Following a Dream

Life Experience: The events of 9/11 led me on a different path to recovery.

Life Experience: Following a Dream

By Greg Aurre

 

NYC - Tuesday, September 11th 2001 started just as any other day on the 86th floor at 2 World Trade Center.  I was on the trading desk at 7am; reading the news wires; marking bond positions; small talk with clients before the opening bell.  At 8:46am, very quickly, everything changed.

 

Two weeks later: My firm was setup in a make-shift office back downtown.  We had all men and women on deck, trying to save the business.  We were working long hours with limited infrastructure and few resources.  We were pulling ourselves up by our boot straps and trying to not let the events from 9/11 take anything else from us.  Grief counselors roamed the floor pulling each of us into meetings.  We were attending many memorial services for the sixty two fallen within our firm.  Looking back, it seemed as bizarre as two weeks before.  I had to make a decision, to let the events define me, or have myself define them.  So I gave my notice, I was off to follow a dream.

 

January 2nd, 2002 Key West, FL: I boarded Temptation, my Pearson 34 Sloop of two years.  I was embarking on a nine months sailing trip through the Caribbean. I was born the son of a sailor and had sailed most of my life.  Most people would have taken a couple years to outfit the vessels specifically for this trip, but I didn’t have that luxury.

 

Crossing the Straits of Florida to the Bahamas, I discovered my first problem.  There weren’t any NOAA weather forecasts on the VHF outside the US.  This was not going to be my last surprise on the cruise, so I had to stay open-minded to find solutions to all my old assumptions I took for granted.  I learned that many other yachts had expensive SSB radios which received weather forecasts.  I was able to hail them on the VHF radio and ask for weather updates.  Pride had no benefits on this journey.

 

February 2002, Georgetown, Bahamas: We arrived at a cruiser destination with a hundred other transient yachts anchored in a simple, yet busy harbor. The regular sailors setup a morning radio ‘net’ on the VHF radio.  They talked about news, social events, weather, gadget swaps and anything else you could think or need. We listed to the morning net while we had our morning coffee.  It wasn’t exactly the World Wide Web, but it became a ritual to start our day.  We got involved in volunteer activities, played in volleyball leagues, and participated with many other groups. We stumbled into a fascinating sub culture where neighbors helped and celebrated together every day.  We attended nightly barbeque parties on different beaches with unobstructed views of the sunset.  We paid homage to the day by searching for the elusive green flash at sundown.  This harbor marked the end of near coastal sailing as we continued south.

 

April 2002, The Mona Passage: After a beautiful week in Semana, DR we set off for Puerto Rico.  The evening skies were a beautiful red hue signifying a fair weather for the passage.  By the next morning, my fortune had changed.  The wind kicked up to about thirty five knots and the seas grew to twelve to fourteen feet.  The boat was climbing mountains and surfing down the backs.  There was an unnatural twist caused by the high winds in the rigging which made the wood in the hull creak and moan.  The boat felt like it was coming apart.  I removed most of the sails except for about three foot of the jib.  The goal was to slow the boat down and reduce tension on the mast and rigging. Instinct said to run fast thru the storm but experience said otherwise.  I was far off my rum line and the next port was two days away.  Matters got worse when the engine unexpectedly stopped working and the jib reef lines started fraying.  I had to go forward to the bow to stop the sails from opening up full, which would have caused a catastrophic event.  Tethered to the bow, I secured the jibs roller furler while every few waves crashed over me, completely submersing me.  I spent that night on the radio with the Coast Guard. 

 

In theory, a missed hourly check in, would set in motion a rescue effort.  Maintaining the boat was the only goal. Eating and sleeping only came in small doses those two days. I would have been quite miserable and scared, if only I wasn’t so busy and tired. I plodded along until the storm passed, the sun came out and I slipped into the harbor of Boquerón, PR. I had the best cheeseburger of my life and then slept like a baby.

 

April 2002: Leaving the friendly, fun and civilized Virgin Islands was bitter sweet.  I sailed across the Anegada Passage towards the Leeward Islands.  While reminiscing about the previous days swim at the Baths in Virgin Gorda, I was visited by a school of porpoise.  I had the pleasure of swimming in the wild with one back in the Bahamas, but this was more of an event.  There must have been fifty of them.  They swam up to catch the wave of the boat cutting through the water.  At first I just saw the dorsal fins break the surface to announce their presence, but the show was just beginning.  They swam with us for over an hour in formation, jumping and flipping in the air.  It’s was truly amazing to see how intelligent these mammals were.  When one door closes, another door opens.  Getting started is the hardest part, but every time we moved onward the adventure was amazing.

 

May 2002: Nevis was perhaps the most beautiful island by water.  Long white sand beaches bordered by fifty foot great palms with a lush green volcano climbing up into a happy white cloud in an otherwise tranquil blue sky. The next port was a day sail away to the volcano ravaged island of Monserrat.  The sun was out, the easterly trade winds blew twenty knots, and there was a comfortable three to six foot swell. About four hours underway, the boat lunged hard to port, and started in an uncomfortable circle.  Something was amiss.  As sails luffed and fluttered, I couldn’t straighten out our course from the wheel.  I dropped the sails to slow the boat, and turned off the auto pilot. I could see that the helm had no control of the rudder. The emergency tiller which I attached directly to the rudder post, had none either.  This was not a problem I had ever heard of anyone having before. Being prudent, I sent out a distress call on the VHF and gave my position to the French Coast Guard while I had the opportunity.  The boat was lurching back and forth as we circled through the wind. It was time to get wet.

 

I tethered myself to the stern of the boat with a long anchor line. I donned my snorkel and fins and jumped overboard to inspect the situation from below.  I tried to acclimate to the inverse relationship underwater. The three to six foot swell was causing the hull of the boat to smash through the water like a pile driver. It was imperative to avoid being smashed, so I affixed myself to the hull to move with its motion. I couldn’t observe any obstructions to the rudder, yet I was unable to move the rudder due to the force of the water running alongside it. After a series of troubleshooting measures, I concluded that the internal shaft of the rudder, which ran to the steering wheel, was sheared from the rudder itself. 

 

Necessity is the mother of invention.  I devised a system with long ropes wrapped around the rudder, which ran up the aft of the boat and around to the powerful jib winches.  I tightened down on the lines until the rudder straightened.  I started the engine and discovered that I had a general control of steerage using the winches, enough to find the next Island. I arrived after sundown with the assistance of the local authorities which met the boat and guided me to a safe anchorage.  That was a night to remember as we painted the town red. 

 

 

June: After spending a couple weeks in Antigua, I felt like a local, but it was time to turn north to make my way home.  A thousand miles offshore to Bermuda was the next leg.  This turned out to be an uneventful eight day trip with the seas and winds diminishing along the way as we sailed into the anticipated Bermuda high pressure system the further we went.  This was a sail of attrition trying to preserve fuel, ration food, water, and wishing the fair weather remains.  While cruising the Caribbean required some skill and courage, sailing to Bermuda was a rite of passage.  Those eight days of soul searching and trying to keep the mind busy was a time to reflect on all the many obstacles and pleasures of the journey. I learned a lot about nature, and more about myself.  I learned about the kindness in my fellows, and helping my neighbors.  I made new lifelong friends along my journey.

 

The cruise started as a simple dream.  Its idea was put into action one step at a time, and created a vision which guided me. It was a risky dream that I wanted to be accountable for doing, rather than regret not doing.  What started as a horrific September day, defined me as a man. And along the way, I recovered.