A little crustier now

Phil described sailing around Cape Horn as the sailing equivalent of climbing Mount Everest. I can see that. During his trip around the Horn, I'm sure his perspective on heavy weather got reset the same way the rest of the crew's was during this trip. I know I'm not alone in feeling like my sailing experience up to this point—all of it in the Bay—suddenly seems very sheltered. We're all a little crustier now.

I've seen 15-foot seas in a boat and I've seen 35-knot winds, but put them together in the open ocean, hundreds of miles from anywhere, and do it in the dark—then you've got something completely different. It gives you a whole new respect for mother nature. And what a mother she can be.

Sailing a boat in the dark through heavy weather is a surreal experience. There is no light outside the boat so it's impossible to see the waves coming or where the boat is going; the compass is your only sense of direction. In these conditions, the job of the person at the helm is:

1. Do not let go of the wheel.
2. Keep the bearing line on the spinning and tilting compass wheel lined up with a mark on the compass housing.

So there I was, braced against the heaving of the boat, the wind and spray, throwing the steering wheel--often violently--one way and then the other, all to keep two little lines on a compass lined up. It's the most bizzare feeling to be focusing on such an abstract task when the world is crashing around you. It's like flying in a jet while it's pitching and bucking its way through a storm and the flight attendant hands you a spoon and says, "Balance this on your finger. Don't drop it. This plane will spin out of control if you do, so don't f*** up. Would you like some coffee?"

-Jared