Words and photos copyright Captain Liz Clark.

Got a note from Liz today from her satellite email. Here’s an excerpt from that email, about a storm she was in. Liz is currently somewhere near Christmas Island and going strong. Look forward to another update from her in our summer issue. She’s such a bad ass.

WHEN IT COMES TO ‘RIPPING’, SAILORS DON’T WANT TO BE LIKE SURFERS

I came up for air around 5pm and stared at an approaching squall line in a haze of laziness. Already well-reefed, I figured we’d ride on through it, slightly uncomfortably, but pop out the other side shortly thereafter. So I excused myself from taking down more sail. But when the onslaught of the approaching ‘death cloud’ shifted the wind by ten degrees and gusted to 35 knots, the Monitor lost control of the steering, sending us into sail-flapping irons-the worst possible state for the weakened headsail. I released the jib sheet in a panic and hauled in the roller furling line with all my might, but it was already too late. I rasied my eyes from the winch on the last pull in time see a new tear in the sail just below my recent repairs. My knees went weak at the shock of my new reality. Tears fused into the rain and salt spray already on my face, but I soon realized that there was nobody to hear me crying, nobody to call on the radio, nobody that could do anything to remedy the situation but myself. So with that thought, I crawled to the bow in my harness and wedged myself into a seated position between the dinghy and the lifelines as I thought carefully through each step of the pending process. I had to get the ripped sail down and the storm jib up before dark. One miscalculation of my plan or failure to execute it properly could prove disastrous. After talking myself through the plan, I crawled back into action.

Turning Swell downwind and motoring at full speed brought the apparent wind to about 10 knots. I then raised the stormjib, as it would further reduce the amount of wind in the headsail that had to be pulled completely out before it was possible to release the halyard and haul it down. I tackled the sail onto the deck as it slid down the furling track, then managed to wrestle it into a ball and roll it aft like the blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It dropped down the main hatch and onto the cabin floor in a wet mountain. I had a new ‘roommate’ for the next two days. I had to wait for the damp sail to dry before beginning the repair, and in the meantime, the storm jib was sufficient sail while intermittent squalls pounded us through the night.

The next morning I noticed new groundswell from the north, adding to the intense rolling motion of the beam seas. There was no way around it, though, sail repair or ‘Operation Duct Tape’ HAD to commence. In an awkward position between sitting and lying atop the weathered canvas that was now spread from one end of the cabin to the other, I used my last 10 inches of Dacron tape to repair the worst part of the rip. I then reinforced the entire length of the luff with double strips of duct tape. I taped and wrestled for two days, pondering which made sail repair less fun–the aroma of cat urine or the clutch of nausea. If you’d like to test out the latter for yourself, a comparable land-based ‘operation’ might be embroidering your initials on two wet, king-sized sheets and then sewing and taping together their lengths in the back of a Civic ‘hatchback’ with manual transmission in stop and go freeway traffic with a student driver. Don’t forget to fold them when you’re finished.