The Old Men and the Sea
I Books and Dreams
The bars in Seattle were busy. Heading out for a drink with friends. Took a detour for a smoke. The gates of a cemetery slammed shut. A cop strolled past, asked what was up. Suddenly walking along the sidewalk of a small-town neighborhood. Christmas lights. Snowing. The street turned into a river. A happy kid floated past. Looked like fun. I jumped in.
Which is when I woke up.
Five days earlier, with seven crewmates, I had set sail from Newport, Rhode Island, bound for Kinsale, Ireland, aboard a rock-solid, Germán Frers-designed Swan 68 called Aphrodite, on which I was now snugly wedged into an aft bunk. At sea, in moments like this, crazy, colorful, lifelike dreams often pay me a visit. But as I slowly regained my wits, I understood that reality was much more vivid.
We were certainly enjoying a solid (if lumpy) ride. Aphrodite was a husky, surefooted, well-traveled Swan built in 1993 and owned by former Cruising Club of America Commodore Chris Otorowski and his wife, Shawn. This transatlantic jaunt was essentially a delivery trip. After a quick layover in Kinsale, we’d be bound for the shores of Scotland, site of this year’s annual CCA cruise, where the couple would come aboard. Engine woes had delayed our departure, and it had been a bumpy, upwind start to the proceedings. Happily, Aphrodite was now settling into a nice groove, and we were stacking ocean miles with pace.
However, that was only a piece of the story. The crew was also getting into a smooth rhythm. And quite the crew it was.
As the ostensible “first mate,” I was swapping six-hour watches with Capt. Murray Jacob, a seaman I’d heard much about but never sailed with before. We were the senior members of this team: I was pushing 70, and Murray 80. Kids no more. But neither was the rest of the group—paired up and rotating through a three-hour-on, three-off watch schedule—several of whom were retirees with varying levels of sailing experience, though a few had already crossed oceans with the skipper on previous voyages.
Aphrodite might’ve been better named AARP.
As the voyage continued, I burned through the two books I’d brought with me, and scoured the yacht’s bookshelf for another. And there was Ernest Hemingway’s all-time classic The Sun Also Rises, which I last tackled in college in a previous century. It’s still great, and I started thinking in short bursts, like Hemingway writes: The coffee was hot, sweet and good. The ocean thick, cold and daunting. And so on.
One of my shipmates took note, and said it was too bad The Old Man and the Sea wasn’t on board. I had to chuckle. In that moment, I didn’t need to read that one again. We old men were literally living that book.
II Old Timers
Apart from the captain and myself, Aphrodite ’s six other crewmen had lived full, varied lives of families and careers. But they all shared some common bonds. Each was a member of Offshore Passage Opportunities, the crew-networking service founded by Hank Schmitt, and they’d each paid a not-inconsiderable fee for their berth on the voyage. This transatlantic adventure was something special they were doing for themselves. A group of sincerely good dudes, they were committed to making the passage a success. And to picking up a few tricks along the way.
A native of Poland, Andrew Biernat was now living in Texas and was the proud owner of a Catalina 30. Christ Economos was also a boat owner who kept his Jeanneau 440 in Annapolis, Maryland; from a Greek family of restaurateurs, he quickly became a welcome fixture in the galley, whipping up glorious meals. Canadian Phil Dennis owned an engineering company in his native Nova Scotia and was an inshore racing sailor acting on a longtime dream of sailing across the Atlantic.
The other trio were OPO vets who’d logged plenty of offshore miles. Bill Carpenter sailed his Newport 27 in Northern California and already had a transatlantic behind him. So, too, did Brad Nurkin, now happily kicking back on the Florida coast after a career in hospital administration. But Marc Sherman had them both beat: After graduating from the US Naval Academy and serving aboard submarines before pivoting to hedge-fund management, he’d already crossed the Atlantic five times.
As I got to know these veteran ocean-crossers, a common denominator emerged. Clearly, these repeat transoceanic customers were lured back by the same no-nonsense attraction, with whom they’d all previously gone to sea: Capt. Murray.
Oh, man. Where to begin?
With a trim white beard, a stocky build and a gait like Popeye’s, the skipper had the appearance of a master seaman straight from central casting for a Hollywood pirate flick. He was raised on a farm on the southern Aussie state of Victoria, where hard work and mechanical know-how were lifelong attributes instilled at an early age. A library’s worth of reading had forged a keen intellect that trumped the lack of a formal education. He built a national transport business hauling freight on tractor-trailers all over the continent. His love of fishing segued into offshore sailing, much of it in the challenging waters along the rugged coast of Oz and remote, gorgeous Tasmania. Among his early exploits was the ridiculous Melbourne-Osaka Race, a double-handed 5,500-nautical-mile odyssey from Australia to Japan on a 36-footer that just whet his appetite for more. Much more.
At 50, he left his trucks and the road behind once and for all, launching a new career as a delivery skipper. Around the turn of the century, he delivered a Tayana 55 into Newport, which became his base of operations. Altogether, he’s put more than 300,000 sea miles behind him, a couple of hundred grand of which were exclusively aboard Swans. His mastery of complex systems and machinery—not to mention his precise seamanship and affable Aussie demeanor—were highly sought after.
Sailing with him, as I was learning, means being assailed with a nearly nonstop monologue on a wide variety of topics, which I jotted down in my notebook under the heading “The Tao of Murray.”
On charging into life: “Bite off more than you can chew. And chew a lot.”
On a thrifty friend: “He’s tighter than a fish’s ass, and they’re watertight.”
On confirming facts: “If you want a second opinion, ask me again.”
On nautical acumen: “If you don’t know the basics, you’re as handy as an ashtray on a motorbike.”
On stating the obvious: “Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?”
In any event, aboard Aphrodite,Capt. Murray’s command was unquestioned, our faith in his judgment unwavering. If he posed the figurative order to “Jump!” at any particular task, the crew’s collective response was always the same: “How high?”
III All at Sea
The word “heinous” does not appear even once in The Sun Also Rises—it’s a bit ritzy for Hemingway’s prose—but it’s an apt description of the first 48 hours following our departure from Newport. There are many places in the world I’d have liked to have been, and Aphrodite was not one of them.
The problem was the cold northeasterly coursing in, of course, from the general direction of our ultimate destination. When we set out on June 15, thanks to addressing a balky heat exchanger and head gasket, we were roughly five days behind the trip’s original itinerary. Later, the skipper acknowledged that under ordinary circumstances we’d have patiently sat tight and waited for more favorable conditions. Instead, we sheeted everything home and set out. Pleasant, it was not.
We spent a long night pounding upwind on port tack heading south, clawing our way off the coast; it would’ve been a fine first night on a Newport Bermuda Race, which this unfortunately wasn’t. My notebook entry for 0530 the next morning: “Close-hauled all night. Slate-gray sea and sky. No stars. No sunrise. No joy.” A few hours later, we flopped onto starboard. The Navionics course line had us pointing into the Gulf of Maine and distressingly close to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. It occurred to me that I could’ve avoided some misery by staying overnight in a Hyannis hotel and swimming out to the boat as it passed by.
As it almost always does, however, the breeze eventually shifted … and to a much more favorable angle. A southerly flow spinning off a ridge of North Atlantic high pressure was locked in, and so was Aphrodite, trucking along at roughly 9 knots as sweetly as could be. By day six, we’d shortened down to the second reef as the wind rose into the high teens and veered from southeast to southwest, and life on starboard tack firmly settled in. We were receiving consistently excellent forecasts every few days from Commanders’ Weather that had us trucking along on Highway 42—the 42nd parallel—to avoid persistent fog and a nasty low off Newfoundland to our north. It finally felt like we were getting somewhere.
We threw in our first jibe on day 10, just before a figurative and literal change in the weather. A front pushing ahead of the remnants of a brief tropical disturbance called Andrea would soon be upon us, along with the strongest winds of the passage, upward of 30 knots. With that, Murray had us strike the main altogether, so we could run before the breeze on a deep downwind angle under jib alone. “You sail the boat according to your crew,” he told me. “You don’t want to do anything to put yourself or them into trouble.” It was the smart call and the correct one. For the next three days, Aphrodite creamed forth in the staunch southerly, sometimes at 10 or 11 knots, always under control. We were absolutely hauling the mail. Riders on the storm.
IV Landfall
Yet in sailing, as in life, nothing lasts forever. Aphrodite began the passage in a cold northerly, so it was perhaps fitting that it concluded in one as well. Phil, Marc and I were on watch when the wind abruptly spun from south to north, a shift of nearly 120 degrees, in about the time it took to write this sentence. Chaos briefly ensued, but after we jibed and the drama ceased, it was all good and well worth the frantic effort. Once we’d settled back in, we were on the final lay line to Ireland.
Murray set a waypoint off Fastnet Rock, just so we could get a glimpse of the iconic lighthouse, even if it would be in the dark. On our approach, however, the AIS targets on the plotter began to light up, and the boats had names that I recognized from the last Vendée Globe race. We were arriving at the same time as the big IMOCA 60s that were rounding the Fastnet in the Solo Round the Rock Race. Converging with a posse of French single-handed sailors on questionable sleep seemed imprudent. We bore off for Kinsale.
The actual landfall was special, with the sun spectacularly rising over the low profile of the Emerald Isle. We’d been at sea almost exactly 16 and a half days, sailing nearly 3,600 nautical miles to attain the rhumb-line distance of 2,900 miles, with a slew of 200-milers thrown in. The sight of it all—and the accomplishment, too—was almost poetic in its beauty. It damn near led me to tears.
Hours later, tied up at the Kinsale Yacht Club, the 12-pack of Narragansett lager that had been chilled down for the occasion was busted out, and Aphrodite was a dry ship no longer. (I considered these “practice beers”; the “game beers” would be enjoyed later in Kinsale’s pubs.) As we gathered around in the cockpit, still at last, Murray asked each crewmember to share something we’d learned along the way. And everyone did.
Andrew hadn’t said a whole lot during the trip, but he was downright eloquent at its conclusion. “Everyone is equal on a boat,” he said. “It’s not that way sometimes in life. But on a boat, it is. I love that.”
Phil (the sole member of the crew who didn’t qualify as an oldie) had been an excellent shipmate, a thoughtful, smart dude who’d clearly enjoyed the entire process. Unsurprisingly, his comments were insightful: “When I was driving, steering by compass, I realized you just needed to make small adjustments, not to oversteer. Like life. Steering is like life. You make small adjustments and you’ll get where you want to go.”
Then it was Murray’s turn. Over the course of the journey, he’d dealt with several issues, including a blocked bilge pump and clogged fuel lines, the latter a recurring issue from a bad batch of fuel in the Azores a year earlier. Indeed, one of the lasting images I’ll have of the trip is the captain splayed out on all fours with a headlamp on and the floorboards off. I started to wonder if “Murray” was Australian for “MacGyver.” But he didn’t mention any of that.
“This is something like my 25th transatlantic voyage,” he said. “And this was one of the best sails ever. You all came together and did an excellent job. What I learned is something I already knew. I’m under a lot of pressure at times to come ashore and be at home, be with the grandkids. But I love my job. Sailing still excites me. It’s given me the opportunity to go all over the world. I still love the sailing.”
If ever there was a sailor to aspire to, in both years and wisdom, it would be Murray Jacob. Someone should write a book about the salty old dog. Honestly, though, it would take a Hemingway to do it justice.
Herb McCormick is a CW editor-at-large.
Gearing Up
On my voyage across the Atlantic, I had the opportunity to test some excellent gear in offshore conditions. I highly recommend all of it (full disclosure: the items were provided by the manufacturers).
Imelda Marcos’ fetish was shoes; mine is sunglasses. I’m extremely sensitive to light, and I spend an inordinate amount of time on the water, so good, polarized shades are paramount. The Greenland pair from Bajío Sunglasses is available in three frame colors and 14 lens options (mine were matte gray frames and gray lenses). The optics are terrific. Best of all was the generous sizing, which fit my wide mug perfectly.
My feet are also problematic, and I’ve always had a hard time finding comfortable sea boots. No longer. The slip-on Rogue Wave boots from Huk are extremely grippy, easy to pull on, and oh so comfy. Huk’s Grip-X Slice soles provide a lot of traction and sure-footedness on wet decks, and a breathable mesh liner keeps the tootsies warm and dry. Huk is primarily a fishing brand, and the Rogue Waves fit just above the ankle, not up the calf like my previous boots. I like the low fit a lot better. Why do sea boots come up to your knee?
Last, I’ve been a big fan of Helly Hansen for decades and have happily worn its gear around Cape Horn and through the Northwest Passage. For this trip, I had two HH garments: the Pier 4.0 jacket and the HP Hybrid Stretch Insulator, the latter of which is my favorite new bit of kit. The insulated shell and fleece lining are cozy, and the water-repellent treatment beats back the spray. It’s an excellent midlayer at sea, and doubles up as a good-looking jacket when it’s pub time. —HM
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