What recourse do we have when adventure becomes a routine?
That’s a question I’ve been finding myself wondering recently, as we sail the Dominican Republic. Right now we’re at sea, in the midst of a roughly 200nm passage from La Caleta, the marine park on the south shore of the Dominican Republic where the students were working with Reef Check DR, to Samana Bay, on the north shore, home to a vigorous population of humpback whales.
My time here in the Dominican Republic seems to have been defined not by building coral nurseries, trawling for plankton, or even just snorkeling off the boat, but by bureaucracy and paperwork. Rightly or wrongly, the Dominican Republic, like many Latin American governments, seems to thrive on controlling the movements of yachts within it’s waters. Here, in the DR, every movement by any boat, local or foreign, that involves going to an end destination that is not where you started requires a piece of paper called the Despacho, detailing the crew and planned movements of the vessel. Thus, while Dr. Haywood and the students have been focusing on more scientific matters, my attention has been required by visits to El Commandante.
We finally got our last despacho from the south coast yesterday and set sail for Samana, a trip that involves about 140nm of upwind beating through confused and sometimes ugly seas as we fight east down the coast, then north up the Mona Passage, before we finally are able later tonight to bear of and enjoy the much anticipated downwind run into Samana Bay.
Sailing upwind is always exciting – the boat is on her ear, 20 to 25 degrees of heel, with water rushing down the side perilously close to leeward, while from the high side it seems as if you’re on top of the world. Sea Dragon thuds and jerks as we slam through waves, green water cascading down the deck and torrents of spray keeping the crew on watch well dampened.
Most of the students aboard have never really been to sea before, let alone on a sail boat, and are reveling in the new experience – a little frightening, a little thrilling at the same time. I worry about whether we’ll clear the next point, who can drive in a straight line, who’s feeling seasick. Shanley and I discuss tacking angles and engine RPMs while the crew on deck shout at a particularly big wave, and even down below, where movement sometimes requires good timing and the skills of an acrobat, through long usage it’s just the way things are.
I wonder how to recapture a bit of the rush that Julia felt when a particularly big wave loomed overhead then harmlessly passed away – instead of chortling with joy, I merely shield my face in case a bit of spray comes aboard.
Sometimes, though, excitement comes to you. Just a few minutes ago we had to tack back offshore to ensure that we could safely weather the east tip of the island – not a hard procedure, and the crew is starting to get the hang of things, so it should go off like a well oiled machine. Julia and Schuyler ready the running backstays, while Zach, Thalles, and Jen get ready on the staysail sheet – one side eases, the other side hauls, and Sea Dragon swings through the wind, pointing her bow back towards Puerto Rico and open water.
Suddenly there’s a bang, and something goes flying from the boom into the sea, the mainsail starts luffing hard. Sea Dragon slows, crippled. Just as fast the adrenaline hits – the block for the first reef line, that holds the back corner of the sail to the boom, just exploded, ejecting it’s contents into the Mona passage. Reactions take over – fast to the main halyard to drop the sail and relieve pressure, calling for the crew in the cockpit to ease the sheet, and in a burst of frenzied activity we’re back in motion again, the sail starting to draw as we grind it down to the smaller 2nd reef, bypassing the damaged block, trimming, heading back out to sea. Soon we heel to the wind again and spray bursts over the bow.
Living on board, as we do, it’s sometimes too easy to get wrapped up in the minutia of a trip, the paperwork, the food, the this and that. But it’s a state that can’t last forever – sometimes you think that it will, but the ocean is ever-changing, reaching out to chastise us for becoming too blase, taking it for granted. And so we sail on into the night, perhaps a little wiser for a little while.
– Captain Eric Loss, S.V. Sea Dragon, Exploration Science Program, March 11, 2015
