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I left City Island, NY, at 2 p.m. on November 4, 1997 aboard "Mistral," my 1981 Beneteau First 35, on my way to the Caribbean via Bermuda. Prior to my departure, I spent over $10,000 outfitting my boat with new instruments, radar, autopilot, GPS, wind generator, water maker, windlass, new bimini and dodger, as well as a rigid boom vang.

My crew consisted of my radar and my autopilot. It was cold: the temperature was in the 40s, and the wind was a steady 25 knots. By 6 p.m. I had passed Sandy Hook, and was sailing at close to seven knots toward Bermuda on a course of 155 Magnetic.

I was doing quite well. By the morning of November 7 I was halfway to Bermuda, almost on the rumb line. The wind was now piping at 40 knots. The dodger was straining, and after some struggle, I removed it and stowed it below.

It was already night when I decided to hove (?) under a triple-reefed main and a roller reef main headsail, with only 6 or 7 feet of leach exposed. The boat was forereaching at slow speed, and the motion was comfortable.

After cooking a warm supper I went to sleep on the pilot berth, leaving the radar on watch with a 360-degree guard zome set at 12 miles. My sleep was abruptly interrupted when the boat lurched out of control and I was thrown from my berth. The motion had become very uncomfortable. The wind generator was screaming. I slowed it down by short-circuiting the output.

I downed my safety harness and went topside. The exposed leach and foot of the genoa had torn. I rolled that sail in completely and lowered the main. The boat at that point was beam to the sea and rolling wildly. Using the engine I turned the boat downwind. I was now sailing bear pole, not exactly in the direction of my destination.

The situation continued to deteriorate; the barometric pressure was down to 960 millibars. The seas were enormous, and the wind was screaming. It was dark: the only light came from my navigations lights, my compass, and the luminescence of the foam at the top of the waves. It felt as if I were riding a rollercoaster. The stern would lift, and then I was on top of the wave, with lumincescent frost at the bow, and a big dark hole in front.

I was scared, white-knuckled on the wheel, and I could not even soil my pants, my butt was so tight.

At times I surfed at 11 knots, and I was sure I was going to fall over the edge.

Suddenly, instead of lifting the stern, a wave crushed into the cockpit, stunning me. Although the companionway was secure, a fair amount of the Atlantic found its way below through anything not watertight.

I was sitting behind the wheel in a bathtub, secured on both sides of the cockpit by two tethers from my safety harness. The boat was then lifted by a wave that came out of nowhere. It was like taking a very fast elevator ride. I felt heavy.

When the weight lifted, I was on top of the Great Pyramid of Cheops. All around me were unfathomable cliffs. Then the pyramid collapsed, and Mistral fell on its starboard stern quarter.

The shock was terribly violent, and I thought that the boat was breeaking. My safety harness snapped my back when I reached the end of my tether. The stern rail bent, the stanchions on the starboard side bent, the top life line on the starboard side broke from the stern rail. The lower life line stretched several inches, the boom wang was stripped from the boom, and I lost my life raft that was secured behind the mast and attached to the grab rails on both sides of the cabin top. The grab rails of course were torn from the cabin top. I was lucky not to lose the rig.

Besides the head stay, forward are a baby stay and an intermediary stay to hank a storm jib. When I went bear pole I also set the two running backstays. At that point I can only describe the motion as a cork tossed in a washing machine.

My back was hurting, and I had difficulty breathing. Strangely enough, I was not scared anymore. I then remembered that some years earlier I had bought a very large parachute anchor. I managed to retrieve it from the lazaret where it lay for 12 years, still in the original package.

To set it from the bow I had to crawl to the anchor locker, located about 25 feet from the cockpit to retrieve the nylon anchor rod.

It was an ordeal to get there; I pulled myself by the jack lines for what seemed forever. The 25 feet had turned into 25 miles. I dragged back the bulk of the 250 ft. nylon rod back to the cockpit. I then had to retrace my way to the bow (another 25 mile trip) to bring around the pushpit, and outside the stanchions about forty feet of rod that I had left in the anchor locker. I then attached the parachute to that part of the rod wrapped around a winch, and threw the parachute from the cockpit under the lifelines.

When the parachute opened, the boat made a 90-degree snap and faced the incoming waves. The shock was so violent that for an instant I thought that the winch was getting ripped from the coming (?).

I kept feeding the line, and then attached another 250 feet of rod from my secondary anchor. With about 500 feet of 5/8 nylon rod and a 14 ft. diameter parachute weighted down by a huge swivel shackle, the motion became livable.

The waves were crashing on the bow that was submerged half the time. The motion was essentially up and down, with an occasional sideway snap.

I then went below deck, and became instantly religious. The water was about six inches above the floorboards, and I thought I was sinking. The life raft was gone, water was sloshing around, and everything was soaked; the settees and the bunk cushions had turned into saturated sponges. I think I said aloud: "God, I'm in your hands." I then collapsed on a settee and passed out.

Fourteen hours later, a smell of burnt rubber woke me up. The water was no longer above the floorboards, and I did not sink. The large capacity bilge pump with its rubber impeller had gotten the sea out of the boat. Unfortunately, the float switch got stuck in open position and the smell came from the impeller running dry. The batteries were almost completely discharged. The afternoon sky was still overcast, the wind had subsided somewhat, but the seas were still enormous. I noticed that the carbon fiber blades of my wind power generator were shredded, and the cable from the radar antenna mounted on the backstay was cut. One of the wind generator blades must have severed it when it broke. The wind instrument sensor at the masthead was gone; what was left of the Davis wind vane were two wires twisted like pretzels. My back was still hurting, and I had difficulty breathing.

The engine would not start; the batteries were too low. I had paralleled the batteries when the wind generator was charging them, and I forgot to separate them when I short-circuited the generator to slow it down. I fortunately carried on board a small Honda gas generator that I connected to the shore power plug.

The generator started easily on the first pull, and I was able to recharge the batteries from the charger. After a couple of hours I got enough charge to start the engine. The 120 A alternator helped to complete the charge of the batteries.

By that time the day was waning. I tried using the electric windlass to retrieve the parachute anchor. The Maxwell windlass growled but only turned partially when the line slacked doing (? going) down the back of a wave.
After a while the breaker tripped. I reset the breaker, but it kept tripping. I only retrieved about 20 feet of rod when the windlass ceased to operate at all. It was again getting dark, and I abandoned my effort to get on the way. I was getting tired, and decided to spend the night at (sea) anchor.
The following morning I was sitting on the bow, the windlass between my legs, and the anchor rod around the capstan. I would wait for a slack on the line when going down the back of waves to take in a few inches before the next oncoming wave.

It took me four hours to bring the 500 feet of rod on board. It was painful; my back was killing me. I had reached a state where my personality split. A part of me would say aloud, "Cut that %@# line out," while a more reasonable me said: "You moron, what will you do if you need it again?" The smarter me prevailed, and I finally got the parachute anchor back on board. Had I known how hard it was to retrieve the anchor, I would have rigged the trip line, but at the time I didn't think of it.

The seas were still pretty high, I guessed about 20 feet. I raised the triple-reefed main and started sailing again. Having lost the wind instruments, I estimated that it was still blowing about 40 knots.

While I was on the sea anchor I must have drifted back into the Gulf Stream. I used a hand-held GPS to check my position. I was now 65 miles east of my original rumb line, and of course Bermuda was on the nose. With only a triple-reefed main Mistral's pointing ability was somewhat affected.

I hanked the storm jib on the intermediary forestay; it did help a bit but was still a far cry from Mistral's ability of going to weather with a proper head sail.

I forgot to mention that my autopilot also went on strike. For the next five days I was at the helm virtually 24/5. The only nourishment I took was cookies and soda pop. Sleep and wakefulness were intermixed. If someone had told me that one can steer a boat while asleep I would have shrugged my shoulders, yet I did it. The only working electronics on board were my VHF radio and my hand-held GPS. (The antenna of my fixed GPS was mounted on the stern rail and broke when Mistral fell off the Great Pyramid) Thank God for hand-held GPS. Although I carried two sextants on board, I never did see the sun.

When I got in sight of Bermuda I raised Bermuda Harbor Radio on VHF. I must not have been making much sense, for they told me they could see me on radar, and they would come get me, and so they did. Soon a large RIB came alongside and two people came aboard. They took Mistral in, and tied her up at the government dock.

The customs/immigration officers were waiting, but told me to go to sleep, and they would take care of the entry procedures the next day.

I slept over 24 hours; after clearing into Bermuda the officer called a cab that took me to the hospital in Hamilton. I got X-rayed, and when I complained to the doctor of the pain in my back, he told me it was perfectly normal when one has a cracked rib. (It happened when my safety harness slapped my back when we fell off Khufu's tomb). $300 lighter, some painkillers, and I was back in Saint George. While I was at the hospital my boat was moved to the cruise ship terminal next to a water faucet. (Those who have sailed to Bermuda will understand the consideration of having water close by)

I had sailed to Bermuda numerous times before, and used to joke that Bermudians graduated from ship wreckers to hitting you over the head with your own credit card.

During that stay I encountered the most generous people in the world. Steve the sailmaker and his wife Holly invited me to their home, where I spent Thanksgiving, not to mention that Steve repaired my sails for free. A neighbor of theirs, a talented wood worker, replaced my grab sails, charging me only for the cost of the teak. Another generous Bermudian almost completely straightened my stern rail for free.

I spent the next three weeks cleaning, rinsing, and drying the boat. I had become somewhat of a minor celebrity in Saint George, and it seemed that everyone knew about my ordeal.

A few days before my arrival the Caribbean 1500 Rally that set out from Norfolk, VA limped into Saint George. They had experienced gale force winds from a low out of the Carolinas, and traveling east/northeast. I found out from the naval meteorological station that this low pressure had a date with another low traveling down from the Canadian Maritimes, and combined at the location where I happened to be. (The almost perfect storm)

I also learned that that storm produced hurricane force winds in excess of 110 knots, and waves over 60 feet. I also found out that a container ship broke up in the vicinity I was anchored. I guess that the brunt of the storm happened while I was passed out, and I am thankful for having been spared additional fright.

During my stay in Bermuda I called Beneteau, and they sent me a couple of replacement stanchions (gold plated, for they charged me an arm and a leg). I also called Garhauher, the manufacturer of my wang. They asked me to take a few measurements, and three days later I received, free of charge, a new attachment for the boom wang. In three days they designed, built, and air shipped a custom cradle attachment for the boom. Kudos to Garhauher, for it as not their fault if the attachment failed (the bolts stripped). Southwest Wind Power, the maker of my wind generator sent me, free of charge, new blades, a new nose cone, and a new face plate with a new bearing, no questions asked. Kudos also to Southwest Wind Power.

As for Maxwell, "Shame on You." I took the windlass apart, and when I opened the motor back plate gray powder flowed out. It turned out to be aluminum oxide from the back plate. The motor used for this windlass is an automotive starter motor, not marinized.

Somehow sea water entered the motor. Under the 100+ amp draws when I attempted to retrieve the sea anchor electrolysis took place and created an aluminum oxide growth behind the bakelite brush holder that then fractured.

I explained the situation clearly to Maxwell USA in California, and asked them to send me a new brush holder assembly. To my amazement, I was told the water damage was not covered by the warranty, and if I wanted the windlass repaired I should air ship it to California, and they would see whether they could repair it. They would not even sell me a new brush holder. My solution was to epoxy the brush holder, and that repair lasted a few years. I will never buy another Maxwell product, or buy a boat equipped with a Maxwell windlass.

I spent a month in Bermuda. During thar period low pressures were following each other like the cars of a freight train. Up to 63 knots were recorded in Saint George Harbor. During a small weather window the Caribbean 1500 Rally left for the BVI, but not all of them. Four boats were left behind, and put up for sale. The crews felt safer traveling by plane. I was told that one of these boats was towed into Bermuda after the crew demanded to be taken out by a passenger freighter.

I also got cold feet, and watched for a good weather window. It was now December, and the longer I waited, the shorter these windows would become. One sunny day with 20 knots on the port beam I finally pointed south to Tortola, facing new adventures, but those are other stories.

PS

For who would be interested in losing weight, that trip was better than Atkins diet; I lost 20lb in ten days.
Story by Michel Goldstein.