy now was to relax, and enjoy the islands.

For the next three weeks I enjoyed the islands, pausing at a wonderful spot down Abaco, called Little Harbor, then to Spanish Wells, where Hurricane (pronounced "are-eee-cane") Andrew had pushed a 20-foot wall of water over the island, causing massive devastation. The channel was still obstructed with coral sand and wreckage of boats.

Photo by Dick Giddings

It’s always over a little too soon. The homebound leg and the Miami skyline.

I hired a taxi driver to give me a real tour of New Providence Island (for a paltry $30) and he spent nearly three hours winding around through little communities, showing me a big new shopping center, his church and neighborhood, and sharing facts, history, and statistics with me. He told me that the Bahamian Government has a real estate tax enacted, but that they do not collect the tax. They profit mainly from tourism, and do well enough to spare their citizens the taxation!

After getting underway again, I impressed even myself, when I hit the Northwest Channel marker (yes, it was still standing, at that time!) dead-on the bow, and corrected course for Chub Cay where I spent the night in the marina at Chub Cay, and set out for Bimini the next day. Then it was across the shallows from behind South Bimini, skirting out to the South, and entering North Bimini Channel guiding off the radio tower to find the "L" shaped channel course. There, I spent an entire day prowling around post-Spring Break Bimini, examining all the remaining T-shirt shacks and tourist-trap offerings, passing up several offers to have my hair braided, and pried into the old Hemingway haunts in "town." I set out across the Gulf Stream at midnight. Leaving Brown’s Hotel/Marina behind, and with a melancholy longing to be staying, rather than going, I started the engine, as there was no wind at all, and went out the channel into the Gulf Stream. I crossed the calmest, flattest Gulf Stream I have ever seen, and thought, "What a contrast! I rode in on the worst, and go home on water as flat as a Wal-Mart parking lot!"

After entering the U.S.A through the Port of Miami, alongside some majestic cruise ships and ocean going commercial ships, I began to feel more like the Capt. Joe King in a 14-foot boat. Enjoying a few hours of gawking at the people’s homes, yachts, and floating aircraft along the ICW, and clearing Customs by telephone at Baker’s Cut, I reached the marina where the trailer and van were stored, loaded up the boat, and headed north, for Pennsylvania. Checking in at the office on my way through, I found my office windows had been blacked out with construction paper, and my door had been boarded up with a piece of plywood, painted black. There were black ribbons, bows, and even black roses hung around the window and door. And there was a sign in the middle of the once-upon-a-time door, reading, "Office of Popeye, the sailor man. Having entered into the sixth decade of his life, found he could no longer function, and has expired." I borrowed a hammer, pulled the carefully set nails, and found my office desk covered in about 30 inches of junk mail; every piece of junk mail the dastardly "friends" could find during my 30-day absence was piled upon that desk. Now it was time for Capt Joe King to shift gears, and come back to reality...until the next time.