BOOM! The small cannon on the stern of the Spirit of South Carolina<$> fired a blast and spit out a cloud of white smoke, signaling the start of the MaY, 2007 Charleston to Bermuda race (known as C2B by participants). Eighteen sailboats converged on the starting line, which ran from the Spiri> to the dock at the Maritime Center that was crowded with people. A few racers, like J-120s Emocean (the eventual winner) anI>Don Quixote, hit the line at flank speed flying big, billowing spinnakers, while others seemed to meander across at a more leisurely pace. Perfect sunny weather with an unusual 12 knot breeze out of the North heralded the start of the race, a challenging 777 nautical mile crossing, but I felt glum as I watched the wind and tide carry the competitors down the Cooper. I was not racing, but was only one of thousands of spectators, stuck on my little powerboat watching the action. A group of friends and I had planned on racing in this year’s event, only to have our hopes dashed several weeks before the race under circumstances which don’t bear repeating. Needless to say we were green with envy when one of our erstwhile crewmates Eric Walker got a last-minute spot on the Luna Dans, a gorgeous, fast and luxurious 70 foot Swedish sailboat certain to be a contender. My buddy Calhoun and I came to watch the start and cheer on our friends, but we were both sour not to be included.

That night I was drowning my sorrows in a Gosling “dark and stormy” on the deck of the Bermuda sloSpirit of Bermuda with Curtis the “cook/chef,” when he said, “Ben don’t you worry ‘bout a ting, you jus’ come sail to Bermuda wid us!” The Captain Chris Blake, OBE, and Malcolm Kirkland, program director and board member of the Bermuda Sloop Foundation were nearby, so Curtis introduced us and the deal was sealed over a rum drink. I was excited but a little apprehensive — though I’ve sailed all my life this would be my first ocean crossing. I hoped a week as a deckhand would be a challenge and provide a bit of adventure.

Two days later the afternoon sun beat heavily on the teak decks of the Spirit of Bermuda as she lay tied up at the dock of the Charleston Maritime Centre. I came aboard with my gear at 5 p.m., and before even meeting the other crew I immediately set to work helping unload and store provisions for our trip. The deck was a whirlwind of action, as crew were coming back from leave and the docks were jammed with tourists enjoying the Maritime Festiv

Spirit of Bermuda is a lovely ship-a three masted Bermuda sloop completed in 2006 but based on a design common in the 1830s. Bermuda has a long and proud nautical history, and as early as the 18th century Bermuda sloops were widely known for their sailing prowess. They were favored by pirates in the Caribbean for their speed and agility.

In fact, in 1805 HMS Ple<$>, a Bermuda sloop that was reputedly the fastest ship in the Royal Navy fleet, was chosen to relay news of the Battle of Trafalgar to England.

Though based on an old design, Spirit has modern features that would have amazed our seagoing ancestors-three carbon fiber masts, powerful diesel engines, GPS tracking systems-in short the latest navigational aids and nautical gear. She carries almost 4000 square feet of sail, and can make 10-12 knots in the right conditions.

Likhe Spirit of South Carolina<$>, the aim of the Spirit of Buda <$>is educational. They are a sort of Outward Bound adventure programme for teens. The goal is to get young people out of their comfort zones, carry them to foreign lands, teach them lessons in courage, stamina and teamwork, and instill them with the self confidence to overcome adversity, whether nautical or otherwise.

At sea a crew is forced to work and live together in cramped conditions, to respect their peers and jointly perform tasks essential to the safety and survival of all. A certain esprit de corps eventually arises. The formidable power of nature can certainly scare the pants off anyone. However, overcoming such moments fosters a new sense of self-reliance, confidence and fortitude. These ships serve an important cultural mission-they foster close, personal ties between people in distant, disparate locales.

After boarding I had a better chance to inspect the officers and crew. Captain Blake is a seasoned professional with a lifetime of nautical experience. He spent several years as captain the Endeavour, a replica of Captain James Cook’s 18th century ship which made so many amazing voyages of discovery. Sarah Johnson is the first mate, a Welsh national, and very capable with a “no-nonsense” attitude. Colin Kinsella was second mate, a gregarious Irishman with curly auburn hair. My fellow crewmates were mostly black teenagers from Bermuda.

Sailing out of Charleston that afternoon with the other tall ships was awesome. We cast off from the dock and raised the three huge mainsails and a foresail. The cannons were firing, huge crowds cheered, and the weather was just right-a nice 10-15 knot breeze out of the Southwest pointed the flags to Bermuda and allowed us to depart under sail. I made a last phone call to my fiancée Allston and some other friends and family, who were watching from the CYC.

With a lump in my throat and a few sharp pangs, I felt what mariners have felt for ages as they bid their loved ones adieu and set out across the sea to an unknown fate.

The crew was quickly divided into three watches. Each watch had four-five people, and there was always an officer on deck during each watch. Travis, my watch leader, was a jovial guy with a rastafarian cap. We had the first watch after dinner, from 8 p.m. till midnight.

I popped my first Dramamine after dinner and came up on deck to gaze at the fading rays of sunset. Before long a tiny sliver of moon rose in the purple sky and God’s little lanterns came out in multitudes. I felt another lump in my throat as I watched the beam of light from the Sullivan’s Island lighthouse gradually fade into the darkness.

After watch that night I tumbled into my berth. The rocking motion and Dramamine must have done a number on me because I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. We were roused by the first mate at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast. Afterwards I came up the steps into the brilliant sunshine of the morning and found the sea flat calm. I immediately understood why our forebears thought the world was flat.

On the ocean the earth appears as flat as a stamp, and at first it’s a little alarming to look around 360 degrees and see no land. As our goal was to arrive in Bermuda on Thursday, Bermuda day, we had turned the motor on and were making 7-8 knots.

At sea you quickly fall into a routine that centres on the watch schedule and meals. With three watches, that means your only chance at a reasonable night’s sleep is every third night, as on the other two nights you will be assigned either the “dog watch” (midnight to 4 a.m.) or the morning watch (4-8 a.m.). Meals were hearty but simple and were served at 7:30, 12:30 and 6:30 p.m.

There was not much free time-during the day there were several hours spent cleaning and working on the ship, and a couple of hours for classes in navigation, mechanics, and seamanship, all of which I thoroughly enjoyed. Any other spare moments likely found you in your berth asleep, though almost everyone seemed to have both an ipod and a laptop. Rap music and hip-hop dvds were the standard fare-boy did I feel like a dinosaur listening to my Johnny Mercer and Frank Sinatra tunes.

We motored all of Monday, as the winds were very light. The sun and heat were intense, so Captain Blake kindly ordered the ship to halt so all could enjoy a swim. Plunging into the cobalt ocean in 8,000 feet of water was incredible. We dove off the rig into the cool blue water in an explosion of white bubbles. It was a little spooky looking down into the inky abyss. I remembered hearing about a US Navy sailor on a submarine who was eaten by a shark on just such a swim break, which added to the excitement. Luckily no denizens of the deep appeared, and we motored on feeling refreshed and exhilarated.

Tuesday dawned another beautiful day, full of sunshine but still no wind. The wind gods finally smiled on us, and we cut the motor off and sailed in 10-12 knots of fresh breeze from the Northwest. The wind built up to a solid 10-15 knots-just glorious sailing with a huge amount of canvas spread. By Tuesday night after eight hours on our course to the east southeast we had been pushed too far south of the “rhumbline” (the line marking the shortest distance between Charleston and Bermuda), so we had to come about and head almost straight north, straight into the face of big, rough waves. The motion of the boat changed from a long slow undulation to steep ascents and sharp quick drops with loud bangs and crashes of the bow against the rushing swells. My watch had the “dogwatch” that night, so we tumbled out of our berths at 11:45 p.m.. I felt like a pig on ice as I tried to put on my foul weather gear in the tumbling environment without running into my mates. I couldn’t believe the sight once we made it on deck. The wind was howling, the waves were enormous<\m>definitely the roughest seas I’ve ever seen. Our watchleader and probably a third of the crew were seasick, and unfortunately I was not far behind.

There is little comforting someone in that distress, but I was touched to see that those of the crew still on their feet always seemed to look after whomever was in need. Even small gestures count for a lot at such times<\m>bringing someone a glass of water and a banana can be a lifesaver. One young chap named Raymond always seemed to be helping his mates.

Somehow I lived until 4. a.m., went below and tried to sleep in my pitching bunk. I heard on alarm beeping in the engine room, and overheard that it was the bilge alarm that goes off when too much water enters the bilge (!). My pulse was still racing when a few moments later I heard people yelling up on deck, and felt the ship slow down and head straight up into the wind.

A minute later the second mate came below to fetch the bosun Melvin, whose bunk was above mine, telling him “Captain wants you on deck immediately to rig the emergency steering.”

Apparently the force of the waves had broken the steering column. I had visions of the scene in Patrick O’Brien217;s Desolation Island <$>where a Dutch frigate loses its rudder in heavy seas in the roaring forties, broaches and sinks in minutes with all hands going down to Davy Jones’ locker. Needless to say I had one of those “what the *#!?!% am I doing here” moments.

Sunrise restored my mood and equilibrium and put a more realistic spin on our situation. I came on deck after breakfast to find the sun shining, the wind blowing at 18-22 knots out of the Northeast, and big rollers coming under our starboard bow. The view was spectacular, and I felt my spirits soaring, while the positive energy dispelled the nausea (and terror) of the previous night. We sailed about 40 miles north of the rhumbline, then Captain Blake called all hands on deck to bring the ship onto the port tack. The motion of the ship went back to a smoother, more moderate rise and fall, and I was determined not to repeat my hurling of the night before. We sailed for the next several days close-hauled on a course east southeast towards Bermuda. The wind was strong and we made good time.

During watch I sat on deck and often chatted with a young college student on my watch named Weston Gosling Hatfield, a Bermudian enrolled in college in Virginia with cousins in Charleston, and related to the famous Gosling rum makers. Weston had hitched a ride on Spirit and was heading home for a summer job. We pondered the immensity, power and beauty of mother ocean, the wonder of its life-giving force, and its timelessness compared to our own frailty and transience. I was amazed on Wednesday, 350 miles from land, when we spotted a pair of small sea birds corkscrewing their way downwind. How they survive in those conditions is a miracle of adaptation.

Later that day, the highlight of the crossing for me, a huge pod of 50-60 porpoises swam off the port bow, jumping and cavorting in the 10-15 foot seas. Despite the great beauty around me I felt sobered by the unforgiving nature of my surroundings. At sea the ship is your life-your chances of survival are 50-50 at best if you go overboard. Accordingly, every sailor on the ship wears a safety harness on deck, though you are only clipped in at night or if the seas arough. Wednesday and Thursday saw rough seas and 18-25 knots of breeze, but by then I had adapted better to my surroundings and really began to enjoy life on board. However, after four nights with landfall a day away the entire crew started getting a little stir crazy and short tempered, myself included. The sight of land exerts a strange calming influence though, and the hot tempers faded as we neared land. We had the morning watch from 4-8 a.m. on Friday morning, and my heart leapt when we first caught sight of the light from the Bermuda lighthouse. Sunrise found us closer still, and we spotted land at around 10:00 a.m. Even before we dropped anchor I felt a striking change in the manner and personality of the crew-the cellphones and jewelry were out in force, and somehow the discipline appeared to diminish a bit. On balance though great feelings of happiness and camaraderie abounded. I won’t bore you with the inevitable excesses of sailors in port on liberty. The rum was flowing that night and the next as I met up with my chums among the C2B racers and we hit the Hamilton hotspots.

Through a foggy haze with my head pounding Saturday morning I felt a strange discombobulation — the land was moving about like the deck of a ship. Some of my more seasoned sailing buddies swore that the cure for such “land sickness” was a nip of the “hair of the dog that bit ya”. I resisted most of the day, refusing to believe in a wives’ tale that couldn’t possibly be true, but was amazed when my first rum and ginger of the evening put me back on an even keel.

Alas my overindulgence and departure midday Sunday left me precious little time to explore Bermuda-truly a gem of an island shaped like a fish hook, surrounded by reefs with abundant marine life and set amongst sapphire blue waters lapping onto pink sand beaches. Luckily my pals propped me up on a visit to the Maritime Museum, which I managed to enjoy. But I’m determined to go back and see more.

As my taxi carried me from the Spirit of Bermuda to the airport, I couldn’t resist one last dip into sea at Jobson’s Cove. My driver had a chuckle as I sprinted down to the sand, shedding clothes and diving in clad only in boxer shorts. Mark Twain’s words on his last trip to Bermuda were ringing in my ears: “You go to heaven if you want, I’d rather stay he”

Ben Le Clercq is Chief Travel Correspondent, Legal Affairs Correspondent and legal counsel for the Charleston Mercury