Crossing the Tropic of Cancer

Apologies from the crew aboard Hazel. We have missed a few updates, and the number of photos for this episode is embarrassingly low. The truth is simple. We have been locked in battle with a very large storm, and none of us wanted to take electronics out of the cabin.

Before we get to the chaos, there is good news. Hazel has officially crossed the magical line known as the Tropic of Cancer. More than two thousand years ago, ancient astronomers named this latitude after noticing that the Sun appeared in the constellation Cancer during the June solstice. The word tropic comes from the Greek term for turn, marking the Sun’s apparent pivot point in the sky.

For those of you currently freezing in Minnesota, this line marks the northern boundary of the tropics, a region known for warm climates, rainforests, savannas, and sun drenched days. So yes, we are officially in the tropics, and after what we have endured, we feel we have earned every warm breeze.

For Peter and Paul, crossing that line also means we have successfully sailed the entire Gulf of America from north to south. It is a far larger body of water than I ever imagined. For comparison, it is roughly the size of Mongolia.

I have included a chart plotter image showing the narrow passage between Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula and western Cuba. It is a major choke point for ships coming up from the Panama Canal, and Hazel’s crew stayed sharp to keep a respectful distance from the big boys and to ensure they kept a respectful distance from us.

If you remember our last post, we shared photos of a storm front stalking us. The forecast did not lie. It hit with twelve hours of gut wrenching, sphincter clenching fury. We saw sustained forty knot winds and relentless twenty foot seas, each crest crowned with frothy white spray. Three times waves crashed directly into the cockpit, filling it like a bubbling Jacuzzi, minus the relaxation.

For those who are curious, Hazel has four scuppers, so no matter her angle, the cockpit drains through hoses and out the hull. It is a brilliant system, but even so, the sheer force of the water was astonishing. We had everything strapped, tied, and secured, or so we thought. The storm tested every knot and every assumption.

This is where I need to explain the dynamic duo known as Hazel's Crew, Peter and Paul. To do that, I have to rewind.

I have had many great bosses, but my favorite was Larry Bertino. We worked together at McDonnell Douglas, later Boeing. Among other things, Larry was my board member on McDonald Douglas subsidiary company we started. I was the managing director of FAIT. I won’t get into the details of that company, but what you should know my other board member was Pete Conrad. Pete was an astronaut and the commander of Apollo 12. I added a picture of him below.

Larry and Pete owned a sailboat together in Long Beach, and that is where my love of sailing began. They were polar opposites. Larry was big picture, martini in hand, ready to cast off. Pete was detail obsessed, checking every system, every wire, every new piece of aerospace grade equipment he had installed. It took them over an hour to leave the dock each time. Larry would shout to get moving, and Pete would continue inspecting. In Larry’s eyes, Pete was obsessive. In Pete’s eyes, Larry was reckless. Yet they were best friends and perfect sailing partners.

I am not saying I am Pete Conrad, and I am not saying Peter Darula is Larry Bertino, but you can see the resemblance.

After the storm, Hazel’s deck looked like a crime scene. Everything had shifted, some things nearly lost, but miraculously nothing went overboard, not even Peter or Paul. Inside, she looked like she had been ransacked by a gang of very determined thugs.

Last summer, Peter and I rebuilt Hazel’s steering system. During the storm, we thought something had failed. It turns out nothing was broken. The wind was simply too strong, and Hazel’s full keel made it impossible for her to come about. She loves going straight. She is steady, loyal, and true. But turning into the wind is not her preference unless she has a tremendous amount of speed.

Even after the wind eased, the sea state stayed with us. We endured ten hours of twenty foot rollers, and the next day those same rollers marched directly in the direction we needed to go. Sailing dead downwind is possible, it is miserable and risky. We spent the entire day tacking back and forth, zigzagging our way through the leftover fury.

Peter insists I tell you how impossible it is to cook in these conditions. If you want three eggs, plan on cracking six. Half will end up on the floor, the stove, or the ceiling. Standing in the galley is nearly impossible when Hazel is pitching like a mechanical bull.

And now, as I write this during Tuesday’s night watch at 03:46, the sky is breathtaking. After everything, the universe still knows how to put on a show.