April 6, 2019
Day 184
Noon Position: 33 39S 27 54W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 6+
Wind(t/tws): NWxN 14+
Sea(t/ft):NW 4
Sky: Overcast, amazingly complex sky
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1017+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 73
Water Temp(f): 70
Relative Humidity(%): 88
Sail: Working jib; one tuck in the main, close reaching on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 129
Miles since departure: 25,125
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 172
Leg North Miles: 2,175
Avg. Miles/Day: 128
Tough night. Wind began to increase just as I started my sleep cycle (typical!). First one, then two, and then three reefs. I sat up with “the blow” and dozing in the pilot house till about 3AM, when things settled in at 20 knots from the NWxN.
More bang and slosh.
I put “the blow” in quotation marks because there was no change to the barometer and hardly any change to the sky. Just incrementally more wind as the hours passed.
Regarding the sky, not so by morning, when what the day delivered was a complex, ever changing mash-up of cloud, criss-crossed cirrus and towing cumulus. As I type, the sky if flat gray and raining.
And all the while, our northwest wind continues.
—
I think we are passing through a weather nursery.
You may recall that when Mo and I were making our way most recently through the Indian Ocean, I often wrote of what I called “Rio Lows,” low pressure systems that I noticed developing off the coast of South America at roughly the latitude of Rio de Janiero.
If they survived a few days in the lee of the continent, these Rio Lows would often wander off diagonally south and east, sometimes becoming powerful southern blows in their own right or joining up with an existing southern low to produce a whopper of a storm.
The knockdown in the Indian Ocean that took out Mo’s pilot house window was the result of a low that started its life off Rio.
Well, we’re here (more or less). This is Rio Low territory–where the low pressure systems are born. And I think this turbulent, confused, muggy, rainy, on-again, off-again weather is what the “birth of weather” looks like.
If true, I’m happy to report that it’s as messy and complicated as other births.
The below photo is from early this morning and is looking directly overhead. Notice that the ribbed cirrus clouds are traveling in at least three directions and that in the mix are both cirrocumulus and cirrostratus cloud. What more could you ask for?
This photo was taken at the *same time* as the above and shows a great wall of towering cumulonimbus directly in our path. This wall stretched horizon to horizon. Sadly, the photo doesn’t do its grandure justice.
And, by way of illustrating how fast things were changing, here’s a shot from ten minutes later.
The cirrus sky has been covered over by altocumulus and the wall of towering cumulus has simply evaporated.
But somehow we make our northing despite what the cloud does.
April 5, 2019
Day 183
Noon Position: 34 56S 30 00W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 5
Wind(t/tws): NWxN 8
Sea(t/ft): NW 2
Sky: Altcum becoming cirrus with cum as a front approaches.
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1017, falling slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 75
Water Temp(f): 70
Relative Humidity(%): 84
Sail: Big genoa and main, close hauled on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 121
Miles since departure: 24,996
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 16
Leg North Miles: 2,046
Avg. Miles/Day: 128
We just can’t shake off slow days. On four of the last six, we’ve logged fewer than 127 miles in 24 hours, and those two exceptions were less than our average of 137 miles a day. I must refrain from complaining, however, as we’ve experienced a steady westerly with no calms at all since Cape Horn, but I’m beginning to forget what it was like to go fast.
Right now: 8 knots of wind; the big genoa and main up and the cover down to catch a bit more breeze, and all we can muster is 4.5 knots of speed. Nary a white cap to be seen.
On the positive side, it is warm. I’m in a t-shirt. Today I washed my head in the cockpit and without heating the water. Took it straight from the sea. Been months since the water has been warm enough for that.
Another first: hatches OPEN. Laundry (not clean, still dirty, still wet from action in the Roaring Forties) out to dry, but it remains too humid for this. Clothes come back below as heavy and damp as they were when laid out.
—
We crossed the latitude of 35S today and our first distinct shipping lane.
At 10:30AM, three bulk carriers came onto the chart plotter screen in a loose convoy headed due west and riding the 35S line. The BULK POLAND, MEDI KAZAHAYA, and the MIMOSA, all bound for Recalada, which I presume is around Rio de la Plata. All were making the bulk carrier’s signature speed, 12.6 knots.
Our intercept was such that the middle of the three, the MEDI, had to alter course for Mo by north three degrees, and even then, she passed within a mile. I sat on deck watching her slow maneuver and wondering at the sequence of events aboard the MEDI. Who on the bridge first reported the AIS target; who gave the order to alter course; who pushed the button on the autopilot that would engage the giant hydraulic ram to turn the rudder that would gently ease these many tons of steel three degrees to the north; who made note of these actions in the log? Was it all the same person?
I could have altered course by pulling one of Monte’s a strings, and certainly that would have been the polite thing to do, but I’d spent the last hour balancing sail and tiller in these zephyrs. And we all had bags of sea room. And I was curious …
The MEDI never rang as she passed. With binoculars, I could see that no one came out to the fly bridge to inspect the little, gray mosquito off to port. She made up the three degrees before going over the horizon. A clean, smart-looking ship. I was pleased we had crossed paths.
Two hours later, two more bulk carriers outbound on the 35S line and headed for Singapore.
April 4, 2019
Day 182
Noon Position: 36 08S 31 59W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 5.5
Wind(t/tws): NNW 12
Sea(t/ft): N4-6
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1013, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 73
Water Temp(f): 67
Relative Humidity(%): 86
Sail: Working sail, close reaching on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 126
Miles since departure: 24,873
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 15
Leg North Miles: 1,925
Avg. Miles/Day: 128
Close hauled. Boom boom. Like thunder. Mo drops cantwise off a sea into the next or an approaching sea catches her smack in the bilge, and one imagines the gates of hell have opened.
From inside, it is as if you are living within a bass drum being played to some alien rhythm or inside a vault as the massive metal door slams shut. Then there’s the vibration, the rending of the hull, at least. You check the bilges for water. You cross yourself and pray that the welds are as good as their reputation.
When the northerly wind hit a steady 25 true, I put in third reefs and went to bed.
All night crash and bang. And at a crawling pace we made mostly easting. Not much real sleep.
By 2am the wind began to ease. By 4am, I started letting reefs out. By daylight, the sky was a chaos of gray and rain. And by noon it was all over. Skies were clear, and our winds returned to the gentle northwesterly we’ve carried since the Falklands.
Not for long though. The calms of the Horse Latitudes are dead ahead.
—
Since the Falklands, I have dived headlong back into astronavigation. I took but a handful of sights in the south. There was enough to do without layering on extra. But now that skies are mostly clear (rather than the reverse), I’ve unleashed the sextant once more.
Most gratifyingly, I’ve started dabbling in The Sailings, navigational formulas that are aids to Dead Reckoning. With The Sailings, one can mathematically project his current position from a known position and the intervening course and distance sailed. Alternatively, one can calculate his course and distance from one known position to another.
Sure, either can be done on a chart, but when one’s chart covers an entire ocean, the width of a pencil mark is several miles, so one has a better chance of accuracy with math. Not to mention that the chart got wet and no longer enjoys the touch of a pencil. Ehem.
For someone with a Trigonometry background, the various formulas are child’s play. For this English Major, they require hours with Bowditch open to pages 351 – 361, and lots of scratch paper, all of which has yielded the following triangle and useful formulas, from which all blessings flow.
April 3, 2019
Day 181
Noon Position: 36 54S 34 25W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 5.5
Wind(t/tws): NxE 15 – 17 (straight 20 by 1400)
Sea(t/ft): N 5
Sky: Cumulus and a mackerel sky. (Heavy squalls by 1400)
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1600
Cabin Temp(f): 77
Water Temp(f): 67
Relative Humidity(%): 81
Sail: Working sail, one reef. Two reefs by 1400.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 124
Miles since departure: 24,749
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 14
Leg North Miles: 1,799
Avg. Miles/Day: 129
Another slow night rewarded with a warm sunrise and delicately colored cumulus.
All changed by early afternoon. Now Mo pounds unmercifully into a growing sea. The wind is 20 knots and better from the N and as much as 25 degrees E. The main and number two have two reefs and are sheeted in tight. We are as close hauled as can be. From below it sounds like
World War III has just erupted out there. No one is comfortable.
I owe Mo another reef before sundown if this continues, but for the moment we need as much press of sail as she can hold in order to claw even 20 degrees of northing out of this. N winds to 25 overnight says the forecast.
So ends the gentle ride.
April 1, 2019
Day 179
Noon Position: 39 49S 38 20W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 6
Wind(t/tws): WNW 17 – 20
Sea(t/ft): NW 5
Sky: Alt Cum 3, mostly clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 3
Bar(mb): 1021+ steady
Cabin Temp(f): 72
Water Temp(f): 65
Relative Humidity(%): 80
Sail: Working jib and main, one reef; reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 122
Miles since departure: 24,492
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 12
Leg North Miles: 1,543
Avg. Miles/Day: 129
Wind went light overnight, but that wasn’t so much the issue as the SE setting current we had to plow through. Speeds over the ground were four knots and less, though we were much faster through the water.
Rain by sunrise with a twenty knot northwesterly and a deck of very serious cloud, low and ragged and a reminder that this is not the tropics and our blessedly steady wind is not blowing trade just yet.
—
Today we officially departed the Roaring Forties.
Mo entered 40S from the north Pacific on November 15th of last year–four and a half months ago. In that time we’ve sailed nearly 20,000 non-stop miles below the Capes, and most of that below latitude 45S.
Psychologically and physically it is a relief to be headed out. There is no one thing that makes sailing in the Roaring Forties difficult, but the compounding of cold, lack of consistent sleep, constantly shifting winds driving sail change after sail changes, the race to stay on top of maintenance issues, extreme boat motion, concerns for the actual (not forecast) intensity of the next low and the push to move to a safer quadrant, concerns for the exit gate, Cape Horn, and the sheer length of time a full lap requires…were all beginning to wear.
I am deeply, deeply grateful to have seen so much southern ocean. I could never have expected to be so lucky as to spend the better part of two consecutive summers communing with the great waves and the Wanderers, exploring the most mysterious and awing wilderness on the planet.
That said, I’m ready to depart for easier climes … for now.
March 31, 2019
Day 178
Noon Position: 41 05S 40 25W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 5.5
Wind(t/tws): NW 10 – 15
Sea(t/ft): NW 4
Sky: Few wispy cirrus; mostly clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1022, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 70
Water Temp(f): 62 (Note!)
Relative Humidity(%): 79
Sail: Working sail, full, reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 136
Miles since departure: 23,370
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 11
Leg North Miles: 1,421
Avg. Miles/Day: 129
Lazy days, warm and gentle. We are riding still our light but constant northwesterly; that faithful wind we picked up just above the Falklands continues on without a pause.
Each day it appears in the forecast that tomorrow we will reach the center edge of this high pressure system and run smack into calms, and each day the high recedes a bit further north, delivering another good day’s sail.
It’s a much appreciated gift, this breeze; quite a change from the protean blows further south. I feel a sense of release, the more so as we climb. This sensation may, in part, be due to a deck warm enough to be trod bare footed. Feet that have been encased in thick wool and rubber boots for months have finally emerged as like the groundhog, which they resembled before a soak in the passing sea and a long deferred trim. I’ll spare you the photos.
I watch the birds with anticipation. Still they are my friends from the south, the Albatross and White Chinned Petrel, but I wonder at what latitude they will depart, and then how long before we are called upon by our first Tropic Bird.
March 30, 2019
Day 177
Noon Position: 42 45S 42 28W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 6
Wind(t/tws): NW 15
Sea(t/ft): NW 3
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1021+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 66
Water Temp(f): 55
Relative Humidity(%): 79
Sail: Working sail, full, reaching.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 142
Miles since departure: 24,234
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 10
Leg North Miles: 1,285
Avg. Miles/Day: 129
Today is sunny and warm, a most excellent day to make a video…long overdue…
March 29, 2019
Day 176
Noon Position: 44 28S 44 42W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExE 6+
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 15
Sea(t/ft): NW 5
Sky: Altostratus and altocumulus; front coming in from S
10ths Cloud Cover: 7
Bar(mb): 1023, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 64
Water Temp(f): 54
Relative Humidity(%): 82
Sail: Working jib and main, close reaching on port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 145
Miles since departure: 24,092
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 9
Leg North Miles: 1,143
Avg. Miles/Day: 127
A mash-up of dark clouds to windward and a fresh breeze this morning made me run through my heavy weather checklist before breakfast. But by noon we had clear skies and a beautiful 15 knots just forward of the beam and on which Mo pushes happily along.
The sea is not blue but green again. No, not the muddy greens and browns of bays but a clear, sparkling, emerald green. This is common near coasts, but we are nearly a thousand miles east of Argentina.
Today around noon we left behind our course from the first Cape Horn rounding–our course out to the east and around Antarctica. Now the next leg really begins, the push north into the Atlantic, virgin territory for me.
This turn north, the warmer weather and smaller sea allow thoughts to roam over the next big challenge–The Arctic–and accordingly, today, I brought down the RCC Pilotage Foundation Guide to the Arctic and Northern Waters. Time to become reacquainted with that route. 
March 28, 2019
Day 175
Noon Position: 46 13S 47 04W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NExN 7
Wind(t/tws): WxN 20 – 25
Sea(t/ft): W 10
Sky: Clear
10ths Cloud Cover: 0
Bar(mb): 1022
Cabin Temp(f): 66 (!)
Water Temp(f): 58 (!)
Relative Humidity(%): 83
Sail: Working jib, two reefs; main, three; reaching to port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 156
Miles since departure: 23,947
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 8
Leg North Miles: 998
Avg. Miles/Day: 125
Night dramas continue.
I had been in my bunk an hour when Mo began to pound. Winds were the better part of 30 knots on the beam and the sea had been bouldery all day, so I knew we had rounded up. But why? I got up and suited up.
In the pilot house, the chart plotter showed Mo doing a handy seven knots (good) but due north (not good). Once in the cockpit, I saw that Monte’s tiller lines were limp and the tiller, free-wheeling. This usually means one of the crew has failed to lock Monte’s chain in its chock with a small lashing, without which the chain can slip out. But tonight the lashing was in place. I climbed to the transom and peered over the side. There I saw that the windward tiller line had parted near the lowest block.
This line has parted once before–on January 10 to be specific, and after 13,543 miles of hard pulling. With nothing inside the Monitor frame tubing to chafe on, the only explanation is that this 1/4 inch Dyneema with a cover of tightly woven Dyneema and a working load of 2,000 pounds–extraordinarily tough stuff–simply wore out. I replaced it back then with an entirely new run of line and made a note (mental) to inspect it at around 10,000 miles of use.
It parted at 10,404 miles. Southern Ocean miles.
I quickly did an end for end of the line–effectively taking the chafed part out of service–and we were back underway in fifteen minutes.
—
Warm. And suddenly. Only five days ago the cabin was 45 degrees at sunrise. This morning’s cabin temperature was 60 degrees. The cause may simply be the rapid rise in water temperature, which was 42 degrees a week ago and is now just shy of 60 degrees. Remarkable. And we’re still well within the Roaring Forties.
March 27, 2019
Day 174
Noon Position: 48 03S 49 48W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 6
Wind(t/tws): WxS 19 – 26
Sea(t/ft): W 10
Sky: Overcast, flat gray
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1020, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59
Water Temp(f): 54 (BIG jump from yesterday of 43)
Relative Humidity(%): 83
Sail: Working Jib, one reef
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 163
Miles since departure: 23,791
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 7
Leg North Miles: 842
Avg. Miles/Day: 120
Up most of the night. Winds went due west and began increasing slowly but steadily in the evening until, by midnight, we had a straight 30 knots. I’d been running one pole, but at that point switched down to triple reefs and all sail set for a broad reach on port. By dawn, 35 knots.
I note this because a) such winds were not in the forecast; and more interestingly, b) were not foretold by the barometer, which read between 1019 and 1018 for the duration and has been high and steady for several days. Thus, not all strong wind is a function of *local* changing pressure.
Fast days due to wind and a north-setting current. We pound in a lumpy sea, but all is forgiven when the miles are good.
We are in the company of birds again. Three Wandering Albatross, double that in White Chinned Petrels and a smattering of Prions, all playing in the warm light of a lovely sunset.
In my first Cape Horn post of a few days ago, I asked if it might be possible that I was the first to round that famous promontory twice in one non-stop, solo passage.
Thank you to Michael Thurston and Eric Mathewson for noting in the Figure 8 site comments that such a prize actually goes to Jon Sanders of Australia.
I’d heard of Sanders when I was in Hobart and knew he was a prolific single-hander but had allowed my own accomplishment to crowd out any specific memory of his.
His are notable in the extreme and worthy of a review.
Jon Sanders, born in Perth in 1939 and a sheep shearer by trade, was the first man to circumnavigate Antarctica, circling the continent twice in 1981 – 1982 in his S&S 34 PERIE BANOU.
Departing from Fremantle, Sanders successfully passed south of the three great capes: Horn, Good Hope and Leeuwin, before rounding Cape Horn a second time. Here he turned north to Plymouth, UK and then returned to Fremantle via Cape Good Hope, all non-stop.
This voyage was recognized in the Guinness Book of Records for the following:
• The first single-handed sailor to remain continuously at sea twice around the world.
• First single-handed sailor to round the five southern most Capes twice on one voyage.
• First single-handed sailor to round the five southern most Capes twice.
• Longest distance continuously sailed by any yacht: 48,510 miles (78,070 km).
• Longest period alone at sea during a continuous voyage: 419 days: 22 hours: 10 minutes” (RR Note: I wonder where Ried Stowe figures in here?)
Such a voyage might overflow the cup of any normal ocean soloist, but not Sanders, who departed Fremantle again in 1986 for a successful attempt at *three* continuous circumnavigations south of the Great Capes, this in his 47-foot PARRY ENDEAVOR.
All told, Sanders voyages include the following ocean transits:
• Indian Ocean (14 times)
• Atlantic Ocean (11 times)
• Pacific Ocean (12 times)
• Australian seaboard, west-to-east and east-to-west (45 times)
• Cape Horn (5 times)
• Cape of Good Hope (11 times)
• Panama Canal (6 times)
• Suez Canal (x4)
And a summary of his firsts include:
• 5 x non-stop circumnavigations (the first in 1981-82 and the last in 1986-1987).
• 5 x Cape Horn roundings (one east-west & four west-east).
• 5 x Cape Horn roundings during non-stop circumnavigations.
• 4 x roundings of the five southernmost capes.
• 1 x circumnavigation using the east-west route.
• 4 x circumnavigations using the west-east route.
• Circumnavigate non-stop via Cape Horn west-about and east-about.
If there is a banquet table in heaven for the world’s single-handers, surely Sanders will be at its head.
(The above was cribbed from Wikipedia and this article.)
March 26, 2019
Day 173
Noon Position: 49 58S 52 42W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NE 7
Wind(t/tws): WxS 20
Sea(t/ft): W 4
Sky: Cirrus and Altostratus
10ths Cloud Cover: 6
Bar(mb): 1018, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 84
Sail: Singe reefs in the working jib and main; broad reaching to port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 143
Miles since departure: 23,628
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 6
Leg North Miles: 679
Avg. Miles/Day: 113
It’s colder on this side of South America than the other. Though this statistic isn’t evidenced in the temperature readings of the cabin thermometer, it is clearly corroborated by hands and feet that are only warm when tucked into a down sleeping bag at night. Other data points: I shiver on deck. My nose is drippy. Today I made a cup of tea and unwittingly burned the skin of the hand holding the cup because the hand was too cold to feel how hot the cup had become.
My guess as to the cause is land, or rather, mountains. Our winds are still coming from the west, which means they must pass over the chill Andes to get to us, and the chill rides for free.
I take this as my excuse for not toasting our recent rounding of Cape Horn with champagne. While there’s no bad time for bubbly, it’s just too cold on deck for that right now. I’ve got the bottle out and ready, but let’s get a little northing first.
I have, however, made the traditional, celebratory breakfast. Recall that I eat muesli every morning. So, on “holidays” I’ll make “scrambled” eggs (from dehydrated whole egg powder) and hash browns (also from dehydrated) fried in butter. With ketchup! The only appropriate exclamation for that breakfast after weeks of muesli is WOOF!
March 25, 2019
Day 172
Noon Position: 51 40S 55 21W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 7
Wind(t/tws): WxS 20
Sea(t/ft): W10+
Sky: Altocumulus, clearing
10ths Cloud Cover: 7
Bar(mb): 1013+, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 48
Water Temp(f): 42
Relative Humidity(%): 86
Sail: Broad reaching with working jib and main; one reef and two, respectively.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 170 (Yes, that is correct.)
Miles since departure: 23,485
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 5
Leg North Miles: 536
Avg. Miles/Day: 107
Our fastest day in months! Frankly, I wasn’t sure we could do a straight seven knots for twenty four hours any more.
Wind came on strong last night from the NW. The forecast called for velocities in the low 20s…so, what we got was an unvarying 30 knots for a full eight hours, which we took just foreward of the beam with three reefs in everything.
A very uncomfortable ride, if I may be blunt.
I slept more on my bunk’s cushion back than on the seat and actually didn’t sleep much at all due to the racket. In the cabin, I moved around on all fours. Making coffee in the morning felt like a trapeze act. And pooping? Well, let’s just say that it is practically an act of valor to do any business in the head when Mo is in such froth. You take your life into your own hands in there.
But we were fast! And that made the domestic difficulties worthwhile.
Of course, now we pay for that speed. The wind has vanished; down to 10 knots, and we’re being thrown around like a raft in rapids on the leftover swell.
March 24, 2019
Day 171
Noon Position: 52 38S 59 41W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 7
Wind(t/tws): N 18 – 21
Sea(t/ft): N 4
Sky: Altostratus
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1022+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 45
Relative Humidity(%): 70
Sail: One reef in working jib and main, close reach to port
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 73
Miles since departure: 23,315
Avg. Miles/Day: 136
Leg North Days: 4
Leg North Miles: 366
Avg. Miles/Day: 91
Another desperately slow day. Overnight, wind remained in the 6 – 10 knot range and backed slowly into the north. I let it gently ease Mo first into the north and then east and until the wind direction gave us a nice purchase on a tack. That was 3AM.
Soon after, the sun came up. This was the real beauty spot of the day, but it also indicated I’ve been slow to change ship’s clock recently.
We slid east and out from under the Falklands by early afternoon. By now winds are 20-25, and as I type we’re down to double reefs. The ride is uncomfortable, but our speeds are 7 and 8 knots. All of us aboard are willing to sacrifice a bit of comfort for that!
—
We sailed over the shallows below the Falklands, the rise between Sea Lion Islands to the north and Beauchene to the south. Most of the day I’ve seen whale spouts in the distance whenever I look up. One spouted within three boat lengths. I got the camera out, but he was already gone.
The real zinger came when I happened to glace to windward and saw the boiling water left from a whale’s fluke thrust, then I saw another, and another. Connecting them led directly to Mo. There was one right off windward bow. I braced for impact. Then, in a moment, a boil of water appeared to leeward, then another and another tracing a line away. The whale swam directly under us.
Later in the day, a cormorant. Haven’t seen a cormorant since San Francisco. Then dolphins, Southern White Sided, I think.
Now we are back in deep water and are alone.
A Klatch of Albatross
March 23, 2019
Day 170
Noon Position: 53 30S 61 04W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): NNE 4.5
Wind(t/tws): E 10
Sea(t/ft): E 2
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1017+, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 72
Sail: #1 genoa and main, full, close hauled.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 84
Miles since departure: 23,242
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North Days: 3
Leg North Miles: 293
Avg. Miles/Day: 98
What a strange turn of days. To come from the windiest place in the world to a place where the breeze’s only commitment is to a light contrariness! I feel like Scott and his polar party, trapped under an inversion layer that never lets them go.
Mo is close hauled in winds 6 – 10 on the nose and is averaging, at best, 4 knots. Even with the big sails up, there is just enough of a chop to impede her ability to build up a head of steam. Always we are on the verge of making good time. Of course, the heading this wind requires is right at the nearest island.
The only question now is will I have to tack before the Falklands or will the breeze finally be bent by the will of an approaching southern low and go west? With only sixty miles to North Arm, we’ll know by morning.
—
Last night, Mo and I were included in a moveable klatch hosted by a number of local avian socialites.
It was evening. The slate sky gave way at its margins to a clearing and, for a brief time, a setting sun, orange and warm, at least in appearance. I was on deck trimming the big genoa when I noticed we were in company with five Wandering albatross and four great petrels. There was so little wind, each was having to maintain his altitude with the force of his wings, and still, during the glides, they were grace incarnate.
They circled for some time. Then an albatross landed near Mo. Then another near that one. Then a great petrel joined them. Soon all were down in a group. They seemed not to be saying much, but their chosen proximity suggested a social exchange whose language I did not know. I watched until they were out of sight and then went on about my business.
Five minutes later we were in the company of birds again. More albatross and giant petrels swinging around Mo, ably making use of what minimal swell there was for lift. Then occurred the same landing ritual. Within a few minutes, the birds were on the water top and bunched together near where Mo and I passed.
It took a third instance for me to realize it was the same collection of birds that were rejoining Mo. But by then the sun had set and, apparently, that was the end of social hour. After the third gathering the birds vanished.
There are birds in other oceans, but not so numerous, nor so grand, nor so mysterious as here. These visitors were the first inkling of what we are giving up by exiting the south.
March 22, 2019
Day 169
Noon Position: 54 41S 62 23W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ENE 1
Wind(t/tws): SWxS 5
Sea(t/ft): —
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1009, rising very slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): —
Sail: All sails down, drifting
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 92
Miles since departure: 23,168
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Leg North/Atlantic Days: 2
Leg North/Atlantic Miles: 209
Avg. Miles/Day: 105
The wind has abandoned the field these last two days. For a time yesterday when it wafted almost due west, I ran with all plain sail flying, main and #1 genoa out to port, #2 jib poled to starboard. On this plan we made what felt like a handy three and four knots. Today, wind is so light, all those same sails do is thrash. I put them out of their misery at noon and we drifted for a time.
If this had happened two weeks ago, I would have had a fit. We were on a mission to get around the Cape and out of harm’s way. Now I don’t care. The gray sky is flat and unthreatening, and the sea is as calm as the middle Pacific. It is illusory, this sense of safety. The screaming 50s can scream here as well as to windward of the Horn, but now we are headed north (albeit slowly), north and out.
—
I’ve often been asked by those unfamiliar with passage making how I deal with the threat of pirates. They have heard in the news of yachts being taken off the coast of Somalia or in the Phillipines and have generalized the very real danger there to any place offshore.
The question comes up so frequently that I’ve manufactured an entertaining (to me) response. I say, “I carry a Captain Phillips Kit.”
“Oh,” they say, “And what it that?”
“A water cannon that mounts on the bow. A bull horn for yelling very loudly at my pursuers. A grenade launcher…” I go on until they twig me.
From what I can tell, piracy is local to a very few, extremely poor countries and is, in all cases, a coastal issue. Mo and I are almost always well offshore, well beyond the range of a small, open boat with an outboard motor, and thus I haven’t given piracy as second thought.
Until yesterday at 11AM when I looked up and found that Mo was being chased.
Overnight we crossed the Burdwood Bank, a bean-shaped plateau between Isla de Los Estatos and the Falklands. We’ve crossed it twice before without encountering another vessel, but last night we cruised slowly past two large (200 and 300 foot) trawlers working around a hash mark on the chart noted only as an “obstruction.” I assumed this to be some kind of fish aggregation device.
We passed close enough that Mo’s AIS alarms began to sound, but by dawn, the two ships were far astern and forgotten, until late morning when I discovered one, the Echizen Maru, on a direct intercept and traveling at twice Mo’s speed. When I first spotted her on the scope, she was ten miles astern and below the horizon.
That a ship should pass close enough for worry is to be expected. It’s why we value AIS. But for all the times that alarm has sounded, I’ve never come to the chart plotter to find the other vessel in direct pursuit.
And for some reason, I immediately assumed the worst. The rationale went like this: the Echizen Maru, she must be a Japanese vessel on clandestine fishing maneuvers within Argentinian waters; overnight she saw Mo and knows Mo saw her; now she intends to take or sink Mo so that her position cannot be reported to the authorities.
Never mind that the other vessel with her overnight was clearly Argentinian (The San Vincente bound for Ushuaia). Never mind that we saw each other on AIS, a technology also used by Chilean and Argentinian authorities to keep track of local traffic. Never mind the most likely scenario, that she’s on her way to a new fishing spot that intersects our course, and she’s dropping by to have a look.
By now, the Echizen Maru was well above the horizon, a large, red vessel with a white house and clearly headed right for us.
I found I was quite afraid.
Quickly I dug through the navigation desk for the Piracy Defense Plan. None there. I did a mental inventory of weapons: a sailor’s knife; a bowie knife; a rusty machette, a spear gun, a flare pistol. No water cannon; no grenade launcher.
How about evasive action? Sure, maybe, but for how long? Besides, if she puts a launch over the side to board us…well, we can’t outrun that.
What if I call on the radio and ask, “Echizen Maru, what is your intention?” That’s how Captain Picard always began an engagement on Star Trek. Then he’d give the order, “Shields up!” I looked around the pilot house for someone to receive that order. There was no one.
In short, beyond calling my wife as action commenced or going on deck with a cell phone in to my ear to indicate I was “in touch with the authorities,” I had no defense. None at all.
So, I was greatly relived when, two miles off, the Echizen Maru slowed, turned, began to feed nets astern and made slow way in the opposite direction.
March 20, 2019
Day 167
Noon Position: 56 03S 67 58W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): E 7
Wind(t/tws): SWxW 25 – 30
Sea(t/ft): W 15
Sky: Overcast, rain
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1007, rising
Cabin Temp(f): 52
Water Temp(f): 46
Relative Humidity(%): 82
Sail: Working jib, three reefs.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 154
Miles since departure: 22,959
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 110
Miles since Cape Horn: 15,319
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 4 36
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 361 38 (Funny. Must have been overgenerous on some previous day.)
Avg. Long./Day: 3.28
Hour after hour we run in towards the shallows below Tierra del Fuego and hour after hour the barometer remains fixed at 1008mb and wind at 30 knots. I know this is how the low will come on: isobars will trend east/west until the slanting wave of more powerful winds arrive. But those more powerful winds have been due for some time.
I train the flashlight on the barometer: it reads 1008. Count to three hundred. Click the light again. The barometer reads the same.
I’ve had my glass of wine and dinner and have donned an extra layer of fleece while my belly is still radiating its recent receipt of lentil stew. Now I am crammed into the starboard quarter of the pilot house, kitted-up in foulies and ready. I’m on big weather watch and will be here for the duration, unless called on deck.
Click the light again. Same.
Mo is tearing along under a heavily reefed working jib. Beyond her rails, night has consumed the sea, but not entirely. Typically during a blow, darkness is complete. Often a graybeard is heard long before its boiling embrace emerges into the dim cast of running lights. But tonight there is a full moon behind the thick veil above so that the sky glows eerily and against which the black heave of sea is just visible. Thankfully, there’s not much to it. Yet.
Click the light again. Same.
I’m beginning to think that the low’s center has slunk prematurely off to the south, that Mo and I will steal in under the Cape unchallenged.
Click the light again. Now the barometer’s resolve has wavered; it reads 1007.
Within the hour winds have increased to a standing 40 knots and have veered into the northwest. I roll a fourth reef into the working jib, adjust Monte’s control line, and begin to wonder at the intelligence of my plan.
By midnight, 1005; by 3AM, 1003. Now a heavy rain has set in with winds gusting well above 40 knots. I have thoughts of bailing out, of gybing around for a run around Diego Ramirez so as to stay in deeper water. But the angle would be difficult for Monte. And besides, this is all happening too quickly for there to be much of a sea.
Dawn. We are rushing in over the rise. Here and for some twenty miles, water shallows rapidly, from ten thousand and more to an average of three hundred feet. But it’s not the depth that worries me so much as the east-setting current, which flows like a river around and around the southern ocean loop and must, necessary, be shoved upwards and accelerated as it meets the lifting depths.
At first there is no change, but as daylight comes on, the wind-driven seas of eight to ten feet start to stack up and double in size. Their blue-black faces become sheer and their crests heavy and crashing in on themselves with an explosiveness I’ve never seen. Mo is being thrown. Frequently now she surfs with a roar. Twice before 8am, she is laid over and scoops a cockpit full of water. Whatever the circumstance, however, she recovers, and we race on.
The low is due to blow itself out by early morning, but at 11AM winds are still pushing 35 knots. We are under the peninsula with Cape Horn several hours further east, and I let Mo ease north to meet it. The cloud above us is beginning to thin; however, the coast is enshrouded in fog, so it comes as a surprise when just after making the noon log, I sight land, a lone, dark hump on port beam I take to be Cape Spenser.
On we rush in these mad seas, but the day has become fine and bright. And then, just after three o’clock, the Cape hoves into view, two points off port, awash in sunlight. Even at distance, I can see the breakers throwing themselves at her feet. Gray, hulking rock not so much barren as raw, jagged and torn from eons of facing the worst, and when the sky clears, always the sea remains and the Cape remains.
It has been one hundred and ten days since we last saw this rock, looping around with the express purpose of seeing it again. In that time Mo has sailed more than 15,000 non-stop miles in the roaring forties. What should I feel? Proud of the accomplishment? Humbled by the privilege of exploring so long these byways of wildness? Lucky to have survived with boat and self intact?
Yes, all that, but not now. Now I only feel the relaxation of fatigue, of relief and release. After two tries this circuit is closed. Wind is slowly easing but is still strong. I let Mo push past the Cape with her reefs in. I make a hot dinner and then go right to sleep. And under a night sky ablaze with the cold, blue light of stars, Mo sails on, on and on and on…
March 19, 2019
Day 166
Noon Position: 56 11S 72 34W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ESE 7
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 17 – 25
Sea(t/ft): NW 8
Sky: Overcast
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 1008+, falling slowly
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 45
Relative Humidity(%): 88
Sail: Twins poled out
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 162
Miles since departure: 22,805
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Days since Cape Horn: 109
Miles since Cape Horn: 15,165
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 4 44
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 357 02
Avg. Long./Day: 3.28
We rode the twins for almost twenty-four hours in fast following winds and on which Mo has turned in her best mileage in a couple weeks. I’m pleased that it appears the approach to the Horn will go out with a bang, not a whimper.
The low is close now; winds are intensifying and pulling north. Just after the noon post, the anemometer struck 30 knots at almost NW. So, down came the poles, and we race onward under the working jib alone.
Above is a low, featureless and dark sky that gives one the impression of perpetual evening. Going to be a dark night and a long watch for Randall.
I’ve decided to go north of Diego Ramirez.
This may sound strange given the post of a few days ago, which declared it prudent to go south about in strong wind, but the high winds of 35 forecast for tonight are only due to last a few hours, and currently the sea running is not all that large.
A north about saves us as much as 50 miles and gives the opportunity to see the Horn one last time.
There is risk, but the reward is an ample one. At least it seems that way at the moment.
Now our course is due east. At our current rate of speed, we should be over the shallow water of the continental shelf by dawn.
Mo has completed her circumnavigation in the Roaring 40s, including two consecutive roundings of Cape Horn. The circuit took 110 days and covered over 15,000 miles.
As you saw if you followed on the tracker, I came in north of Diego Ramirez in strong wind, this after writing a blog post describing why that is a bad idea. I was right. More on that later.
It’s late evening. The sun just set behind Cape Horn. And now we sail into the next chapter of the Figure 8 Voyage.
PS. Two roundings of Cape Horn in one voyage. Has that been done before? I don’t know. 
March 18, 2019
Day 165
Noon Position: 55 39S 77 18W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 5
Wind(t/tws): WxN 9 – 16
Sea(t/ft): W6
Sky: Squall clouds. Frontal clouds at windward horizon.
10ths Cloud Cover: 5
Bar(mb): 1011+, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 52
Water Temp(f): 44
Relative Humidity(%): 69
Sail: Twin headsails poled out full.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 113
Miles since departure: 22,643
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Days since Cape Horn: 108
Miles since Cape Horn: 15,003
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 19
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 352 18
Avg. Long./Day: 3.26
Miles to Cape Horn: 247
A cold rain on the dodger pitter patting as I typed last night’s report. Wind in the teens from the south. Mo reaching at a respectable pace with her working jib and main. Then the boat laid over as if an elephant had landed gently on the masthead. The anemometer read 35 knots. No run up. No fitful gusting to serve as warning. One minute teens; then whoosh.
The forecast had been wrong for days now, so much so I was beginning to worry it and I were out of sync. For three days, it told of a Force 7 southerly that never developed. Each day our position crossed a great stream of red feathers on the weather map, but our wind, the wind we were sailing, remained fickle and mostly light. That day’s forecast, retrieved just that hour, showed the low moving off to the north and Mo in clean air veering slowly from south to west overnight. Given the previous days, I should have expected this result. Clearly we’d not escaped the low’s inside edge after all.
I dashed into foulies and harness, and all the while, wind remained high. On deck, Mo was stilI heeled way over and had rounded partially, rail sloshing with water, sails flogging. I gave a tug to Monte’s control line and quickly rolled two reefs in the working jib. Then I moved to the main. I thought to throw in a third reef, but thought again–a wind of 30 forward of the beam is a tough ask, and who knew where this one was going. I decided to douse the sail altogether.
I unwrapped the halyard and began to lower away. Half way down, there was an odd jam. I climbed to the first rung of steps, but it was only a batten caught in the lazy jacks. Another ten feet, and a batten jammed in the cover; again, a short climb and easily freed. Because of the press of wind, each panel had to be hauled out of the sky by hand. It was slow work but finally done.
At this point I realized I couldn’t feel my fingers. To my surprise, they were deathly white in the light of my headlamp. Rain had continued with the wind increase and was bitterly cold, colder than we’ve experienced on the voyage so far. But I hadn’t thought it could act so quickly. The main was all ahoo, but down, and Mo was under control, so I decided to go below and warm up. It took ten minutes to get feeling back.
Cleaning up the main and lashing her to the boom for heavy weather required three more dashes below to warm up. It was just that cold.
As a rule, I don’t wear gloves on deck. Only fingerless gloves give one the dexterity needed to do work, and I have two good pair, but I don’t like the loss of grip and feeling in my palms. The rails and other hand holds on Mo are slippery enough as it is; I want to be sure I feel what I’ve grabbed. But if this level of cold continues, I’ll need to rethink that strategy.
By 2AM wind had dropped to twenty; by 4am, ten. But the day had worked me. I stayed in my bunk and did not move to make more sail until first light at 5AM.
And that is a long-winded explanation for our day’s poor mileage.
—
This morning, I found a small tear in the second panel of the working jib, only about an inch long, vertical. Winds were light enough early that I could drop the sail and apply some sail tape.
—
Now another low is on us, but this one comes with blessedly west winds. And with it we fly toward the Cape.
—
The next three photos show the progression of the front’s arrival. This took about three hours.
March 17, 2019
Day 164
Noon Position: 55 32S 80 36W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExN 6
Wind(t/tws): SE 18 – 20
Sea(t/ft): SE 3
Sky: Squall clouds and every other kind too
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 996
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 84
Sail: Working jib, two reefs; main two reefs; close hauled on starboard
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 120
Miles since departure: 22,530
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Days since Cape Horn: 107
Miles since Cape Horn: 14,890
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 17
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 348 59
Avg. Long./Day: 3.26
Miles to Cape Horn: 378
Strange days continue.
On deck this morning, you could have been in two worlds. Look straight up and your vista is blue sky with splashes of warm sun. Look to any horizon, and you see a wall, gray and impenetrable. This, I imagine, is what those who believer in a flat earth think surrounds the nether regions of the world.
The barometer stopped its descent at 990mb, this at 5AM, but still the foretold wind from the SW did not manifest. Instead wind continued restless and light. My log for the last twenty-four hours records a different wind direction at every entry, and those are just the 
records it caught. From NW to N and NNE; back to S and SE; up to ENE and NE; over to SE, SSE and finally S…oh, wait…now SxW. Finally, this afternoon, a moderate wind at SWxS with a cold rain, but now we pound, inexplicably, into an E swell and make 4 knots.
But I am happy. It appears we dodged the heavy SW winds and are now positioned for strong westerlies for our final push to Cape Horn.
Cold fingers type mostly typos, so I’ll stop here. 
March 16, 2019
Day 163
Noon Position: 54 50S 83 53W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 7
Wind(t/tws): NNW 17 – 20
Sea(t/ft): NW5
Sky: Alt Stratus and Alt Cumulus
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 996,falling all day
Cabin Temp(f): 50
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 81
Sail: Working jib, one reef; main, two reefs; port reach
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 153
Miles since departure: 22,411
Avg. Miles/Day: 138
Days since Cape Horn: 106
Miles since Cape Horn: 14,770
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 4 03
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 345 42
Avg. Long./Day: 3.25
Miles to Cape Horn: 482
I’m on edge. The day is eerie. Things are about to happen…
We have a good wind from NNW between 17 and 27 knots, which Mo takes just aft of the beam and on which we make a steady seven knots. It has held all day, this wind. But it is not meant to be, and everything points to change.
The barometer is falling steadily: 1000mb at 6AM; 996mb by noon; 993 by 6PM. The sky has been low and lead-like all day; clouds are not ragged yet, but smooth and flowing in long, dark streams. Occasionally, a pocket opens to reveal a complex network of towering cumuls and cirrus covering the heavens, but mainly we are under this low, variegated deck. There is a small sea running from the NW that becomes increasingly steeper. And above all, there is an odd, cathedralesque quiet that carries with it a sense of pent-up power and imminence. The feeling is of sailing into a world beyond the pale; possibly the gods live here.
The forecast–that fills in the gaps: a large and powerful low is approaching from the west. Its center is in the process of dropping in on top of us, thus the falling bar and the cloud. Soon wind will back dramatically and come to rest in the SSW. By morning we will be close hauled and fighting strong southerlies.
In fact, all of this was to begin hours ago. I’ve prepped the boat for heavy weather and shifted lines in preparation for a tack around.
But with a reverential hush and an eye to windward, we coast onward on a north wind and slide deeper and deeper into this strange kingdom of cloud.
March 15, 2019
Day 162
Noon Position: 53 51S 87 56W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 6+
Wind(t/tws): NWxW 13 – 20
Sea(t/ft): NW 7
Sky: Mostly clear with high cirrus streaming in surface wind direction
10ths Cloud Cover: 2
Bar(mb): 1010, steady
Cabin Temp(f): 59 (48 at 6am)
Water Temp(f): 44
Relative Humidity(%): 76
Sail: Twin headsails poled out
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 144
Miles since departure: 22,258
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Days since Cape Horn: 105
Miles since Cape Horn: 14,617
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 54
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 341 39
Avg. Long./Day: 3.25
Miles to Cape Horn: 638
Wind ever so slowly backed into the west overnight so that it wasn’t until midnight that I could fly the twin headsails. And it was a relief to do so because with a quartering breeze Mo can be difficult to balance.
This is not Mo’s fault, but rather is due to the constant shifting in wind speed (the hallmark of sailing down here) that changes how the boat sails, and it changes how Monte reacts. The net is I like to be available to help by adjusting Monte or easing sheets with a variable wind on the quarter. With wind aft, I can sleep.
Clear skies and a cold sun until noon. I laid things out to dry–rugs, towels, foulies–but they did little of that in temperatures barely above 50. All gray on gray this afternoon.
Lately, I’ve been having trouble piecing together fast 24-hour runs. The last three days of 157, 145 and 144, respectively, have been our fastest in over a week but are five to fifteen miles a day slower than our first approach to Cape Horn. Partly this is due to lighter and more variable wind, and partly this is me. I’m tired. I’m not driving the boat like I was, especially at night, when I’ll sometimes defer sail changes till morning.
It’s disappointing. I’d like to end the circuit with an average of at least 140 miles a day… but tomorrow we hit another dead spot followed by a day of being hard on the wind in Force 7. So it goes down here. “Be angry at the sun for setting if these things bother you,” says Robinson Jeffers in my ear.
“Steady as she goes, mate,” he would say, if he knew the first thing about boats.
Today we came to the last page of our second logbook and now move on to the third. I log ever two hours from 6AM to 8PM–the tablet in the nav station chimes at these intervals by way of reminder–and what I record each time is all of the data you see at the head of these posts. I’ve found I appreciate later having such detail to refer back to, but I sure do burn through a lot of pencil lead.
March 14, 2019
Day 161
Noon Position: 53 08S 91 47W
Course(t)/Speed(kts): ExS 6
Wind(t/tws): NW 17 – 21
Sea(t/ft): NW 10
Sky: Rain and Fog
10ths Cloud Cover: 10
Bar(mb): 998, Falling
Cabin Temp(f): 54
Water Temp(f): 43
Relative Humidity(%): 90
Sail: Working jib, full. Main going up.
Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good (nm): 145
Miles since departure: 22,114
Avg. Miles/Day: 137
Days since Cape Horn: 104
Miles since Cape Horn: 14,473
Avg. Miles/Day: 139
Longitude Degrees Made Good (degrees minutes): 3 43
Total Longitude Made Good Since Cape Horn (degrees minutes): 337 45
Avg. Long./Day: 3.25
Miles to Cape Horn: 794
Strong wind overnight as a cold northerly passed over us. It came on slowly, a steady thirty, then thirty-five topping out around midnight gusting forty. Mo let the building sea take her on the port quarter, a challenging angle for Monte, and so I ran a small headsail until morning. The blow came down to thirty-five some time after 1AM, when I started sleeping.
Winds are now aft and light, but setting the twins may have been an error in such a boisterous leftover sea. A big swell rolls down from the north and meets another from the west, and in the middle, Mo is tossed around like a bottle cork. The sails slap; the sheets slack and then snap-to with a grunt; the poles twang. Not sure what’s to be done but hope that more wind fills in soon.
—
When I quote miles to Cape Horn (in above stats), it should be understood that the waypoint is actually south of a small group of islands called Islas Diego Ramirez that are, themselves, about 50 miles south of the Hermite Island group in which lies the famous Isla Hornos.
Yes, Cape Horn is an island.
The reason for this is water, or a lack thereof. Diego Ramirez sits on the outer edge of the South American continental shelf, and between it and the Horn, water depths are as little as 200 and 300 feet; whereas, south of Diego Ramirez is abyssal.
This difference can be important if weather has been running foul west of the the Cape and the seas are high. If strong winds also pass over this shallow water area, seas can break with fury.
The most famous, early stories of yachts running into difficulties here were those of Miles and Beryl Smeeton who, with John Guzzwell as crew, attempted Cape Horn twice in their ketch, Tzu Hang. During the first attempt in 1956, the yacht was overtaken by severe weather in this area and was pitchpoled by a large and breaking sea. Beryl, on watch in the cockpit, was flung from the yacht and (luckily) recovered. The sea had taken both masts, damaged the yacht structurally, and filled her with water. The saving of Tsu Hang on this occasion is a tale for the ages.
But she was saved, taken to Chile, repaired and, in 1957, made a second attempt on Cape Horn with the same result. After this she was shipped home to England. Years later the Smeetons circumnavigated in Tsu Hang, including a successful rounding of the Cape.
Since then, it has become customary, as well as prudent, for yachts to *plan* a rounding of Cape Horn via the deeper water. If weather looks moderate on approach, as it did for Mo’s first pass, one can always adjust course.
The islands were first discovered in 1619, three years after the Horn itself came out of the gloom, and were the most southerly landmass known until Cook discovered the South Sandwich Islands in 1775. It is a testament to the nature of weather in this region that Antarctica, across the Drake Passage and a mere 400 miles further south, went undiscovered for another 200 years. (source: Wiki)
