We arrived in Marigot this morning, after slowing down a bit overnight so we would arrive at daybreak. Still amazes me that after sailing 1000nm, suddenly two islands appear where you think they should, and suddenly you can hear the sound of frogs and crickets, and a loom from the islands lights.
We had a fast trip. I estimated 8 days; Richard potentially up to 10-12. We ended up getting here in five and a half days, so it was a great run (albeit a little uncomfortable at times).
It's warm and fun and the water is pristine. More when I've thrown myself in!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Atlantic Ocean, reaching in the NE tradewinds
We just changed course, from due south, to a more westerly course towards St Martin. Our current position is 22N, 61W, or 257nm from St Martin, and 1300nm from Ambrose Light, outside New York harbor. We picked up the trades at around 24N, and we're now in 25 knt northeasterlies under a beautiful, warm sky with Simpson's like clouds. The boat is reaching nicely, but for the last couple of days we've had too much wind and it has led to large seas; somewhat uncomfortable sailing. As a result we have had a triple reefed main up for much of the last 24 hours; this morning we shook out the reef and we've accelerated back up to a respectable 7.8 knts. We have the fishing line out: we've decided our lure only causes amusement among the local fish; even the seaweed won't hook on it.
Over the last 24H (which has been too bumpy for me to write anything) we've sailed well below the southern tip of Florida, and we're now close to the latitude of Cuba's southern shore, Guantanamo Bay in fact, albeit it is 800nm to our west. Directly south of us, through the Caribbean, is the Rio Delta in Venezuela (790nm
south).
Greg just cooked up some superb lamb kebabs which we had with harissa and pita. I've been cleaning up the starboard bunk: I made the mistake of trying to air out the cabin by opening a hatch, and took about 150 liters through it for my stupidity. I find it hard to believe that the cabin is now almost to hot! It was only a couple of weeks ago we left NYC ice one the decks.
We've seen one sailboat (at night, and that I tried to hail unsuccessfully) and two freighters, but otherwise, it feels like just us, sliding down the ocean swells, on our own little disk of the ocean, with water from horizon to horizon.
Otherwise we've been listening to weather reports on our single-sideband from Southbound II, a service run by Herb Hilengen out of his house in Canada. Pretty fun listening to him providing wx and routing advice to snowbirds sailing south, and boats coming in from Europe via the Canary Islands. I sense the Caribbean is going to have a lot of sailboats in it this winter!
Over the last 24H (which has been too bumpy for me to write anything) we've sailed well below the southern tip of Florida, and we're now close to the latitude of Cuba's southern shore, Guantanamo Bay in fact, albeit it is 800nm to our west. Directly south of us, through the Caribbean, is the Rio Delta in Venezuela (790nm
south).
Greg just cooked up some superb lamb kebabs which we had with harissa and pita. I've been cleaning up the starboard bunk: I made the mistake of trying to air out the cabin by opening a hatch, and took about 150 liters through it for my stupidity. I find it hard to believe that the cabin is now almost to hot! It was only a couple of weeks ago we left NYC ice one the decks.
We've seen one sailboat (at night, and that I tried to hail unsuccessfully) and two freighters, but otherwise, it feels like just us, sliding down the ocean swells, on our own little disk of the ocean, with water from horizon to horizon.
Otherwise we've been listening to weather reports on our single-sideband from Southbound II, a service run by Herb Hilengen out of his house in Canada. Pretty fun listening to him providing wx and routing advice to snowbirds sailing south, and boats coming in from Europe via the Canary Islands. I sense the Caribbean is going to have a lot of sailboats in it this winter!
Saturday, November 24, 2007
377nm S of Bermuda
We left Bermuda at 7pm on Friday night, after meeting up with Richard Jesaitis, our new crew member for the passage to St Maarten. He was able to enjoy Bermuda forabout 30 minutes before joining us to clear customs out. The reason was a weather window looked like it was about to open; a cold front was due to pass over Bermuda in the morning, and we wanted to use it to get south and east, but also to be sufficiently south when it hit so that the impact would be light.
I don't like leaving into darkness, but it's worked really well. In the 24 hrs since we left Bermuda we've clocked up 188nm; I'm pretty sure a boat record for us. Today and overnight have also been fast, reaching breezes, and Richard, Greg and I have been changing gears, reefing and shaking reefs to keep the boat carving along at top speed. And it's so much more pleasant than the run down from New York. For one, it's getting much warmer, so shorts and T-shirt weather (or foulies at night simply because it's been a bit squally), no gulfstream to deal with, and a big factor, it's a full moon so you can see for miles and ride the waves on night watches. Those nights crossing the gulfstream still fascinate me: I've never experienced such darkness!
It's great to have Richard on board. He is an accomplished navigator, and sail trimmer, and he has an intellectual interest in the boat, weather and all that good stuff; and he makes a mean toasted sandwich!
Overnight midnight-3am was my watch. Although Otto can take care of it, I hand steered almost the entire watch, listening to music on my ipod, and roaring down the faces of the big ocean rollers. Absolutely spectacular fun! Right up there with my most memorable sailing experiences (except Greg did point out he could hear my singing in the cabin; I feel bad about that, my singing is not really something you want to put your best mates through).
After consistent 20-25 knt winds this morning that had us frequently in the 8's and 9's, we're now down to 15 knts. The chop is all gone, and we're left with long ocean swells from the NE, and a beautiful sunset among high cumulus clouds. Although they're probably 8 footers, the wave period is so long we just slide up and the pass underneath us without any major motion.
We have some basmati rice on the stove, and we're heating up a chicken tikka that Heidi put together for us in Bermuda. YUM!
So in all, we're having a great passage. 377nm in slightly less than 48 hrs has us almost a full day's run ahead of our plan. We're now 26 degrees north, around 120nm north of the tradewind belt, so all going well we can use that for a fast reach into St Maarten. We'll see how that goes, but that's the plan.
We're now abeam with the top of the Bahamas, or southern Florida, and it feels great. Dark blue water that's 29.1C! But we're also 900nm from the mainland, so it does feel very remote out here! We've only seen two freighters since leaving
Bermuda.
I don't like leaving into darkness, but it's worked really well. In the 24 hrs since we left Bermuda we've clocked up 188nm; I'm pretty sure a boat record for us. Today and overnight have also been fast, reaching breezes, and Richard, Greg and I have been changing gears, reefing and shaking reefs to keep the boat carving along at top speed. And it's so much more pleasant than the run down from New York. For one, it's getting much warmer, so shorts and T-shirt weather (or foulies at night simply because it's been a bit squally), no gulfstream to deal with, and a big factor, it's a full moon so you can see for miles and ride the waves on night watches. Those nights crossing the gulfstream still fascinate me: I've never experienced such darkness!
It's great to have Richard on board. He is an accomplished navigator, and sail trimmer, and he has an intellectual interest in the boat, weather and all that good stuff; and he makes a mean toasted sandwich!
Overnight midnight-3am was my watch. Although Otto can take care of it, I hand steered almost the entire watch, listening to music on my ipod, and roaring down the faces of the big ocean rollers. Absolutely spectacular fun! Right up there with my most memorable sailing experiences (except Greg did point out he could hear my singing in the cabin; I feel bad about that, my singing is not really something you want to put your best mates through).
After consistent 20-25 knt winds this morning that had us frequently in the 8's and 9's, we're now down to 15 knts. The chop is all gone, and we're left with long ocean swells from the NE, and a beautiful sunset among high cumulus clouds. Although they're probably 8 footers, the wave period is so long we just slide up and the pass underneath us without any major motion.
We have some basmati rice on the stove, and we're heating up a chicken tikka that Heidi put together for us in Bermuda. YUM!
So in all, we're having a great passage. 377nm in slightly less than 48 hrs has us almost a full day's run ahead of our plan. We're now 26 degrees north, around 120nm north of the tradewind belt, so all going well we can use that for a fast reach into St Maarten. We'll see how that goes, but that's the plan.
We're now abeam with the top of the Bahamas, or southern Florida, and it feels great. Dark blue water that's 29.1C! But we're also 900nm from the mainland, so it does feel very remote out here! We've only seen two freighters since leaving
Bermuda.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
St Georges, Bermuda 32°22.8N, 64°40.5W
We plan to set off tomorrow evening for St Martin. Should take us 8-10 days, all going well!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
St Georges, Bermuda 32°22.8N, 64°40.5W
[This is paragraph one. Knowing this will be useful later.] One of the things I find most difficult about cruising is not having access to high-speed internet. I guess I’m just so used to being able to access information fast and efficiently that I find it maddeningly frustrating when I can’t. I think I’m a bit of a spectacle in St Georges harbor zooming around in the dinghy trying to ‘borrow’ people’s unprotected wireless internet, laptop in hand. Now that, dear readers (both of you), is a real mobile office.
(as an aside, if I ever live by the sea, I will leave my internet unprotected with a welcome note).
Greg has recently invested in a Cantena (the name is a pretty good description). On Friday when the essential but missing superspecialbutcostsmuchmore cable arrives, I trust we can filtch internet with greater success, and with perhaps a little more dignity than the dinghy. Greg also has a cool Skype like phone service set up – he’s a real expert in this area - and if that works, we may even be able to talk to you!
Sailing wise, Friday looks like a weather window. Right now we have a nasty low pressure system (980MB) to our northeast. It’s causing gale force winds through our anchorage. There’s superb holding here in hard packed sand (and I should add, beautiful clear water so you can see the bottom in 15’) so I’m not too concerned about dragging anchor. We also have our big Fortress FX-37 who’s-your-daddy-danforth plugged into the planet as a secondary – so we’re really not moving unless Bermuda does. But the problem is the boat is so damn efficient it insists on sailing around the anchor at some considerable pace, side to side, reaching the end of its tether with an uncomfortable jerk. It’s gusting to 30 knts and it’s starting to annoy me: you try gripping your bed with your toes!
We hope to use this passing system to catapult us out of Bermuda. Next stop is a little under 1000nm away, almost due south, a little island I know nothing about called St Maarten. To get there, we’ll use the tail end of this system to head southeast, or really to clock up as much easting as we can get. When we’re perhaps 100-150nm east of the longitude of St Maarten (St Maarten is 63 degrees west of the prime meridian - that magical line that runs through the National Observatory at Greenwich, England, and that represents 0 degrees longitude); only then will we focus on heading pure south. So why head east when your destination almost totally south? The reason for this is twofold. Most importantly, we will hit the northeasterly tradewinds for the first time when we get to around 24 degrees north of the equator, and you should know, sailing INTO the trades is quite ungentlemanly. Secondly, there is around a 1 knt east to west current for much of this trip that we need to reckon for.
Now, I trust this discussion has left you with the impression that I know precisely what I am talking about (I know very well that those of you who know me are working hard to stifle your laughter, so don’t bother to email). Well, whatever, when we end up in the British Virgins or perhaps even Puerto Rico, or maybe even Miami, just know I PLANNED IT THAT WAY.
We thought the fishing was better over there.
If weather and catapults and prime meridians interest you, or at least if you want to see what we are sailing in, than you will find the weather data at GRIB.US of interest. You will need to download some software – and register first – but it is free. The interface brings up a map of the world. You select the area of interest, and it will download five days of gridded binary files, or GRIBS, that provide a model of the region’s forecast weather. Once you are rolling, you should click the ‘animate’ button in the top right so it will present the progression of forecast weather every three hours over the next five days.
If you do this, you will see a bunch of weather arrows. These show the speed and direction of wind. IMPORTANT: although wind is described from the direction from which it blows, ie, a northerly wind is blowing from north to south, with weather arrows, the head of the arrow shows in which direction the wind is blowing. I learnt this during our summer in Maine when I had hoped to be in the Caribbean. In addition to the direction, the weather arrow also shows you the strength of the wind. Each full barb represents 10 knts, each half-barb 5 knots, and I hope it's not in our sector, a pennant (triangle) represents 50 knts. The grey stuff is cloud or rain.
Have a look at Bermuda – that’s a pretty big system!
Ultimately our navigation relies on the settle of tea leaves, and stuff we overhear in bars, but this stuff makes you sound knowledgeable to your friends and I strongly recommend it.
If you’re wondering why there are no photos of Bermuda, please revisit paragraph one.
(as an aside, if I ever live by the sea, I will leave my internet unprotected with a welcome note).
Greg has recently invested in a Cantena (the name is a pretty good description). On Friday when the essential but missing superspecialbutcostsmuchmore cable arrives, I trust we can filtch internet with greater success, and with perhaps a little more dignity than the dinghy. Greg also has a cool Skype like phone service set up – he’s a real expert in this area - and if that works, we may even be able to talk to you!
Sailing wise, Friday looks like a weather window. Right now we have a nasty low pressure system (980MB) to our northeast. It’s causing gale force winds through our anchorage. There’s superb holding here in hard packed sand (and I should add, beautiful clear water so you can see the bottom in 15’) so I’m not too concerned about dragging anchor. We also have our big Fortress FX-37 who’s-your-daddy-danforth plugged into the planet as a secondary – so we’re really not moving unless Bermuda does. But the problem is the boat is so damn efficient it insists on sailing around the anchor at some considerable pace, side to side, reaching the end of its tether with an uncomfortable jerk. It’s gusting to 30 knts and it’s starting to annoy me: you try gripping your bed with your toes!
We hope to use this passing system to catapult us out of Bermuda. Next stop is a little under 1000nm away, almost due south, a little island I know nothing about called St Maarten. To get there, we’ll use the tail end of this system to head southeast, or really to clock up as much easting as we can get. When we’re perhaps 100-150nm east of the longitude of St Maarten (St Maarten is 63 degrees west of the prime meridian - that magical line that runs through the National Observatory at Greenwich, England, and that represents 0 degrees longitude); only then will we focus on heading pure south. So why head east when your destination almost totally south? The reason for this is twofold. Most importantly, we will hit the northeasterly tradewinds for the first time when we get to around 24 degrees north of the equator, and you should know, sailing INTO the trades is quite ungentlemanly. Secondly, there is around a 1 knt east to west current for much of this trip that we need to reckon for.
Now, I trust this discussion has left you with the impression that I know precisely what I am talking about (I know very well that those of you who know me are working hard to stifle your laughter, so don’t bother to email). Well, whatever, when we end up in the British Virgins or perhaps even Puerto Rico, or maybe even Miami, just know I PLANNED IT THAT WAY.
We thought the fishing was better over there.
If weather and catapults and prime meridians interest you, or at least if you want to see what we are sailing in, than you will find the weather data at GRIB.US of interest. You will need to download some software – and register first – but it is free. The interface brings up a map of the world. You select the area of interest, and it will download five days of gridded binary files, or GRIBS, that provide a model of the region’s forecast weather. Once you are rolling, you should click the ‘animate’ button in the top right so it will present the progression of forecast weather every three hours over the next five days.
If you do this, you will see a bunch of weather arrows. These show the speed and direction of wind. IMPORTANT: although wind is described from the direction from which it blows, ie, a northerly wind is blowing from north to south, with weather arrows, the head of the arrow shows in which direction the wind is blowing. I learnt this during our summer in Maine when I had hoped to be in the Caribbean. In addition to the direction, the weather arrow also shows you the strength of the wind. Each full barb represents 10 knts, each half-barb 5 knots, and I hope it's not in our sector, a pennant (triangle) represents 50 knts. The grey stuff is cloud or rain.
Have a look at Bermuda – that’s a pretty big system!
Ultimately our navigation relies on the settle of tea leaves, and stuff we overhear in bars, but this stuff makes you sound knowledgeable to your friends and I strongly recommend it.
If you’re wondering why there are no photos of Bermuda, please revisit paragraph one.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Safely anchored in St Georges Harbor, Bermuda
Time for a dark & stormy!
Dan, Tom, Sylvain and Greg, taken at the Bermuda Customs dock. Smiles don't get bigger than that!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Last beat to Bermuda
One interesting aspect of our first ocean storm is how it changes your parameters. Leading into it, 25 knots was pretty exciting, and 30 knts made us a little apprehensive. Having sailed for a number of hours in 40 knts, with seas to boot, 25 knts now seems quite routine.
Tuesday night remained amazingly dark. The weather systems have totally changed from those on the continental shelf. Now we have starry skies, but dark, anvil-headed thundersystems patrolling around in isolated patches. The dense rain within them is reflected in the radar, and the lightening is of course visable. We were back into reaching mode - fast and flat - and it was fun to steer between the systems keeping out of the wind blasts and rain.
Finally, Thursday morning dawned with clear skies, almost calm seas and a 15 knot breeze (close hauled). We continue our watches all day to allow everybody to catch up on sleep, but in the afternoon, the warm sunny day, beautiful blue water and fun sailing had us all on deck laughing and wearing shorts and t-shirts. I think this is what we came for. We even had dinner together - the first time since leaving NYC.
The night watches are hilarious. We're so tired we're almost delirious, and tonight Dan broke out some of those Dutch schtoopwaffle things, a delicious hyper sugary treat. In combination, between trimming the sails and watching the horizon, the tiredness and sugar-rush conversation swings from absurdity, to absolute seriousness, to way-out humour - out of context not really funny, in fact outright silly, but doubled over laughter funny at the time. I distinctly heard Dan singing Eye of the Tiger at one point.
Through the night the wind has clocked to the south. We're now close hauled and smashing uncomfortably to windward, periodically burying the nose in steep waves. But we can hear Bermuda Radio on the VHF, and although we can't see it, it's only sixty miles over the horizon. I think we'll have to motor or motor sail the last bit to ensure we're safely inside tonight, the next big system is heading in from the northwest, and Bermuda weather forecasts 8-13' seas and gusts to 30.
We're very excited. The Q-flag is ready. We've previously faxed our details to Bermuda radio, and now we're just praying we can get in before customs closes for the day. I expect we'll see the lighthouses guarding Town Cut and St. Georges harbor anytime soon.
One of the photos shows Dan pointing at our hitchhiker.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Storm
Tuesday saw us on the eastern side of the stream, deep reaching across the deep blue Atlantic, six, seven's even long surfing periods at above eight knots, plumes of white water flowing out from the bow. This favorable 20 knot breeze had whitecaps rapidly forming, but over the afternoon the breeze continued to increase from 20, through 25 then 30 and as night came we were in consistent 40 knot blow. Ultimately we saw a brief 55 knts on the wind indicator, and Sylvain and I, on watch together, both looked at each other with a 'did you see that?' look. With hundreds of miles of fetch, and after twelve hours, we had huge, steep ocean breakers cracking the side of the boat, and occasionally dumping into the cockpit. I guess they were about 15', but when you're in the trough of a wave, and looking up through the icy blue colour near the wave's top, they seem to tower above before the boat rises up to meet them. We kept reducing sail, from the morning's second reefed main, to our deep third reef, while also furling up a few roles of the jib every few hours. Once the waves started to break, collapsing down on themselves in big flowing piles of white water, I started to get a bit nervous. We hoisted our storm trysail, and reefed the jib down to a slither the size of a folded hankerchief, and tried to choose the least difficult course.
The effect of the trysail was amazing, the boat stayed upright, slowed to about five knots, and we could steer a path around and through the wave crests, and still largely head in the direction of Bermuda. Ultimately, inside these super dark moonless nights weve been having, nothing but the howl of the wind and the roar of breaking waves (their breaking tops causing a glow of phosphorescence), we were still able to hand over steering duties to the tireless Otto (Sylvain's nickname for our autopilot, it's full name actually Otto P. Lot) and work through our three hours on, three hours off until the western horizon slowly appeared.
East of the Stream 36 32'N, 068 54'W
Slipped into the gulfstream under the cover of darkness entering at 37 30'N, 070 30'W last night at about 2145. The darkest night I have ever been in. Water temperature rose sharply, from 14C in New York harbor, and 16C up to the continental shelf, right up to 28.8C in the middle of the stream!! Amazing phosphorescence - we had a tail like a meteor that stretched out towards the horizon. I got splashed by some water from a misbehaving wave and it's like bathwater. We raced across all night and exited the stream just after 6am this morning, as the first hint of light hit the sky.
One consequence of the stream is that each of us came on deck, and over a period of time, everybody finally said 'I am so hot!' and removed a few layers of clothing. We were still wearing hats, gloves, longjohns and so on. Now it's not quite t-shirt weather, but we're just wearing light clothes under our foul weather gear, and that despite 30 knts and a bit of spray.
Haven't seen another boat for two days.
After looking forward to seeing the color of the stream for ages, we kind of missed it by crossing at night. Still, now on the eastern side, the water is a dark purple colour - really quite amazing. I referred to it as aubergine which has caused hours of entertainment for the boys at my expense.
Right now, 1030 on Tuesday, we're in a squall, breeze to 30 knots and around 8-10' seas. We've triple reefed the main, and have a sliver of jib flying, but we're still cruising along in the 7's. Lots of spray, but it's nice to see again after such a dark night. I'm also relieved to be over the stream: we're out of the zone that has a reputation for becoming dangerous. So for now a bit bouncy and uncomfortable, but boat feels fine and balanced, and we're tearing down the rhumb line for Bermuda.
A bit hard for me to write, so will leave it here. 312nm to Bermuda; we're just passed half way. Water temp still 25C.
[some of Sylvain's photos attached]
The eastern side of the stream
Tuesday saw us on the eastern side of the stream, deep reaching across the deep blue
Atlantic, six, seven's even long surfing periods at above eight knots, plumes of
white water flowing out from the bow. This favorable 20 knot breeze had whitecaps
rapidly forming, but over the afternoon the breeze continued to increase from 20,
through 25 then 30 and as night came we were in consistent 40 knot blow. Ultimately
we saw a brief 55 knts on the wind indicator, and Sylvain and I, on watch together,
both looked at each other with a 'did you see that?' look. With hundreds of miles
of fetch, and after twelve hours, we had huge, steep ocean breakers cracking the
side of the boat, and occasionally dumping into the cockpit. I guess they were
about 15', but when you're in the trough of a wave, and looking up through the icy
blue colour near the wave's top, they seem to tower above before the boat rises up
to meet them. We kept reducing sail, from the morning's second reefed main, to our
deep third reef, while also furling up a few roles of the jib every few hours. Once
the waves started to break, collapsing down on themselves in big flowing piles of
white water, I started to get a bit nervous. We hoisted our storm trysail, and
reefed the jib down to a slither the size of a folded hankerchief, and tried to
choose the least difficult course.
The effect of the trysail was amazing, the boat stayed upright, slowed to about five
knots, and we could steer a path around and through the wave crests, and still
largely head in the direction of Bermuda. Ultimately, inside these super dark
moonless nights weve been having, nothing but the howl of the wind and the roar of
breaking waves (their breaking tops causing a glow of phospherescence), we were
still able to hand over steering duties to the tireless Otto (Sylvain's nickname for
our autopilot, it's full name actually Otto P. Lot) and work through our three hours
on, three hours off until the western horizon slowly appeared.
Atlantic, six, seven's even long surfing periods at above eight knots, plumes of
white water flowing out from the bow. This favorable 20 knot breeze had whitecaps
rapidly forming, but over the afternoon the breeze continued to increase from 20,
through 25 then 30 and as night came we were in consistent 40 knot blow. Ultimately
we saw a brief 55 knts on the wind indicator, and Sylvain and I, on watch together,
both looked at each other with a 'did you see that?' look. With hundreds of miles
of fetch, and after twelve hours, we had huge, steep ocean breakers cracking the
side of the boat, and occasionally dumping into the cockpit. I guess they were
about 15', but when you're in the trough of a wave, and looking up through the icy
blue colour near the wave's top, they seem to tower above before the boat rises up
to meet them. We kept reducing sail, from the morning's second reefed main, to our
deep third reef, while also furling up a few roles of the jib every few hours. Once
the waves started to break, collapsing down on themselves in big flowing piles of
white water, I started to get a bit nervous. We hoisted our storm trysail, and
reefed the jib down to a slither the size of a folded hankerchief, and tried to
choose the least difficult course.
The effect of the trysail was amazing, the boat stayed upright, slowed to about five
knots, and we could steer a path around and through the wave crests, and still
largely head in the direction of Bermuda. Ultimately, inside these super dark
moonless nights weve been having, nothing but the howl of the wind and the roar of
breaking waves (their breaking tops causing a glow of phospherescence), we were
still able to hand over steering duties to the tireless Otto (Sylvain's nickname for
our autopilot, it's full name actually Otto P. Lot) and work through our three hours
on, three hours off until the western horizon slowly appeared.
Monday, November 12, 2007
200nm South East of New York
It now feels like we're a long way from anywhere. Our current position is 200nm South East of New York. We're under a big high-pressure system that has led to nice sunshine, and only a little north-west breeze, a pleasant consequence of which is that we're right out in the ocean but the waves are mainly a long, uneventful ocean swell.
It's 3pm. Sounds early, but we are planning for our night watches, storing stuff and getting headlamps and the like ready. I just took in the poled out genoa. It's a strange effect, but by day we occupy a huge disc of ocean, perhaps 50nm wide, and you can of course see from horizon to horizon in every direction. As dusk falls and the sun drops below the horizon, the disc rapidly narrows until our world becomes simply that little area across the cockpit and to the tricolour light on the masthead, swinging back and forth against the stars. No moon at the moment, so it's very, very dark at night, but you can stare at the stars and meteors arching across the heavens for hours.
We haven't seen another boat for at least 12 hours.
We just ate lunch. A delish (and wonderfully warm)chili that Greg's girlfriend Heidi made for us and froze. Although conditions today are quite mellow, it's nice to have a few pre-made meals in the freezer: certainly makes life easier, and in any kind of blow will be fabulous.
Last night we sailed over Hudson Canyon, a giant trench in the seafloor at the edge of the continental shelf. The depth then was less than 200' but is now 10,171'. Of course the sounder stopped receiving an echo long ago, so that number is from the chart. We're continuing to work south-south east (154 degrees)and will do so for another 45nm; by then we should enter the gulfstream. It's about 60nm wide, so it'll take us until the morning to get there. I'm eager to get across due to the sudden and highly uncomfortable storms the stream can dish up in a very short time, but also because it's still very cold at night. We've already seen the water temperature climb from 14 to 16 and now 18C.
Much of last night we were reaching at 7-8 knts with the full main and genoa out. I'm currently doing watches with Sylvain, and on our 12-3am we were visited by two dolphins who played in the pressure wave for more than on hour. It being dark we couldn't really see them but for the plumes of phosphorescence that was streaking off them. I went and lay down in the bow, and watched them swimming and jinking back and forth seemingly an arms reach away. Like all good people, I tried to make dolphin noises at them; these ones were not chatty, I suspect were deaf or mute.
Once we hit the stream, we'll adjust our course a little more east. We're trying to ride a meander, or eddy, in the stream to get a boost across. Unfortunately we're unlikely to see the dramatic change in water colour that the stream brings until dawn tomorrow morning. We're also told the fishing in the stream is amazing...we'll see, today we've had the line out and caught some nice seaweed, in keeping with this summer's experience.
Behind me in the cabin Greg and Dan are sound asleep. Three hours on, three off takes a bit of getting used to, so everybody is getting ahead on points in this calm weather. And also because around 3am we expect a squally front to pass through with winds to 30 knts and associated waves. Being dead smack in the middle of the gulfstream when it hits may make those conditions a little more dramatic than they would normally be.
We're having a blast. Great teamwork from everybody, lots of jokes and good feeling, and I'm enjoying watching Greg and Dan (on the other watch from Sylvain and I) confidently throwing this 43 footer around like a dinghy. Greg is currently in my sleeping bag. Only his face is sticking out of the full head covering and I keep thinking of Kenny from South Park, and giggling. I must look equally stupid when he's awake and I'm asleep!
I'm sending this to my sister in Auckland to post onto the blog. We shoot a digital signal from our single-sideband radio off the atmosphere, and to a base station in Nova Scotia, Canada. It then puts the message into the internet in the usual way. It's a bit fiddly, but so far seems to be working pretty well.
It's 3pm. Sounds early, but we are planning for our night watches, storing stuff and getting headlamps and the like ready. I just took in the poled out genoa. It's a strange effect, but by day we occupy a huge disc of ocean, perhaps 50nm wide, and you can of course see from horizon to horizon in every direction. As dusk falls and the sun drops below the horizon, the disc rapidly narrows until our world becomes simply that little area across the cockpit and to the tricolour light on the masthead, swinging back and forth against the stars. No moon at the moment, so it's very, very dark at night, but you can stare at the stars and meteors arching across the heavens for hours.
We haven't seen another boat for at least 12 hours.
We just ate lunch. A delish (and wonderfully warm)chili that Greg's girlfriend Heidi made for us and froze. Although conditions today are quite mellow, it's nice to have a few pre-made meals in the freezer: certainly makes life easier, and in any kind of blow will be fabulous.
Last night we sailed over Hudson Canyon, a giant trench in the seafloor at the edge of the continental shelf. The depth then was less than 200' but is now 10,171'. Of course the sounder stopped receiving an echo long ago, so that number is from the chart. We're continuing to work south-south east (154 degrees)and will do so for another 45nm; by then we should enter the gulfstream. It's about 60nm wide, so it'll take us until the morning to get there. I'm eager to get across due to the sudden and highly uncomfortable storms the stream can dish up in a very short time, but also because it's still very cold at night. We've already seen the water temperature climb from 14 to 16 and now 18C.
Much of last night we were reaching at 7-8 knts with the full main and genoa out. I'm currently doing watches with Sylvain, and on our 12-3am we were visited by two dolphins who played in the pressure wave for more than on hour. It being dark we couldn't really see them but for the plumes of phosphorescence that was streaking off them. I went and lay down in the bow, and watched them swimming and jinking back and forth seemingly an arms reach away. Like all good people, I tried to make dolphin noises at them; these ones were not chatty, I suspect were deaf or mute.
Once we hit the stream, we'll adjust our course a little more east. We're trying to ride a meander, or eddy, in the stream to get a boost across. Unfortunately we're unlikely to see the dramatic change in water colour that the stream brings until dawn tomorrow morning. We're also told the fishing in the stream is amazing...we'll see, today we've had the line out and caught some nice seaweed, in keeping with this summer's experience.
Behind me in the cabin Greg and Dan are sound asleep. Three hours on, three off takes a bit of getting used to, so everybody is getting ahead on points in this calm weather. And also because around 3am we expect a squally front to pass through with winds to 30 knts and associated waves. Being dead smack in the middle of the gulfstream when it hits may make those conditions a little more dramatic than they would normally be.
We're having a blast. Great teamwork from everybody, lots of jokes and good feeling, and I'm enjoying watching Greg and Dan (on the other watch from Sylvain and I) confidently throwing this 43 footer around like a dinghy. Greg is currently in my sleeping bag. Only his face is sticking out of the full head covering and I keep thinking of Kenny from South Park, and giggling. I must look equally stupid when he's awake and I'm asleep!
I'm sending this to my sister in Auckland to post onto the blog. We shoot a digital signal from our single-sideband radio off the atmosphere, and to a base station in Nova Scotia, Canada. It then puts the message into the internet in the usual way. It's a bit fiddly, but so far seems to be working pretty well.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
40 degrees 01 min North; 073 deg 13 min West
Rushing downwind with the genoa poled out. New York is well over the horizon, and we're about 60nm offshore. It's sunny, all this morning's ice has melted long ago, and we have a 18-25knt breeze directly astern; so we're wing-and-wing and rushing down the miles. Right now we're doing just under 8 knts, well above our targeted 6 knt average estimate. A reasonable swell, but nothing to bad and the boat is riding it nicely. We've dropped quite easily into our watches; I think I had a little nap this morning, and I noticed Dan and Greg both passed out after lunch this afternoon.
Apart from sailing and navigating, we're sewing our drogue together. It's all set to be bolted onto the boat, but we're still splicing the parachutes onto the line - there's 120 or so of them - but we're almost done.
We have a little hitchiker. A small sparrow chick that looks a little lost. We've given it some bread and it looks happier, but of course nowhere near as happy as it will be flitting around in semi-tropical Bermuda. Hold the course little fella!
We're expecting a very cold night. There is no cloud to hold in any heat, so I think it'll be freezing, but equally some good stargazing. I think we're about 200nm from the gulfstream now, so if we keep up this pace we could be in it by tomorrow night. It is of course much, much warmer that what we're currently sailing through (the water has gone a darker blue and is 16C, up from 14.5 in New York harbor). Also not too deep yet: only 150'.
So all good. We're having a lot of fun so far in what is almost perfect conditions.
I have the graveyard 12-3am watch with Sylvain, so I'm going to try and have a little nap now, or at least read a bit of Shantaram.
Apart from sailing and navigating, we're sewing our drogue together. It's all set to be bolted onto the boat, but we're still splicing the parachutes onto the line - there's 120 or so of them - but we're almost done.
We have a little hitchiker. A small sparrow chick that looks a little lost. We've given it some bread and it looks happier, but of course nowhere near as happy as it will be flitting around in semi-tropical Bermuda. Hold the course little fella!
We're expecting a very cold night. There is no cloud to hold in any heat, so I think it'll be freezing, but equally some good stargazing. I think we're about 200nm from the gulfstream now, so if we keep up this pace we could be in it by tomorrow night. It is of course much, much warmer that what we're currently sailing through (the water has gone a darker blue and is 16C, up from 14.5 in New York harbor). Also not too deep yet: only 150'.
So all good. We're having a lot of fun so far in what is almost perfect conditions.
I have the graveyard 12-3am watch with Sylvain, so I'm going to try and have a little nap now, or at least read a bit of Shantaram.
New York City
Sailing out of New York City for the last time. The sun is reflecting on the skyscrapers, it's cold, frost on the decks. Eight magical years.
Bermuda here we come!
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Mamaroneck, New York 40°56.9N, 73°43.8W
A frenzy of preparations: no matter how long you prepare, I think setting off for a sail like this always ends this way - desperately getting spare fuel filters, organizing a little bit more food, and Greg trying to find his special wind-stopper fleece hat.
Over the last couple of days we've been at a boatyard having two padeyes installed on the stern. These aren't just rusty old D-bolts, they're super strong Harken units that have a breaking load of 20,000lbs. They're bolted through one-inch thick solid fiberglass and have large stainless steel backing plates that give them a huge load bearing capacity. To put this in context, the whole boat weighs just over 20,000 lbs (about 9,000kg), so we can almost hang the boat from the stern off either padeye (a potentially novel way to save on winter storage costs)!
The reason for all this is a device called a Jordan Series Drogue. In essence this is a 200' long piece of rope. The start of the rope connects to the boat (the new padeyes) via a bridle and some giant stainless thimbles; above is a photo of one next to a quarter . But the key to it lies in a series of around 120 small parachutes, each a small drag device, that run down the rope. In series they provide a huge amount of resistance.
It's one of those things you hope you never use (having paid for it today, I thought just for a moment: we'd better use this damn thing. But it's a day or two before we leave and I'm getting superstitious - I took it back very quickly and hope nobody up there heard).
You see, a potential risk to a sailboat like this comes from large breaking waves. Big waves are fine, we just sail over them, but breaking waves can sometimes, when they're big enough, catch the boat and propel it like a surfboard. The boat takes off, essentially in a falling body of water flying down the wave, and can hit 70km/h before crashing into the wave's trough. I'm told this is not recommended. Either the boat breaks up, or the bow can plant into the trough with the following wave flipping it end-over-end, a situation known as pitchpoling. I'm fairly confident that is not recommended either.
So this is where the drogue comes in. It keeps the boat's stern to the waves. When a big wave hits, it allows the boat to accelerate a little (diffusing the impact) but then gradually the chutes open and - like a bungy going tight - you're pulled back through the whitewater and over the wave's top. That each side of the bridle needs to be rated, in our case, to 14,000 lbs gives you a sense of the loads potentially created. There are other versions in more common use - one giant parachute etc - but this one intuitively sounds safest to me: the loads on any one chute are small, there's almost nil chance of the series getting reversed (a risk with just one chute), and it's so long there's little chance of it being in the same place on a following wave.
So it's a pretty useful device. My friend Dan, a willing volunteer to Bermuda, spent a good part of today helping connect the chutes to the line. We've done about 30....only 90 to go...
...but for now it's not so much a problem that we're still finishing off our preparation. The weather in the stream is awful. It looks like we'll be here another day or two at least. Here's the forecast for the offshore waters outside NY...not even in the gulfstream yet [1 Fathom is 1.8 meters or 6']:
GALE FORCE WINDS EXPECTED SAT INTO SUN
FRI
WINDS BECOMING NE AND INCREASING TO 15 TO 20 KT
LATE...EXCEPT W OF 1000 FM 10 TO 15 KT. SEAS BUILDING TO 4 TO 7
FT. HIGHEST WINDS AND SEAS SE.
FRI NIGHT
NE WINDS INCREASING TO 20 TO 30 KT. SEAS BUILDING
TO 7 TO 11 FT.
SAT
N TO NE WINDS INCREASING TO 25 TO 35 KT...EXCEPT E OF 70W
TO 35 TO 45 KT. SEAS 8 TO 12 FT...EXCEPT E OF 1000 FM BUILDING
TO 12 TO 19 FT. HIGHEST WINDS AND SEAS SE.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Mamaroneck, New York 40°56'N 073°43'W
Although hurricane season is officially over (Nov 1) the weather window to Bermuda and the Caribbean is firmly closed. North of us is a deep low pressure system causing strong winds, and heading towards us there's a tropical cyclone (which until very recently was hurricane Noel). In any case, we're still doing last minute jobs getting the boat ready to leave. Greg is shopping for food, and we've a million small tasks going on. But we hope to be ready to depart in the next week.
This is a technical passage. The gulfstream is flowing north between us and Bermuda at up to 4 knots. It's also much warmer than the surrounding water (indeed, it's the most severe temperature gradient anywhere in the world). For these two reasons the gulfstream is famous for 'making its own weather'. From our perspective, what we're most concerned about is a northerly wind shift. This causes a wind against current situation, which in the gulfstream can mean almost survival conditions - with large, triangular steep waves - in only about 25 knts of wind.
While we've all been doing our best to study the weather and hone up our forecasting skills, I can only say that my skills are marginal so far. So for this trip we've hired Commanders Weather - a professional weather forecasting outfit - to give us some guidance on a good weather window, and the best way to approach the eddies and counter-currents of the stream.
The photos show an infrared satellite image of the gulfstream, and below that, visual satellite imagery of the storm currently affecting the New England coast.
So we're very close now. I'm excited, but a little apprehensive too.
I turn 36 tomorrow. I've finally grown into my gray hair after years of trying. At these moments I'm always reminded of a comment my Dad once made:
The funny thing about growing older is that we all do it at the same rate!
Friday, November 2, 2007
Stratford, Connecticut
Steep, sloppy seas and a cold, wet wind right on the nose. Not the best sailing conditions (gentlemen never sail to windward!). My friend Sylvain has come up to help me get the boat down the Sound - a tremendous help - and we're crashing into it.
Earlier today, while motor-sailing, we appear to have sucked up some dirty diesel. Suddenly the engine died, and a look at the fuel filters showed a dark gray sludge clogging every pore. Oh man, why does this kind of thing always happen in rolling, corkscrewing seas? Still, better than an engine failure just at that point-of-no-return while approaching a dock I guess!
We changed the filters without too much problem. Those of you who have been up to the elbows in a diesel engine will know that they don't work if there's any air in the fuel lines. You also can't just crank away to get the fuel flowing as you might in a car. So when you change the filters you need to pump fresh fuel through the system while bleeding out the air bubbles (typically, in my case, with diesel flowing down your forearms). We had a bit of trouble getting the pump to prime, and I was getting frustrated after nearly 40 minutes trying that we're about to set off half way around the world and I can't even fix a blocked fuel line.
The diesel fumes and rolling conditions also left me a bit seasick. But ultimately we got it sorted with some creative use of the pump normally used for the transmission fluid, and Sylvain and I both pumping away at these silly little priming pumps. But as it burst into life, confidence was restored, and we pushed onwards towards the rapidly darkening horizon.
When we get to Mamaroneck another task will be to pump out and clean the tanks. At least I've changed the filters! This is really how it is: you cross one item off the to-do list and add another at the top. It really never stops!
Earlier today, while motor-sailing, we appear to have sucked up some dirty diesel. Suddenly the engine died, and a look at the fuel filters showed a dark gray sludge clogging every pore. Oh man, why does this kind of thing always happen in rolling, corkscrewing seas? Still, better than an engine failure just at that point-of-no-return while approaching a dock I guess!
We changed the filters without too much problem. Those of you who have been up to the elbows in a diesel engine will know that they don't work if there's any air in the fuel lines. You also can't just crank away to get the fuel flowing as you might in a car. So when you change the filters you need to pump fresh fuel through the system while bleeding out the air bubbles (typically, in my case, with diesel flowing down your forearms). We had a bit of trouble getting the pump to prime, and I was getting frustrated after nearly 40 minutes trying that we're about to set off half way around the world and I can't even fix a blocked fuel line.
The diesel fumes and rolling conditions also left me a bit seasick. But ultimately we got it sorted with some creative use of the pump normally used for the transmission fluid, and Sylvain and I both pumping away at these silly little priming pumps. But as it burst into life, confidence was restored, and we pushed onwards towards the rapidly darkening horizon.
When we get to Mamaroneck another task will be to pump out and clean the tanks. At least I've changed the filters! This is really how it is: you cross one item off the to-do list and add another at the top. It really never stops!
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