Here are Frank Hafner's observations on our delivery voyage from
Tortola to Florida in November, 2003
Tortola to Florida in November, 2003
This is a description of my experience on a 46’ Beneteau sailboat on a trip
from Tortola, British Virgin Islands to Cape Canaveral Florida. One of my
closest friends, Steve Streifer, bought the boat from a charter company and
hired a delivery captain to take the boat to St. Augustine, Florida.
from Tortola, British Virgin Islands to Cape Canaveral Florida. One of my
closest friends, Steve Streifer, bought the boat from a charter company and
hired a delivery captain to take the boat to St. Augustine, Florida.
Steve arranged with the captain for us to go along. The crew consisted on Steve, the delivery captain, Jerry
McCarthy, his wife Leah, first mate Tripp Sneed and me. I had thought I had met adrenalin junkies but Tripp takes
it to a new dimension – no details here but take my word for it.
As a little background, soon before the trip, my wife and her friends went to see a fortuneteller. She told my wife
that she would receive a large sum of money soon. As my wife and I sat around musing about the possible origins
of our good fortune, the fact that we had recently increased my life insurance came up. We mentioned the voyage
and my possible deposit in Davy Jones Locker and kind of chuckled about it. That brought to mind another friend
had nearly lost a powerboat in a storm off the coast of Florida.
Back to the trip. As I was flying on the leg From San Diego to Fort Lauderdale, I was talking to the person next to
me on the plane. He told me that he owned a powerboat in Ft. Lauderdale but he did not take it out in the winter
but he does have friends that do. I told him that I was off to a trip from Tortola to Florida. I added that Steve
planned to eventually sail the boat around the world. He then became strangely quiet for the remainder of the trip.
As we were leaving the plane, he looked me in the eye and said that this trip in November would probably dash
any desires that Steve might have for sailing around the world. At that point I started to question the prospect of a
warm leisurely outing.
My second indication that it was not going to be a leisurely outing was the view from the plane window flying into
Tortola. I saw numerous storm cells dropping heavy rain and whitecaps. On arriving in Tortola it was raining and
windy. At the marina, the wind was singing in the rigging of the boats creating a choir of low frequency voices. We
made a number of taxi trips searching for foul weather gear (no luck) and other last minute items. Two of the taxi
drivers said that they had never seen a storm like this in their lives except for possibly one
My third indication that it was not going to be easy was when we were checking out at immigration the following
day. When we told the officer that we were going to board a sailboat and depart for Florida, she quickly raised her
fist to her mouth as if to choke back a laugh. She regained her composure and finished her paperwork.
My fourth indication that I should be concerned came in the taxi just prior to departure; the emergency broadcast
signal came on the taxi’s radio regarding the storm. The Governor of the British Virgin Islands was advising that
people stay in their homes as to not interfere with emergency crews.
Considering the chain of events up to this point: I was considering bailing on my friend and flying home on my
daughter’s flight attendant privileges. I then thought of my wife’s fortuneteller. My conclusion was that if I am
destined to die, I may as well die having fun rather than doing something boring and this looked like a great
opportunity to have some fun.
The day we set off, the weather had subsided somewhat but it was still stormy; gusts to 30 knots and rain. I am a
bit of a slow learner when it comes to induced pain. Our captain was keen about keeping the main cabin lights off
at night to maintain night vision. I did not know how to turn on the secondary lights at the beginning of the trip nor
did I think they were necessary.
The Dakota Rose has a shallow draft winged keel. This has advantages and disadvantages as all boat designs
do. She will sail in very shallow waters and is highly maneuverable. Conversely, she is quite vulnerable to yaw and
roll in heavy seas and as such is difficult to keep on course (No problem for Jerry who can roll a cigarette while at
the helm in 50 knot winds). In short, she can buck unexpectedly in heavy weather.
Back to the Point: The first night, on three occasions, while moving forward in the main salon, I lost my hold and
was pitched across the cabin with no sight of where or how I would land. Where I landed each time on the
opposite side, I have no clue except that it was on hardwood in the vicinity of the chart table. The first time, I
landed on my hip where my wife noted the bruise three weeks later. The second time I landed on my elbow. The
third time I caught something straight across the side of my neck.
My thinking was that I weighed 210 lbs; I had just flown about 8’ through the air; and that I had just slammed the
side of my neck into who knows what. I thought about my days of playing football and rugby, and wondered what
would have happened to a person with a less stout neck. I only got pitched one more time that trip; I can learn!
The watch schedule had Jerry and Leah on a joint three-hour watch, Tripp had two hours, and Steve and I had a
joint three-hour watch. This means that we had three hours on with five hours off. On Steve and my watch, we
would alternate who would drive first. We would each drive for one hour and one of us would drive for each of the
remaining half hours. Tripp would have two hours on and six hours off. However, Tripp was often on deck in
particularly heavy weather during his off time.
I never got used to winding down in the 5-hour down time nor did I adapt to the noise and motion in the V-birth
where I tried to sleep. I was airborne many times by the pitching of the boat and I found it very difficult to figure out
how to wedge myself in to keep from sliding or bouncing around. There were constant loud booms either from
waves hitting the bow, the anchor bouncing, and various other things that go boom in heavy weather. I found it
much quieter if I lay with my head towards the stern rather than the bow. I estimated that I got about a total of 10
hours of sleep during the eight-day trip. However I do not recall ever sleeping, but I know I did not sleep for the
first five or six days.
With her winged keel configuration, we had to constantly maneuver the boat to maintain course. I recall Jerry
coming on deck early in the trip, after he had plotted the actual course on the chart, asking what course we had
kept during our watch. I responded “210 degrees”. He asked, “Are you sure”? I said that our course fluctuated by
at least 10 degrees in either direction with each wave and that all I was sure of is that we tried to keep 210
degrees. At that point I expected him to have told us what course we had actually kept but that was the end of the
conversation, which was just fine with me. We began to hit 200 plus mile days later in the trip, I think because
Steve and I became more proficient at holding a steady course.
On one particularly eventful night, with the boat double reefed, I sat myself forward in the cockpit isolated from the
compass light. The only thing in my field of view was the top of the bow pulpit illuminated by the red and green
running lights. From my vantage point, the bow appeared to be a vague red and green arrowhead suspended in
a black veil of emptiness. Steve was riding a squall for most of his watch. I have no estimate of the wind speed or
sea state. I can just describe what it felt like as we shot through space, I had the same sensations as I had riding
Space Mountain at Disneyland. At other times during the voyage, my sense in the V-birth was that of the boat was
a snow ski racer navigating a slope wrought with moguls.
When it became my turn at the helm that night, the boat was sailing comfortably in stormy but not alarming
conditions. Quite frankly, the conditions were a bit of a disappointment compared to Steve’s wild ride. But my
adrenalin junky karma was about to take a turn for the positive; I heard a low frequency rush of wind that sounded
like a yoga chant “Ohm”. This deep-throated sound spun up in frequency for what I estimated to be a period of 5
to 10 seconds. A jet engine spinning up comes to mind. The final pitch was a high frequency shriek; as the wind
spun up, the compass started to swing hard clockwise. I immediately started cranking the wheel to maintain
course.
It was clear to me that I needed more leverage to match the speed of the compass than was to be had by my
current method of steering with hands on the wheel. I reached down with my right hand to grab one of the spokes
for better leverage. I was focusing on the compass and missed the spoke with the first grab. This slight delay in
response caused the Dakota Rose to spin out of whatever she was riding.
I was disappointed in having lost a great ride due to poor wheel handling. I decided that if I got another
opportunity, I’d try to get enough torque on the wheel by just pulling on the wheel itself. Luck was with me and that
deep-throated roar began to spin up again; the compass began to spin hard clockwise and I was on it. I rode it a
little longer this time and then there was wheel-handling mistake #2. The compass started to swing hard and I
reached both hands to the right side of the wheel and pulled with all my strength. My feet left the deck. My sense
was that if I had not held tightly to the wheel, I would have floated over the lifelines.
For a while I stood next to the wheel and a number of thoughts ran through my mind. How could I have flown over
the lifeline? How long would it have taken Steve to snap to his senses after seeing something so surreal? How
injured would I have been and how would they have gotten me back aboard in these weather conditions. Oh well.
I hoped for just one more chance to get it right. I concluded that if I were to get another shot at it, I would need to
stay absolutely balanced and centered on my feet and use the wheel spokes for the necessary torque.
I felt like I owned that ocean when the wind spun up a third time. I swung the wheel hard. The moment of truth
came when the compass began to spin beyond my range of motion; I quickly glanced down at the spoke and
made a quick sure strike and grabbed it and we were off to the races. The wheel and compass were in-sync and it
was warp speed. I had the wheel pinned a couple of times and was afraid I’d lose it but she came back around.
During this last event, I was in the zone where it had my full and complete concentration. The primary element of
my focus was strangely my feet. They felt as if they were barely floating on the deck and I had to use technique
on the wheel to keep my feet down and balanced. My limited martial arts training comes to mind where you are
required to stay balanced and centered with your lower body while delivering fast powerful motions with your
hands. At one point, it felt as if I was balancing the boat like a plate on a stick; however, she quickly rocked back
into the power of the shrieking wind.
For a brief instant I took my eyes off the compass to have a look around. The mast was drawing close to the
water; the sea, which had previously been jet-black, was now luminescent with waves agitating in all directions like
a washing machine. My sense was that we were really screaming but when I looked at the knot meter, it was only
showing 5.8 knots. (Steve's note ... the paddlewheel knotmeter was badly fouled and not delivering a good
reading ... the GPS was showing a consistent 10-12 knots over the bottom during this period.) During other parts
of the voyage, we had made nearly twice that speed with far less wind; I was a bit disappointed.
The wind abruptly dissipated and Steve made some sort of comment like, “wow, that was fast”. I answered that the
knot meter only showed 5.8 knots so it really wasn’t very fast. A few moments later, the sky just opened up; there
was a downpour of rain far heavier than I have ever experienced which lasted for less than a minute. Steve and I
just sat there laughing our heads off because the intensity of the rain seemed so absurd.
In the pitch dark of stormy conditions, steering the boat while watching the compass was quite different than
watching the non-existent horizon for ship lights. After repeated nights of staring out into the black abyss, my mind
started to make up simple geometric shapes. Over time the shapes became more complex and I did nothing
mentally to shake off these mental images. After about the sixth day of not sleeping, when the conditions we
relatively stable, and Steve was at the helm, I let myself go into a self-hypnotic state (not sure if it was self
induced). The shapes evolved into a clear rock jetty with billowing black smoke with the bow of the Dakota Rose
pounding right into it. I tried to urge my mind to sail through the jetty to see what lay beyond but could make no
progress.
As we came up by Miami we discussed ducking into the inland waterway to avoid possible bad weather in the Gulf
Stream; we decided to risk one more day. We hoped for one last beam reach directly into St. Augustine the
following day. Sounded like a good plan until we met that cold front. And that wasn’t so bad until we snapped the
headsail reefing line. Jerry and Tripp had quite an experience pulling down the sail and securing the Genoa in
55+ knot winds. Unfortunately, we did not have a storm jib.
We tried for hours to make sufficient progress to windward towards St. Augustine with the motor at full throttle to
assist the lone mainsail. Given the navigational challenges of making St. Augustine after nightfall, Jerry decided to
alter course and run south for Cape Canaveral.
What I found most interesting about the high winds was the singing of the wind in the rigging that could be heard
below. To my ears it sounded like two soprano voices. One singing three syllables on three different notes over
one time interval (triplets) while the other sang two different syllables on two different notes over the same time
interval (straight quarter notes at about 30-beats per minute). The Dakota Rose had become a quite large
stringed musical instrument being played by a bow.
There are a lot of similarities between a string instrument and a sailboat under heavy weather. The rigging acts as
the strings, the wind acts as the bow, and the hull acts as the body of the instrument. The main differences are in
the scale of things; the tension on the rigging is in the tons and the strings can exceed 50’. Go into a piano store
sometime and ask them to explain why a concert grand piano sounds so much better than an upright; string
length, tension, sound board size, etc. This will give you a sense of how beautifully a boat can sing. The Dakota
Rose is made of fiberglass reinforced by wood and is relatively small. I can only wonder how an aged wooden tall
ship would sing in heavy weather. The nautical stories about sirens are more the myth.
McCarthy, his wife Leah, first mate Tripp Sneed and me. I had thought I had met adrenalin junkies but Tripp takes
it to a new dimension – no details here but take my word for it.
As a little background, soon before the trip, my wife and her friends went to see a fortuneteller. She told my wife
that she would receive a large sum of money soon. As my wife and I sat around musing about the possible origins
of our good fortune, the fact that we had recently increased my life insurance came up. We mentioned the voyage
and my possible deposit in Davy Jones Locker and kind of chuckled about it. That brought to mind another friend
had nearly lost a powerboat in a storm off the coast of Florida.
Back to the trip. As I was flying on the leg From San Diego to Fort Lauderdale, I was talking to the person next to
me on the plane. He told me that he owned a powerboat in Ft. Lauderdale but he did not take it out in the winter
but he does have friends that do. I told him that I was off to a trip from Tortola to Florida. I added that Steve
planned to eventually sail the boat around the world. He then became strangely quiet for the remainder of the trip.
As we were leaving the plane, he looked me in the eye and said that this trip in November would probably dash
any desires that Steve might have for sailing around the world. At that point I started to question the prospect of a
warm leisurely outing.
My second indication that it was not going to be a leisurely outing was the view from the plane window flying into
Tortola. I saw numerous storm cells dropping heavy rain and whitecaps. On arriving in Tortola it was raining and
windy. At the marina, the wind was singing in the rigging of the boats creating a choir of low frequency voices. We
made a number of taxi trips searching for foul weather gear (no luck) and other last minute items. Two of the taxi
drivers said that they had never seen a storm like this in their lives except for possibly one
My third indication that it was not going to be easy was when we were checking out at immigration the following
day. When we told the officer that we were going to board a sailboat and depart for Florida, she quickly raised her
fist to her mouth as if to choke back a laugh. She regained her composure and finished her paperwork.
My fourth indication that I should be concerned came in the taxi just prior to departure; the emergency broadcast
signal came on the taxi’s radio regarding the storm. The Governor of the British Virgin Islands was advising that
people stay in their homes as to not interfere with emergency crews.
Considering the chain of events up to this point: I was considering bailing on my friend and flying home on my
daughter’s flight attendant privileges. I then thought of my wife’s fortuneteller. My conclusion was that if I am
destined to die, I may as well die having fun rather than doing something boring and this looked like a great
opportunity to have some fun.
The day we set off, the weather had subsided somewhat but it was still stormy; gusts to 30 knots and rain. I am a
bit of a slow learner when it comes to induced pain. Our captain was keen about keeping the main cabin lights off
at night to maintain night vision. I did not know how to turn on the secondary lights at the beginning of the trip nor
did I think they were necessary.
The Dakota Rose has a shallow draft winged keel. This has advantages and disadvantages as all boat designs
do. She will sail in very shallow waters and is highly maneuverable. Conversely, she is quite vulnerable to yaw and
roll in heavy seas and as such is difficult to keep on course (No problem for Jerry who can roll a cigarette while at
the helm in 50 knot winds). In short, she can buck unexpectedly in heavy weather.
Back to the Point: The first night, on three occasions, while moving forward in the main salon, I lost my hold and
was pitched across the cabin with no sight of where or how I would land. Where I landed each time on the
opposite side, I have no clue except that it was on hardwood in the vicinity of the chart table. The first time, I
landed on my hip where my wife noted the bruise three weeks later. The second time I landed on my elbow. The
third time I caught something straight across the side of my neck.
My thinking was that I weighed 210 lbs; I had just flown about 8’ through the air; and that I had just slammed the
side of my neck into who knows what. I thought about my days of playing football and rugby, and wondered what
would have happened to a person with a less stout neck. I only got pitched one more time that trip; I can learn!
The watch schedule had Jerry and Leah on a joint three-hour watch, Tripp had two hours, and Steve and I had a
joint three-hour watch. This means that we had three hours on with five hours off. On Steve and my watch, we
would alternate who would drive first. We would each drive for one hour and one of us would drive for each of the
remaining half hours. Tripp would have two hours on and six hours off. However, Tripp was often on deck in
particularly heavy weather during his off time.
I never got used to winding down in the 5-hour down time nor did I adapt to the noise and motion in the V-birth
where I tried to sleep. I was airborne many times by the pitching of the boat and I found it very difficult to figure out
how to wedge myself in to keep from sliding or bouncing around. There were constant loud booms either from
waves hitting the bow, the anchor bouncing, and various other things that go boom in heavy weather. I found it
much quieter if I lay with my head towards the stern rather than the bow. I estimated that I got about a total of 10
hours of sleep during the eight-day trip. However I do not recall ever sleeping, but I know I did not sleep for the
first five or six days.
With her winged keel configuration, we had to constantly maneuver the boat to maintain course. I recall Jerry
coming on deck early in the trip, after he had plotted the actual course on the chart, asking what course we had
kept during our watch. I responded “210 degrees”. He asked, “Are you sure”? I said that our course fluctuated by
at least 10 degrees in either direction with each wave and that all I was sure of is that we tried to keep 210
degrees. At that point I expected him to have told us what course we had actually kept but that was the end of the
conversation, which was just fine with me. We began to hit 200 plus mile days later in the trip, I think because
Steve and I became more proficient at holding a steady course.
On one particularly eventful night, with the boat double reefed, I sat myself forward in the cockpit isolated from the
compass light. The only thing in my field of view was the top of the bow pulpit illuminated by the red and green
running lights. From my vantage point, the bow appeared to be a vague red and green arrowhead suspended in
a black veil of emptiness. Steve was riding a squall for most of his watch. I have no estimate of the wind speed or
sea state. I can just describe what it felt like as we shot through space, I had the same sensations as I had riding
Space Mountain at Disneyland. At other times during the voyage, my sense in the V-birth was that of the boat was
a snow ski racer navigating a slope wrought with moguls.
When it became my turn at the helm that night, the boat was sailing comfortably in stormy but not alarming
conditions. Quite frankly, the conditions were a bit of a disappointment compared to Steve’s wild ride. But my
adrenalin junky karma was about to take a turn for the positive; I heard a low frequency rush of wind that sounded
like a yoga chant “Ohm”. This deep-throated sound spun up in frequency for what I estimated to be a period of 5
to 10 seconds. A jet engine spinning up comes to mind. The final pitch was a high frequency shriek; as the wind
spun up, the compass started to swing hard clockwise. I immediately started cranking the wheel to maintain
course.
It was clear to me that I needed more leverage to match the speed of the compass than was to be had by my
current method of steering with hands on the wheel. I reached down with my right hand to grab one of the spokes
for better leverage. I was focusing on the compass and missed the spoke with the first grab. This slight delay in
response caused the Dakota Rose to spin out of whatever she was riding.
I was disappointed in having lost a great ride due to poor wheel handling. I decided that if I got another
opportunity, I’d try to get enough torque on the wheel by just pulling on the wheel itself. Luck was with me and that
deep-throated roar began to spin up again; the compass began to spin hard clockwise and I was on it. I rode it a
little longer this time and then there was wheel-handling mistake #2. The compass started to swing hard and I
reached both hands to the right side of the wheel and pulled with all my strength. My feet left the deck. My sense
was that if I had not held tightly to the wheel, I would have floated over the lifelines.
For a while I stood next to the wheel and a number of thoughts ran through my mind. How could I have flown over
the lifeline? How long would it have taken Steve to snap to his senses after seeing something so surreal? How
injured would I have been and how would they have gotten me back aboard in these weather conditions. Oh well.
I hoped for just one more chance to get it right. I concluded that if I were to get another shot at it, I would need to
stay absolutely balanced and centered on my feet and use the wheel spokes for the necessary torque.
I felt like I owned that ocean when the wind spun up a third time. I swung the wheel hard. The moment of truth
came when the compass began to spin beyond my range of motion; I quickly glanced down at the spoke and
made a quick sure strike and grabbed it and we were off to the races. The wheel and compass were in-sync and it
was warp speed. I had the wheel pinned a couple of times and was afraid I’d lose it but she came back around.
During this last event, I was in the zone where it had my full and complete concentration. The primary element of
my focus was strangely my feet. They felt as if they were barely floating on the deck and I had to use technique
on the wheel to keep my feet down and balanced. My limited martial arts training comes to mind where you are
required to stay balanced and centered with your lower body while delivering fast powerful motions with your
hands. At one point, it felt as if I was balancing the boat like a plate on a stick; however, she quickly rocked back
into the power of the shrieking wind.
For a brief instant I took my eyes off the compass to have a look around. The mast was drawing close to the
water; the sea, which had previously been jet-black, was now luminescent with waves agitating in all directions like
a washing machine. My sense was that we were really screaming but when I looked at the knot meter, it was only
showing 5.8 knots. (Steve's note ... the paddlewheel knotmeter was badly fouled and not delivering a good
reading ... the GPS was showing a consistent 10-12 knots over the bottom during this period.) During other parts
of the voyage, we had made nearly twice that speed with far less wind; I was a bit disappointed.
The wind abruptly dissipated and Steve made some sort of comment like, “wow, that was fast”. I answered that the
knot meter only showed 5.8 knots so it really wasn’t very fast. A few moments later, the sky just opened up; there
was a downpour of rain far heavier than I have ever experienced which lasted for less than a minute. Steve and I
just sat there laughing our heads off because the intensity of the rain seemed so absurd.
In the pitch dark of stormy conditions, steering the boat while watching the compass was quite different than
watching the non-existent horizon for ship lights. After repeated nights of staring out into the black abyss, my mind
started to make up simple geometric shapes. Over time the shapes became more complex and I did nothing
mentally to shake off these mental images. After about the sixth day of not sleeping, when the conditions we
relatively stable, and Steve was at the helm, I let myself go into a self-hypnotic state (not sure if it was self
induced). The shapes evolved into a clear rock jetty with billowing black smoke with the bow of the Dakota Rose
pounding right into it. I tried to urge my mind to sail through the jetty to see what lay beyond but could make no
progress.
As we came up by Miami we discussed ducking into the inland waterway to avoid possible bad weather in the Gulf
Stream; we decided to risk one more day. We hoped for one last beam reach directly into St. Augustine the
following day. Sounded like a good plan until we met that cold front. And that wasn’t so bad until we snapped the
headsail reefing line. Jerry and Tripp had quite an experience pulling down the sail and securing the Genoa in
55+ knot winds. Unfortunately, we did not have a storm jib.
We tried for hours to make sufficient progress to windward towards St. Augustine with the motor at full throttle to
assist the lone mainsail. Given the navigational challenges of making St. Augustine after nightfall, Jerry decided to
alter course and run south for Cape Canaveral.
What I found most interesting about the high winds was the singing of the wind in the rigging that could be heard
below. To my ears it sounded like two soprano voices. One singing three syllables on three different notes over
one time interval (triplets) while the other sang two different syllables on two different notes over the same time
interval (straight quarter notes at about 30-beats per minute). The Dakota Rose had become a quite large
stringed musical instrument being played by a bow.
There are a lot of similarities between a string instrument and a sailboat under heavy weather. The rigging acts as
the strings, the wind acts as the bow, and the hull acts as the body of the instrument. The main differences are in
the scale of things; the tension on the rigging is in the tons and the strings can exceed 50’. Go into a piano store
sometime and ask them to explain why a concert grand piano sounds so much better than an upright; string
length, tension, sound board size, etc. This will give you a sense of how beautifully a boat can sing. The Dakota
Rose is made of fiberglass reinforced by wood and is relatively small. I can only wonder how an aged wooden tall
ship would sing in heavy weather. The nautical stories about sirens are more the myth.
Frank's Log - Tortola, BVI to Cape Canaveral, Florida
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