And so began the soon-to-be-familiar semi-nocturnal state of 24-hour sailing; passing through the looming, well-lit oil platforms with the wind on our cheeks, we imagined that as we continued further south away from land that we could feel the chilly breeze begin to take on a warmer, more Caribbean feeling. Our first full day on the water, January 25^th, was marked by lumpy seas and mostly blue skies with puffs of white clouds. Winds on our beam allowed us to keep an ideal course heading mostly south and slightly southeast. Everyone was earning their sea-legs, with some folks experiencing greater levels of suffering.

By the evening of the second full day on the water, we noted winds picking up and signs of weather in the cloud formations that we haven’t yet learned how to decipher. Steadily hitting our beam at around 22 knots with gusts tipping 26 knots, our senses were piqued as we sought signs that would indicate how to cope with these increasingly robust conditions. Early the following morning, January 27^th, with steady winds in the mid-20s, we started contemplating whether or not to heave-to. In retrospect, we likely should have. Bi-hourly reports in our logbook note increasing adverse conditions, winds steadily blowing in the high-20s to low-30s, with gusts in the mid-30s. The waves, with an inconsistent period and seeming to come at us from three of our four sides, were estimated around 15-20 feet high, with possible sightings of 25 footers (capturing and agreeing on “sighting data” is awfully similar to reports of fishing bounties, but I’m trying to keep it honest here for the sake of historical integrity). We were deck-deep in the shakedown.

We were seeing green water come over the deck with increasing frequency as we raced through the water at 8 to 10 knots, near top-speed for the Queen. The starboard rails were kissing the surface of the water during deep leans, making the bioluminescence visible straight out through pilothouse windows, and each big wave that crashed onto us sent water pouring into the salon through the butterfly hatch or down the steps of the companionway through the yet-to-be-finalized sliding door.

Finally with four of the five crew members in a vertical position, Captain Maxwell delegated roles for his plan to bring the boat speed down and try to make a safer and more comfortable ride. I was behind the wheel with the engine in gear in the pilothouse and Alex stood spotter in his foul weather gear while Patrick and Maxwell crouched along the high side of the deck, clipping in as they crawled toward the bow. Taking down the staysail and tying it up in place, they returned to the pilothouse soaking wet as the bow took yet another slam into the waves. With only the reefed mainsail and the engine in idle, we came down to about 4.5 knots of speed over ground and got closer to taking our first deep breath in hours. By midafternoon, we witnessed slightly weaker winds, with lows back around 18 knots and highs around 24 knots. After 12+ hours with the engine running, we started feeling brave enough to raise the staysail again. To our chagrin, it had caught one of the waves coming across our bow during the night and was now tangled up in the bobstay. We retrieved as much of it as we could and stuffed the partial sail under the 18’ Hobie Cat mounted on deck for further inspection later. Raising the backup staysail for the first time ever revealed that it was slightly too large for our rig, so Maxwell jerry-rigged it well enough to catch some wind. Back to cruising around 3 knots with the engine off, we started contemplating the “thornless path” route through the Bahamas rather than the previously planned route out into the Atlantic. After all, the purpose of this voyage was neither to prove to Poseidon our vessel’s seaworthiness nor our crew’s command over their minds and bowels.

While in the heart of the storm we aimed for an anchorage in Dry Tortugas, approximately 50 miles west of the Florida Keys. However, as conditions eased up, we set our sights on Key West, and relaxed for part of the first afternoon that granted us beautiful weather. Making almost no headway toward our destination, we relished in the sunshine with our fishing line and “laundry bag” dragging behind the boat. I saw my first mahi mahi swimming freely around our boat as we circled around to pluck an orphaned fishing buoy line from the water; the electric blue at the tips of his fins and neon green-yellow at his head stood out against his dark blue body, which raced through the 1600’ deep water of a similar shade.

Our sixth day on the open water came to a close as we reached the Garrison Bight Mooring Field in Key West. We found a buoy to tie to with the ease of an adolescent experiencing growing pains, and breathed five sighs of relief to be safely in port where we could assess the damage from the storm and gather ourselves in preparation for the next leg of the journey.