Perception of risk is a funny thing. After four-plus years of cruising with my husband and two kids, the one question I consistently get is, “When were you most afraid?” Invariably, the answer is not what people are expecting or perhaps hoping for.
“The scariest moment I had while cruising was driving up I-95 in a friend’s car from Annapolis to Philly to visit family while taking a break from the boat,” I say. And then I tell the story of the driver who must have been drunk, cranked on meth, suffering a psychotic break, fleeing the law, or all of the above, who literally ran us off the road at 90 miles an hour. God bless the Subaru Forester for all-wheel drive; we didn’t wreck. But nothing I encountered at sea or sailing in countries that Americans inevitably associate with drugs, violence, and desperate illegal immigrants ever touched that moment for sheer terror.
There were sketchy times, to be sure—one windy, rough, coal-black night off the Nicaraguan coast comes to mind, when I spent my watch nervously tracking a radar target that seemed to be shadowing us. At dawn, the pirate nightmare turned out to be a local fishing boat just pushing east through the weather as we were.
But on the boat, the risks seemed mostly negligible compared to what people blithely do on land every day, like channel their inner Ricky Bobby on the interstate in what amounts to a tin can. We sailed conservatively, stayed on top of weather and maintenance, monitored local SSB nets and other sources for up-to-date security info on places we were headed. We were cautious and prepared as best we could be.
Thing is, you can be cautious and prepared and still be unlucky. This truth slammed home last summer when I checked Instagram one morning while following the Bermuda Race and saw that the J/122 Alliance had sunk the night before. “Holy shit, Lydia!” I texted my colleague and managing editor, Lydia Mullan, knowing she wouldn’t be able to answer but hoping all the same. Participating in her first Bermuda Race, she was sailing on Alliance, and I’d been following their track. “Are you OK?”
If you haven’t read Lydia’s award-winning story about the sinking, put it on your list today (“A Eulogy for Alliance,” October 2024). There’s much to learn from what she and the Alliance team endured, but what she stresses most is how their safety training made what could have been a tragedy something more manageable. In the critical moments, it helped them stay focused, communicate clearly with each other and the people who were rescuing them, trust one another to know what to do, and make the right decisions quickly and calmly.
Which is why I’m spending a weekend this month at the Naval Academy in Annapolis getting my U.S. Sailing International Offshore Sailing certification. For years, I’d read about the annual training sessions at the academy (and elsewhere), seen the photos of the Coast Guard helicopter hovering over the Severn River, the people in the pool clambering into liferafts, launching flares, being hauled onboard in full foulies in a man overboard sling.
I never thought I required it. After all, I had thousands of miles at sea, right? A lifetime in all kinds of boats, all that time on the water, and nothing bad had ever really happened, so what was the compelling need? That whistling-past-the-graveyard logic evaporated the moment I heard Lydia’s voice on the other end of the line when she finally arrived in Bermuda safe and mostly sound.
I came up in sailing at a time when safety at sea was far less sophisticated or even thought about. We all had a Lirakis harness and a good tether, we had a PFD in our bags or somewhere on the boat. But it wasn’t what you’d call front of mind, and there were definitely times when we got away with what was, in retrospect, some seriously risky business. Today, things are different on the racecourse and in the sport and pastime in general, and for good reason.
We know that when we sail, luck, danger, and fate sail with us. The tragic deaths of Roy Quaden and Nick Smith, both experienced sailors, in the most recent Sydney-Hobart Race are shattering reminders. Carrying that knowledge is part of the bargain.
But even if getting run off the road by an insane driver or slamming into a submerged object in the Gulf Stream isn’t something we can control, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be as ready as we can to control what we can, and to have the knowledge to help each other in that moment when we must.
Simply in terms of seamanship, it’s the responsible thing to do. So let’s take care of ourselves, and each other, out there.
Keep on sailing,
Wendy
[email protected]
March 2025
