A distressing sail change, fear and confidence in the tug of war, proved to be an enlightenment experience.

When I walked up the hatch into the darkness, my watch read 1:58 AM, so complete that focusing on the horizon would cause a momentary change in perspective—all angles rotated counterclockwise. The figure at the helm shook under the green light of the compass. Beyond the beam, the white waves crossed the Black Sea, and then everything disappeared under the storm clouds.

This is our second night in the Celtic Sea. We have passed the end of the land and sailed north to Fastnet Light. I climbed up the railing and sat between my friends Craig Nann and Adam Perlmutter. Cut to the top line, I stare from the side of the wave, it may be 10 to 15 feet from the peak to the trough. Turning to the front, the red numbers on the mast display shine through moisture: WINDPD 31.

Adam's chin rested on his chest. Confused, I turned to Craig.

"He has been seasick for a while," Craig quickly pointed a finger to his open mouth, mimicking someone vomiting. Then he slammed his shoulder with his thumb on the storm clouds behind us and said, "Storm. This will become a mess."

The waves hit the bow, and our backs were close to the lifeline.

I turned around to better observe the approaching weather. About 15 yards away, a wave crest resembled a black wall, with a glass-like surface concealing everything behind it. Suddenly, there was a lump in my stomach. It quickly closed us. When the waves hit the hull under my boots, the white foam of our bow wave appeared to be well below the crest, hanging from the side. Water gushed up from my legs, and when the thick sea wall fell on my neck and shoulders, my chest bounced off the lifeline. Below me, the 10,000-pound keel ball of this ship appears to be only a few feet underwater.

Adam blurted out, "It's getting worse and worse!"

His anxiety soon infected me. The salty taste in my mouth became metallic. This is what I call "sweating mouth". I stared at the horizon and prayed that I would not vomit.

"Hello everyone!" someone in the cockpit roared. "What sail is next?"

Change sail? Do I have to keep going?

A creepy sense of fear came to my throat, something I had never felt in decades.

A quick look at the red dial: WINDSPD 33-34.

Jack Cummiskey shouted from the helm: "We are going to the top of the boom. Where is Ted?"

Ted Cummiskey has already begun to move, walking towards the bow.

A veteran of the ship, Billy Schneider, walked out of the helmsman, stopped in front of the hatch, raised his hands to cover his mouth.

"Hey, Ted! What track is open?"

Ted could not hear. There are usually people passing information forward and backward in front of the mast.

Hush! This is me. But I have no intention to move. Fear held me firmly and squeezed my nerves out. Throughout the summer, I wondered if I was really not suitable for this. Now it feels as if I put myself in a situation where I can't handle it.

Billy turned and yelled to the stern, but my mind was too deep for me to hear.

Sailing changes will happen. If I don’t get up to do my job, others will—this will be my last game on the Snow Lions.

Back near the helm, Chris Huntington is pointing his long arm at the lone sailboat outside our stern.

"We're keeping up with her! Why do we need to change sails?" he roared.

When our captain Larry Huntington came to the deck, Billy suddenly left the hatch.

Larry filled his lungs and shouted, "Chris!"

Everyone turned to face him.

"Well," he continued in his usual, steady captain's tone, "the breeze is blowing, so let's switch to the top of the boom."

Before Chris had time to protest, Larry raised his hand and said, "If it eases down, we will return to the heavy jib. I will set sail."

When our captain turned and disappeared in the corridor, Chris walked to Billy and jokingly said, "The good news is that I don't think the heavy objects will come down for the time being."

Billy rubbed his hands expectantly, a big smile flashed across his face. "This is getting better!"

These people are not afraid. They are enjoying it. This hit me, or rather my self-esteem, like a slap in the face. I lost my confidence and the ability to get up and sail. Why?

I know this ship is stronger than most ships. The hull is made of Kevlar fiber, and Larry put all his 40 years of maritime navigation experience into this ship. And the crew?

In the deadly Fastnet Race in 1979, Larry, Billy and 19-year-old Chris rode Carina. This was a great amateur marine racing project with the worst conditions at the time. The 11-level gale with waves over 40 feet caused severe damage—75 ships capsized, 15 sailors died, and 5 ships sank.

I watched Billy turn around and yell at Jack, saying his turn—it hit me. This is the purpose of their signing, and they enjoy it. If the boat is good and the crew has experience, then I am the weak link. They chose me to come together, I accepted, so I have to stand up and try.

With the lifeline in my left hand and the rope in my right hand, I stood up and dragged forward until I reached the shield. The mast tilted about 15 degrees, so I went back to my knees, loosened the tether and started crawling. Just like me, the boat started to stand upright. I jumped up, took two steps towards the mast, and clamped my tether to the rope.

Behind me, Ben Millard's tall, slender body crawled forward along the railing. The 19-year-old Ben is the youngest of the rookies this season, which makes me the oldest at the age of 43.

"Stuay!" I heard Howard Rappsley yelling at me from the hatch.

He got up from the hatch and threw the tack of his jib at me. I passed the sail forward to Ben, waiting for Howard to come along the leeward railing, the sea gleaming under his boots. He tied the sheets to the rope and moved to the mast, while Ted connected the halyard to the head of the sail.

Howard turned and shouted, "Ready to move forward!"

Howard and I pulled and jumped until Ted yelled, "It worked!"

We were both out of breath, but before I could catch my breath, Craig's roar sounded in the wind: "Heavy arms are ready to come down!"

Howard had changed his tether, and his ass slipped to the leeward. When I changed the clip to jackline, the heel of the boat crossed and I started to glide. My throat tightened again.

Ben Millard yelled: "Let go of the sheets!"

The loud groan of the canvas as it unfolded around the winch drum gave way to the loud whip of breaking the sail in the strong wind.

Howard reached across the ocean and pulled the heavy boom to the foot of the top of the boom. Ben and I grabbed Fan's foot, and Ted shouted, "Put down the boom!"

Thousands of pounds of tension are released from the halyard, which vibrates downward through the mast like a tuning fork. We all leaned back, pulled the sails inward, and peeled off the heavy boom, just below the top of the boom.

Putting the sail away, I heard a loud noise before I was thrown to the end of my tether. Just as my chest hit my harness, the waves fell violently on my back, blowing away the wind and tearing the folded sail from my hands. I watched it slide over the lifeline, but Howard leaned out, grabbed a handful of cloth, and tucked the wrinkles back into my arms.

After several exhausting pulls, Howard and I held most of the jibs. Ben moved forward, pulling the sail's head out of the track, and Ted twisted forward, laying flat on his chest, freeing the tack from the shackles.

Howard shouted, "Shall we put this here?"

"Reduce the weight of the bow! Get that thing back!" Jack roared. I'm exhausted and want to follow his orders, but Ted hasn't finished yet, and we can't retreat without him.

I was sweating profusely, opened the jacket of the neckline, and the breeze came in, filling the jacket like a balloon.

"Guys, put down the bow and arrow!" Craig's roar made me turn my head in time to see Howard's hand, and he pushed the sail strap at me. Pulling the other end of the tie under the sail, he passed it through the loop I was holding, tightening the folds of the canvas like an hourglass. Howard quickly tied another tie on the sail, then handed the sail to Ben, who turned and climbed to the cockpit. Ben and I stood up slowly and started to drag the sail back. Ted walked up to us and pulled the tack over the rest of the sail—folding the sail in half.

crack! Prosperity! The explosion sounded like artillery fire. Behind me, Ted shouted: "Take this!"

He threw the sail at me and set sail to the bow.

The loud whip reverberated in the air—and then I saw it. The cantilever tack has loosened. It fluttered in the breeze, flapping the pulpit like a giant fly swatter. The steel grommets beat the podium again and again.

Greater concern? If that sail tears the track, we are dealing with the issue of full participation and abandoning the race.

Something hit my leg. Below me, Ben lay on his back, clutching his heavy jibs tightly for life. He should go forward, but he is not going anywhere. I looked up and looked at Jack directly. He took a hand off the steering wheel, pointed a finger at me, yanked his hand back 6 inches, and slammed it straight into the bow of the boat.

I took a deep breath and said from my mouth: "Let's go!"

Jack asked. I can't let him down.

I put the remaining sails in Ben's arms, and with the sudden surge of adrenaline, I turned and ran towards the bow.

After two steps, the seat belt tightened, my feet flew out from under me, and I landed on my back. When I realized that I had forgotten to remove the clamp, my hip felt a sharp pain. Twisting to my knees, I loosened the clamp and went straight to the bow again.

In the front, Ted slid forward with his back on the boom, flattening the sail on the pulpit as he walked. The boat shook, I slipped and fell, and then I went back where I was-this time my right foot slid forward, like a sneaking base runner. Momentum led me across the front deck and into the sail, just behind Ted. When I got up, Ted nailed the sail between the knees. He shouted without looking up: "Sail!"

I grabbed the jib, but in the 30-odd breeze, the soaked sail jumped out of my hand. Try again, I put one hand on the foot of the sail, and then turned forward. Ted threaded the sail tie through the grommet and passed it through the spare tack shackle. Standing up, he tightened the sail strap like a slipknot. When pulled again, the grommet was within a few inches of the tack shackle.

Ted shouted: "Pull!" I put all my weight into it with my hands, but the sail won't move.

"Pull sail!" Ted shouted again.

Suddenly, the boat fell off the waves. I was thrown forward, and my back hit the pulpit violently. The hissing bow wave below was close enough now, and the spray covered my face. I tried to stand up, but gravity pinned me.

Ted raised his head from above the bow, lowered the sail strap, rushed forward, grabbed the pulpit, and shouted, "Hold on!"

When a black ocean wall came straight towards us, the hiss of the bow wave disappeared. When the podium sank into the sea, I froze.

When the sea lifted me off the deck, my left arm straightened out sharply. When my hands started to slip and fall, I was submerged.

When my boots were filled with water, my feet floated to the surface. In the dark, time stretches out like elasticity.

When the pressure on my arms eased and the pulpit began to rise, I was almost out of breath.

When the white deck became the focus, my eyes opened in the dim darkness.

When my hand was torn from the pulpit, my foot was hit. The sea sucked me down on the rails. Gasping for breath, I swallowed mostly sea water. A loud noise caught my attention. This is Ted's boots dragging forward. Something is dragging me. I rolled over and watched the gray sail sliding forward. I knelt on my knees and helped pull the sail feet forward.

Ted installed the handcuffs through the grommet. When he yelled: "Made!"

The sail is tightened with the boom-boom-arm of the plate loaded on the winch. The boat started to tilt, so I started to climb higher. When the cold water from my sleeves, my neck-hell, everywhere, I took a breath.

With a wild expression in his eyes, Ted yelled: "Let's get out of here!"

I tried to drive, but my boots were soaked in sea water. Just over the shield, Ted fell to the first position on the railing. I entered the next empty seat and squeezed myself between the lifelines.

"Suddenly, the boat made waves. I was thrown forward; my back hit the pulpit hard. The hissing bow wave below was close enough now, and the spray covered my face. I tried to stand. Get up, but gravity pinned me."

On my right, Billy is looking at me with a smirk. My brain is running fast, and my whole body is humming with adrenaline. I turned to Billy and asked, "May I empty my boots?"

When the boat rolled over another wave, Billy's shoulders trembled with a smile, and gravity pulled a stream of salty water from my nose. When I coughed and choked, Billy howled and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand.

Then I heard, "Ted, Stewart - why don't you two go down and get some dry equipment?"

I turned to look at Larry, with a look of sincere concern. I turned around to catch Ted's gaze, but he was staring at the sea with a funny smile on his face, shaking his head quietly, obviously not going anywhere.

I turned to the captain and said, "Larry, let's go on duty as it is."

When he walked into the hatch, he smiled happily and added, "Okay. Both of you are big boys."

Looking at the circles of moonlight in the clouds, my thoughts returned to the moment the waves hit. The sea swallowed me whole. In the cold wave of darkness, I have no anxiety, no fear...just a peaceful transcendence. There was something else in the waves, something I couldn't reach, and when I reached out to get it, the sea vomited me out.

About an hour later, when I looked out of the railroad tracks, I can't remember why I was so afraid to move forward in the first place. At that moment, I remembered what my father once said: "Sometimes in life things change us, and then we are different. Certain experiences are integrated into our DNA. They become gems in our internal clock—— Remind who we are and shape who we are."

That moment in the wave revealed to me something I hadn't found on shore for 43 years-the difference between danger and my reaction to it: fear. I was frightened by the stormy conditions, but there was no immediate danger. However, in the waves-in real, immediate danger-I am not afraid.

Later that night, the experience made sense. Getting up and changing sails made that moment possible. Life is doing. Before being tested, we didn't know what we were made of. The confidence gained from that experience is everywhere. Offshore voyages put us in situations that we have never encountered in our daily lives on shore. The insights gained from this experience, and other similar offshore experiences, are one of my most precious moments.

Many products on this website have been selected by editors. Nautical World may receive financial compensation for products purchased through this website.

Copyright © 2021 Sailing World. Bonnier Company. all rights reserved. It is forbidden to copy in whole or in part without permission.