When the Ocean Roared Back

Newport to Bermuda | Departure from Block Island

 

A few hours before our planned departure, after a dinner of light pasta and salad, the first hints arrived: lightning flickering on the horizon, a hush of calm that felt almost staged, and then the first breath of northwest wind, exactly as forecast. Within minutes, the gusts began to register: 30 knots, 40, then holding steady in the 50s.

 

At that point, I started the engine to ease the strain on the mooring and shut down the cabin lights to focus on the instruments. Outside, the scene built quickly; the bow heaving into three-foot chop despite barely half a mile of fetch, spray cutting over the bow and hissing as it hit the half-inch-thick tempered glass of Libra’s hard dodger. At 60 knots, the rig began to howl, that wild, wolf-like wail only a ketch can make when the wind finds every stay, shroud, and halyard. By 70 knots, the engine was pushing hard just to keep Libra centered on the mooring. It was loud, a living thing: wind, water, and rigging all in chorus.

 

But this was the plan all along, laid out before us like a red carpet of speed. We were waiting for the front to pass, to let the chaos clear so we could ride the stable air that always follows. The first band of storms usually tears through with violence, then leaves behind crisp, dry, trustworthy wind. Sure enough, as the clouds cleared and moonlight stretched across the anchorage, the gusts eased back into the 30s. The sky opened, cool and clear. It was now time to show this green Libra crew what being prepared and sailing in big wind and a heavy sea state was all about.

 

Libra, with her split ketch rig and two centerboards, was built for broad-reach moments like this: sails divided between two masts, easily balanced and strong in heavy air. We unhooked from the mooring and motored out of Salt Pond directly into the northwest breeze, climbing through the narrow channel and into open water.

 

For three miles we motored under bare poles, dropping the newly rebuilt centerboard to her maximum draft of 5 meters (16.5 feet). Spray lashed the rails, the crew quiet and focused, each absorbed in the moment. When we cleared Block Island’s lee, we raised the main to Reef 2, fell off, and rolled out just enough jib to keep her steady, no larger than a twin bed sheet. The sea opened up in long, marching lines of six-to-eight-foot waves with breaking tops. The front had passed. The ocean was ready, and we were there.

 

Libra leaned into the wind, found her rhythm, and the engine’s growl faded into the steady hiss of wake, spray, and wind: that unmistakable sound of departure. It’s impossible to explain, but every sailor knows it, that rush of unbelievable freedom that comes when land slips astern and the sea takes over. We were on our way to a limitless, moonlit horizon, speeding away from New England and the cold at ten knots.

 

The official departure time was 1:00 a.m., Tuesday, November 4th, 2025. A night departure for two reasons. First, the front had just passed, and the winds were perfectly aligned for a fast offshore run. Second, we wanted to reach the Gulf Stream about 200 miles to the south during daylight. If the seas and wind were still sporty, daylight would give us the visibility to read the water and steer through any confusion. Remember, we’re teaching, not racing.

 

The section of the Stream that looked most favorable was flowing southeast, setting us up to catch eddies and use the current to our advantage. That is standard procedure for this route. We had a conservative estimate of 180 nautical miles for the first 24 hours. Not because we couldn’t do more, but because there was no reason to put the crew through a rough ride. Libra is heavy and forgiving, but add too much sail area in those conditions and you can unleash a beast. It would be like driving an old Jeep down a washed out mountain road full of ruts and gullies with the gas pedal pegged to the floor.

 

In this case, slow is pro. It conserves crew energy and morale and keeps movement below deck manageable, which makes everything safer. I always remind new sailors that safety comes first, and on Libra that means one thing above all else: SCS over SOS. It stands for Safety, Comfort, then Sailing, and always in that order. Get those out of order and that’s when mistakes happen. Fast is fun, but there is always time for that later. I knew that already.

 

After clearing Block Island and Montauk over the Southwest Ledge, Libra set her course to 170 and entered the open North Atlantic. The night was cool, clear, and lit by a full moon that turned the sea silver and white. The wind was steady from the northwest. Through the early morning hours the sea state built slowly, each wave a little steeper and a little heavier. By dawn we were surfing down the faces of ten to twelve foot seas with the occasional fifteen foot roller, wind gusts brushing forty knots. On a broad reach the apparent wind across the deck stayed in the high twenties to mid thirties. Libra was in her element and thriving.

 

The stability offered by her main board and arrow straight tracking was spectacular. Many boats, especially fin keeled designs, would round up at the bottom of each swell or worse, twist violently at the crests of tall, flat waves. On other boats I have been spun a full ninety degrees on thin tall wave tops with growlers chasing. But not Libra. She was showing off her pedigree, a combination of Bill Tripp Jr.’s design and Abeking and Rasmussen’s legendary build quality, like I hadn’t seen in years. Truth be told, we sail in the right places and at the right times of year, so conditions like this are rare, but never entirely unexpected.

 

Throughout the day we ran our standard three on, six off watch rotation in pairs. Those watches are exactly as they sound: three hours of being fully alert, watching every motion of Libra’s sled ride toward the Gulf Stream.

 

Did we use the autopilot? Absolutely. Could we have hand steered? Of course. But I have always believed a rested crew is a better crew. The goal is not to wear people down; it’s to cross oceans efficiently, effectively, and safely. These sailors didn’t join Libra to suffer at the helm. If needed, we could always take over from Auto, but as long as the system performed, it earned its keep.

 

Most of that first day was spent surfing comfortably in thirty knots of wind, the boat handling it all with quiet confidence. But there were a few growlers out there. Libra took one square on the starboard deck, a wall of water that fell from the crest of a following sea as we surfed down its face. I was below, resting and preparing for the night watches, when the impact hit. Water blew through the aft and starboard curtain, instantly dumping fifty gallons or more into the cockpit in a single second.

 

Normally we ride in relative comfort in these sporty conditions, watching the story unfold from the safety of the deep enclosed center cockpit like fish in a bowl. But when the water drained, we were left with a repair. Like so many at sea, it was made of leather, duct tape, and deck screws. It wasn’t pretty, but Libra is no dock queen. She is a bulldozer of the sea, marching endlessly through whatever is thrown at her, even a heavy cockpit rinse every now and then. It was shocking for the standing watch, but always a possibility given the size of the sea.

 

Chrissie and Aaron were tethered in on watch and handled the situation perfectly, with help from the others who were awake. Within an hour the repair held, and we were once again sailing dry and protected from the elements.

 

The Gulf Stream is a vast ocean current, capable of moving at speeds up to five knots or more. When wind and weather oppose it, it can create what sailors call elephants marching across the horizon, steep square waves that break across the deck or hammer equipment endlessly. Many sailors study the Stream for days before departure, planning the best angle to cross. It can be many things, but rarely is it as smooth as it was this time.

 

In all the years of making this passage, I can say this one greeted us gently. The Stream was barely three feet when we entered in the twilight hours Wednesday morning, with sunny skies and fifteen to twenty knots on the beam.

 

By midday we had already shaken the reefs out and were sailing in fifteen to twenty knots of apparent wind with a full main and genoa. The boat stretched her legs again exiting the stream to deep blue water, steady and fast, slipping south in a long rhythm that Libra finds so naturally. Not long after, we were greeted by another vessel making the same run to Bermuda, a sleek Amel Super Maramu ketch named Ipanema light up on our plotters AIS marker. Hailing her on the radio, we compared notes on the passage so far and agreed to close the distance for a quick photo session, trading waves and camera angles across the sea before each vessel fell back to its course, two travelers marching side by side across the vast North Atlantic.

 

Our chart plotter still showed Libra’s glowing past tracks across the Stream, each line a reminder of the different techniques and timing that have defined her crossings. By the end of those first thirty six hours at sea, with conditions veey different from the start, the crew had settled in. There was good food, good laughter, and that unspoken feeling that everything was settling into the typical offshore rhythm.

 

That evening, as the full moon rose again the sea began to build with the wind and we went to reef one on the Main and reef 2 on the Genoa. The boat was steady, the sea alive, dinner was simple, and we were exactly where we were meant to be, and exactly on time to meet the next weather system that was already approaching from the west.

 

By late Wednesday evening the signs were already there. The digital barometer below had begun its slow but deliberate drop, just as expected. The sky turned from cobalt to steel, streaked with passing showers, and the sea took on that heavy motion every seasoned sailor recognizes before a front. We were still more than three hundred miles northwest of Bermuda, right on the approaching edge of the system. The forecasts had called for a secondary front, similar to the one we left in, which had been sporty, but weather in the Atlantic is never as polite as the models make it look. Out here there was no lee, no protection, just open ocean in every direction.

 

Just before eight p.m. the wind began to rise. We sailed in thirty knots, sometimes more, holding course under a single reef for a while before settling into the same configuration we had used in the last blow: double-reefed main (deep reef) and triple-reefed jib (bed Sheet). By midnight the wind was holding steady between thirty and forty knots true, and it was getting lively. Seas built to fifteen feet, breaking often and throwing spray over the deck. We eased our heading to the east to avoid taking it square on the beam, running now with the wind about one hundred forty degrees off the starboard quarter.

 

My thought was simple. We needed to make some easting anyway, and once the front passed, the wind would clock north, letting us fall off to the south and resume our course to Bermuda, keeping the wind on starboard instead of running dead downwind. This wasn’t a system that would linger; it was going to sweep right over us and move on.

 

Within the hour we were surfing at speeds that made even me wide eyed. The rush was indescribable. Libra sailed straight and true, never fighting to weather, never hinting at a broach. Auto was still earning his keep as the VIP crew member, holding the line as if he understood how high the stakes really were.

 

In a large breaking sea the danger is simple and absolute. When a boat stalls at the bottom of a wave, the bow can bury deep, slowing the hull while the momentum and force of the water continue forward, pushing the stern faster than the bow. That conflict of motion twists at the boat, placing the keel square against the bottom of the forward wave, creating excessive heel that can roll a vessel on its side, drive a following breaking wave through the cockpit, or in the worst cases, turn her completely over and fill her with water, compromising stability before they right themselves.

 

But Libra never even hinted at it, though she was watched closely and intently. She tracked arrow straight, rising and falling with each wall of water, plowing forward through the spray, slowing in the trough before racing down the following face. Each crest exploded into white foam that rose and blew across the deck like smoke. She heeled, she fell, she rolled, she leapt from crest to crest, and yet the course was the course, steady and true.

 

The wind continued to climb, passing through the forties and into the fifties with that familiar deep howl we had heard off Block Island just a few days before. With every gust, Libra accelerated. Fifteen knots, then sixteen, and finally an 18.4 knot burst that set a new record for her top speed (previously 17.7). Funny, the things that run through your head in a moment like that. For a sixty foot ketch displacing over 44 tons, it was pure motion and controlled fury, a dance with gravity and sea that demanded trust in your vessel, your equipment, and your nerve in equal measure.

 

But the night wasn’t done with us. The darkness around Libra was total, thick, and alive. Then came the wave, larger, faster, darker than the rest. It struck from astern with the sound of a cannon. Libra lurched and heeled hard, over forty degrees, still on course but buried to the toerail. A wall of green water poured over the port deck, sweeping it clean, followed by a second impact that cracked like gunfire.

 

I snapped on the spreader lights, turning night into day. What I saw made me roll my eyes in disbelief. A paddleboard I had agreed to deliver to Grenada for a friend had been mounted on the port rail before departure and I had forgotten all about it. When Libra rolled, the board scooped up a wall of sea, the pressure snapping it clean in half, jagged edges glinting like a shark bite before it slipped into the darkness. In front of where it had been attached there were two forty- pound propane bottles, the EPIRB with its hydrostatic release, and Libra’s heavy aluminum boarding ladder. The propane bottle cover was gone, the securing strap slack, and the ladder was in the water, slamming against the hull with every roll, a metallic hammer that could open us up if left unchecked.

 

We had to go out there. There was no choice. Either we secured the gear or we watched the sea take it, and maybe more.

 

Michael and Dan were my A-team for this one. They where long time friends and had come for a taste of real offshore sailing, and they were about to get their money’s worth. We reviewed the plan, the tethers, and every step they’d take before moving. When they lifted the cockpit curtain, the full force of the wind hit them, spray in the face and water pouring across the deck. They clipped in with two tethers each, one to the jackline and another to the inboard ring to keep their bodies from reaching the rail.

 

Michael went first. Ten feet aft to the ladder felt like crossing a battlefield in the trenches. Every motion was deliberate, shoes finding traction on a deck alive with water. Dan followed, bracing against the mizzen shrouds before working on strapping the propane bottles back to their rack. I took manual control of the helm and turned Libra deeper into the wind, giving Auto a rest. We were running dead downwind now, small sails pinned to port. Any mistake, any broach, would have been catastrophic for the crew on deck.

 

I watched every motion like a hawk. Even ten feet away it was impossible to speak; the roar drowned everything. The deck lights were on, turning the storm into a theater of spray and shadow. I could see them clearly, every movement precise and deliberate as they fought to regain control of the deck. Michael hauled the ladder back aboard, securing it as Dan muscled the propane bottles into their cradles, his arms shaking against the motion. Those bottles are no small task, twice the size of any backyard grill tank, and trying to secure them in that chaos was nothing short of heroic. Later they would both describe it as a spacewalk, the cockpit being the ship, every movement critical.

 

The whole operation took about four to five minutes. When they finally crawled back into the cockpit, still clipped in, their faces were pale, eyes wide, adrenaline flooding every muscle. Their mouths were dry a dead giveaway of excitement, their expressions somewhere between awe and disbelief. They had just went face to face with the raw fury of a North Atlantic gale and stayed sharp through all of it.

 

It was around three a.m., time for the watch change. Chrissie and Aaron were next. We talked through the situation, how the boat was handling, and what to expect. Below decks it was controlled chaos, loud, a bit wet, and everything in motion. The contrast was surreal. Up top, the world was black and howling. You had to be shoulder to shoulder to hear a word. The boat was steady again, Auto back on duty, but the sea was relentless.

 

An hour later, it happened again. Libra dipped her port rail, water racing down the deck, and the ladder and bottles tore loose once more. I knew instantly what had happened. The ratchet strap had worked free without the cover protecting it. This time I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t about to risk a third time.

 

I grabbed the tether still clipped to the jackline, double checked the second one, and told Chrissie and Aaron exactly what to do if anything went wrong. Then I went out through the curtain and into the light, the deck glowing under the spreaders. I know Libra’s deck by muscle memory, every handhold, every foothold, every line. I reached the scene fast. The bottles were free again, one still connected by hose, the other rolling aft with every pitch. There was no way I could wrangle both back to the cradle, and I made a quick call. I could live with forty pounds of propane. I picked up the loose bottle and heaved it overboard, donating it to the sea, then strapped the remaining one down hard.

 

Only then did I retrieve the ladder, tie it off, and return to the cockpit. The whole thing took maybe two minutes, but for Chrissie and Aaron watching from the fishbowl it all happened in slow motion. When I stepped back inside, Chrissie and Aaron had that same look Michael and Dan had earlier, lips dry, hearts racing, adrenaline humming through them. They didn’t say much, but they didn’t have to. I could see they understood exactly what the ocean was capable of.

 

We ran with it for nearly sixty miles in six hours, gusts over sixty knots driving us down the faces of waves some stacked up upon each other to thirty feet. It was raw, fast, and beautiful, but every instinct said it couldn’t last. The seas were stacking closer, the wind holding steady in the fifties. The crew moved carefully, always clipped in, their faces lit by the dim red glow of the instruments until the first light of dawn broke over the horizon.

 

The six a.m. watch came. Chrissie and Aaron changed over to Robert and Paul. Not long after they settled in, I announced down below that we were going to heave to. The boat would now heel in the other direction, to starboard after the turn, and I wanted everyone awake and alert to make sure they didn’t tumble out of their bunks. Why didn’t we heave to earlier, you ask? We needed light to see which set of waves we’d throw her bow through without risking a broach. It had to be timed and coordinated between the crew to make the maneuver work the first time. It was the right call. I gave Auto a break, took the helm, and turned Libra through the wind while Paul pulled the mainsheet to center. We came up and over a wave, backwinded the jib, and locked the helm to port. Libra steadied herself, riding a bit calmer in the chaos, quartering the seas with slow confidence she pushed her weight while the storm ripped past. The breaking waves now hit the forward port bow, where the higher freeboard kept the cockpit safe and dry. Spray hissed against the hard glass dodger almost constantly.

 

I’ve done this maneuver hundreds of times in lesser conditions to demonstrate it to training crews, so I knew exactly how she would behave. Like setting a parking brake, Libra crept along at two to three knots while to forces countered each other between rudder and sail. The wind was down in the forties, the sea state still very large but now semi-organized and spaced a bit further apart. We held that position for another six hours while I slept. I needed the break. Overnight we made about seventy miles of easting but no real ground toward Bermuda.

 

Throughout the night we had been in and out of radio contact with Ipanema, the Amel Super Maramu ketch we had met the day before. We never saw them on AIS during the night. They had tried to heave to as well, but their setup wouldn’t hold and they kept running. One of their crew had been injured, thrown from her bunk during a breaking wave. It wasn’t life threatening, but it was serious enough to change the tone of their passage. We checked in when we could. They were tired but managing, pressing on under shortened sail to the east.

 

Around eleven a.m. I came out of my cabin ready to tackle the sea again. The crew looked worn but steady. The wind had eased slightly, the motion was a bit smoother, and I knew we needed to start making south if we wanted to make Bermuda the next day. We still had 220 nautical miles to go.

 

Normally to sail out of a heave-to position, you just pull the jib through and carry on. But the jib was already set to port, exactly where I wanted it for a starboard tack south, and I had nothing to prove about my ability to sail Libra. I fired up her 175-horsepower turbo Yanmar diesel and pushed the RPMs just enough to drive her bow back across the wind, putting her back on a starboard tack once again. The wind was still in the thirties, but after what we’d just been through it felt like an afternoon cruise.

 

The sea state was still large, with waves running fifteen to twenty feet and the occasional breaking top. We pressed on beam-to, crawling up one wall of water and sliding down the back. From the trough you saw nothing but the next rise, then at the crest you could see a rolling horizon in every direction. The jib luffed now and then when the wind was shadowed in the troughs. At one point, while perched high on a crest, I saw a wave taller than the rest, two systems colliding to throw water straight into the sky half a mile away. It was a reminder of how real and alive the ocean still was.

 

By Thursday evening the worst had passed. The wind backed into the twenties and clocked north, easing further. The sea was still running ten to fifteen feet but no longer breaking with force. The crew, drained but steady, moved about with that quiet coordination that only comes after real weather. There were tired smiles, dry clothes, and strong coffee. The world that had been all motion and sound was suddenly calm again. The ocean still had a pulse, but its fury had passed.

 

By late Friday morning the color of the sea had shifted. The deep slate blue of the open North Atlantic gave way to the soft turquoise of the Bermuda Rise. Flying fish darted across the bow, and the warm air filled in from the south. There wasn’t enough wind to sail, so we motored on, the galley finally able to serve real food again. Brooke, the mate aboard Libra, had prepared meals before departure knowing the weather would be rough, and now they were worth their weight in gold.

 

Everyone could feel it, the nearness of land. Aboard Libra, the call of “Land Ho” comes with a prize if you spot it first. Dan won, shouting it from the deck with well-earned excitement.

 

Not long after, Paul called out from the stern, “Fish on.” Three lines had hooked up at once, two rods and a handline. We’d crossed through a school of mahi-mahi, a welcome gift from the sea and perfect timing for dinner before arrival.

 

Just after sunset, Bermuda came into full view. I had transited this area dozens of times before and knew the entrance to St George’s like home waters. Several boats were nearby, Ipanema among them. We entered the cut, dropped anchor, launched the dinghy, and cleared customs in no time. The other crews soon arrived, gathering on the customs dock swapping stories of the crossing while their captains completed the clearing process. There were smiles, relief, and that shared look among sailors who’ve seen the same horizon.

 

And then there was Atlantic Explorer, the 170-foot, 1,200-ton steel oceanographic vessel that had been in the same weather system, roughly two hundred miles south of us when the front passed. They had been forced to halt their research operations entirely, assisting with an overdue sailing vessel, something no mariner ever wants to hear.

 

Her first officer, who followed Libra’s voyages, saw our post about the weather and reached out. The next afternoon I went aboard to meet the First Officer and the Captain. The Atlantic Explorer is built for deep-ocean work, rated for Sea State 5, about thirty knots of wind and ten to twelve foot seas, while still able to conduct science. That night, she faced Force 7 conditions with waves to fifteen feet. Even she had been forced to stop and ride it out. The captain told me they’d taken solid water over the bow more than once, the deck awash, and every piece of gear lashed down three times over.

 

Standing on that steel deck, hearing it from the man who runs a ship that size, put Libra’s night into perspective. They were on the edge of it; we were in the middle of it. Two very different vessels riding the same ocean, bound by the same truth. The Atlantic does not care about size, purpose, or pedigree. It reminds you who is in charge if you choose to ride upon it often enough.

 

Over the next few days, more boats trickled in from the U.S. East Coast, many from the Chesapeake, part of the Salty Dawg Rally. They had used the same weather window to depart, following the forecasted front east. Most had been well south of the biggest wind when it crossed, but the damage reports told the story: torn canvas, broken rigging, steering failures, and at least one catamaran crew airlifted to safety by the U.S. Coast Guard after abandoning ship when it began taking on more water than they could remove and it sank.

 

One boat in particular "WAVELENGTH", from Alabama and close to Libra's home port, had broken its rudder post, losing wheel steering and relying on the autopilot and emergency tiller. When they asked for help entering St. George's Harbor I offered assistance, I recognized the hailing port, they had once hauled out at Nelson’s Boatyard right next to Libra back in 2020, on a different vessel. We launched our tender to guide them safely into the harbor when they arrived Sunday afternoon. It was calm, daylight, and straightforward, but I could see the relief on the captain’s face when the anchor finally set and the engine stopped, This was their first time venturing far from shore.

 

There were many stories from that crossing. We weren’t the only ones caught in the middle of it, but it was one for the books, and we were grateful to come out the other side with little more than a bent rail and a missing propane bottle.

 

In hindsight, the paddleboard should have been strapped to the hardtop under the solar panels — out of the way and off the rail. I never thought about it until after the fact, because usually nothing is there. Would I have done anything differently besides that? I don’t think so. Libra was built for this kind of work. We had daily weather briefings, and the crew was told it would be “sporty and rough at times.” While this one was more intense than most, it gave everyone aboard a real experience of what the sea can deliver and we were ready for it.

 

When this crew, consisting of Michael, Dan, Robert, Paul, Chrissie, and Aaron call on Libra again to train more, experience new destinations, or relax under the Caribbean sun, I’ll be glad to have them aboard. They made one hell of a crew and forged a bond not known to many others.

 

Each year, more people stand on the summit of Everest than make the sail from New England to Bermuda in small ocean going boats. It’s a challenge, but challenges are how sailors grow and evolve into capable captains for their own vessels and their own crews. Every one of them earned their place and my respect for keeping their composure in the thick of it.

 

Ryan

​

Comments?  leave them below by reaching out