It is a long drive up to Houston. We left at around 1700 on Friday night, and after a non stop (except for a Red-Bull pit stop) trip, ended up in Kemah, at the marina around midnight.

The commander fills up the dock cart (yep, some marinas have such things…), and we haul our stuff down to the boat including the stern door which had the boats new name, Ciclon, emblazoned on it.

I wonder to myself, has the commander performed the proper procedure in order to rename this boat? Or will we pay the price down the road…….

Pondering this and other metaphysical paradox,  I fall exhausted into the Vee berth, and the commander crawls aft, his dad Gene occupying the port setee….

Saturday we all wake up tense with anticipation, make a quick hit on the IHOP and Target in Kemah before going down to the boat and stashing the last minute gear.

At 0930 we start the diminutive Yanmar 16 horse and slip out into the channel, on our way across Galveston bay to the jetties leading into the open Gulf. A seven hour trip across, and by 1500 we are at the channel, motoring back and forth along with 35 other boats, hunting up and down the murky water like living animals.

1630 and the signal is given to start the race, our class.

The wind has come up and is cooperating. We slide along side several other boats, leaving others behind, charging towards the end of the long jetties and out into the open Gulf of Mexico.

The day is waning, and there are clouds in the sky, along with some mist giving the whole thing a surreal appearance.

We race along the shore, close enough to Galveston Island to see the cars on the boulevard and the people strolling along the seawall. I have the first watch, until 1900. Something is wrong though, and we are making headway into a wind that seems contrary to the forecast east-southeast. At watches end, we figure that we are well west of the plotted rhomb line, the line of sweetest direction to the Brazos Santigo Pass.

I retire below until the midwatch, at 0000, and am awakened about ten minutes prior to that time. A full moon is shining down on the deck, and the wind is moderate, in our faces. Gene tells me that we are having trouble sailing straight down the line, it looks like it’ll be necessary to do some tacking to make headway.

Taking the helm, I thread the needle through the maze of oil platforms and rigs looming in the night like prehistoric behemoths jutting from the deep below. I watch the moon over my shoulder, sparkling on the water, steering the boat as close to the wind as I can, till the sails just start to hint a luff, turning back into the window, making no more than 280 degrees headway. We need 180…….

I listen to music and keep a careful watch of my surroundings. It is a time for introspection as well, and I take a survey of my time on this blue planet along with my visual survey of this minefield of human occupation thirty miles out to sea.

At 0300, the commander comes topside for his watch and we decide to tack, a third or fourth time already. And this race is supposed to be only a two tack race all the way…..I guess the wind has other ideas.

I retire below again, into the quarter berth where I snake myself around the liferaft, hatch boards, boat hook, cushions and other things, trying to get as comfortable as possible, and soon I am fast asleep.

I awake to a gorgeous blue day, both sky and water which have become a deep Caribbean azure, seas only two feet or so. Only problem with this picture is that the wind is light and from the south west, a completely bad direction. We tack and tack again, making only about three to four knots as the day gets brighter and hotter. During David’s watch, a big old Ling follows in the shadow of our stern, lazily swimming in a syncopated tempo with Ciclon.

Late in the afternoon, the wind builds and at least we are able to make 5-7 knots swooshing along the deep blue water. I have the watch, and sit on the windward combing steering with my toe. I tell David…..”see this is a true ahhhh….toe pilot”.

 (note: angle of heel)

He nods in agreement as we push on, for each mile made good, three more tacked.

The interior of the boat is wet, as the sea finds each and every window and hatch leaky. Unknown to us, a small pump running forward in the air conditioning system is constantly running, draining our 12 volt system. Unfortunately the Dehler is 12 volt dependent, and the commander has not yet added redundant manual systems. First we notice the lights are dim, then the water pump will not work off of the battery, and finally the electric solenoid that controls the LP gas needed for cooking and coffee no longer works. He does however manage to get everything working long enough to cook up one of the best blackened tilapia and mashed potato dinners I’ve ever tasted, and with a full belly, I retire below again to sleep until my next watch, again the mid. Sometime during the night, they again change tacks, and I am crushed by the liferaft which has come loose from its stash, rolling over me like a bocce ball…..By now though I am exhausted and it makes little difference.

At midnight, topside we are still 160 miles from Port Isabel, and it doesn’t seem likely that we’ll even make South Padre Island, before the race deadline ends Tuesday at lunch, so in agreement, if somewhat reluctantly we vote to join the motor/sail class and fire up the Yanmar.

I steer towards the rhomb line, guided by the moon and Jupiter over my left shoulder, framed by the aft stay, the bimini and the sail. At this rate we might make it back by Monday afternoon. Near the end of my watch, from out of nowhere in the dark the mainsail snaps tight, the genny lights with a whump and we heel over so far that the tiny prop cavitates for a moment. I switch off the engine, and when David comes topside for his watch I am sitting on the lee side, remarking gleefully; “Hey….I got some wind fer ya…”

Sleep is fitful now below as we pound and crash in building seas. When I awake, it is morning and fair blue out. Only now it is blowing and the seas are up to about four to six feet. Unfortunately, it is still contrary and we discuss another decision. We are now about 65 nautical miles off of Port Aransas Jetties, with Brazos Santiago Pass lying some one hundred twenty miles south. It is apparent that we will not make our destination before race end on Tuesday noon. And the commander and I have job commitments. So we decide to abandon the race at that point and head in to Port Aransas, where we will make arrangements for transportation home. Gene will stay with the boat, return to Houston in a day or two, and in a week or so they will return the boat to Kemah.

Pointing the boat at 260 magnetic, we head for the jetties under sail, moving along at five to seven knots. We leave the company of Long Hawk and Cache, whom we seem to have had as accompaniment almost the entire distance.

I assume the watch, and the wind just plays out, getting lighter and lighter…..David and I put the canvas to the other side just as a gust pops up out of the north, an unusual direction for this time of year, and one not entirely welcome. It is however cool and fresh and we claw along with a perfect heading sometimes making as much as 12 knots, our best speed so far. At the end of my watch I turn her over to David, and he enjoys riding the wind too. I go below as the wind imperceptibly begins to lighten. We are all now tuned to almost unnoticeable changes and variations in this other fluid medium.

During my nap, the wind dies, the engine is fired up and when I return topside the day is brutally hot, and the commanders’ dad is covered up like Lawrence of Arabia in the sweltering windless blue. The water is beginning to change colors, and is barely scratched by little kitty paws. The sails flop on their sheets, and once again we are wending our way through a maze of oil rigs along our new westbound rhomb line.

My next watch and I am tortured by the heat, the blazing sun. If it is this hot out here imagine what it is like on land? Near the end of the watch, we are in another maze of tankers, some anchored, some moving south.

I spot some tall standing structures and in my best kings english, bellow out;  “Avast ye maties… land ho!”

2000 finds us at the dogleg and the mouth of the Port Aransas jetties.

We motor under full speed towards the small boat harbor, but progress is slow. We are fighting the current now, and only making about two knots. It takes us another hour and a half to tie up.

The commanders wife Kim and his daughter Savannah come to pick us up, and it is evident that our lack of hygiene the last several days is noticeable.

Kim says “You guys know how it smells when you run into a homeless person? Well, that’s how ya’ll smell”……

I reply; “Yea that’s the nature of offshore racing….it turns otherwise respectable individuals into people resembling the indigent”.

“We spend countless dollars lightening our wallets as well buying all manner of sailing related equipment too”

I suggest to the commander; “Maybe we should just stand under a highway overpass with a badly lettered cardboard sign that reads will work for boat parts’

“After all……we already look and smell the part”.