December 15, 2018
Day 72
Noon Position: 43 21S 26 30W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 6
Wind(t/tws): NNW 12
Sea(t/ft): NW 2; SW 4
Sky: Overcast. Dull gray. Hard to remember anything different
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1023, falling
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 54
Relative Humidity(%): 71
Sail: working jib and main full, reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 66
Miles since departure: 9605
Avg. Miles/Day: 133
Becalmed soon after midnight. The sails could not hold their catch but spilled it and then rattled in disgust. I brought them in, switched on the anchor light and slept. Mo rolled heavily in the usual mix of southern swell, but my bunk in the salon is well below the waterline, and with a knee propped against a bulkhead for security, I barely registered the motion.
Wind again in the morning, but conveniently it waited until after breakfast. Light from the NNW. On it we’ve made respectable easting all day.
Another low will pass over us starting tonight, and as an experiment, I’ve removed the solar panels from the aft rails. One issue Mo has in heavy weather on the quarter is that she can slide slantwise down a sea and round up, even with just a small headsail flying. Monte always corrects this, but it can take him 10 – 15-seconds, and there will be a time when we don’t have that before the next roaring graybeard. By reducing windage aft, I’m hoping the correction can be quicker. All the panels are doing back there is catching wind anyway. We’ve not had sun since the Falklands.
In the late afternoon, wind went 20-knots and more, and as the sky began to look squally, I dropped the main in preparation for the night’s blow. Better to get it down and done before dark. I was rewarded for this bit of prudence by wind going to 12-knots, on which we now make a sluggish five.
Wind should fill in from the N by midnight and, with luck, we should have good winds for a week.
One Southern Ocean pleasure not found in middle latitudes is the constant avian companionship. Prions will spend hours fighter-jetting around the boat in flocks of twenty and thirty. Pairs of white chinned petrels will often join for a time. And from the outside, Wanderers swoop in for a long, slow inspection. But it’s the Prions that are the base-note these days, like chicks following Mo, the Mother hen.
December 14, 2018
Day 71
Noon Position: 44 01S 27 42W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NNE 6
Wind(t/tws): ESE 22 – 26
Sea(t/ft): SE 10 – 15
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1015, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 55
Water Temp(f): 50
Relative Humidity(%): 87
Sail: Working jib, broad reaching
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 107
Miles since departure: 9539
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
An odd experience, to have a low pass right over the top of you and then to swing around its backside.
A little after noon yesterday, our NE wind died right away. The barometer was dropping fast–997 at 6am; 987 by 2pm–so it was clear something was coming even without the forecast.
By 2pm, wind filled in lightly from the east; by 3pm, it was SE 13; by 6pm, SE 30. Overnight the range was 28 to 38 with many long gusts of 40.
I was up all night. Partly because I wanted to be available if needed; partly because all the bad stuff seems to happen when I try to sleep during a blow.
By up, I mean dozing in foulies in the pilot house or nursing a cup of tea.
Nights are cold. I stuffed myself into enough fleece layers for a polar expedition. Still cold. The cabin temp was 48. Everything I touched felt like the inside of an ice box.
When the wind went steady 35, I reefed Mo’s working sail to a nub, put her before the wind, and she rode happily with that, making an easy 6 and 7 knots.
Our couse, however, was NW, back tracking, following a line around the back side of the low as if it were a planet whose gravitational field we were using to slingshot us on our way. I wish. In truth, a low is more like a lee shore or a rock patch–a thing to be navigated around. Overnight our couse slowly arced north and then a touch east as the low worked past.
Light comes on early. By 4am I could see the seas, chunky, tall as two-story houses, and falling on themselves, but the break wasn’t serious.
I slept for two hours in the winter bag and dreamt of hot pastry fresh from the oven. Breakfast was hot (not the usual cold muesli) and big–scrambled eggs (dehydrated), hash browns (dehydrated) laid on top of last night’s beef and lentil stew. That plus two strong cups of coffee woke me up.
I’ve spent the day cleaning. For some reason, condensation has become an issued and wet is getting everywhere. Socks, boots, jackets, sleeping bags are all cold and clammy, and the floor is (was) slick with boot water (again).
Now it is evening and the wind is nearly gone. A high is rolling over us. What breeze there is will spin 180 degrees by midnight and die altogether.
Next low arrives tomorrow with strong north winds backing to NW. That should finally return us to a course with some easting in it.
Date: Dec 13, 2018
Position: 1800 hours 45 34S 26 53W
Course: WNW 7 and 8
Wind: SW 25 – 30
Busy night coming on so brief note. As you can see, I’m headed backwards. This is an attempt to slingshot around the back side of this low as it passes over us. Wind has only now started to accelerate and looks to be steady in the 30s over night. Sharp, lumpy sea and a cross swell I can’t figure out. Starting to get dark.
As regards “backwards” I like to think this is something like using a close pass by Mars as a way of getting up some speed for the trip to Jupiter.
Let’s hope that works out.
December 12, 2018
Day 69
Noon Position: 44 57S 28 57W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 8
Wind(t/tws): WSW 20 – 25
Sea(t/ft): W 6
Sky: Overcast. A light mist.
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1002+
Cabin Temp(f): 57
Water Temp(f): 52
Relative Humidity(%): 83
Sail: Twins poled out, reefed by half. Wind slightly on starboard quarter.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 164
Miles since departure: 9319
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
An off-the-shelf gray day. In fact, according to the log, we’ve had rain, drizzle, fog or overcast skies (well, always overcast) since December 9th. Fair sailing though, and all in the right direction, which is about to change.
The famous Moltke once said that “no plan withstands contact with the enemy,” and this has befitted perfectly our last few days of Southern Ocean weather routing. Having been driven up to 44S by the southerlies of our first Rio low, I thought to stay up here where the wind was clean.
Then the long range forecast showed two more lows diving down from Brazil in short order. To get over the top of them would have taken us to 39S, too far north for me; so, I dived Mo down toward our target latitude of 47S with intentions of going even further south if needed.
Then the long range forecast showed a large, heart-clincher of a low coming up from Cape Horn by week’s end. At first it called for winds of 40 knots and more (I read this as 50 plus) at latitude 47S with the low’s center barely below 50S. So, about face and I began moving Mo back N, while mapping out ways within the first two lows to get even more northing.
Now the Cape Horn whopper has been seriously downgraded. The two Rio lows are immanent, and its too late for more maneuvers. They’ll bowl right over us. Nothing for it but to press on.
—
Much is made of the freedom and ability to self-determine that singlehanders seek and get in spades. But this freedom comes with requirements. You must choose. Always the decision is yours, but you must make it. It’s not negotiable.
This is entirely satisfactory most of the time. But there are times when one feels overmatched and under-qualified for the task. The Southern Ocean is vast, volatile and inscrutable. Even the forecast can’t figure it out.
—
Napping. I’m no good at it. I may be droopy after lunch, but the moment I hit the bunk, I’m awake. This is dangerous down here where one is up in the night more often than usual. I have, however, happened upon an awkward but workable solution, which is to nap sitting in the pilot house with my head propped against the binocular box. I use the binocular cushion strap as a pillow. This position feels secure and is surprisingly comfortable, and here I can nod off with ease.
Title: Don’t Do … That!
December 11, 2018
Day 68
Noon Position: 45 36S 32 43W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7
Wind(t/tws): NW 15
Sea(t/ft): NW 3
Sky: FOG. A solid 24 hours of fog!
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1011, falling
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 51
Relative Humidity(%): 83
Sail: Working jib and main, broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 130
Miles since departure: 9155
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
By way of explaining my tremendous gaffe, the below.*
Monte: (urgently) Senior, please, we must to have a discussion.
Randall: Certainly my faithful pilot. What’s concerning you?
Monte: I have just watched your nice picture of the beautiful waves and with Senior Handel and it is all very good except that in it you are … (Monte says very quietly) … whistling…
Randall: And…
Monte: (aghast) Senior, that is very bad luck! You must not whi … I cannot say the word, but you must not do it. It is like to throw hot milk on Neptune’s cat. When I was a boy on the Santa Maria, I would have been keel hauled for … for doing that.
Randall: (slaps head)
Monte: I cannot believe you do not know this. You have read all the books about the great Captain Aubrey. Your father he was a captain in the merchant Navy. He said you could whi … you know, that … ONLY when there was no wind in the sails and then you also prick a backstay with your finger. But may I to point out our current position is not one of being becalmed. This is not that kind of ocean. You NEVER, NEVER …. do that … HERE.
Randall: I know, I know … I can’t believe …
Monte: So, what is very important is that you stop. Now. Please you will notice I have put up a sign over the companionway ladder as a reminder. And when you prepare dinner tonight, you must “cook up a storm,” for as you may recall, the cook is the only person allowed to … to do that. May I recommend a pot roast of lamb, which is my favorite. And I’ll have some of your Madera by way of acknowledgement for bringing this important issue to your attention.
Randall: We don’t have any Madera aboard.
Monte: Oh, what do you call it then, that evening beverage you have?
Randall: Beer.
Monte: (grimaces) Oh, a shame. Well, if that is what you have…
Lacking anything resembling a roast, I have made a large pot of beef curry, which steamed up the windows something fierce. Monte seemed satisfied.
And I have stopped doing … you know … that.
*Thank you to my friend, Matt, for pointing out the offense.
—
In other news, I got the dodger door, the one that pulled apart when we were pooped, sewed back up today.
December 10, 2018
Day 67
Noon Position: 44 26S 35 18W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): SE 5
Wind(t/tws): NWxN 12
Sea(t/ft): SW 4
Sky: Dense deck of cloud plus fog
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1014+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 51
Relative Humidity(%): 80
Sail: Twins poled out full since yesterday afternoon.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 99
Miles since departure: 9025
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Light winds overnight. The twins banged and rattled but were full just often enough that I didn’t have the heart to douse them.
Today wind has filled in from the NW but not with much conviction. The high has been 14 knots. The usual is more like 9 or 10 knots. Mo is unimpressed and makes sluggish way forward when she’s not busy rolling in the left-over swell.
I’ve changed my mind regarding strategy for the next two Rio Lows, this based on the morning’s forecast. I’ve decided to go under both and am now trending down to 47S and may go as low as 49S.
To go over the top, the forecast suggested I’d need to go all the way up to 40 and 39S to get reasonable wind. Both lows are (or were forecast to be) more powerful and durable in their NE, N and NW quadrants.
I’m not excited by this decision.* At a minimum, it’ll mean contrary, set-back wind at the height of things (southeasterly during the first blow on Thursday night and stronger northeasterly during the second, due on Sunday), and at moment the second low looks to be riding right over us. The only bright side is that both appear to be fast moving.
Rio is kicking out a low every few days this year; these will be our second and third gales since the Horn. My hope is that by the time the next reaches us, it’s diagonal course to the S will put it under our own course without us having to play tactics.
*The afternoon forecast does not so profoundly support my decision.
December 9, 2018
Day 66
Noon Position: 44 32S 37 36W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 7
Wind(t/tws): W 20 – 257
Sea(t/ft): NW 8 – 10
Sky: Total Cement, rain earlier
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1001, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 54
Relative Humidity(%): 82
Sail: Working jib, three reefs (due to much higher winds earlier). Twins poled out full by afternoon.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 137
Miles since departure: 8926
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
The working jib out all night full in winds of 20. I could have carried more sail after midnight, but again I opt for sleepover speed.
5 am. I step into the pilot house. Wind is 25. I think I’ll take a reef.
On deck, I see the sky is intense with cloud, multi-layered, dark to windward, and the low clouds are racing. I take a reef, then another. Wind is a solid 30 within half an hour. By 7 am, it’s 35 and 40 gusting 45.
At 1 am, the barometer had read 1006; now it’s 999.
The water is becoming streaked. Wave tops are blowing off. Seas are piling up. Unsure of themselves, they have become bullies, shoving Mo onto her beam’s end as if for the sheer fun of it. Monte works hard to stay the course.
By 9 am, winds are back down to the high 20s, touching 30.
By 10 am, 20 – 25.
None of this is in the forecast.
Likely there is a meteorological term for such an event. For lack of a better one, I called it a Flash Low in the log.
Flat gray sky and middle 20s wind the rest of the day. A dreary aspect to everything, except the Prions that dance around Mo like children who don’t realize they are playing in the rain.
In the afternoon I lofted the twins and felt relief at the beauty of finally flying more than one sail. We’ve been riding nothing but the working genoa for days.
—
Now I’m following the wind for a course slightly north of east in an attempt to stay out of the wind hole developing below us overnight. Tomorrow, we’ll see. I may reverse my tactic of staying up here and run down some latitude instead. The coming Rio Low is looking more intense today, and I’d rather not be in the heart of it.
December 8, 2018
Day 65
Noon Position: 44 23S 40 47W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 6
Wind(t/tws): SSW 25 – 30
Sea(t/ft): SW 10+
Sky: Light Cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 6
Bar(mb): 1002, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 54
Relative Humidity(%): 71
Sail: Working jib with three reefs, broad reach.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 132
Miles since departure: 8789
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Slow bell overnight. Was feeling pretty raw and in need of sleep after the recent low followed by a night of mopping up seawater, so I left two reefs in the working jib and started sleeping at 9pm. Wind veered into the SW overnight and put N in our course–we don’t need more north!–but I let it stand until morning, and that was the only change to the wind all night. I rose at 6am feeling more myself.
With the day, wind came on a steady 30 – 35 knots and the already lumpy sea grew with it. I carried this on the beam for a course due E until we fell off a couple stallions. Then I decided to run N with the herd for a few hours instead of across their bows. Now winds are back down to mid, high 20s, seas are moderating, and our course is back to the E.
Noticeably warmer up here. I’ve divested of a layer of fleece.
My goal after rounding Cape Horn was to head for 47S and have that as my target latitude for the trip around, but I’ve decided to stay the week at 44/45S. Mid to long range forecasts show a developing high right below us, and then a week on another Rio Low*, similar to the one we just weathered, will sweep through this area. If I’m too far south, it will give me a few days of strong easterlies (ug!); if I stay up here, the wind will be strong but favorable…so says the forecast.
Why 47S as a target latitude?
Tony Gooch (previous owner of this boat) has spent significant time in the south, and when he circumnavigated in 2002, his target latitude was 47S and with good results.
Our spin around the south last year was also largely at 47S and also with good results, save a specific low near the Crozet Islands.
What figures into a latitude choice?
-Distance. The distance around grows shorter the further south you are. For example, I believe the Golden Globe Racers have a southern limit of around 42S. The circumference of the globe at that latitude is 16,051 miles. Compare that to 47S, whose distance around is 14,731 miles, shorter by 1,320 miles or 10 days at 140 miles a day. (This is idealized and doesn’t take into account the changes in latitude due to weather or the dip for Cape Horn and New Zealand.)
-Weather. Summertime lows tend (emphasis, tend) to have their centers below 50S. In a region dominated by east-trending lows followed by calms, the further into a low you can be the stronger your wind and the longer you’ll carry it. You’ll be fast. That’s the upside. The downside is rather obvious. Stay too far south and you can get the stuffing beat out of you.
Clearly one can have different strategies for different sectors. In the Indian Ocean, for example, I’m considering a latitude well above the Crozet’s. Call me shy; that’s ok.
So, we’ll stay up here for the time being and then trend down as winds allow.
*Rio Low. The lows that march across the south often develop further north and then swing down as they intensify. The one that knocked us down last year in the Indian Ocean began its ugly career just off the coast of Rio de Janiero. So did the low we just weathered. And the one upcoming.
December 7, 2018
Day 64
Noon Position: 44 25S 43 51W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 4
Wind(t/tws): SWxS 14
Sea(t/ft): SE 10
Sky: Clear here; a front moving in from the S, the next system
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1008+, falling with purpose (1002+ as I type five hours later)
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 55 (warm)
Relative Humidity(%): 77
Sail: Working jib full; broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 109
Miles since departure: 8650
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
My concern about today’s system moving in over yesterday’s sea was ill founded. There was enough of a gap, and now we ride the building westerly on a predominantly westerly sea. Small yet, but there is time.
—
Last night Mo was badly pooped. Winds were 40 – 45 knots for several hours during the day. Forecast for 30. Grand, heavy seas towered over the boat by day’s end, but Mo took them easily on starboard quarter with deeply reefed jib. Decks were not even wet for much of the blow. Surfing was infrequent and not fast.
I spent much of the afternoon going back and forth from bow to cockpit while experimenting with car placement for a deeply reefed working jib. I never got wet. Wind eased a tiny bit at night but was still 38 – 40 when I started sleeping at 9pm.
I’m dozing uneasily at 10:30 when WHAM. Mo lurches and goes over. For a second, I thought she’d go all the way. The sound of water in the boat.
The companion way hatch is closed and locked (as per normal in rough weather–and usually all the time down here), but with a flash light I can see from my bunk that water is everywhere in the pilot house. Once up I find no broken window. I open the hatch. The dodger’s plastic door is ripped off it zipper to starboard. I look aft; Monte’s wind is vane gone. Not broken, just gone. The starboard cubbies in the cockpit are cleaned out; all contents are on the cockpit sole. Sheets are trailing over the side. The cockpit is still draining water.
Now we are lying ahull in an ugly sea. I switch on Otto and grab another vane for Monte, thinking to quickly get us on course while I inspect Monte for other damage. Once at Monte, however, I see no other damage and the other vane is miraculously sitting there on the aft deck. I put it back in its socket and we return to sailing.
Below is a wreck. The water that got in squirted through a small gap between the companion way hatch and the hatch cover’s rubber seal. The hatch didn’t fail; the locks didn’t fail; the pressure of the sea exploited the gap.
Every cushion and surface was running with water. I grabbed towels and began the mop-up ritual.
The good news: Mo lost NO electronics in the dousing. Thank you to Dustin Fox at Fox Electronics for the waterproof boxes. Things that were out, however, didn’t fare so well: my two favorite charts on the starboard table top were soaked (the Antarctica chart was out soaked during the Crozets knockdown, so think I can save both). Books that were out, Gypsy Moth Sails the World and Frost’s Practical Navigation, got wet but are salvageable. Tool drawers, wet but not soaked. The “office supplies” drawer: soaked. The rigging hardware drawer: soaked. There was water in the battery compartment.
After a few hours of cleaning, I did another inspection on deck. Both solar panels were intact. One strap clamp holding the emergency life raft to the rail had opened and hung loose (one strap of four). The boarding ladder was trailing in the water, and the outboard sat on its plate slightly askew (that it was there at all is amazing). I heard a grinding noise, which turned out to be the hydrogenerator impacting Monte’s water paddle. The unit was deployed at the time, and the wave bent its mounting bracket slightly.
I pulled the hydrogenerator for the night (have provisionally fixed it today), did an emergency lashing on the dodger doors till a proper sew-up later and went back to bed. It was 3am.
At the top, I said “badly pooped.” Given what could have happened, I think we faired pretty well. Towels and rugs dried in the sun today, mostly. Except for the soggy charts, we’re nearly back to normal.
Random power. Seas were heavy, steep and breaking yesterday, but not pitching forward. Where that one wave came from and how it got us…I’ll never get to know.
Day 63
Time: 1600 local (gmt-3)
Position: 45 52S 44 18W
Only time for a post card tonight. Mo is working through the southerly arm of a low to the N. Forecast of 30 has built to a standing 35 to 45 with winds mostly over 40. SE is becoming slowly S wind and is creating a real witches brew of seas, which Mo handles with aplomb so far. But we don’t have the full S wind yet.
I carried the blow on the beam as log as was practical so as to keep a NE course. But for the last few hours, and since the wind has built, we’re running with it NW. No need to punch into this system further than necessary. That said, this feels like going backwards.
What worries me is what comes next. A low to the south will reach up with W winds stronger than what we have now and well before this mess settles down. But that is a worry for tomorrow.
All for now.
December 5, 2018
Day 62
Noon Position: 48 14S 45 52W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 7
Wind(t/tws): SE 20 – 23
Sea(t/ft): SE 5
Sky: Low and Gray
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1012
Cabin Temp(f): 52
Water Temp(f): 50
Relative Humidity(%): 82
Sail: Three reefs in main and working jib. Close reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 141
Miles since departure: 8403
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
If it were a merry-go-round, you’d gently step off and stand in the shade of that oak tree for a while. But it’s not. It’s the ocean; it’s the south, and your merry-go-round is a boat. There’s no stepping off, even when wind and wave want to churn you to butter. All you can do is hang on.
The forecast said wind would take all night to swing into the south. It took two hours. By midnight I was on deck again tacking Mo around. This takes time. The running backs have to be shifted. The genoa has to be rolled in now that the inner forestay is set. The sheets have to be moved over one by one. (In strong weather, I move both sheets to one side; one in a car all the way forward for a tightly reefed sail, one further back for a sail a bit free. Then shift from one sheet to the other as needed. Saves moving a car in rough conditions.)
Mo came around smoothly on main alone. I blew her a kiss. By this time, though, wind was 18. I decided to take a reef in the big sail. When I returned to the cockpit, wind was 22. We would be reaching. I went for another reef and then left two rolls in the jib. A conservative sail-set at night means more sleep.
I went below and to bed. Two hours later, wind was 28. I went forward for a third reef in the main, but even in the bracing cold, my head remained dreaming. I forgot the rule: never let go of the halyard when reefing.
Handling the main on Mo takes care. It’s a powerful sail, a complicated rig, and the mast is prickly with hardware. Without care the batten cars can foul the lazy jacks or the sail luff can wrap in a mast step and the halyard can do the same. All of this can be avoided by going slowly and always keeping tension on the sail and halyard.
I had the sail half down when I noticed it had fouled a lazy jack and wouldn’t lower any further (I’d failed to bring the boom in before reefing). I let go the halyard so as to give a yank on the lazy jack line, and before I could correct myself, the halyard had flown up enough to wrap the top two steps. Now I had a sail that wouldn’t come down and couldn’t go up.
It is one of my biggest fears–being caught out in heavy weather with a mainsail stuck in the air.
In this case I simply let go the lazy jack line and pulled through the friction on the halyard. Easy save. But it’s the kind of thing that can go badly.
The day is low and gray. Wind continues hard from the SE and is blowing us into the strong arm of a low I don’t wish top mess with. I also don’t want to go any further north. But north is all that’s allowed for now. So tonight I’ll do without the main entirely; will try to slow down and let the southeasterly gale pass us by. There will always be another.
The cabin thermometer is stuck at 52, but it feels much colder below and on deck. I’ve put on a second layer of fleece and am now wearing gloves and am still a bit chilly. I hug myself and wonder how the albatross and prions do it, cavorting near Mo as if it were summer. Oh, it is summer. This is summer!
December, 2018
Day 61
Noon Position: 49 47S 48 33W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 7
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 20
Sea(t/ft): NW 3 and 8 (granddaddy swell under local small sea)
Sky: Cumulus and alto cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1008+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 45
Relative Humidity(%): 70
Sail: Working genoa and main; one reef in main. A reach tending toward broad reach.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 152
Miles since departure: 8262
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
Steady winds continue from the NW, and on them we make steady progress. But that is about to change. Tonight wind will back a solid one hundred and eighty degrees and settle into the south for a day or two. I anticipate little good sleep tonight.
Cold drizzle in the afternoon; a gray and pasty sky. Not much worth talking about…
So, for today, a video, a collage of scenes from the wild and beautiful force 8 blow some time back.
The idea for the video’s organization came to me during the blow and the “whistling” scenes were shot in it, this by way of illustration that during tough weather, most of one’s time is spent watching and being ready. It also shows how amazingly quite the pilot house is with mayhem just a few feet away.
The last wave scene in the video is the one in which Mo surfed, hard. I’ve never experienced anything like this brief, pedal-to-the-metal run. All other surfing during that blow was mere indifferent acceleration in comparison. The whole cabin roared. The speed indicator read 15 knots well after the height of things. I just happened to have the camera rolling at the time.
This episode occurred very late in the blow when, as you can see by the breaking sea on camera just after the surf, wave break was starting to pitch bodily forward and with lots of thrust. Winds were not any more intense then they had been; likely they were beginning to ease, but it was day four of force 8, and seas were quite mature. From my perspective, this is a good example of how a blow can be most difficult to negotiate in its latter stages…
Enjoy.
Hi Virtual Voyagers!
Yes, this post is not one of our usual posts. But we thought many of you would enjoy hearing from Randall for a change. The night before Randall set sail he made time to chat with one of our friends/advisors Matt Rutherford. Matt holds the honor of being the first person to non-stop through the North West Passage and sharing his epic single handing experience has been such a gift Randall in his preparations.
In the following interview you can hear Matt and Randall chat about his upcoming voyage. They talk at length about the perils of the southern ocean and the challenges of the ice of the northwest passage. Randall answered a TON of Matt’s questions which many of you have asked over the last couple of months. This episode might be the ticket.
Listen Here: https://www.59-north.com/onthewindpodcast/250-randall-matt (we recommend fast forwarding through the preamble that finishes around the 4 min mark).
Thanks to all our supporters. Because of you we’re also in talks with a couple of other podcasters about interviewing Randall while he’s at sea. Should be interesting.
As a treat – we thought we’d share what Randall is doing when he’s home. Looking out in the garden at the birds. Yep – pretty much the same. Although a little other surprise, Randall is a magician in the kitchen and his special dish is a chocolate souffle. Yes, I’m pretty spoiled when he’s home.
Until next time , Joanna
December 3, 2018
Day 60
Noon Position: 50 54S 52 07W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE+ 6+
Wind(t/tws): NWxN 12
Sea(t/ft): NW 2
Sky: Thin Stratus
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1016, falling
Cabin Temp(f): 61
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Main and working jib, full. Reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 163
Miles since departure: 8110
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
After the Cape Horn rounding, my wife was kind enough to send me a slug of comments from the Figure 8 site. Many thanks to all you Virtual Voyagers for the support and congrats.
In those comments, I found a few questions, and I’ve tried to bang through all of them, below…
-First, a quick shout out to Raquel. Greetings. How on earth did you make it to Puerto Williams? In Coconut? If so, good on you. Actually, good on you in any case.
—
Q and A
From Howard and Steph: Can you please explain “four reefs” of a jib?
Hey guys. In some of the photos I’ve posted featuring the headsails, you can see HOOD has sewn in blue hash marks on the foot of the working headsail at (what I presume to be) preferred reef points–points at which to stop rolling up the sail. I found during the F8V1.0 that two blue hashes–two “reef” points–what HOOD originally sewed on–were not enough in the south, and that I spent an inordinate amount of time at a third, more deeply rolled spot. Once home, I asked HOOD to reinforce the sail to that spot, and they then sewed on a three-hash mark. NOW, for the F8V2.0, I’m trying to keep speed up during bigger blows, and so am carrying the working headsail longer than I would have last year. To do so, however, I’ve had to roll the sail well past the third reef and to a place on the furling line I’ve now marked as reef spot number four. As “reefing” refers to “tying” or “rolling” to reduce sail, I use “reef.” Oats are rolled; sails are reefed. Hope that clears it up.
From Marc: Is there a possibility you could see any of the Golden Globe Racers in the area?
Sadly, no. It had been my fantasy to cross paths with either the leader, Jean-Luc Van den Heede or Mark Slats, who is in second. But Jean-Luc has been too far ahead (about five days) and a touch faster than Mo (he’s averaging 138 miles per day to Mo’s 135–though we may have gained a little on him since his mast fittings issues). By now, however, he’s turned north and is level with Uruguay, whereas we’re just past the Falklands heading ENE.
Slats is a different story. I had a 400 mile lead on him when we came into the same neighborhood and have made every effort to maintain or increase that lead. I’m not racing, of course, oh, no … far beneath such a … well, OK, I am a little. And successfully, too. I think we gained a bit on Slats during and after the blow. He’s just rounded the Horn yesterday, and now our courses will diverge.
Unfortunately, this is where I part ways with the GGR boats. They’re all headed up the Atlantic and home, and we’re headed east about.
—
From Jeanne Socrates: Can you be reached on Single Sideband radio? (I hear she’s been attempting to hail Mo while on approach to Cape Horn.)
Again, sadly, no. Mo’s excellent SSB radio, an Icom M710, was water-damaged during the Indian Ocean knockdown and not replaced. Though adored, it was rarely used, and redundant, I thought, next to the three layers of satellite coms I have on Mo. The good folks at Celestaire.com provided me with a $200 receive-only SSB I can use to tune into the WWV for time stamps, but that’s the best I can do.
Jeanne Socrates is sailing NEREIDA in an attempt to be the oldest person to solo circumnavigate non-stop. She appears to be at about 45S on an approach to Cape Horn. I wish her the best. Visit her site at https://svnereida.com
—
From Paul: Can you tell us about the electrical budget on Moli? Wind and solar generation, batteries and devices that consume power? What does reliable generation look like? How do you protect the solar panel and wind generator from wave damage? Do you monitor power daily load? What devices do you have that consume more power, do you ration use? Nav and cabin lights? I saw a sextant in a photo, could you continue without power? Do you endorse a manufacturer? Whisper? Thanks.
As to energy, much was answered in comments by my friend Kowden. A couple more thoughts: Early on I created a detailed energy budget but have not looked at it in months. As it turns out, my battery bank (about 600 amps) and power generation sources (2×100 watt solar panels and a hydrogenerator; plus engine, if needed) far out perform my energy use. Lucky me.
On a typical cruising boat, the fridge/freezer and autopilot eat up most of the power. Mo has no fridge/freezer and her autopilot is only used if Monte, the Monitor Windvane, needs to be offline for some reason. Otto has steered the boat for maybe two of our 60 days thus far. Monte is really … the man! I tend to be frugal with energy use. Keep lights off that aren’t in use; keep switches off that aren’t in use, but have not had to, as yet, cut down on natural, day-in-day-out usage.
Solar is a less productive power source at sea than at anchor. Boat motion and shadows from the rig are harder to deal with, and so the panels are rarely producing their optimal watts, even when hung on the aft rail, as Mo’s are. Double that problem in high latitudes where the sun is rarely out in full, is at a lower (less productive) angle when out, and the frequent strong winds means the panels need to be down and lashed most of the time. Still, they do produce. On good days in the south, even when lashed, the panels can keep up with daylight power consumptions and extend my time between hydrogenerator charges.
I avoided wind power because, again, it seemed to me that a cruising boat, which is usually traveling with the wind and often moving extremely (rolling, pitching) is a less than ideal platform for that technology. Most wind units need apparent wind in the high teens to really perform, which we get in the south but not in the middle latitudes. In addition, I don’t really have space on the radar tower for anything more.
The Watt and Sea hydrogenerator is my go-to charging device. It runs from 12 – 20 hours every other day. At max it can pull in about 12 amps but averages about 10 in bulk mode and at optimal Mo cruising speeds of about 7 knots. I’ll try to detail later what has worked and not (it’s not perfect but I’m damned glad to have it).
As to the sextant, yes, I could navigate without power. What one needs is: sextant, nautical almanac, site reduction tables, access to accurate time, and a sense of the vessel’s course and speed over time.
One can use the almanac for site reduction, but I use Celestaire’s Sight Reduction Tables for Air Navigation, HO 249. Easy. Three volumes. For time, I have a small collection of cheap quartz watches and for each I’ve done a gain/loss study, so that, once set to the WWV radio signal, I know how much time to add/subtract over months of usage.
The only place I’d struggle is with boat speed and course. Heading I could take from the compass, but Mo lacks a speed indicator outside of the Chart Plotter. For this I’d have to guess. Course and speed are used to establish a dead reckoning position (DR), required for the sight work-ups. The DR does not need to be very accurate (as I prove daily), but a good DR makes the working tidier.
December 2, 2018
Day 59
Noon Position: 51 57S 56 08W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE+ 7+
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 20 – 25
Sea(t/ft): NW 5
Sky: Some cirrus; otherwise clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1014, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 79
Sail: Working jib and main, three reefs each, close reach.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 179
Miles since departure: 7947
Avg. Miles/Day: 135
What mileage! Either I, in my sleep, have become a much better sailor, or we are riding a hefty NE current. I’m not pushing Mo nearly hard enough to warrant a straight 7.5 knots an hour for the last 24. But however it comes, I’ll take it.
We had a similar current passing Ilsa Estados just after the Horn and when departing the peninsula; there our speeds were up to 10 knots. A look at the chart shows that there and now, as we pass under the Falklands, we are riding the ridge that rises to the continental shelf. I wonder if this current is a function of upwelling. That might also explain the *still* green sea.
More signs of land. Yesterday towering thunderheads to the north that must have been above the Falklands. In the afternoon I heard a propellor plane but never found it in the sky. Last night when I came on deck, wind had gone north; I thought I could smell land. In this case a kind of punky, wet wool smell. Are sheep an item in the Falklands? And several times now the VHF radio has barked. I can’t make out any words, but there’s a vessel close.
Today wind has gone into the NW and hardened. Our speed remains a solid 7 and 8 knots, but we’re on the wind and the ride is wet and rough. So, this is an “inside play day,” though it is sunny. I got caught up on correspondence (what a strange thing for a solo sailor to say), napped a bit in the afternoon and then did my exercises.
I’m starting to do squats. One hundred now. More later. And stretches. Quite a workout on a bounding boat. Today’s gym was the navigation station.
Why? I’ve gotten leg cramps at night again. Only once so far, but this was a feature of the last voyage as well, and the cramps began at about this juncture–our entrance into the south.
The muscle that cramps is on the inside back of the thigh and runs the body’s entire length. It cramps in the thigh, making it impossible to stand up straight without severe pain. Standing straight is the only way to uncramp the muscle. A week ago when it happened, I thought I might pass out. Then, once gone…it’s gone.
Part of the issue is hydration. I don’t drink enough water when it’s cold. But certainly exercising the legs and stretching can only help.
Today’s bird, the Prion. A flock of 50 playing in Mo’s wake and in the draft of her sails.
December 1, 2018
Day 58
Noon Position: 53 27S 60 24W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 7
Wind(t/tws): WxN 15 – 16
Sea(t/ft): SW 2 and 12 (big old swell; we almost surf)
Sky: A front to windward and to lee ward; clear here.
10ths Cloud Cover: 1
Bar(mb): 1014, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 67
Sail: Big genoa and main, full. Reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 122
Miles since departure: 7768
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
I keep referring in these logs to the Figure 8 Voyage 1.0, the first Figure 8 attempt, as what happened “last year.” In fact, upon reflection and much to my surprise, most of that voyage happened this year.
Today is day 58 of the current, 2.0 voyage. On day 58 of the 1.0 voyage, it was December 28, 2017. Mo and I were just getting anchored at a little cove on Chile’s Beagle Channel called Caletta Olla, this after a week of hand steering off the South Pacific due to the failure of both our self steering systems. At that time we were just three days from rounding Cape Horn.
Two days of rest and general tidying at anchor, and then it was on to Ushuaia, Argentina, for repairs. We departed Ushuaia for sea on January 12th of this year (!), and the rest of that 1.0 voyage–the knockdowns, the Hobart layover, the sail home–*and* this one, have all happened in 2018.
I’ve made two attempts at Cape Horn, from California, in one year.
Makes my head spin to think on it.
At least the right Horn attempt was successful.
I woke to sunshine and the need to, finally, douse the poles and put us on a reach. That second task happened after morning coffee, but the realization–“OH, IT’S SUNNY!”–didn’t happen until about 10am.
Down here sun is rare and sun is useful. It is, among other things, warming and drying, and every chance one gets in the Southern Ocean to haul pillows and mats and towels and socks and sleeping bags up on deck for a breather, one should take. Otherwise the damp below will, after a time, become utterly demoralizing.
Once boat things had been laid out to dry and locker lids had been opened, I set about small chores: mopping perpetually wet floors, cleaning the sextant of a week of salt spray, draining bilges, repairing the cigar box I use for navigational tools (the lid had broken off when I fell against it)…and studying the problem of the genoa poles.
The issue is simple to describe: the poles keep falling out of the sky unbidden. But the fix has stumped me so far. This started a month ago. I’ve repaired the latch that holds the pole to its socket on the mast rail twice, but the wear of years of happy use has simply worn out the latch and the socket. I’ll have to jury rig some sort of clasp. The challenge is that the pole must be able to rotate 360 degrees while the socket stays still. Thus the study. I think I’m close…
Not all work, though. Since the Horn, the birds are back. Wanderers, Black Browed Albatross, Cape Petrels, White Chinned Petrels, Storm Petrels, Prions. Sometimes I can count as many as fifteen birds in view at one time. A typical hour may be half work and half bird watching.
The water remains an emerald green. Occasionally, we pass slug-brown kelp heads amputated by some wild wave from the cape we have just passed. Ahead and to port is Ilsa Beauchene, an outlying rock some 50 miles south of the Falklands and our closest approach to those islands. I have Beauchene in view now, a low, bean-shaped lump. Once past, we leave behind the rock and the kelp; the water will turn blue in a day or two, and we will become, again, as pelagic as the birds.
November 30, 2018
Day 57
Noon Position: 54 36S 63 15W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExN 6
Wind(t/tws): SWxS 17 – 23
Sea(t/ft): SW 8 – 10, very steep; wind-over-current seas. Nearly pooped.
Sky: Alternating between squall and clear.
10ths Cloud Cover: 9
Bar(mb): 1008, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 52
Water Temp(f): 40, back down from yesterday’s 45
Relative Humidity(%): 69
Sail: Twins poled out.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 174 (Favoring current.)
Miles since departure: 7645
Avg. Miles/Day: 134
What can one say about Cape Horn, except that he is happy to have rounded it safely and in such fine weather. Apart from the chilling rain, I could not have asked for it half as good.
Wind overnight and the morning of our approach was light, such that I though we might be so delayed as to not see the Horn during daylight. But by mid morning, we picked up a moderate westerly, into which I poled out the headsails, and I haven’t touched them since. The wind has bent around the continent with us. It’s evening of the next day; Mo and I are headed NE, are nearly in the Atlantic’s Scotia Sea, and are wearing the same set of sail.
Such happenings change one’s perspective on luck. I tend to be of the same mind as Amundsen, that luck is manufactured, or, as he would say, “Adventure (by which he meant bad luck) is just bad planning.”
But I could not have manufactured the beautiful four days of Force 8; the strong westerlies that followed, nor the fine day we had at the Horn. I could not have put myself in the way of such blessed timing. That was nothing but chance in the raw.
In fact, I might feel a tinge of remorse for our easy time if it weren’t for the difficulties of last year and the mischievous pleasure of sliding in close to ogle the beast and then getting away clean.
My god, not just to round the damned thing, satisfaction plenty, nor even to have it hove into view from afar, but to run up to within a mile such that I could see the great slabs of black rock, the olive green mosses on its flanks, the light house. To hear the waves crash after their run around the globe. To shudder at the thought of it hulking out of the mirk, lee and frothing, on a dirty night.
All past now. In the night we ran fast toward Isla de los Estatos while I slept six hours and was only up twice. In the morning I could see the island in silhouette and still we ran. Mo made ten knots easy on a strong westerly current. Then, on the back side of the island, it reversed. For four hours we sloshed through eight and ten-foot wind-over-current seas at five knots. We were nearly pooped. I actually worried about pitchpoling.
Now that’s past too. We press on into deep water, into easier latitudes, and towards our next gate.
One can see the certain challenges of the south as gates that must be got through. Mo and I sailed over 7,000 miles to get to the first gate, the Horn. But there are two others before we approach the Horn again some four months from now. One is … well … the whole of the Indian Ocean. If I were guessing, I’d say the toughest time be around the Crozets where the water shallows and the wind seems always to be super-sonic. Another is at the bottom of New Zealand where Mo and I must skinny below rocks called The Traps but above islands called The Snares. Then it’s back to the Horn, again.
Mo and I are fifty seven days at sea now, but really, this is where it starts.
November 28, 2018
Day 55
Noon Position: 55 54S 71 58W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7+
Wind(t/tws): NWxN 27 – 31
Sea(t/ft): NW 10; very steep and breaking
Sky: Overcast, low gray deck
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1007+, falling
Cabin Temp(f): 54
Water Temp(f): 40
Relative Humidity(%): 71
Sail: #2 working genoa, two reefs, broad reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 172
Miles since departure: 7329
Avg. Miles/Day: 133
All morning I study the seas from the the pilot house. They are northwest, as is the wind we are taking on the beam, not too high, but steep as walls and breaking often. If there are three kinds of wave break–a) a slow, lazy mushrooming at the top and down the back of the wave; b) a pitching up and then forward only to fall down the front of the wave, sometimes with heavy water behind; c) a curling and pitching forward with speed often greater than the wave and with heavy water behind–then these are between the latter two.
Once in a while, a breaker catches Mo on the flank. Thwap! Water explodes into the sky. Mo heels sharply to starboard. The windows go in once.
The big question: what will these look like in the coming shallow water? Is this a silly risk, pulling in close to Cape Horn when south about Diego would be safer? What is “just to see it from sea” really worth?
It is worth all, says a voice. I keep our heading due east for the Horn.
This was my fear last year too. As I made slow way hand steering east for Bahia Cook, I knew the last twenty miles would be over continental shelf. I’d be entirely exposed to westerly wind and sea in water 200 feet deep, not to mention the shallows of the bay itself. The day I made approach, seas were 8 and 10 feet from the west. I watched as the water shallowed, as it went from thousands to hundreds in a couple miles. I could not notice any change to the sea state then.
And now? These seas are sharper. How large a wave is needed to touch the shallow bottom and stack up? I don’t know, but not these. These are not gray beards; these are not the wandering giants we had but a few days ago.
Mo can manage. I keep our heading due east for the Horn.
Cape Horn: 158 miles off at noon.
At 3pm, land how. The day has cleared, the wind is easing; my sea is falling rapidly. The water has turned emerald green, a sure sign the coast is near. I look up to the north and see what I think are tall thunderheads hull down on the horizon. But the black smudges intermixed are the clue. In binoculars, I can see that the thunderheads are the snowy peaks of Tierra del Fuego; the black smudges are the black mountain faces.
Tierra del Fuego. My heart races. To stop, to spend years exploring the canals and fjords where Magellan, Drake, Cook and Fitzroy all made discoveries.
But not this time. I keep our heading due east for the Horn.
Wind is easing still. Light wind is not in the forecast, not for now. Please don’t let the wind die here. The large genoa is already out. I pole out the #2. So close. So close.
Cape Horn: 113 miles off as I type.
Broken Wing and Positioning for Cape Horn
November 27, 2018
Day 54
Noon Position: 56 01S 77 05W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 7+
Wind(t/tws): WNW 25 – 27
Sea(t/ft): NW 8 – 10
Sky: Overcast with drizzle
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1012, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 52
Water Temp(f): 40
Relative Humidity(%): 74
Sail: #2 poled to windward; #1 free flying to starboard.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 160
Miles since departure: 7157
Avg. Miles/Day: 133
One cannot call these anything but excellent, simply excellent sailing conditions. Winds W, WxN, WNW at 20 – 30, day after day. And Mo churning out 150 mile 24-hour runs and better without effort.
Wind is slowly swinging into the north now, so at noon I took down the starboard pole and let the big jib fly free, while on port, the #2 was kept poled out. The big genoa can handle being cranked in hard and taking a wind deeply on the quarter when poled out, but only if it’s full. There’s just too much wind today for that.
I’ve used this tactic several times, and it always looks weird and feels weird. Mo appears to have a broken wing, and her motion changes, though how I can’t say. I watch Monte and the tiller for signs of imbalance, but there aren’t any. I still don’t like it. When wind went up a few ticks later, I rolled in the #2 altogether, and we’ve been charging at 7 and 8 knots on the big sail alone all afternoon.
As I type, wind is touching 30, and it’s time to start changing down to smaller sail.
—
If you have been watching the tracker, you saw that I changed course at noon as well. I put a little north in our heading, and will keep it there until we come back up to 55 58S. That’s the latitude of Cape Horn light. I’ve decided to position for a run north of Isla Diego Ramirez.
Why? Because I think I can.
The weather looks manageable; the strong winds between now and climbing over the continental shelf are NW and will be knocked down by the peninsula; and the seas we have, a lumpy 8 and 10, aren’t enough to cause problems in shallow water. And because a chance to see Cape Horn from sea–that’s once in a lifetime.
Cape Horn: 326nm at noon today. Two days and four hours at current pace.
—
It’s 46 in the cabin when I wake and never gets much above 50 on cloudy days. So today, after a cold lunch, I decided to warm up with hot cocoa. This is my first cocoa this trip and my second total on this trip and last.
I like cocoa. I make it from my own recipe, but I screwed something up when mixing the bulk-batch of 30 pounds, what I thought I’d drink on the Figure 8 Voyage 1.0, and never touched the stuff last year. I didn’t remove it once home either, but left it on board for this voyage. It is HARD AS A ROCK, and took a hammer to make small enough chunks to fit into a coffee cup. Still doesn’t taste right, but at least it was hot.
November 26, 2018
Day 53
Noon Position: 55 35S 81 46W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7
Wind(t/tws): W 20+
Sea(t/ft): W 10
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1011+, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 57
Water Temp(f): 40
Relative Humidity(%): 65
Sail: Twins poled out, two rolls in each.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 168
Miles since departure: 6997
Avg. Miles/Day: 132
One gets to see first hand during weeks like this why the Clipper Route was the most efficient route around the world for commercial shipping prior to steam and the Panama Canal.
Mo has had consistently strong westerlies since November 15th, when she crossed into 39S, and has logged 150 miles a day or more on all except three of them, and one of those was 149 miles.
In the last seven days, we’ve sailed 1,078 nautical miles for an average of 154 miles per day. Four of those days were during the blow, where we made respectable but not fantastic time due to reduced sail and an extravagant sea. Yesterday and today, however, show what this bird can do off the wind with more than a handkerchief of a sail set. Today was particularly pleasing; 168 miles noon-to-noon and a steady 7 knots, hour after hour, all without pressing (the twins were rolled by a third).
The Horn looms now. We’re headed almost due east. As I type, Isla Diego Ramirez, the island I intend to pass south of as soon as Wednesday, is but 407 miles off.
Why Isla Diego Ramirez and not a pass by Cape Horn proper? Diego is about 50 miles south and west of the Cape Horn rock and, like my home island of the Farallones west of the Golden Gate Bridge, lies on the edge of the continental shelf. Between Diego and the Horn, water shallows quickly from a mean 15,000 feet to as little as 300 feet. Seas that have had the entire southern ocean in which to roam can stack up over this shelf and become dangerous in short order. There are more than a few stories of yachts rolled or pitchpoled in this area in dire weather.
So, for now, Diego is the target. We’ll keep an eye on the weather to see just how dire it wishes to be.
Basic chores in the afternoon. One was to repair Monte’s water paddle, now done.
The Bone of Satisfaction
November 25, 2018
Day 52
Noon Position: 54 56S 86 34W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7+
Wind(t/tws): WNW 25 – 30
Sea(t/ft): W 10
Sky: Total, slate gray cloud cover
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1000
Cabin Temp(f): 52
Water Temp(f): 40
Relative Humidity(%): 79
Sail: Twin headsails, poled out; reefed by two thirds.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 160
Miles since departure: 6829
Avg. Miles/Day: 131
Wind finally eased overnight, and by morning was 25 – 30 from the WNW. Our four-day blow had ended. Seas too had eased. The grand, high swell had moved on, leaving a field of great, collapsing, frothing lumps of water. Mo heaved.
By now we have almost all the southing we need for the Horn, and so, after coffee, I turned Mo’s head to the east, a dead run, and flew the twin headsails as deeply reefed as the poles would allow. In this way, we have made a steady 7 knots all day.
Relieved of deck duty, I gave head and face a bath in hot water. I shook out the rugs and cleaned the floors, which had become slick with salt slime from four days of wet foulies and boots being trekked around the cabin. I made a hot lunch, an unusual luxury, to re-ignite that internal glow, given the absence of the sun (the mean temperature in the cabin is now 50 degrees).
And then I sat and watched the waves and the white headed petrel surfing their crests and gnawed the bone of satisfaction, satisfaction with Mo and how we’ll she’d worked through a long bit of Southern Ocean heavy weather.
Cape Horn: 565 miles. Four days at this rate.
November 29, 2018
Day 56
Noon Position: 55 59S 67 44w
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7+
Wind(t/tws): W 15 – 25
Sea(t/ft): W 5
Sky: Overcast with rain and drizzle
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 998, rising slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 55
Water Temp(f): 45 (warmer. hmm.)
Relative Humidity(%): 69
Sail: Twin headsails poled out; three reefs in each.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 142 (light wind overnight as we moved between weather systems)
Miles since departure: 7471
Avg. Miles/Day: 56
EDITOR’S NOTE:
We jumping this post to the head of the line because we’ve just receive a few photos of Randall’s rounding of Cape Horn today. No story yet, except that it was a fine sail, if wet and cold, and he’s tired from the excitement and a few days of inconsistent sleep. He reports he’s headed NE toward Staten Island overnight and will likely trend toward the Falklands from there. There are a couple more pre-Horn posts to come, and then we’re sure Randall will send in the rounding tale when things even out.
November 24, 2018
Day 51
Noon Position: 53 51S 89 52W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): SExE 6
Wind(t/tws): WNW 33 – 39
Sea(t/ft): W 20
Sky: Light cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 989, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 54
Water Temp(f): 40
Relative Humidity(%): 77
Sail: Working genoa, four-reefed as usual.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 159
Miles since departure: 6669
Avg. Miles/Day: 131
Each morning the forecast calls for diminishing winds and each morning the sea spurns such a futile thing as a forecast.
Yesterday I said we had surfed but not fast and that seas were breaking but not with intent. Both of those changed today. There is a sense of chaos here now. No longer satisfied with steadily blowing, winds are now only prolonged gusts, 35 knots for ten minutes and then 45 knots for ten minutes; repeat.
And the sea has stood up. It is steep as a wall. The break rolls forward, mushrooming out in one giant overfall, spilling beyond and down the wave before rolling back and creating a vast whitewater rapids on the backside. And there is both a SW and NW component to the sea, this though the wind has been but a few degrees of west for the entirety of the blow.
Now Mo is getting knocked around. Mostly it’s the inexplicable SW break that will catch her. If taken by the stern, she’ll be spun around ninety degrees, and Monte will work as much as half a minute to right the course. If the breaker catchers her amidships, it will lay over her bodily. There will be a booming crashing sound below, and then all the windows in the pilot house will go dark. One such breaker was so large and loaded with so much water that when Mo stiffened up, she brought half the water back with her and delivered it from whence it came.
Then there’s the surfing. It’s not as though Mo is surfing more, although she’d be forgiven for doing so. No, it was one wave that caught her dead flat astern as it broke and propelled her forward at an as yet unknown speed. I was looking out the starboard window at the time, and the entirety of it was filled with her flare of water. She roared forward ten seconds. At the end, I turned to look a the speed indicator. 15 knots.
Immediately following this, Mo rounded up and failed to come back. I raced on deck to find Monte’s safety tube had been broken off at the hinge. The surfing force must have been intense.
I switched on the autopilot and reduced sail by another two thirds before putting us back on course. The water paddle dangled behind the boat like a giant fish lure. As I reeled it in, I noted that one of the tiller lines on the pendulum had parted. No, on closer inspection, the knot had un-knotted. I use a figure 8 stopper knot–have for 40,000 miles of Monitor use. Never have I had one work and slip free. That explains the broken tube. With the knot undone, the pendulum was free to slam the frame, and the force of the surfing exercise severed the tube.
Is this a testament to the pressure on the water paddle the last four days? Maybe. Likely it’s due to my being unable to cinch-up the knot enough (the line is extraordinarily stiff) and even with a two inch pigtail, it was able to work loose.
I keep a full paddle assembly ready to go, and we were back under Monte’s able guidance within twenty minutes. For the first time ever, I clipped in for this hang-over-the-stern exchange. The sea was kind. I didn’t go underwater as could have. I didn’t even get wet.
So much energy being expended; so much mass being moved from one place to another. So much weight of water being thrown on its beam’s ends.
A howling. When wind gets over 38 knots, it creates a white roar in the rigging. When it gets to 45 knots, the whole boat shudders continually.
Could this wild place possibly exist on planet earth?
