It’s All Swell From Here On In
After months of sleeping on solid ground (discounting the few earthquakes) Adam and I were literally desperate to get back on the water again. However, like all memories, you tend to remember only the beautiful sunsets, beach BBQs and snorkelling with colourful fish. The bits of boat life that aren’t so romantic are quickly forgotten when you’ve been knee-deep in dirty boat jobs for several long months.
Unfortunately acclimatising to this new feeling of sleeping at anchor hasn’t been quite as seamless as I had hoped. So for everyone following our adventures and feeling a little envious of the sun, sand and sea, I thought it was only fair to share a true account of what sleeping onboard a sailboat is really like.
I will apologise in advance for the spelling, grammar, and general ‘flow’ of this post. For once I have an excuse for the strange thoughts and terrible use of the English language – I’m pretty darn tired. So tired in fact that I’ve convinced myself a post about sleeping at anchor will be interesting. It may, or may not be so. Feel free to tap out and pretend you read it at any point!
On our first overnight trip on Hot Chocolate we had the expert guidance of a race sailor who thought nothing of the 30+ knots of wind and 4m seas he took us out in. We had our route carefully mapped out, we performed more tacks in one day of sailing than we have in the last two years and we made it safely to our planned anchorage.
What none of us really considered was the fact that race sailing and living aboard are two very different things, and the carefully chosen anchorage offered no real protection from the iffy weather we were forecast. With none of us any the wiser, we dropped the anchor and assumed this is what life ‘on the hook’ would look like.
The boat bucked and rocked in the waves and we all settled down for a good nights sleep. The halyard slapped continuously against the mast, the water tanks sloshed around like crazy and most of the night was spent trying not to roll out of bed. I was absolutely terrified for our upcoming adventure. How could we possibly live like that!?
Since then Adam and I have remembered that first night at anchor with some embarrassment. We quickly learnt how to choose sensible places to anchor that have meant we’ve not experienced another night quite as bad as that one! But that doesn’t mean we always sleep soundly onboard.
Not So Swell Afterall
There is a strange phenomena that I can’t find an answer to and therefore can’t predict or avoid. Unlike waves you can’t see it coming, or usually even see it when it’s arrived. It haunts me in the night and blurs my days. They call it ‘The Swell’.
It starts, as all great horror stories do, in the most beautiful of places. You’re in a stunning, calm anchorage, thrilled that you’ll have the best night’s sleep in this little paradise. You have the BBQ lit and a glass of wine on the table. Life is as good as it gets. And then, out of nowhere (cue spikey violin music), in it creeps like a mist.
Small at first, barely perceptible. ‘It’s just wake from something already past us’ we reassure each other. But deep down a cold fear is forming within. We both try to act normal, in the hope that our fears are wrong, but we can see from the whites of each others eyes that we are thinking the same. The swell is arriving.
There is no wind, there are no waves, but there is a definite movement in the ocean that we can’t see or hear. The small rocking of the boat is pleasant at first, a little rocking chair, gently and soothing. However, it builds, and builds, so that by bedtime the boat is rocking so violently that we have to cling to the handholds to stay upright.
Anything we hadn’t put away while we were lulled into the feeling of security we had earlier in the day is now flying across the boat. That glass of wine has long since been abandoned as we rush around the boat closing slamming cupboard doors and chucking knives in the fridge.
We consider moving anchorages, but the swell is smart. It tends to only show itself come darkness so that approaching an unknown bay isn’t at all desirable. It knows you’re stuck right where it wants you.
We manage to wrestle ourselves into our PJs and consider neglecting dental hygiene, as to brush our teeth would mean using two hands and we can’t be sure of what will happen if we let go of our handholds. Who needs teeth anyway?
Next, we need to consider the direction in which to sleep. Do you want to be rocked violently to sleep from your head to your toes, or from side to side? Adam prefers the first and I prefer the latter, though prefer perhaps isn’t the right word to use. More like which can you endure more.
People pay large amounts of money to be thrown around like this on theme park rides, and I vaguely consider opening up the boat as the next Chessington or Alton Towers. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t pass the safety standards though so that money-making scheme is quickly put to one side.
Tiny Cat has wisely chosen to curl up inside a cupboard, and is glaring at us as we pass her with a look that suggests she’d rather we had just left her in the bin. Sorry, Tiny Cat.
As I lie there being thrown from side to side, I try to imagine I’m in a rocking crib, being pushed lovingly to sleep. I can’t help wondering if this is the real reason babies are renowned for not sleeping at night and I feel a lot of sympathy towards them. Mothers, do not put your children through this hell!
At some point (I don’t know when as looking at my phone would undoubtedly bring on a wave of nausea), the swell appears to be abating. The boat is now rocking at a mere 45-degree angle and sleep seems a possibility. Moments later I’m jolted awake once more as the rocking builds again.
And this is how I spend the night, wondering what I’m doing trying to live in this coffin of torture as I snatch minutes of sleep here and there.
All Is Forgotten
As the sun rises I take a cup of tea onto the deck and watch the reds and oranges of daybreak. I’m fuzzy from lack of sleep and the fresh air is invigorating. The swell has disappeared as quickly as it came and the boat is still at last. I can hear the goat bells in the distance and watch the fish below the surface of the crystal clear water.
‘Did you sleep ok’ Adam asks, as he comes up to join me.
‘Really well’, I answer, as all is forgotten in the warm glow of the sunrise and the feeling that there could be no better way to start the day.
What were cat naps invented for anyway!?
