Wild Times on the old Sargasso Sea

Whenever I hear the term undulating hills, I think of the Sagasso Sea. With the surface of the water covered in weed it has the appearance of a vast grassy field—a field that moves. Although there is scarcely a breath of wind there most of the time, it undulates and heaves like a huge beast from the effect of distant storms.

Judy and Me*

It must have been around 1982 when Judy (my first wife) and I sailed through this fascinating no-man’s-land of the North Atlantic.

I purchased my second Westerly Centaur in Old Bosham, England, and the two of us were sailing her back to Canada.

For a twenty-six footer the Westerly was a lot of sailboat—heavily constructed with a good interior layout and fitted with a two cylinder Volvo diesel. 

We’d sailed into the Med. to spend a few weeks cruising the coast of Spain beforehand then headed south to the Canary Islands.

This was Judy’s first long distance sailing trip and, apart from our little Spanish sojourn, the voyage had not been a particularly happy one. She kept a diary which I was later allowed to read.

‘Captain Bligh’ was one of the milder terms she used to describe me. One of the entries in which she used this epithet involved my placing a limit on the number of gallons of our drinking water she could use for her daily showers. Another, I believe, involved the state of the sea caused by a headwind which I should have predicted and thereby avoided.

Later on in the trip however, she began to adjust to the rigors of ocean sailing and actually started to enjoy the voyage. And when we finally reached the shores of Nova Scotia—some thirty days later—she turned to me and said, “Let’s turn around and go back.”

Anyway, back to the Sargasso Sea. Old time sailors spoke of ships being drawn into the area and trapped in the weed. With no wind to fill their sails and the crew dying of thirst, they became ghost ships, doomed to drift amongst the weed until it crawled up the sides and claimed the vessel.

We didn’t encounter any ghost ships but there were all kinds of crabs and other creatures scuttling around on the weed.

It was a lazy time and we did a lot of reading and sleeping while the boat drifted along with the sails filling half-heartedly from time to time. Judy had settled in to life at sea and was now taking salt water showers so drinking water was no longer a bone of contention.

One night, when there was not a breath of wind, I ran the engine. From my experience of running it during the day, I knew that after a couple of hours, the prop would pick up a bunch of weed and I would have to go over the side to clear it.

Normally we slept in the double forward berth, but with the engine going, I slept in the quarter berth so I could hear if it started to struggle. Judy made me promise to wake her if I had to go over the side to clear the prop.

Sure enough, around three in the morning, a change in the sound of the engine wakened me. I went forward to rouse Judy, but she was sleeping so peacefully I decided to break my promise and leave her asleep.

Westerly Centaur

I hate swimming in black water. I always imagine there’s a shark down there that somehow knows I’m about to plunge in and is waiting for me with expectant teeth.

On deck, I positioned myself to dive in, slice under the boat, whip the weed off the prop and be back aboard before anything could grab me. I’d calculated where the propeller was situated so I wouldn’t be groping around in the dark trying to find it. But what I’d forgotten to take into account was the keels.

The Westerly was twin-keeled to enable it to sit upright on the bottom of a tidal harbour. The trailing edge went quite a way back—far enough for me to slam into it when I dove in.

How I failed to knock myself out completely is a mystery. I saw stars and became disoriented, not knowing up from down. I eventually found the prop, managed to pull off the weed and struggle back on board.

A look in the mirror showed a bloody gash in my forehead and a fast blackening eye. I was still kind of woozy so didn’t bother to dress the wound, but just flopped into my bunk.

The next morning I was vigorously awakened by Judy, who had obviously noticed the state of my face. Her exact words were, “Where the hell were you last night?!”

*As with many of my sailing photo's, the pictures of the actual voyage have been lost.