Full Moon Magic
It’s hard to put emotions into words about this crossing of the Atlantic.
I would like to be able to look back at each day and explain my sensations and sentiments thru these whole 14 days so far without it actually being a tale of the sailing and weather conditions. But i realize that when you’re at sea, your feelings have to do a lot with what the ocean is looking like and where the winds are coming from.
As always, I guess it had to do a lot with expectations.
We left Tenerife believing we were on for a nice downwind sail of no more than 12 days to the Caribbean, only for the lack of wind to slow our progress in the first 30 hours. A few days later we were in the middle of a low pressure system trying to beat into 30 knots winds which gusted up to 42 thinking we would get more favourable wind after that, and a couple of days later, lacking of wind themselves, we found ourselves trying to sail as high as possible in the middle of a big polar system which brought squalls with heavy rain, and I do mean heavy, and winds that gusted to 61 knots pushing the boat as fast as 27 knots... but more on that later.
So expectations, I guess, haven’t been met in many ways.
We’re quite a varied crew and I think coming from different sailing backgrounds we had different ideas of what this crossing would be like and what we were looking for with it.
Me, being permanent crew, I guess this have been a big learning project most importantly. Preparation of the boat has been quite interesting. We were full on preparing the different aspects of the boat for the last 4 weeks and when the time came and I just stopped to think about it, I guess I was just excited by the idea of crossing the Atlantic only by sail.
There are 6 german guys on board who came with the idea of more of a sailing holiday on board a fast performance cruising yacht and having extensive racing sailing experience I think the performance haven’t quite met their expectations. So we have found ourselves crashing against each other when it comes to sailing strategies and principles, creating frustration in both sides and sometimes long faces.
And I explain all this because being on a boat with other 11 people for over 14 days, you’ll eventually, if not permanently, found yourself influenced by the general mood on board.
The first few days, as it happens usually, were characterized by good spirits and lack of winds, meaning searching for winds. We were settling into the routine of the ocean crossing and getting to meet the guys on watch was good fun. We were being given meteorological advice by Bruce Bukley from Western Australia who with daily mails would point out behaviour in the weather patterns surrounding the boat and give us a few directions on where we should be heading to depending on wind forecasts. Usually he would give us a set of coordinates, latitude and longitude, which we nicknamed Buckley’s Waypoint and a few of the good times of the first few days circled around the search of this utopia of a place where aft seas rolled, constant favourable winds blew, and that untiringly we followed but quite never reached... And I still hold is a sick name for a sailors bar.
Eventually we found some winds which we had some good runs with but they didn’t last that long, so we were advice to take a more northerly course heading into the centre of a depression which would bring a strong cold front with winds of up to 50 knots but after which we would found strong winds from good angle which would allow us to head to Saint Marteen with decent speeds.
We head north, but I was a bit apprehensive about it. Ever since I started working on these boats, that sort of polar low pressure system in the middle of an ocean, is the kind of thing you just avoid at all costs. When 50 knots are forecasted, I’ve learned, you humbly put your head down and try to get the less of it. Is when you try go against these strong forces of winds and seas that the boat really starts suffering and slowly gives signs of wear and tiredness. Getting yourself into that sort of weather shows lack of respect to the ocean surrounding you and little seamanship.
By the time the cold front hit, we had been beating for 24 hours already and we found ourselves sailing in heavy squalls. One of them made sure it would be remembered for a while and from the bunk below decks, I felt the boat being over powered by the sudden gust, speeding up with the raising confusion of the guys on watch. I could hear sheets being eased, hydraulic pump furling the Genoa in, the boat quickly righting up and that dammed eyrie silence. I remembered saying out loud “Oh noo!!” before listening to the violent scream of the main tracker and sheet going from on side to the other as the boom had accidentally been jibed. A few seconds later, on deck, we found a wondering crew, the main sheet tangle around the winch, the boom against the rigging and the helmsman unable to see a thing in between the confusion, the wind and the heavy rain this squall had surprised us with. The boat had been hurt, seriously, and if it wasn’t by a great blow of good luck, it could’ve been a lot worst.
Sailing resumed and after the low pressure system passed we found the promised good weather conditions but not for too long, as unstable weather system developed quickly and the outlook was to stay becalmed for a couple of days before the arrival of a second low pressure system with head winds for another 48 hours.
At this point we had been sailing for over a week, hadn’t yet reached the half way point and the forecast was nothing but miserable.
Frustrated and tired, part of the crew started talking of turning the engine on as deadline for their respective jobs was approaching and we needed to get going if we wanted to make it on time for some of their appointments back home. So after a full day of frustrating light and fickle winds, we started motoring quitting at the same time the regatta.
At the same time work was appointed to get the boat ready for the arrival of strong head winds once more and after about 30 hours of noisy going, the big Cummins boy was switched off and the banging started.
By Midday we had over 30 knots South Westerlies with us and after taking a coupld of reefs on the main and breaking the Staysail head latching, we had to rely on our reefed Genoa as our only headsail.
A couple of hour later, right in the heart of the Cold front where 40 knots of winds were expected, we were reached by the first squall of many and after some hesitation about whether or not to furl in the Genoa, we could see this dark and grey thing approaching. Luckily we did it, only with the main, we saw the wind indicator rapidly jumping to 30, 40... 47 knots... 52 knots... eassseee that main easeeeee, go down go down go down! The first scared had gone, and we were up for a few more. Squall after squall we apprehensively stood up there, main sheet on hand waiting for the arrival of these monsters of uncertainty. You never know what the next squall would bring and you can only prevent and hope.
“There’s another one on starboard about 2 miles Fabio, should we roll in the Genoa”
“...uhmm.. noooo, I don’t think so, we need some sail to get the boat going so it’s more controllable”
“I think we should though, there were 52 k’s on that first one and this looks nasty”
“... I don’t know really, don’t like staying with only that small amount of main”
“come Fabio let’s do it, look at that dark grey bastard”
“... well yes, do it, furl it in”
The light goes into surrealistic mode. It gets dark but it’s quite clear as well. Water has no shine to it, is solid but yet with quite a greenish turquoise colour. The noise is deafening and Fabio bares away, I ease more main sheet hoping the boom doesn’t get in the water one more time and that the damage main sheet block holds just a few more minutes. 54... 57... Sea goes flat and so does the rain. For a moment we are in a longitudinal dimension, everything seems to be moving in the same direction. The boat seems like it’s being sank from the clouds and the building mass of moving air. But is not. It’s being lifted by the moving water underneath it, we’re moving with this thing... we are like part of this squall at this moment.
“look at the boat speed, we’re doing 23 knots”
58... 54 knots... It’s building again, 58... 61 knots there... Holding to that main sheet it feels like I’m holding the whole boat together, fearfully hoping nothing breaks down in this particular moment, hoping it will finish soon and wondering if this is the worst of it.
Apprehension grows as the afternoon passes by and looking at spending the night with two reefs on the main doesn’t seems so safe, so worriedly I lay in bed, listening to the howling winds outside, watching the wind meter raising to high 50’s a few more times and hearing sheets being eased and water moving very fast pass the boat. I go out, we need to take that third reef or even the full main down, we can’t spend the night with this much sail. We tried, but with winds are above 35’s so we step back, we sit and wait. Come down and talk about it, we really need to do it. Wind is down to 30, lets go lets do it... and just before the sun goes down, we prepare ourselves, all hands on deck and we go for it, all down, no more main or boom to worry about and we celebrate in relief. The night ahead seems a lot less darker with only the Genoa with 2 reefs out... it should all go downhill from here.
