Date: June 2012
Position: 32°18′N 64°47′W
41°29′N 71°18′45″W
Conditions: Awful! Then Awesome!
Wet, cold and scared
Around four thirty am, the waves were as high as the mast. Course to steer was now irrelevant. I was beginning to question my life choices. The world had become a tiny place and keeping the boat upright and staying attached to it was everything. In hindsight, booking a ticket to the phantom of the opera for Saturday night in New York City was probably not the best idea. History has proven that sailing to a timetable with a destination is never a good idea. I was now discovering this. To be fair, the Prada shoes were blissfully unaware of what was going on around them.
Great ideas
All this started a few months back. A good friend of mine Amanda had charted a yacht to do the Newport Bermuda Race – a well known biannual yacht race. Being unable to do the event due to work commitments and limited vacation days I got asked to help with the delivery of said yacht back to Newport, Rhode Island, USA. YES PLEASE! How exciting. I had learnt to sail on lakes and harbours, so the chance for my first bluewater passage to be on a RACE BOAT was to be seized. With only four days of vacation, I had to be back at work on Monday. No worries! Famous last words.
Sailing
There are many definitions of sailing. “Sailing is the longest, slowest, wettest way between two points on a compass” or “you might as well stand in a cold shower ripping up twenty dollar notes”. My favourite is “its ninety percent boring and the other ten percent you are sure you are going to die”. I guess it’s a mix of all of the above which is why we love it. And keep doing it.
Aa quick geography and meteorology lesson before we set off, Bermuda is a stunning set of islands – the tip of an ancient volcano surrounded by coral reefs. Its location is 32º18’N 64º47W in the Atlantic Ocean. If you ever get a chance to go there, I highly recommend it, but I digress. Our destination was Newport, RI, 41º29’N 71º18’45W, USA, 635 nautical miles on the rhumb line. Averaging 6 – 8 knots an hour, ideally the trip should take 3 to 5 days.
Bermuda lies northeast of the Caribbean and is prone to late season hurricanes. Discovered by John Smith (he of the Pochohantis fame) when he got shipwrecked on Bermuda in a Hurricane. Hurricanes are rotating weather systems, which feed on warm tropical waters. The winds and waves generated are phenomenal, and they are deadly. When these storms lose power, they become wet, messy and just downright miserable. A general rule with sailing is run and hide. Better to sit in a bar with rum, tell tales and live to sail another day.
Debbie
The Newport – Bermuda yacht race has been known to be hit by heavy weather. This particular year, they had a recording breaking race to Bermuda, and the heavy weather held off. During the race, hurricane Debbie had initially formed in the Gulf of Mexico, tracking towards Dallas, Texas (resulting in many inappropriate jokes harking back to blue movies circa the 80’s). Debbie had downgraded and altered course to head into the North Atlantic. And she was coming our way.
Not only had I booked my return flight from New York to Bermuda on Sunday, but I had also decided to see The Phantom of the Opera on Saturday night. Nothing like sailing to a timetable. We delayed our departure, hoping Debbie would scoot passed us and loose power. She didn’t. We cleared Bermudian customs late Tuesday afternoon to set off on an adventure. There were four of us – Amanda, Ben, Shaun and myself. I had no offshore sailing experience. We decided to do paired watches, four hours on, four hours off due to the inclement weather.
The big blue
Now an interesting thing occurs the first time you cant see land. It happens very quickly when departing Bermuda because the highest point of the archipelago is 260 ft above sea level. Suddenly, the ocean becomes very big, and the boat very small. There is now a lot of water between you and your destination. It is such a choice feeling. Your world shrinks to you and the boat. The swell was picking up ahead of the wind and was more noticeable outside of the reef and clear of the lee of the island.
I started to get an inkling of how wet the next 24 hours were going to be. The guys called it the waterfall. A wave comes over the bow (not a particularly big wave) slides along the windward deck, turns and washes down through the cockpit. Right over where you are sitting at the helm. Nothing to get excited about yet, but a heads up of what was to come! It also washed the flying fish that landed in the cockpit back overboard.
The clouds were lowering, wind picking up, sea state increasing and night was falling. No birds around and the sea appeared devoid of life. The rhythm of watch sets in quickly. When off watch, you sleep. The only dry place in the cockpit was under the combing by the companionway. We took turns huddling under there while the other one helmed. We were on port tack, the old delivery sails set, small jib up and she was clipping along nicely. With no other boats to contend with or land to avoid it was a case of hold this heading for about the next 635 nm if the wind stayed true.
Learning curve one
It sometime during this watch I experienced learning curve number one, navigating the head. Most of the boats I have sailed have been pretty spartan when it comes to creature comforts. Icarus took this to another level. The head was located in the forward cabin which doubled as the sail locker. It stuck out off the floor like a mushroom, with no grab rails. In rough conditions wearing a full set of wet weather gear, this becomes challenging!
Imagine trying to go to the loo in an earthquake, when you are drunk, at night and the power is out. Get the idea? Put it this way, when the boat comes off a wave, you come off the toilet. And when you come off the head, the content of the bowl follows you. I decided the bucket and chuck it was the way to go after that. At least, you can stay on it while holding the mast base no matter what the boat does!!!!! Offshore sailing is not romantic.
Learning curve two
It was now time to retire having survived the head. Learning curve number two. I was worried it would be hard to sleep in rough weather. It isn’t. You dump your wet clothes, put on a dry underwear, jump into that hammock and boom. Sleep! It is shocking how quickly 4 hours is up. Fortified with muesli bars and Gatorade, it was time to get back on deck. And the world had changed.
What was a cranking breeze and decent swell had morphed into gale force winds, some waves making eight meters! The mainsail was reefed, storm jib up and the waterfall now resembled Niagra Falls (not that I have actually seen them, but I intend to). Did I mention rough? The boat was constantly drenched by the waves and spindrift. The rain became my friend. At least the rain kept the salt in the eyes to a minimum. Bugger it was stinging like pellets. It could have been hail for all I knew at that point, busy squinting through all the wet stuff coming at me from all directions.
Learning curve three
Learning curve number three – the other 10 percent. The noise of a tropical storm is incredible. Hunkered down inside on land, the power out, branches blowing down the street, windows rattling, house shaking is both a frightening and exhilarating experience. Imagine being on a boat. Not only do you have the sound of the wind, there is the noise it makes through the rigging. The sea roars. The boat has its own set of noises it makes when under load. Stays groan, the hull creaks, and there is the crashing noise that GRP boats make as they work their way through the waves. Communication on deck becomes a composite of yelling and semaphore. And swearing is very common.
Can’t see bugger all
Visibility is severely restricted during the day by these conditions. At night, there is none. You are lucky to see the bow of the boat clearly, and about two meters on either side of were you are sitting. Salt water is in your eyes, and whilst the rain washes them out, it feels like hailstones hitting your eyeballs. So you sit there squinting into the dark trying desperately to pick a safe path through the waves, wishing you had taken up something a bit more sedate as a hobby.
Hanging on to the tiller for all my life’s worth, I might have mentioned to my fellow watchman “I can’t see a fucking thing” to be met with, “yeah, radar doesn’t work in this either. Just keep the boat upright and don’t stress cause there is nothing you can do at this speed if anything is in front of us”. Very practical advice!
AIS
We had the luxury of AIS (automated information system) which notifies you where all commercial ships and some private vessels are. The radar will hopefully pick up anything else. In rain, the Radar becomes redundant. It picks up all the raindrops and spindrift, gets blocked by the waves so gives you a solid wall. If a shipping container or other some such obstacle was in your immediate vicinity, you probably wouldn’t have time to alter course even if you saw it.
The human brain is a funny thing. We had satellite radio with 30 channels available. A quick round of rock scissors paper and we settled on a comedy channel. It is quite a thing, in the middle of the storm with my overactive brain running disaster scenarios at an alarming rate, to be listening to Monty Python. It worked though and we made it through our watch. The joy of pulling off sodden wet weather gear, putting on a fresh set of dry undies is just marvellous. As an aside, if you have any body image issues/shyness etc., you will lose them real fast on a boat. There wasn’t much space and no doors to hide behind. Sleep, glorious sleep!
Through the crocodile’s teeth
The next watch, the world had changed again. We had passed through the front, the rain had stopped, the wind had eased and the seas were settling. We had made it through the crocodile’s teeth (what the frontal system looks like on the synoptic weather chart). Looking aft, the storm front was behind us, ahead, the day was lighting up. The reef was shaken, the storm jib stowed. Most importantly, the waterfall had stopped!
It was time for a hot drink – the coffee drinkers on the boat were not doing well by this point. The only means of heating water was a small camping Primus and a pot with about 1-litre capacity. Freeze-dried meals where the name of the game, and for once they sounded good. Someone had smuggled a bottle of chilli to add variety!
Gulf Stream
That afternoon I realised we were in the Gulf Stream. I had a little moment over that. When sailing Wednesday nights on Lake Taupo, I never thought I would ever get to sail towards the States and here I was, sailing in the Gulf Stream. The water is different – it actually felt to me like a river, it was a different colour. Living the dream! The sun had come out. The safety rails turned into a clothesline in the vain hope of drying clothes before they turned mouldy. It was about this point the sea life made a comeback.
Learning curve number four
Learning curve number four – the 90 percent. This is the rinse and repeat part of sailing. The routine is settled, the boat is pretty much doing what it needs to do with minimal input from the crew. I spotted a pod of Dolphins and got ridiculously excited. As did everyone else. We all charged to the rails to get a good look! No one was in a hurry to get back to do the nothingness the comes with fair winds and following seas.
Small jobs become important as ways to break up time. Dolphins, water, sky, boat and nothing else to interfere with your thoughts – apart from the desire for decent food. Overnight, there are stars to watch, planets to identify, shooting stars, satellites and planes.
Lobster pots and balloons
It was the afternoon of day number three we left the Gulf Stream, the water became browner, more flotsam appeared, lobster pot markers began to appear and I learnt that you can tell when you’re getting closer to shore as you start to see balloons on the water. We had a lovely breeze that was picking up incrementally, the bright yellow asymmetric was flying and I was driving.
Tacking
A wee broach with water ballast in woke up those who were napping in a hurry. A quick discussion about the wind shift led to a decision to tack – a completely different experience when sailing offshore rather than inshore. I sprang to action, ready to tack to have everyone laugh at me. Tacking offshore means actually the kettle will be boiled, tea consumed and possibly even a nap before anything happens! Starboard tack after two and half days on port sounded exciting! In due course, it happened. It was off back down below for more sleep.
Self-inflating lifejackets
I had gotten into the habit of stuffing my lifejacket into a reusable shopping bag when no in-use. This kept the harness organised and was within easy reach. The lifejacket had a CO2 canister with a water-soluble tablet to arm it. If you go overboard, the tablet dissolves firing the canister, inflating the lifejacket. Handy if you are unconscious or otherwise busy. Being wet for three days solid meant the tablet dissolved.
The sound of an explosion on a boat is not cool. Especially when you have just drifted off and it is right beside your head! The whole boat suffered from a surge of adrenalin as we all searched for the source of the noise – to find my lifejacket inflated within its recycle shopping bag! The deflation valve was trapped in the bag. It took two of us to pull it out to deflate it.
Landfall
I decided sleep was overrated. We would be making landfall before to long, so I might as well stay up for that. There is something satisfying about seeing land – especially when you have not been there. It was dark by the time the Newport bridge hove into view. It seemed a rather fitting end to an amazing trip watching the bridge lights slide by to port as we headed into the marina to find a berth.
As luck would have it, we picked the busiest weekend. There where America’s Cup AC45 regatta yachts there, a Trimaran race that was circumnavigating the globe was in port over the weekend. And every single fishing boat on the North Atlantic coast had decided to come home for the weekend. We spent an hour circling the port before we gave up and parked the boat in the traveller lift (the place where you pull big boats out of the water). There was no space on the quarantine jetty for us to pull up on and do customs.
The little girl’s room
While the rest of the crew called homeland security to clear us in, I headed for the toilet. You cannot believe how I was looking forward to a toilet that was not moving. And I was busting!!! In time-honoured fashion, the distance between you and the toilet is inversely proportional to your need for the toilet. The directions I received where “Go over to that big building there, walk round to the far side, find the green door, go in, turn right, go to the end of the corridor, go up the stairs turn left, halfway down that corridor on your right should be the toilets. Somewhere there anyway”.
With those instructions burning a hole in my head and bladder that was about to explode I hoofed over to the main port building, found the green door and found the ladies room. It was with great relief I dropped my pants and sat down on the loo, only to be confronted with learning curve number five.
Learning curve number five
Sealegs is a very real condition. As soon as I sat down on the toilet, I thought we had been hit by an earthquake. A big one at that. The whole cubicle moved, so violently I had to put my hands and feet on the walls to stop it moving. Realising it was all in my head and there was nothing I could do to stop it, I darn near burst into tears! Even washing my hands was a challenge. Standing with my elbows on the basin, feet splayed was the only way I could wash my hands without falling over.
The feeling slowly subsided and I was walking like an almost sober person by the time I made it back to the boat (that condition was soon to change). When I told the rest of the crew they just laughed at me. I always thought that sea legs happened as soon as you got onshore. Not so if you are otherwise distracted!
Homeland Security
Now, whilst I was in my own world of misery, another small drama was in its nascence. It is usual to present yourselves to customs upon arrival in a new country. It turns out that no one in Homeland Security answers the phone after 2 am. There is a recorded message stating office hours are 7 am to 8 pm. We decided to make the most of this opportunity to go home, have a shower, eat some real food and sleep.
We got pissed instead. And when we returned to the boat after sunrise, we found Homeland Security waiting for us. They weren’t happy. The red-faced, sweaty man with a gun was to fat to climb onto the boat (the tide had gone out so it was a wee jump down onto the deck from the dock) so we spent an hour trolling around the port finding somewhere he could come aboard.
We were concerned he was going to have a heart attack on us. After this whole performance, he was even less happy to find I had entered on an incorrect visa! At this point, my de-escalation skills where diminishing rapidly. I managed to blag my way out of a large fine. Thank god I was flying out the next day from New York.
The guys reckoned I should give up offshore sailing right now, as it doesn’t get any better than a passage like this. And with a large cafe breakfast, my first blue water adventure was over!
My Facebook post, Tuesday 12 July 2012.
“Rain, wind, doldrums, soaking we, shooting stars, unbelievably wet, the impossible to use toliet, dolphins, WET, Gulf stream, surfing a class 40, dripping wet, exploding lifejacket, more dolphins, wringing wet, ships at night, 4 days at sea, 635 nm, delivery of Icarus from Bermuda to Newport – done! Huge thanks to Amanda, Ben, Shaun for the most awesome week ever! xxx”
