Heavy weather

It wasn’t easy to pick the weather window in 2007. We wanted to sail to New York, but the gales kept coming over the Bahamas, and that year there was even a tropical storm before the official hurricane season started, sinking a 54-foot sailboat with a crew of four.

We left Bahamas in sunshine and perfect conditions, although the weather guru Chris Parker spoke of the troughs with uncertainty, not knowing how they would behave.

Three days later, on June 1, the tropical storm Barry formed south of Florida. Moving north-east it would hit us outside Cape Hatteras, if the weather predictions were correct.

This is when we decided to turn around. But we didn’t feel safe. This tropical storm couldn’t be foreseen as an exact science; it could grow into a hurricane, veer in a more easterly direction and wipe us out within 24 hours.

We secured everything and prepared Bika for a capsize. We made a huge portion of stew in the pressure cooker, but were too scared to eat for a long time. We heard Herb on the SSB-radio, the weather guru for the North Atlantic, who strongly adviced sailors to get away as fast as they could.

We sailed south-east in fickle winds. Late in the evening it seemed likely that the tropical storm Barry wouldn’t hit us, but the barometer started to fall rapidly and we could see heavy clouds on the horizon in front of us. The tropical storm was pushing its way through the lows in the region, squeezing the isobars north of Bahamas.

The wind picked up. We continued in a south-east direction, but the winds got even stronger. We decided to drop the genoa 3 and wait for further development. That was a mistake. I should have hoisted the storm jib right away, instead of doing it later, when the winds were so strong that even a small mistake could have been disastrous. I had to carefully stuff the sail in the bag before hooking on the storm jib, and keep an eye on the waves at the same time. Actually, it rained so hard that the breaking waves got flattened a lot.

We hove to, as we’ve done many times before, and sent out a warning on the VHF every half hour, since it was impossible to see anything in the rain.

It was hot, though. It was strange to be almost naked when having maybe 45 knots of wind. We had a semi-knockdown, but both of us were in a good mood, and rather fatalistic about the weather.

After six hours the wind abated to 30-something knots, and we continued sailing in the morning, with around 30 knots of wind.

Waterspouts

We took some beating going through the Bahamas. The hurricane season was getting close and the weather conditions was pretty wild. The squalls kept coming, with thunder and lightning and torrents of rain.

We got two hours of gale and then nothing. The water was still and purple. We were just waiting, wondering. Then another string of squalls raised its heavy head above the horizon. We got engulfed in rain and darkness.

I signed off before the worst hit us, and could go down below with a pleasing sensation of being the lucky guy.

Nina really got it this time. She was sitting with her head bowed, still as a statue in the back of the cockpit, with her hands withdrawn in the sleeves of the raingear. The rain came down so hard that she got kind of hazy. It's not wickedness, it's just mankind to get a look of your spouse through the slits in the hatches, seeing you're better off for once.

The boat heeled over. Bika started to pick up speed and I could hear water surging along the hull. I could hear the deep slow sounds of distant thunder. Then Nina opened the hatch and wanted attention. There was a waterspout outside.

We could clearly see spray and water churning. The waterspout got wider and we got some concerns about where it was heading. It didn's seem to move, though. Further away we could see a second waterspout forming; it started like a tiny corkscrew from the sharp lower edge of the cloud. It stayed like that for awhile, sort of testing, before it probed it's long finger towards the sea. It was a more lanky version, funneling without any real purpose.

During the next hour we saw several distant waterspouts. On the fifth we started to get blasé.

The squall

We'd had a night with thunderstorms, and often just took down the sails and waited for the squall to pass. In the early morning the wind seemed to abate. I continued with the full genoa spread out on the spinnaker pole, and went down below to get some breakfast. Nina was still sleeping. I could hear the wind pick up through the vibrations from the rigging. A well known boat is full of those tiny signals that border towards the metaphysical. But on this occasion I was very tired. I didn't want any kind of trouble at the end of my night watch.


I had a slice with freshly baked bread in each hand, and with the tiller between my legs I was eating breakfast standing up, looking behind towards a squall that seemed to be coming. It's difficult to judge a squall in grey rainy weather. And being lazy I opted for breakfast. But the squall was strong indeed and Bika started a wild ride with the full genoa flying. I gulped down as much bread as I could and tried to reduce gyring by taking in on the main but it was just way to much wind. It hit so hard and fast that I never really had any chance to do anything except holding on, waiting for the old genoa to be ripped apart. It took maybe a minute. I went forward to bring down the wild fluttering remains, thinking Nina might need some of this for later, but the windvane couldn't handle the conditions and veered us upwind, bringing the prevented main to a half gybe. The boat heeled over and I was suddenly on the leeward side. I scrambled back and forth in a tangle of ropes and confusion, and ended entwined in my own harness, tired and sour. I heard Nina shouting from down below. I couldn't hear what she said, but just answered "it's nothing." Then the rain cleared. I could see the squall.


(The pictures is from the squalls that hit us the next day. I didn't repeat my mistake.)