I usually begin preparations for heading south in early September. Here's Ruth Avery
hauled out at the Finestkind Boatyard in South Harpswell for bottom painting.
The general idea is to have the boat ready to sail by mid-October, and wait for a
weather window to head out for Bermuda.
Saturday, October 22, looked good enough. The weather was forecasted to be dominated by a series of weak cold fronts which would bring light to moderate SW to NW winds. Well this idyllic seeming weather window to Bermuda lasted all of about two days after setting sail from Brunswick. I was slowed down a fair bit by light airs on my second day out, and those weak cold fronts I had hoped would generate light to moderate SW to NW winds were now spinning off low pressure systems. Presently I was looking at several days of reaching in near gale conditions. There was also the possibility of the development of another major low near the end of the week (this was Monday), according to Herb on SouthBound II, who was advising much bigger, faster boats in Newport, RI, to stay put for the next few days until this weather sorted itself out. I was just south of Nantucket at the time.
Decision time: risk rough weather, or sail about 100 miles out of my way to reach a protected anchorage and wait for a better forecast? I decided upon the latter, to head for Newport or thereabouts. But now I was contending with 25-30 knots from the NW, obliging me to heave-to for the night to await the predicted shift to the SW which would enable me to make headway toward RI. Thankfully conditions did moderate the following morning with a backing wind, and I resumed sailing. As I worked myself into the shallower waters south of Martha's Vinyard, I was greeted by dozens of those beautiful White-Sided dolphins. Dolphins always seem to be such happy souls, ready to play no matter what the circumstances, though I'm sure they too have serious concerns.
The following day brought increasing winds from the east thanks to an approaching low pressure system. By evening I was scudding down Buzzards Bay in gale conditions, the sea's surface so agitated that it was highlighted by lime colored bioluminescence, the wave tops sparkling like lucent jewels. It would have been a magical moment if I had been a frame of mind to appreciate such natural wonders, but I had my hands full. There was little hope of trying to make it into any harbor in these conditions. I have a GPS, but without a powerful diesel engine I may end up on the shore if the anchor doesn't hold. So I would lay a-hull for the night, drifting southward past the east side of Block Island. As I was still fairly close to Block Island the following morning I decided upon Great Salt Pond as a hangout until the next weather window. Despite the roaring gale the night before, I sailed into the anchorage with light northerly winds and cheery blue skies. How the face of the sea can change ...
The last time I had been to Block Island was on the July 4rth weekend in 2004. On a big summer weekend the place is a non-stop carnival, so many boats you might be able to hop right across the harbor without getting your feet wet. Barbeque fires are smoking everywhere, live music on the dock, jet skis zipping around, ferries moving in and out, and a fever pitch of merriment as only a great mob of drunken idiots could achieve ... But now in late October most of the docks are pulled up, water and fuel pumps shut off and winterized, the anchorage mostly empty--the proverbial ghost town.
Weather reports are indicating that this next low is going to be a biggie, so I joined the two other cruising yachts in the northeast end the harbor, which offers decent holding and the best protection. I originally set out two anchors, my main CQR and my fisherman off to the north. By late afternoon, however, it is gusting probably near forty knots, and, feeling the hairs start to go up on the back on my neck, I dig out the 22-lb Danforth and place it up on the foredeck on top of 300 feet of nylon rode I had flaked down.
Good thing I did. Around 7p.m. it had built to storm force--and I am not using that term loosely-- Buzzards Bay tower had NE winds at 44 gusting to 56 knots. Suddenly my CQR pulls out. I scramble up to the foredeck. It was difficult to stand upright, with the pitching and nearly getting blown down by the icy blasts. As she dragged the CQR, swinging in line with the fisherman (which was holding, God bless it) I lowered the Danforth. This was serious. My lines of defense against shipwreck were seriously sagging.
Following the advice of a great old sea dog, Bernard Moitessier, I connected the rode of the Danforth to the CQR with a rolling hitch (which was no mean feat, having to pull more than 200 feet of rode through each loop), such that the CQR and the Danforth were now rigged in series. In this way, the two anchors reinforce one another, as opposed to having two anchors set out at an angle to each other, where generally one anchor takes all the strain and then the other. In these conditions no single anchor I had was strong enough to hold the boat.
The old sea dog didn't lie: by morning the rode to the fisherman was slack. I presumed it too had eventually pulled out, so the two anchors in series were what kept me from shipwreck. The low was moving away, and skies were clearing, but the winds were still gale force. New York and Rhode Island had been slammed with blizzard conditions the night before, causing many power outages and downed trees. It had been quite a storm.
So now about that passage south ... with nighttime temperatures dipping down into the 30's and no heater for the cabin, I was looking for that first available window. Herb was telling the crowd in Newport that late Tuesday into Wednesday was looking like a possibility, following the passage of yet another low pressure system. Come Wednesday, Nov. 2, it was still holding up, although some boats had elected to leave on Tuesday evening despite Herb's admonitions of strong to gale force winds offshore. I weighed anchor in the early afternoon, but was immediately faced with the hurdle of getting out of the narrow cut connecting Great Salt Pond to the Sound, the light NNE wind too far forward to make it out on one tack. I could see, however, that the wind was virtually non-existent once in the cut, plus little swell action and some favorable current, so the sculling oar would work. After some sweating (and cursing) I made it through it (SIGH!), and sailing right along ... for about twenty minutes, when the wind died. It gradually worked its way around to the west overnight and we finally started to move toward Bermuda in the wee hours of the morning.
But the sea gods were far from being done with their dirty tricks. Herb informs us that the GFS model is predicting the formation of a low pressure system off Cape Hatteras, but there was still some hope as the other models were still predicting the low to form much further south over the Bahamas. Of course the GFS model had to be correct, and the forming low south of the large high pressure building in from the northwest is compressing the isobars and now we are looking at gale force northeasterlies Thursday night into Friday. Herb is advising another boat just behind me, Calbodine, to heave-to until the winds subside and not attempt to cross the Gulf Stream as will likely be very rough, so I followed suit.
I resumed sailing on Friday morning, with winds forecasted to diminish by afternoon. But I hit the Gulf Stream earlier than expected, around 39.5N, 67W, in the early evening and the winds got back up to gale force. At least the Gulf Stream is only about 30 miles wide there, but it was a rough and scary ride.
After that, mostly pleasant sailing, reaching toward Bermuda in moderate easterly winds. Per Herb's advice, I worked well east of the rhumb line as the winds were forecasted to veer SE by Wednesday, which would be on the nose anywhere west of Bermuda. But alas, the sadistic sea gods must have been listening and decided upon their final trick. That low pressure system which had dogged us the entire passage did not dissipate, as predicted, but went around in a circle and transfigured itself into Tropical Storm Sean. And instead of heading NW, it was now predicted to track NE?directly towards us, naturally. The yacht Triple Star was nearest to me, at about 36N, 64W. Acknowledging radio contact with them, Herb begins: "Let me just start off with a synopsis applicable to all boats around 36 north ..." When Herb opens with a synopsis, it means he is about to deliver bad news. "... I think at this point you only have one option, which is to head west, out to about 67 or 68W, in order to get out of the path of this storm." After I had worked so hard trying to make easting, too! "... that's two days sailing, and you will have winds on the stern."
Simple enough. The following day those easterly winds are 25-30 knots, and Triple Star reports that they have lost their mainsail. The in-mast furling system blew out at the tack, and they had to lower the entire sail. That's at least the second time I have heard of roller-furling mainsails failing that way. And without grommets or reef points it would certainly be difficult to jury rig anything. But downwind they can use their headsails.
But the lady is worried that their progress is too slow. Herb is old school, no therapeutic softness, he just demands the information: "Can you make it to 68 west by Thursday?" "We have no main and a damaged genoa and not much fuel" she replies, pleadingly. "But you have a working genoa?" Herb barks. "Yes, but it might not hold." "What kind of a genoa can?t stand up to 25 knots of wind?" Suddenly the lady's husband (I presume) interrupts: "Herb, who do we call if we need assistance?" "When will that be?" Herb asks flatly. "If we need assistance, who do we call?" the man repeats. "Well, I'll be back up tomorrow" Herb responds, and then adds: "If you have working sails, working rudder, you ARE NOT IN DISTRESS". So there. "OK, we'll manage." I hear the lady's faint voice. Then Herb says: "I will come up tomorrow morning at 1400 zulu, about 9a.m. eastern time, to check on you." Herb does in fact care.
Shortly after crossing the 68W meridian, I heaved-to for the night. The wind has veered nearly southerly, and it is noticeably warmer and more humid, with passing light rain showers. The front is forecasted to pass sometime around 0300, and Herb is warning us that the northwest winds behind the front are going to pick up to gale force very quickly. I leave the triple-reefed main up as a steadying sail and hank on the storm jib. Around 0500 I am feeling the first few whiffs of air from the northwest. Down comes the mainsail and I set the storm jib and engage the steering vane. Herb wasn't kidding. Within fifteen minutes the wind is gusting probably close to 40 knots. And the waves took surprisingly little time to spring up, causing a great deal of discomfort on board.
It would persist a gale force until late in the night, and then it would subside quite rapidly. By midday on Saturday it was down to an gentle ten knots or so, and the skies had cleared and I was finally enjoying some comfortable sailing toward Bermuda.
Just before sundown on Sunday, Nov. 13, I sailed Ruth Avery through the Town Cut into St. Georges. As I stepped off the customs dock with my clearance papers I saw Calbodine approaching. I proceeded immediately to the town dock, and then to the grocery store to buy something decent for dinner and a few beers ... but no, negative on the latter. Blue Laws in Bermuda forbid the sale of alcohol on Sunday. Damned Temperance Unions ...
November 27, 2011. In BermudaIt has taken two weeks layover in Bermuda before I can feel any sort of urge to get moving on south. The weather, however, is remaining rather uncooperative, and after this first leg I am not inclined to challenge it. Several braver craft have decided to head out despite forecasts of strong winds, but at least one I know of headed out and promply turned back, that the beautiful and famous Ticonderoga. I managed to snap a photo of her as she gracefully sailed past me on her way back to the dock in St. Georges.
Having finally managed to download the correct Wifi driver for my computer I could now spend some time on the internet without constantly checking the meter, as in most places Wifi is free, although they may urge you to buy a cup of coffee or something. So that meant I could download grib files and study them at my leisure.
Yesterday, Nov. 30, looked like the day to leave. But when the day came to pass it blew pretty hard out of the southeast with rain--not the kind of weather that makes one eager to put to sea. Moreover, Herb was advising against leaving because in the wake of this passing cold front a very strong high (1040 millibars) would build in producing very strong winds. The unrelentinly conservative skipper of Ticonderoga said to Herb that he would think about it.
So the following day dawns cheerful and sunny with moderate northwest winds. I watch Ticonderoga and several other yachts head out of the Town Cut. The grib files are showing 20-25 knots out of the northeast through the weekend, not as much as Herb was predicting. Plus the wind presently had some west in it, which is a tremendous help to me for exiting the Town Cut, which runs roughly in an ENE direction. If I waited until the high had already worked its way in and the winds were diminishing, I would have NE winds and good sized swells right outside the cut. This would make tacking through a rather chancy matter, as there is always the possibility that a wave might kill her momentum to an extent that I would not be able to bring her about, and with very little room to fall away and gather up speed. So this was definitely the time for me to get out.
And so, following a last minute flurry of grocery shopping, I walked into the customs office and requested outbound clearance. I weighed anchor around 1300 hours, and Ruth Avery promply spun on her heel and raced off to the west across St. Georges harbor while I stowed the anchor chain and tidied up. Last task was to call Bermuda Radio for permission to exit the Town Cut. Just then a well-wishing cruiser came by in his dinghy to say goodbye, which the watchful eyes of Bermuda Radio did not miss and they promply asked me what business this person had with me. I told them and they politely replied very well and that I was cleared to exit the Town Cut.
It was still blowing a solid 20 knots outside, prompting me to tie a second reef in the mainsail. Once out past the safe water buoy I pointed her pretty much due south and set the windvane and off we went. By sundown the low island of Bermuda had sunken below the horizon.
Once again Herb was closer to the truth regarding wind strengths, as by Saturday the winds had built up to 20-25 from the NE, and by sunday they were closer to 30. I drove her on under triple reefed main and reefed staysail, and despite the discomfort at least the miles were passing fast, as we were doing more than two degrees of latitude per day. The winds had eased some by Tuesday, but that night I was assaulted by some violent squalls and spectacular thunder and lightning storms.
Wednesday, Dec. 7 We are at 20d33m N, 64d21m W, about one day's sailing away from St. Thomas. The wind and seas have finally abated, and skies are clear of "convection activity" as the weather gurus say, and life aboard is feeling a little more civilized. Around noon, through the long blue northeasterly swells, I spot a large dark shade just beneath the wave. A big shark? It never seemed to surface. Well finally it did surface and I saw the hook shaped fin on its back. Looked to be a Minke whale, though I have never seen these creatures this far south. He looked to be about 25 feet in length, black or dark blue, with splashes of white underneath. I do know that Minke whales come in that color scheme, and he was certainly hydrodynamically correct, moving through the water at a good ten knots without any apparent effort. For a few minutes I could see his fluke prints around the boat, and I thought perhaps he was going to say hello but then disappeared.
Failing a greeting from a neat-o sea creature, I got nice parting sunset that evening in addition to pleasant enough conditions for
lounging in the cockpit and contemplating life. Nature only tickles the higher faculties so
long as the lower ones are not being irritated or deprived. So I would have a go at another
romantic sunset shot at sea, which, like silly love songs, we never seem to tire of:
Just before sundown on December 8 I sailed into Francis Bay. This was a favorite haunt of mine some ten years ago when I visited the Caribbean for the first time as a wide-eyed and unbelievably idealistic young man. Back then the moorings in Maho Bay were free of charge and the bay was usually packed with a motley cruising fleet. Nowadays it's much more sparse, just a handful of mostly much bigger and shinnier boats. That's of course because there's now a charge for the mooring (and anchoring is forbidden). Allegedly this was done for environmental reasons, as studies have shown that sea turtles prefer the company of high rollers to cruisers, or something to that effect.
So I was out of there at first light, over to Cruz Bay to clear in with customs and immigration. From there I headed to another favorite anchorage, Christmas Cove, where the the moorings are free and may they forever remain that way. Here I could just hang and relax for a while, having completed another successful passage south without incident though not without some hardships.
Until next time ...