Southbound Shenanigans: The Voyage of the Vomit Comet

Today’s a down day from diving operations— not enough people booked, so instead of hauling tanks, I’m hauling thoughts. Time to knock out a few blog updates for those of you who still give a shit.

Man, let me tell you, this trip started uneventful… but my stress level? Doing Olympic-level backflips. Three human lives and a million-dollar boat under my command — I was one bad decision away from becoming a headline:

“Captain Loses Crew, Boat, and Mind in Simple Passage Meltdown.”

At first, though, it was smooth sailing. Winds and waves behind us, stars overhead, Mother Nature giving me a little back rub whispering, “You got this, bud.”

Then I made the brilliant decision to pull into Hampton Roads, Virginia, for fuel.

The second we turned around to head back out, the ocean said, “Oh, you thought this was gonna be easy?” Waves started slapping us in the face like we owed them money.

And that’s when my first crew member decided to make a sacrifice to Poseidon — right over the side. Lost his lunch like he was auditioning for The Exorcist: Nautical Edition.

I felt bad for him… but mostly I was impressed. Normally, I’m the one feeding the fish! But nope, Captain Iron Stomach over here was solid.

Cape Hatteras: The Washing Machine of Doom

Next up, Cape Hatteras. Oh, Lord.
That place doesn’t know which way is up, down, or sideways. You’ve got the Gulf Stream pushing one way, land pushing another, and the water’s out there having a full-blown identity crisis. It’s like sailing through a frat party, chaotic, loud, and someone’s always about to puke.

That’s when my other crew member decided to up the ante and lose both lunch and dinner.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there like, “Really? I brought y’all to keep me calm, and now you’re out here projectile vomiting like synchronized swimmers!”

When the Screecher Screeched

Now picture this: winds picking up to 25 knots, everything’s rolling, and I’m thinking, “Let’s swap sails—put the screecher away, bring out the Jenny.”

Except Jenny, being the typical woman, wouldn’t “put out.” (Translation: she wouldn’t unroll.)

So, I bring the screecher back out, try to reef it in, and BAM — the furler line snaps like a cheap thong on prom night.

Suddenly, that big ol’ sail’s flapping 100% in 30-knot winds, and I’m thinking, “Well, this is how I die.”

But credit where it’s due — Joe’s mechanical wizardry saved the day. He helped me wrestle that beast back in, and we motored on like nothing happened.

Cape Fear — Where Even the Boat Was Nervous

With two sails out of commission, I decided to shoot into Cape Fear, which, spoiler alert, ain’t named that by accident.

Do we keep motoring with only a main sail or play it safe?
And since I could already hear my ex’s voice in my head yelling, “SAFETY FIRST!” …we ducked in for repairs.

Got the Jenny unstuck, one sail back in business, and the one we’d need most for the high winds ahead. So we continued south, but the forecast showed 25 knots on the nose, so we ducked into Charleston, SC. Grabbed a beer, stocked up on fishing tackle, bought a new continuous furler line, and I got to play Boy Scout with a splice job to make it a continuous line. Next morning — back to rolling south.

Key West or Bust (Mostly Bust)

From Charleston to Key West? Life was good. Winds behind us, boat flying at 8–10 knots, Joe out there fishing like it was Deadliest Catch: Chill Edition.

He caught what was called a “tiny tuna.”
A tuna looking fish that was so small I thought it was the bait, but the internet swore it was good eating if grilled. Damn thing grilled up amazing, too. Joe took over galley duty the entire trip — planned meals, kept snacks rolling, and made sure Chris had his emotional support bagels and cream cheese.

Then came the grand finale — the arrival.

Ever try to grab a mooring ball in 25-knot winds and current?
Yeah. Picture trying to catch a greased bowling ball while standing on a moving treadmill.

After multiple failed attempts, yelling, swearing, me thinking the motors were dying, we finally snagged the damn thing by backing up to it and grabbing it off the last step of the sugar scoop.
Victory!

…until we got to the dock office and found out that ball already belonged to someone else.

Apparently, in Key West, all you gotta do to reserve a mooring is tie a float of any size to it — boom, it’s yours. Easier than buying property.

So, we move to another ball. Easy, with the dingy already in the water to help, right? Nope.

In the process, I get blown into a mooring line, catches on a prop and stalls one engine. Thankfully, it restarted with no issue. Meanwhile, Chris is in the dinghy trying to hold onto the ball we were aiming for, waiting for us to throw him the line to attach… That is until a gust grabs the dinghy and the ball in opposite directions and there goes Chris.

Splash. Full send. Clothes, phone, dignity all gone.

I’m watching from the helm like, “What do I go after — Chris or my dink?!”

Thankfully, the man’s a beast. Climbs back into the dinghy, still holding on, soaking wet, laughing his ass off.

So yeah, when I say our arrival was “memorable,” that’s the polite way of saying it looked like a live-action blooper reel.

But hey, we made it. No one died, no one puked (that day), and the boat’s still floating.
That’s a win in my logbook.

Now to live the dream!