Well, we soon found out that if we wanted to go anywhere, we would have to use the engines. And this is how it stayed for the better part of week, with the wind going from little to nothing as we plodded across the lazy blue. Normally, coming out of the Caribbean one can expect a pleasant romp for four or even five days, easily making 160 miles a day or so without touching the engine. This year was different. It was glassy calm and Pride II noodled along at a meager pace, as our fuel supply steadily dwindled. We caught the odd puff for an extra half a knot from time to time, but it was essentially a motorboat ride.

Yep, things were looking up on the old Pride of Baltimore II. About the time we were eating the first mahi, the wind department got itself sorted out and delivered up a nice easterly breeze and for the first time in five days the engine was silenced and we sailed away. It is amazing how the mood of a sailing ship improves the moment the engines shut down and she begins to go as God intended her. That night, the wind died again and we motored till morning. Just about the time we were devouring the second mahi, again the wind came up. This was turning into a very pattern: catch a fish, go sailing; catch a fish, go sailing.

Unfortunately the pattern was squelched before it fully matured. The building breeze was generated by a low pressure system in the Gulf of Mexico. It was forecast to become a gale and it was heading our way. The fish stopped biting.

Before the weather turned ugly, all hands practiced donning their immersion suits. They used to be called "survival suits" but I gather that one day someone didn't survive and there was a lawsuit. Donning the suits from time to time is a valuable exercise, but watching your shipmates flounder about the deck attired in orange neoprene is good low-brow entertainment as well. Serious business though it is, there is no one who doesn't look like an idiot in an immersion suit. Of course, the crew turned it into a game of speed by timing one another. Appropriately, the Safety Officer, Christine Cleary, won the contest with a searing 48 seconds. That's because she stays aboard at night and practices when everyone else goes out. The Captain didn't do too badly either, posting 54 seconds, just behind Ms Cleary.

Now gales aren't always bad things, certainly not for sailing vessels, for they bring wind and wind was a thing we welcomed at this point. It started one morning with just enough breeze to chance easing off on the throttle. We had all the lowers set, plus the foretops'l and the jib tops'l. As it strengthened through the day, we reduced sail accordingly. When the jib tops'l came down, we brought it all the way inboard and tucked it away on deck, as I guessed things would soon be tending toward rough. The mains'l was reefed by turns as the southerly breeze became a good, strong wind. Lifelines were rigged amidships and the crew stayed ahead of the game, calmly setting about taking the appropriate precautions early, while it was still easy to do so. By dark, we were carrying a triple-reefed main and the remaining lowers. Pride II boiled along at ten knots in about 30 knots of wind, handling it all with style and grace.

But as we know, nothing lasts forever, neither the good nor the bad. As the gale passed through our area, a jack-booted cold front stepped in behind it around midnight. The wind switched northwest, that is to say, against us, and went all flukey. The ship wallowed heavily in the large seas that built through the day. The helmsman wandered around the compass seeking steady wind. Then a northerly gust came in of a sudden like the hammer of Thor and the ship heeled steeply to leeward. Even the people sleeping below felt that one. The hand released us and the vessel came upright again. Then another, stronger gust struck and she lay over again with the lee scuppers all awash in sparkling seawater and a few fishes squirming there no doubt, while a sharp-tongued wind jeered loudly in the rigging. I found myself standing on the spokes of the wheel to make her pay off and run before it.

This encounter, while most inhospitable, is not so rare. Most low pressures have cold fronts associated with them, but this one was proving more vicious than most. An explanation may lie in the fact that cold air from the continent passing over the warm waters of the Gulf Stream has a tendency to become "unstable." Unstable air, like an unstable person, is a thing to be wary of. But once you're out here, you can't change the channel; you just have to keep taking cards and playing the game, and taking you're lumps as the case may be.

By nightfall on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, the breeze was a steady Force 6, gusting 7. (That's mid-twenties to low thirties for you landlubbers. That's knots, not miles per hour.) The vessel heaved and crashed into the seas a good bit, but still she made ground. Around midnight I came up on deck and it had risen to a steady Force 7 and 8, gusting Force 9 (low to high thirties, gusting low forties). The time had come. We were only fifteen miles from Diamond Shoals Light, just off the beach from Cape Hatteras, but it was plain that even if we did fetch the lee of the beach, which we could not, we wouldn't make ground against this kind of wind under engine or anything else. Though the sandy ribbons of the Outer Banks broke the seas between Pamlico Sound and the open ocean, the wind was as strong as ever. In fact we stood a very good chance of burning through our remaining fuel just to tread water. So we struck the fores'l, which was a pretty slick trick with a brailing fores'l in thirty-five knots of wind. Then we hove to under storm jib and storm trysail. At this point our hopes, and chances, for making the scheduled arrival were at an end.

Though sorry to accept the fact of a tardy arrival, heaving-to instantly improved the situation aboard. Heaving-to is a sort of semi-controlled drift whereby the sails are brought into balance with each other and the rudder is lashed over. The vessel simply sails herself in place in such a way as to minimize the distance she drifts from the desired position. Heaving-to is often brought on by rough weather when all effort to progress against the prevailing conditions is deemed vain. The philosophical essence of heaving-to in heavy weather is a fundamental acceptance of the fact that Mother Nature still runs the show. A great peace of mind descends once that point is reached. After fretting over matters of fuel consumption, sail changes, speed over ground, course made good, the number of hours remaining and the average speed required to make the schedule, the ability of the headrig to withstand the stress and the quiver of plunging under green water, the sustained jarring of the hull as it pounds into slab-sided seas all comes to an end. Instantly the motion of the vessel becomes relatively tranquil, despite a raging sea and a howling wind. You post a lookout, you go below, you fix a cup tea, and you wait for the situation to change.

I have spent a great many Thanksgivings away from home, mostly on ships. But I have only spent a few actually at sea. This was the first in awhile. The day started with crew members making Thanksgiving cards using the ol' outline-of-a-hand-for-a-turkey stencil. We listened to "Alice's Restaurant Massacree" twice before noon and once more after dinner. Andy whipped up a spectacular array of side dishes to go with the customary turkey. There were mashed potatoes, stuffing, fried plantains, baked bread, green vegetables, gravy, home made pies, and cranberry sauce with fresh indentations from the can still on it! Make no mistake, it was another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat. There was grace and a toast or two and all was very jolly, despite the fact we were far from home.