On Watch: Why Smart Sailors Prioritize Sleep at Sea

If you don’t sleep, you start making bad decisions inside of 48 hours. A tired sailor is a dangerous sailor, to themselves and others. Illustration by Chris Malbon

Back in the day, “­Two-Time Tommy” never did a Race to Mackinac without bringing a Sunday Chicago Tribune in a resealable container. He’d take any bunk assigned to him. He asked no special favor for being the vessel’s navigator, but he always used that newspaper to mark his territory. Only then would he stow his Plath sextant and Thomas Mercer ­chronometer, both in gleaming varnished mahogany boxes with solid bronze hardware. Never cheap brass. 

Tommy had won—or, the vessels he’d served as navi-guesser aboard had won—the Mackinac back-to-back. He was a hot navigator, plucked from the ranks of Great Lakes cruising vessels. And he’d spent a lot of quality time at sea, both before and after World War II. 

Mostly, Tommy kept to himself. He said little. He was a tall man with a clipped mustache and a whiff of Old Spice. And he napped often. “I’m enough of a numbskull bright and fresh,” he’d say. “I don’t even want to think of all the stupid things I’ll do if I get fatigued.”

On the morning of the race, he’d go through his ritual—stripping the sheet and pillow off his bunk and then placing page after page of the newspaper on his mattress. Once he had about four layers of newsprint over the mattress, he’d unfold a piece of plastic sheeting and place that over the newsprint, tucked in carefully between the hull and the mattress with the flat end of a small wooden ruler. 

Tommy was a careful, precise man, and all of this took time. Newbies would take note and inquire why. 

“Well, you never know,” Tommy would say with a smile. Each time he’d leave his bunk, he’d do it. Each time he returned, he’d redo it. 

There’s much we can learn from the iron sailors who grew up aboard wooden vessels. Back in those days, the starting line was filled with heavy Alden schooners and graceful Herreshoff ketches—nearly all carvel-planked. And it’s a long race, the Mack is. The weather is fickle. Lake Michigan is notorious for going from fresh to frightening in the blink of an eye. Many of the boats were built of thousands of pieces of wood—planks, butt-blocks, bilge timbers, stems, horn timbers and frames, not to mention the deck planking, deck beams, mast boots, and skylights. 

Don’t get me started on skylights—so lovely, with their bronze bars, thick glass and oiled-canvas covers seeping into the piano hinges. Yes, a good ship’s husband could make his skylight leakproof in the hardest rain, as long as his vessel was in a harbor. At sea, not so much. And I’ve never been offshore with a traditional hinged skylight that didn’t leak. 

Wooden boats also flex. Especially at sea. In a blow. Under a spread of Egyptian cotton. 

Often, before Mackinac was fetched, Tommy’s was the only dry bunk aboard. “It’s not a matter of if,” he’d say, “but when.” 

Why do I mention this, dear reader? Because many of the most experienced sailors, like Tommy, think of sleep first. Getting sufficient rest offshore is a priority for them. 

If you don’t sleep, you start making bad decisions inside of 48 hours. A tired sailor is a dangerous sailor, to themselves and others. 

First off, you need a dry bunk, numerous pillows and at least one bolster. The idea is simple: You sleep in a comfy rough between the hull on one side and a wedge of pillows and bolsters on the other. This allows you to drift off without having to tense and relax your stomach muscles. 

I also use an eye mask, but it’s a large, hollowed-out one that allows my eyelids to flutter during REM sleep without waking me. 

If we are hove-to in a full gale or rarer storm conditions, I also bring my noise-canceling headphones with me, to drown out the screams of centuries of drowned sailors. AirPods and old-fashioned earplugs work almost as well. 

Of course, aboard my 43-foot ketch, Ganesh, custom-sewn, super-strong lee cloths are always rigged in heavy air, so there is zero chance I’ll become airborne during a broach, knockdown or roll. 

Normally, I fall asleep ­instantly, unless I’m so tired and so wired that I can’t. In that case, I slowly, methodically relax each part of my body until it is leaden and floats on an imaginary cloud. I start with my toes and seldom get to my head. 

My wife, Carolyn, is to a large degree responsible for how rested I am before a major gale. Once she realizes that a bit o’ breeze is on the way, she orders me to my bunk. If I’m sleeping deeply, she doesn’t wake me for as long as possible. 

During this time, she makes a thermos of coffee and one of soup, and hard-boils a dozen eggs. I can fight a gale forever with eggs in my foulie pockets. I just hold the egg up, crush it one-handed until the flecks of shell are all swept overboard, salt it with the waves bounding aboard, and chomp it down. Once, on a 36-hour stint at the wheel with a jammed headsail, I couldn’t stop steering long enough to pee. Afterward, alas, I truly understood the “foulie” nomenclature.

Anyway, Carolyn works extremely hard before the gale while I nap like a little prince. She gets her princess sleep during the gale as I wrestle with the devil on deck. 

Obviously, before the gale, I drink only nonstimulants such as herbal tea and avoid heavy meals, both of which can inhibit sleep, especially for the aged. 

One thing I never do is to wish the storm away. This can quickly lead to obsessing. In fact, I have a switch on my anemometer so that my crew and I can’t obsess about the speed of the gusts. Nor do I listen to any chats on the single-sideband radio with newbies who don’t want to die. I tune out the wealthy friend with a large yacht that has Starlink. He stupidly attempts to push the storm away with his cursor—and then complains bitterly over the SSB that it has no effect. 

Expressing this kind of fear is contagious. If a crewmember grows silent with worry, I nonchalantly talk about events in the future while noting that our masts are up, our is keel down, and our bilges are free of water. 

No, I never allow any talk of the life raft. Lubbers consider the life raft a reasonable option. Sailors don’t. To me, stepping into a life raft is one step closer to Fiddler’s Green. 

Of course, just because I have spent a lifetime avoiding my life raft doesn’t mean I sail without one. I have two. And, most important, I have four dry bags full of supplies. I also have a rehearsed plan. (Of course, I have a lofty distress kite with a tail of shiny CDs to alert ­distant ships. And an AIS for the raft, and a handheld VHF radio with a solar charger as well.)

Here’s the truth: I’ve chosen to live my life afloat. This affords me the highest quality of life imaginable. Storms are part of life at sea. Therefore, I’m out in midocean not only for the magnificent sunsets, but also for the storms. 

Few people have ever seen a mature gale from the deck of a small vessel. The immensity of the force is unimaginable. I think of this force as Mother Ocean, but you can call it Mother Nature or God if you prefer. Whatever you call it, it is awe-inspiring. 

Whenever I think of death, I remember the cosmic thrill of surfing off on liquid mountains in the lower Indian Ocean. Yes, I fear men. No, I neither fear nor deny death, because death is what makes living so ­touchingly sweet and precious. 

Of course, to stay safe out there, Carolyn and I are careful not to wake the other. We use a Watch Commander. It’s an adjustable timer that first blinks gently, then buzzes softly and, finally, rings an alarm. This is a one-touch device. Each time it is touched, it resets. Our Watch Commander is a beloved companion after three circumnavigations.

One thing I do not ­recommend is any mother’s ­little helpers. Don’t carry pills to stay awake, and never take one to fall asleep. Party your heart out on recreational drugs if you must, but only ashore—never at sea. 

Most of all, I’m rested at sea because I’m at peace at sea. I love the long ocean passages the most. Forty-eight days across the Pacific was the ­closest I’ll ever get to heaven on this earth. I’ve wanted to do this all my life. No price is too high for me to pay to continue to see God’s face in every wave.

Sailing is the last planetary freedom a poor man can enjoy. The American cowboy used to say, “Don’t fence me in.” Luckily, mobile phones, computers and AI haven’t yet figured out a way to wall off Mother Ocean. 

Go to your nearest port and shove off to sea at dawn. Long before nightfall, you’ll be ­totally alone—just you, your vessel and your god of choice. 

How cool is that?

Fatty and Carolyn Goodlander are having a blast in Singapore, where they recently hosted a ­traditional American Thanksgiving feast for about half the country. 

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