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 We
received this letter from Bill Batchelor who sailed aboard ENCHANTMENT, IP40 from
Bermuda to Norfolk in June 1999: Bermuda High
At
precisely twelve midnight local time I shackled my safety harness onto the
jackline and assumed the helm. I could barely make out Jim’s watch report as
he hollered over the screeching gale which drove us so rudely on the port
quarter. "Twenty-five knots, gusting to thirty-eight with ten to fifteen
feet running on the port beam". The ship’s bow plunged and shouldered
ahead making sloppy seas tower above us before slicing off rivers of green water
and spray which crashed aft into the pitching cockpit. The black night shrieked
over the black sea and all that I could make out was Tom’s penlight as he
struggled over the Nav table recording our progress. We were running in the Gulf
Stream across a steep-to, chaotic chop courtesy of three fast approaching
tropical lows that were massing on our stern. Our Island Packet 40 lurched and
rolled as it ricocheted off one green mogul to the next in constant danger of
crash-gybing. The inky, foaming frenzy into which we drove gave no clue as to
our next surprise; resulting in an uncertainty which was only briefly alarming
and thoroughly challenging. This
moment was exhilaration in the extreme – here I was steering a bucking,
twelve-ton vessel like a blinded madman on a mission from hell. And the dilemma
that immediately became apparent was the classical paradox. With all one’s
normal sensory input negated by the sheer wildness of the night, one was forced
to step out of an immediate physical world and into a mental state of serenity;
faith if you will. Steering was no longer just a matter of chasing some point on
the horizon or feeling the pull of sail, it had become a concentrated effort to
track this faint green light illuminated before me on the compass dial. I had to
ignore the howling wind , the crashing sea and this total sensory overload to
trust mightily in a tiny, man-made light at my feet. The trick was to keep the
wind safely on the port quarter while surfing down a confused sea which was
constantly threatening to throw us off to starboard. It was like playing the
ultimate pinball table where tilt meant more than just losing your quarter. And
each time the sea tossed us off onto a different heading you had to fight the
wheel and allow the wind to pull you back even with that little green light. I
had drawn the twelve to four watch with Tom and our next four hours would prove
to be a memorable experience as we fought the fury outside and our fears inside.
One moment the ship would shudder and stall as we plowed into a wave while the
next it would accelerate off as if launched like a rocket and all the while you
had to keep your balance at the helm and wrestle a flailing wheel. What an
introduction to the world of blue water sailing. Here we were almost four
hundred nautical miles west of Bermuda, on a heading straight towards Cape
Hatteras and her treacherous Diamond shoals with a southeast gale blowing us
into the mountainous fury of the Gulf Steam and ever faster setting us toward
shallow waters. We
had set out some four days earlier from St. Georges, Bermuda bound for Norfolk,
Virginia with light winds and a clear weather report. Several days of
intermittent motor-sailing found us well-rested and eager for some action. We
had sighted whales, run a grid-pattern search for a supposed flare sighting,
practiced emergency drills, and told the timeless tales of sailors. And now it
was time to batten down. It seemed like forever since we had stood listening to
the Bermuda Symphonic Orchestra playing exquisite classical pieces while all the
town gathered for free ice cream and dreamed under the clear, tropical night
sky. The two days spent in preparation for this journey had been busy and
tedious, but the incredible was commonplace as one maritime gem after another
formed a steady parade of fantastic interjection. Like the night that Lacota
cruised in some forty hours after departing New York to set a new world record
for elapsed time. Or the evening that four sailors from Belgium ghosted up in an
original sistership of the vessel that Bernard Moitessier single-handed non-stop
around the world in 1969. And I could never forget the sailor with one good arm
that defied the impossible on a daily basis in navigating his solo vessel better
than most crewed vessels, never once in search of a helping hand, but always
gracious to the offer. All these instances and others flashed through my mind as
I now stood, dancing at the wheel with the wind and the sea challenging my very
essence. But like a powerful sedative all these wonders combined to lend a
steady hand and gave me the courage to carry on – the night was indeed dark
and stormy, but not unlike those that others before me had braved as well. And
as I fought to hold our course following that tiny green light a curious thing
occurred. The roar of the wind gradually became like a song and the fury of the
sea became as if a cradle and the effect was quite astonishing as I look back
from today, because the moment became timeless. Everything else that had ever
mattered sat idle as we three – the wind, the sea, and myself – danced that
ageless dance of sailors, without fear but with awe. It was one incredible
Bermuda high. Bill
Batchelor, DDS
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