Changing Course: A Lawyer Takes the Sea Less Travelled

By David Lazan

After spending large portions of each work day in a law office, sitting at a desk and shuffling papers for almost thirty years, David had had It. Although, when time permitted, he would pursue his passion for sailing by cruising Biscayne Bay, the Florida Keys and the Abacos, the pressures of practicing law along with the responsibilities that came with being a husband and father to five children had taken their toll.
Reading about sailboat voyages to distant places by people not much different than David caused him to begin contemplating the meaning of his life. He began dreaming of crossing oceans and sailing to distant shores. Although he had achieved the type of successes that many strive for, would It now be possible to turn his dreams into reality?
If not to cross oceans David wondered, what is life's purpose? Although oceans for some are merely bodies of water, each of us have our own personal oceans to cross. Oceans that change as we proceed through life. Things we need to accomplish to make our lives meaningful. For some It is placing food on the table for our family or a roof over their head. For others, It is seeing the Grand Canyon or climbing Everest or completing a triathlon. For still others It may be owning a certain type of automobile or reaching the pinnacle of their profession.
This is the story of David's dreams -- his oceans -- and how they changed an ordinary life into one filled with unanticipated adventures, challenges, disappointments and accomplishments.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667868462

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Invitation

I

January 1990. Examining pilot charts for the North Atlantic, it was apparent that sailing from Key West to Bermuda in early April could be a bitch. If we got gale force winds in the Gulf Stream, a roller coaster would seem like a ride in a Central Park row boat. I looked at myself and wanted to puke. Six days a week sitting behind a desk had turned my once athletic torso into the pathetic image of a fat, middle-aged lawyer. I knew if I didn’t do something quick, the voyage I planned to take could be suicidal.

That evening, scared shitless, I pulled my bicycle off the wall hooks in our garage where it has been slowly rotting for the last three years. Sitting on the bike, I felt like Humpty Dumpty straddling a skinny branch supported by two thin dimes. I pumped up its tires, greased its chain and adjusted its gears. Early the next morning I stuffed myself into extra-large shorts and began a three-month ordeal in an attempt to shape up my neglected body.

During law school and for many years after, bike riding had been one of my passions. Although I wasn’t Lance Armstrong, I wasn’t Rodney Dangerfield either. Even in my early forties, I could hold my own against guys 10 and 15 years younger. But during the last two years I had let myself go. When I stopped exercising, my body went downhill fast. I had a bagful of excuses, but each was flawed. The fact is, I had become middle-aged lazy.

That January evening in 1990, as I hunched over the bicycle’s handle bars, my lower back screamed for mercy. As I applied pressure to the pedals, my leg muscles burned. If it weren’t for the strength of my desire to make this passage happen, I would never have put myself through such agony.

As weeks passed, the pain faded. Slowly, I increased my daily mileage as well as my speed. I changed my eating habits; my weight tumbled. Eventually, I began to experience the pleasurable sensations bicycling had provided me in past years.

After a month of torture, I began to get results. I even started looking forward to my early morning workouts. The familiar rush that would come as I settled into the rhythm of my ride returned. By the end of the second month, I was no longer fat and my unused muscles had regained their strength. My stamina grew. By April, I was fit. Ready for my challenge, I thought back to where it began.

II

January 1980. Only two more hours to go. I gazed through the window behind my desk. Checking my watch, I savored the last few moments of the break I had given myself before grinding out the balance of the contract which had held me captive since early morning. A breeze rustled palm trees lining the street below. There was not a cloud in the sky. The temperature outside was 80 degrees. I felt like a prisoner.

Several weeks before, I had been in bed with the flu. My wife, Judi, bought me Ice, a book by Tristan Jones, a one-legged sailor. I couldn’t put it down. It was the first sailing adventure book I remember reading. It was one of the several sparks that started my quest.

In no time, I had read every word Jones had written. A self-educated Welshman, Jones had crossed the Atlantic more than 18 times under sail, nine of which he did alone. He had sailed more than 345,000 miles in sailboats less than 40 feet in length, of which 180,000 miles were single-handed. His resourcefulness and courage impressed the hell out of me.

Not only was Jones’ writing delightful, but the man’s life seemed to be in constant high gear. It had little repetition as he created one challenge after another. Security, career and family, so important in my life, seemed to barely exist in his. His adventures captured my imagination and added fuel to the flame which was just starting to burn within my complacent soul.

After reading Jones’, books, I read books by many other sailors. One writer who intrigued me was Bernard Moitessier, a Frenchman thought by some to be the guru of sailing. Although his voyages were incredible, he was a romantic and his understanding of the sea was inspiring. He had said, The sea is a living thing. Those who don’t know that, don’t know the sea. In time, I came to believe what he had written. Like Jones, Moitessier was unfettered by normal pursuits. For him, there were more important reasons to exist, reasons having little to do with the goals I had set in my life.

Moitessier’s life would touch mine, although just barely. His steel sailboat Joshua, which had been designed by Jean Knocker, a noted naval architect, was incredibly strong and capable of dealing with the most gruesome weather imaginable. Meta, the manufacturer of the Joshua, had built approximately 100 copies of this magnificent vessel, which had become very popular in Europe. In time, I would get to know one of the Joshuas intimately.

Not only did I read all of what Jones and Moitessier wrote, I read a multitude of books written by other sailors who had taken the time to commit their experiences to print. Even though they were not always well written, I appreciated their authors’ willingness to take the time and energy to share their stories. In most, I found a common thread involving an unstoppable desire to escape a mundane and ordinary existence. Each of these sailors seemed to experience more excitement in a month than I had experienced in the last 10 years.

The more I read, the more I began to visualize myself voyaging to distant lands in my own sailboat. Often, I became the character I was reading about. In time, a dream was forged. Slowly, my dream gained form and clarity. Eventually, it became crystal clear. I pondered it and began to wonder. Could I make my dream reality? Was I caught up in a fantasy or could I actually do the things I imagined?

The dream didn’t go away. Instead, it gnawed at me. I mentioned it to Judi. She ignored it. I tested it on my children. No interest. When I told my law partners, they said, You are a lawyer. Like us, you will die behind your desk. Maybe in your next life.

Late one rainy sleepless night as 1984 began to draw to a close, I sat alone at our kitchen table. With a pad before me and pencil in hand, I drew a time line. Starting in January 1985, I began to chart my future. Unconsciously, I began to change my life.

III

February 1985. Judi and I spent the entire day at the Miami Beach Boat Show. We climbed aboard sailboats, examined gear, talked to exhibitors and ate junk food. It was getting late. Carrying plastic bags bulging with brochures and catalogues, we turned down the final isle of displays. Judi tapped my arm and pointed to a couple in the Sail Magazine booth. Those people look familiar, she said. The man, perhaps six feet tall, bearded with longish blond hair and obviously fit, was distinctly Scandinavian. The woman, as tall as the man, was slim, attractive, and displayed a head full of thick black hair. Of course, they do, I told Judi. They are Rolf Bjelke and Deborah Shapiro. The authors of the book about their voyage to the Arctic and Antarctica, which we had just finished reading. We walked over to the booth.

After introducing ourselves, we told them of the pleasure we had received reading their remarkable account. Typically, sailing books are written based on misadventures such as surviving for 200 days in a life raft because someone’s screw up had sunk the boat. This book was the exception. Rather than passages plagued with problems and disaster, their book showed that excellent preparation, good judgment, and capable seamanship enabled Deborah and Rolf to sail their 40 foot steel sailboat, Northern Light, thousands of miles into the Polar regions, often in heavy weather, and without mishap.

Their photography was as captivating as their story, the tone of which, was so very positive. They described what they saw with such precision that you could feel the bite of Arctic winds, taste cold clear mountain streams flowing into Chilean channels from the Andes high above, and smell fragrances of wildflowers filling exquisite meadows carved by glaciers lining the banks of Patagonian fjords. Pictures of majestic icebergs penetrating clear slate blue skies, humpbacked whales breaching near the bow of their boat, a remote Antarctic lake and ice flows stretching as far as the eye could see were breathtaking. In addition, unknown to me at the time, lessons their story provided would prove invaluable in the future.

On one occasion, they wrote about preparing to cross the Drake Passage, which separates South America from Antarctica. While anchored by Deception Island, off the Antarctic Peninsula, the weather was bleak and frost-bite cold. Rolf climbed the mast to inspect the rigging. Some thirty-five feet off the deck of Northern Light, he discovered a hairline crack in a tang, a piece of metal attached to the cable connecting it to the mast. Although the crack was small and barely visible, Rolf knew that the crack could not get better, only worse. He wrote that a failure of that tang in the Drake Passage, one of the most dangerous and unforgiving bodies of water in the world, could be catastrophic. Making the repair then, despite the weather conditions, was uncomfortable but manageable. Most importantly, it hopefully eliminated the potential of the tang failing at a time and in a place where it could not be fixed.

Delighted that we enjoyed their book, Deborah and Rolf wanted to know about us. Our conversation barely began when the boat show closed. Because it was late and our discussion incomplete, we agreed to meet the next evening.

These were the first long distance sailors we had ever met. As we drove home from the boat show, I said to Judi, I am surprised Deborah and Rolf were so nice and pleasant. Judi responded, What did you expect? The question hung. What did I expect? What kind of people did I think sailed across oceans? What exactly did I think explorers and voyagers were like?

The next evening, we again met with Deborah and Rolf. Although our lives were as different as night and day, we found we had many things to talk about. I was particularly interested in knowing what route they had taken to arrive at the life they now led. Deborah had been an executive in the music industry and Rolf, a jeweler. I wanted to know how two people could escape a somewhat ordinary existence in order to lead a life so filled with excitement and challenge. Deborah and Rolf were interested in how we had coped with raising five children. They thought that our challenge, creating a family after going through divorce, was as difficult as anything they had done.

There were many things we had in common. We shared a love of nature and the natural order of things as well as great concern for the future of our planet and mankind. We each valued freedom and independence and considered honesty and respect two of the most important values one could have. We learned from each other and explored each others’ ideas. Our friendship deepened. Over the next several years, we would see much of Deborah and Rolf and write to each other often.

IV

September 1989. Deborah and Rolf prepared to return to Antarctica. This time, however, they intended to winter over. As a sea trial, they would sail Northern Light from Sweden to Newfoundland, then along the east coasts of Canada and the United States and south to Florida where Deborah’s parents had a winter home. There, they would do their final fitting out for their planned voyage.

December 1989. Late afternoon. As usual, my eyes hurt from peering at my computer screen for too many hours. I was reading changes to an agreement I was preparing for a client. I had read this document so many times I almost knew it by heart. I am paranoid when it comes to reviewing agreements. As I scrolled through page after page for the umpteenth time, my phone rang.

It was from Deborah. She said, David, Northern Light is anchored in Fort Lauderdale. If you and Judi have no plans this evening, we would love to have you join us on board for dinner. Fort Lauderdale is a half hour drive from my home. We had no plans. I responded, Gladly. Just tell me where to meet you and when. We chose a time and Deborah instructed me to meet her in the parking lot of a small shopping center near the spot where Northern Light was anchored. After hanging up the phone, I called Judi to tell her of the dinner arrangements I had made. Fortunately, she agreed to them.

After work, I picked up Judi and we drove to the shopping center in Fort Lauderdale described by Deborah and pulled into the shopping center’s entrance. Abutting the entrance was a canal dead-ended for boat traffic by a low bridge. Anchored in the middle of the canal was a redhulled sailboat bearing the name Northern Light. What a strange setting it seemed for a boat that had just crossed the Atlantic and been to Antarctica and the Arctic.

Deborah picked us up at the dock in a small inflatable dinghy and rowed us to Northern Light, where Rolf waited to welcome us. Having never been on an ocean-going sailboat, let alone one built from steel, I was immediately surprised at how solid Northern Light felt. Although she had just traveled over 5,000 miles, crossing the North Atlantic Ocean in difficult weather, this sailboat, a sister ship to Bernard Moitessier’s Joshua, looked almost as if she had just come from a boat show.

My eyes darted from one thing to another. I asked Rolf questions about features of Northern Light with which I was unfamiliar. There were many. Rather than merely providing simple answers, he instinctively knew that I needed more and gave me theory as well as his reasoning so I could understand why he had selected particular equipment and placed things the way he had. He described conditions under which equipment must function and the types of problems that those conditions create. As I subconsciously absorbed his words for future use, I also realized that I was totally without any frame of reference.

Later, descending the steep ladder into Northern Light’s salon to eat the dinner Deborah and Judi had prepared, I immediately noticed the beautifully crafted varnished teak interior. A soft yellow glow from small brass lamps located on the cabins walls or bulkheads illuminated the light rich fabric of deeply upholstered couches or settees positioned on each side of the salon. Built into the forward bulkhead at the end of one of the settees was a bookcase reaching to the salon’s ceiling. The bookcase contained an entire set of Encyclopedia Britannica bound in a familiar deep red fabric as well as a collection of books which included the adventures of Amundsen and Nansen, famous polar explorers. An imposing stainless-steel diesel heater whose smokestack rose through the cabin’s ceiling, sat next to the bookcase. I felt as if I had entered someone’s parlor. In fact, I had entered another world.

During dinner, Deborah and Rolf talked of the passage they had just completed. They spoke of oil rigs in the North Sea, of Surtsey, our planet’s newest island, and smelling sulfurous gas a hundred miles from its shore which bubbled up from a rift or crack in the ocean floor in the spot where Surtsey had been born. They talked about their passage through Belle Isle Strait and along the coast of Nova Scotia, of their trips across the Bay of Fundy, through Buzzards Bay, the Chesapeake and along the east coast of the United States to Florida. They told of places they had been, things they had seen, and the winds, seas and feelings they experienced as Mother Nature, constantly surrounding them, defined their lives. As hard as I tried to visualize and feel what they described, I could not. I had never been to most of the places they talked about. My exposure to Mother Nature had always been brief. The evening ended late.

The next day, Deborah and Rolf sailed Northern Light from Fort Lauderdale to Miami. There, they joined us in our home for the Christmas holidays. Before New Year’s, they would sail to Sarasota, Florida, to be with Deborah’s family and finish preparing Northern Light for its voyage to Antarctica. As we sat in our living room, Rolf explained the necessity of re-crossing the Atlantic before heading south. In that way, he said, we avoid the adverse winds and currents of the intertropical convergence zone where the North and South Atlantic meet off the coast of South America.

Deborah told us that they would leave Sarasota at the beginning of April and sail to Key West, the starting point of their trip back across the Atlantic. From Key West, they would sail to Bermuda, the Azores and Madeira before heading south towards the great Southern Ocean also known as the Antarctic Ocean. It would be a little early to cross the Atlantic, but it was a necessity, as Rolf saw it. He explained, We have to test-sail new components in our rigging to be sure they can take the Southern Ocean’s weather.

Turning to me Deborah added, David, why don’t you join Northern Light on the passage from Key West to Bermuda? It sure would be nice to have you on board and it would give you an opportunity to gain a little offshore sailing experience. With no hesitation and before Judi could consider the significance of Deborah’s invitation, I accepted.

CHAPTER TWO

Friday the 13th

I

April 7, 1990. I flew from Miami to Key West to join Deborah and Rolf. Northern Light was at the Galleon Marina waiting to begin the trip north. I struggled down the marina’s dock burdened with camera gear Rolf had arranged to have delivered to my home. Deborah greeted me and helped me carry the equipment to Northern Light. So glad to see you, she said. We’ve just completed installing your bunk in the aft cabin. The words your bunk stood out. For so many years, I had been a husband, a father, and a lawyer. Roles not much different than most everyone else I knew. I was a typical working stiff with the same responsibilities, pressures, and daily grind as the guy next door. Now, for a few days, I would step out of that role. I would leave the security of land and depend upon myself, my crew mates and Northern Light for survival.

I felt comfortable with these thoughts. I would be sailing with people that I considered friends whose abilities I respected on a vessel I believed was well suited to the task. If I intended to turn my dreams into reality, I could not have asked for a more perfect opportunity to determine whether I was up to that task.

As I stepped aboard Northern Light, I noticed how low she sat in the water. She carried many of the provisions needed for her trip to Antarctica. Lockers were stuffed with boxes and bags of food. Skis, parkas, and equipment for a polar winter filled the bow. There was a feeling of readiness about her. I stowed my gear.

Because it would be many days before we could enjoy shore side luxuries, Deborah suggested showers before dinner. As I headed for the marina building, a fellow on a luxury sloop tied next to us said, That’s a serious boat you’ve got there. He didn’t know how right he was.

II

The next morning was delightful. As we motored out of the harbor, Rolf unfurled the sails. A light breeze was sufficient to allow us to turn off the engine which we would not use again until we reached Bermuda. Rolf engaged Northern Light’s wind vane self-steerer. Once this incredibly dependable mechanical device took over, it was no longer necessary to deal with Northern Light’s steering wheel. The wind vane would do all the steering while we were at sea. If course adjustments were required, a relatively infrequent event during an ocean passage, they would be done by moving a thin line that ran from the steering gear at the stern of Northern Light through a series of pulleys to a location in the cockpit near the companionway hatch. This allowed adjustments while standing on the companionway ladder without having to venture from the safety of the cabin.

In the warm afternoon sun, we busied ourselves securing shackles with wire and establishing a watch system. Rolf suggested three-hour watches and asked my opinion. I had none. I’d never even thought about a watch system that would be followed for more than a day of sailing. Instead of answering Rolf ’s question, I engaged my lawyering skills and asked Deborah her thoughts. After reflecting on the tedium of four-hour watches, Deborah favored Rolf ’s suggestion. Considering Deborah’s thoughts and my lack of knowledge, I announced that three hours sounded good to me also. By unanimous vote, it would be three hours on watch and six off.

2000 hours. It was my watch. Deborah and Rolf were below. For the first time, I was alone on Northern Light’s deck. Day had turned to night. We were no longer in sight of land. As I gazed upon the dark ocean, I began to wonder how I would cope with being offshore for an extended period of time. How would lack of contact with anyone but my two crew mates affect me? Would I feel trapped on a 40-foot island? Would I become fearful or go berserk? Having never subjected myself to the isolation of passage making, I wondered how I would I react to these unknowns.

As we beat north, I experienced new sensations. Sailing, even for an afternoon, had always relieved me of stress, but never to this extent. Knowing that I would not be confronted by the pressures of work for the next week, that my wife had assumed the entire responsibility for our family, and that my sole concern was my obligation as a member of Northern Light’s crew made me feel as if a tremendous burden had been completely lifted from my shoulders. Not since I was a small boy had I felt so free.

With the sounds of the sea in my ear, and a star-studded sky above, I felt freedom. No stop lights. No speed limits. No boundaries. Just the open ocean before us. The sounds of the wind and light from the stars. We were in constant motion. There were no constraints. Time had become a place. The only limitations were those Mother Nature might impose.

III

It is our second day at sea. My watch. Winds had increased. Now, it seemed as if Northern Light was more than a steel sailing vessel. More than a mere creation of man. She had become a racehorse, with strong steel shoulders, galloping across a rugged plain, her head tucked into her chest. It was as if, finally, she was free of the bonds that restrained her from romping the waters that were her home. She was in her element, a striking pelagic beauty. As my watch came to an end, I began to draw a deep and genuine feeling of security and strength from Northern Light that would accompany me throughout this entire voyage.

Day turned to night. The