Mark and I were on the 6 a.m. watch. I hadn’t slept much. The gale-force storm we’d been tracking had arrived. From my bunk, I listened as the waves intensified, crashing violently against the hull. My bunk was on the high side of the tack, and my body was held in place by my lee cloth. The storm, which we'd been monitoring closely using Windy and Ventusky, was increasing in strength and now it was time to get up for my watch. It was interesting to see the different forecasts and the different models in each that we could look at. Some were calling for the storm to dissipate and we'd be sailing in a no wind zone.
I climbed out of bed with the ease of a drunken soldier, the boat tossing me around the cabin. In the main saloon, Mike and Tess were alert and focused, wrapping up their 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. watch. They briefed Mark and me on the conditions. Mike referred to the 25-knot winds as “sporty.” They’d already reefed the headsail before the wind picked up, and the main and mizzen sails were both double-reefed. One Ocean was ready—thanks to my crewmates.
Mike and Tess retreated to their bunks, and I began making our morning coffee. That’s when the autopilot was overpowered by wind and waves. The boat spun up into the swell, and suddenly the view through the windows turned white—a massive wave had engulfed us. One Ocean pounded and churned out of control. Mark tried to reset the autopilot, but it wouldn’t hold.
Mark stayed at the inside helm while I clipped my harness to the dodger and climbed into the cockpit to take over the more responsive outside helm. As I got One Ocean back under control, huge waves crashed into the cockpit and sideways rain instantly soaked me. It was 41°F, and the Bering Sea water temperature was just 39°F—confirmed by the Applied Physics Labs data monitor. I was woefully underdressed: fleece sweater, salopettes, rain boots and life jacket—nothing more. The waves towered 18–20 feet, and I could hear each one roaring up behind me.
Mark soon came out in full foul-weather gear to relieve me so I could suit up properly. My hands were frozen, my back soaked. I handed over the helm just as One Ocean caught a wave and surfed down it, white foam breaking all around. Mark turned to me and said, “Next time we decide to save the planet, we fly.”
For the next six hours, we traded shifts at the helm hand steering. I had been intimidated by the Bering Sea. Before leaving Dutch Harbor, the crew, like always, reviewed multiple forecasts. We compared at least three different weather models across various apps. Two showed the storm missing us; one predicted we’d ride a strong 20–25 knot southerly. We decided to go, but not without preparation.
I followed Mark as he inspected every inch of One Ocean. His eye for detail, for safety, and for crew comfort came from years of experience. I trusted that. Still, I had concerns. I pulled him aside after our meeting and asked quietly, “Are we sure this is a good idea?” The Bering Sea was unknown territory for me and I was respectfully nervous.
He listened. We triple-checked weather models, added a second reef in both the main and mizzen, and ensured everything was lashed down. He felt confident in the boat, the crew, and our preparation.
When we left Dutch Harbor, the sun was shining. The sea was calm. The Bering Sea felt less intimidating than I’d expected. That day of sailing in fair conditions helped.
And when I took the helm during the gale, I wasn’t afraid. I felt steady. I felt ready.
Mark had been training me for a moment like this. Over the past few years, I’ve been an eager student, learning from the Jedi-master of sailing himself. I was grateful he was there, but also proud that my instincts, preparation, and training were solid. When he returned to the cockpit, layered up and warm, I was grinning. He laughed, pulled out his phone, and took a video. “You’re a natural,” he said.
I grew up sailing and windsurfing. Out there, in that wild sea, it came back to me. I could feel the waves through my feet, anticipate the swell, and surf the boat with confidence. I was in my element. I wasn’t just keeping control, I was sailing her.
Mark said I handled it exceptionally well. Coming from him, that meant everything.
I’ve always felt connected to One Ocean, but now, I feel bonded to her on another level. I know I still have so much to learn—any sailor does. Every moment at sea brings new lessons. Mark has taught me so much, and some days it’s overwhelming, but I’m grateful for every bit of it.
We’ve only just begun our 27,000 nm journey, and already we’ve faced serious crossings. As we head further north, the next challenge awaits: navigating ice. And lucky for me, I know just the guy who can teach me that too.
Over and Out for now - Jenn