We arrived in Bermuda around 3am of the 18th, but had to stall outside the reef until day break in order to let two tankers go through 
the Town Cut before we could enter St. George’s harbor. How we got here is an interesting story.
Upon leaving the Chesapeake, we were greeted with calm seas and almost no wind. In fact, we just sat in the water, sails down, most of one evening waiting for wind. Then, the wind came, first from the northwest (good for our intended course), but then, increasingly from the south or southeast—directly where we were headed! Not only that, the force of the wind grew. We began to reduce sail, able to sail east, but only a little south. The fourth day out was pleasant. We checked the forecasts and decided to head SW, not ideal, but at least getting to lower latitudes. It appears we sailed directly into a major gale. After battling the wind, reefing sails and trying to make headway, on the morning of the 16th, hove to (more or less stopping with minimal sail up). This went fairly well. We stayed below, resting, occasionally venturing to the porthole to witness the massive seas we were climbing over. As we were eating lunch, we heard an explosion from on deck. Bill popped up and saw that the furler, an aluminum rod that the mainsail attaches to and wraps around, had sheered off at its base. It was being held more or less to the mast by the furling wire. Bill returned to think a minute, donned his foulies, and approached the mast with a piece of rope, planning to try and secure the whole thing. As he leaned to it, boom!, the whole thing came loose, the outhaul line parted like a piece of string, and it all went flying horizontally from the masthead. We watched in amazement, being thankful that Bill approached it from upwind. The forces were amazing. We looked at each other. “Bermuda seems like a nice place to go,” Bill said. We started up our engine and began motoring the 150 miles to the WNW.
Later that evening, the winds subsided, but the ghost of our mainsail and the long metal furler continued to haunt us from above, like some tormented soul who didn’t know it was time to let go. Occasionally it would dip playfully beside us in the water, but at other times, it soared down like a banshee, bent on destruction. It did do damage, and prevented us from using any sail at all on our limp into Bermuda. Then, as we made our slow way around the west side of Bermuda, like a contrite runaway pony, the mainsail stuck its nose inside the cockpit and let Pam get ahold of it. Bill quickly wrapped the whole mess around the mast. It was thus that we entered the harbor at St. George’s. We couldn’t ignore other cruisers coming out to take pictures of us.
Once anchored, we checked in with customs by radio, put up the quarantine flag and began to get the damned dead mainsail and assorted wreckage down from atop the mast. Bill was able to finally free it but Pam had too much trouble getting it to behave on deck. All of a sudden there were four on-looking cruisers at our boat (in their dinghies) asking if we needed help. Before we could finish saying yes, they were all on board, doing all that needed to be done to get the main under control and tied down to the deck. They were like angels swooping down to our rescue. Once that was done, we went to the customs office to officially check in. We found a sail maker to take the wreckage off our hands and we contracted them to furnish us with a new, traditional sail (no more furler). Finally, at around 2pm, we took a well-needed nap. Not sure exactly how long we’ll be here, but probably about a month.
We’ve since learned that, during this particular big blow, 4 boats had to be abandoned (including a commercial fishing boat that went down with some of its crew) and several boats came in to Bermuda which hadn’t planned to do so because of some kind of damage, malfunction or just to get out of the harsh weather before continuing south. Rubin (with whom we’d left Hampton) was on his way to St. Marten but ended up here. Ed, Sandy and Mick Jager (their German Shepard) were on their way to Puerto Rico but ended up here. Another crew was on their way to St. Kitts but ended up here….. and on like that.
As Thanksgiving approaches, we realize we do have something to give thanks for. It’s a different place, but we are safe. Maybe we didn’t get what we wanted, but we got what we needed.
Photos: The sail loft; our present home; making friends at the sail loft; mainsail wreckage.
