Aleria Update 19
MidAtlantic Musings – @ 27°48’N 54°57’W
Hello again from the other side,
Perhaps “third time is the charm”, as the saying goes. After 20 days at sea, we set foot in the Azores without much ado, ending the first leg of our third Atlantic crossing. It didn’t even feel as if we had crossed an ocean, but rather just like having sailed to another island, albeit on the other side of a big body of water.
Our first week at sea brought us some of everything that we now find all too familiar after our two previous Atlantic Ocean crossings. We seem to have gained enough experience to become somewhat complacent about some things, like the weather. “Oh well. There’s a gale ahead. Let’s get some good novels ready, heave to, plan a nice dinner together and wait it out. The wind will be really favourable when it passes and we can latch onto the nice southwesterlies behind it.” Something like that anyway.
Despite the serious trepidation that had weighed heavily on us until we weighed our anchor and set sail, once we were out there everything was alright. We were on our way. Experience seemed to alleviate the psyche’s domination. What was once unknown is now known. What was once feared is now respected. That’s not to say there is no fear, for there always is a hefty dose deep down in the heart of darkness, as my favourite great uncle Joseph Conrad (nee Konrad Josef Korzeniowski) defined acutely. But now that we knew what to expect from our boat and ourselves, we found fewer things to fear quite so desperately.
Our first two days out were glorious, with 15-20 knots close reaching along the rhumbline exactly toward our destination in the Azores, an archipelago of volcanic islands due West of Gibralter. It was exhilarating averaging 9 knots of boat speed over ground – at this pace and heading we’d be there in no time. Of course, that was not to last, as we also know from experience. Soon a gale crossed our path and stalled. The winds grew stronger, and the seas grew much bigger. Suddenly, it wasn’t really comfortable any more although we were making great progress.
We now have a SAT phone onboard and are able to get email, make phone calls at exorbitant rates, and download grib files (charts which show the current and future wind speed and direction for our area of sea) and weather analyses from NOAA (US National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration) for the high seas. When we reviewed the newest data, we realized we’d sailed right into the SE corner of a trough attached to a growing low pressure system parked over Bermuda hundreds of miles to our west. It stretched all the way across this section of the Atlantic, and it was not moving. So we parked the boat by heaving to and waited for it to pass. About 30 hours later, we started sailing again, but had to go NW rather than NE to catch the SW flow on the other side of the trough. If we could latch onto it, we could ride southwesterlies half way across the Atlantic. But after a few nice hours of reaching, the wind died unexpectedly (not predicted by any of the models) and we had to motor for the next 30 hours in search of wind. Ugh. We really hate that!
When we finally found the southwesterlies and they filled in at about 15 knots, we had a glorious reaching sail in an easterly heading to remain below the latitude of the new gale system forming above us. We were glad to be moving comfortably along in the general direction of the Azores in the silence of the wind and without the drone of engines.
We had plenty of diversion along the way as we had started an SSB radio net for Northbound sailors heading from the Caribbean to the Azores or Bermuda. We talked in the morning, got everyone’s position and conditions, and kept track of progress and problems. In the afternoon, we spoke with Herb on the Southbound II net for weather advice. In the evening, we connected with our Northbound net again for a chat session. We ended up commiserating between all the boats that had too much wind and all the boats that had not enough.
In fact, a strange thing was happening. New low pressure systems were springing up all over the Atlantic. It seemed that every one of the boats in our fleet of Northbound Net vessels that joined together for communication by long-range radio (SSB) had its own gale system forming nearby. There was a gale far north ahead of Talulah which had them hove to; there was one by us which kept us from going north, there was one to our west which stood in the way of two boats getting to Bermuda (they were hove to for 4 days waiting for a strong storm to clear) and two others from getting out; and there was one to the south holding two of our boats close to the Caribbean. And there were no highs – no Bermuda high, no Azores high. How long would this last and how could we get across expeditiously? Only time would tell. The gribs were proving less than perfect, for as soon as they were issued things out there changed. Weather prediction is definitely not a reliable science as of yet. We relied on Herb Hilgenberg once again to route us around to the best winds. He had us chasing all over the high seas.
Meanwhile, we were drying out everything that got wet through several days of torrential unrelenting rains and 20-foot seas breaking over the stern rail and spraying down the companionway as well as invading every vulnerable crevice. The sheets were wet from us crawling into bed exhausted and salty, the pillows were damp from the salt in our hair and sweat from exertion and closed dank quarters, the logbook was wet from spray down the companionway whenever we went on deck, the rugs and cushions were wet, even Onyx, our very brave black cruising kitty, was wet from drips here and there and hugs from us in between.
As everything dried in the sun and gentle breeze, the temperature started to cool and we started wearing fleece and using a blanket for the first time since leaving Ireland eight months ago. What a relief it was to not be hot and sticky! We now know the answer to the classic question, “to be or not to be.” Definitely “not to be” hot and sticky is unquestionably the definitive answer.
As weather settled down, we set ourselves to the monotony of repetitive tasks undertaken to keep Aleria and her passengers content at sea. Alex and I have an unusual watch schedule that works well for us and allows us each the time we need for our own pursuits. We do four hours on watch, four hours off at night, and six hours each during the day. It works like this...
Once we get into the routine, which can take 2-3 days, same as it takes mal de mer to subside for those who are susceptible (Alex), it’s a very flexible schedule. It rotates responsibility for routine tasks on alternate days, provides plenty of rest in longer stretches when conditions permit, and allows both to experience the wonders of different times of day. It eases the monotony as each watch is different from day to day. It goes out the window if conditions dictate that two people remain available, as in bad weather or when something breaks, but overall it works well for us. Most often, people use a straight three hours on, three hours off schedule, which puts both on exactly the same watch every day. It works brilliantly for them, but for us to only see sunrises or only sunsets would be a sadly lacking experience for such an amazing adventure.
It was during one of these watches with the wind howling at 25-30 knots, Aleria sailing at speeds of up to 11 knots, that I fell spellbound to the magnificence of the sea. The closer I watched the towering waves – 20-25 feet of liquid power – I started to discern a rhythm I hadn’t noticed before. They seemed to organize themselves into a repetitive pattern of three behemoths that towered over those before it and snarled with white foam at their crests. I watched as they lifted our stern, spat on the decks, then receded into the sea lurking below the surface preparing to rise up and strike the next unsuspecting mariner. It was not frightening, but mesmerizing to study the power, fluidity, and precise organization of this vast mass of shimmering all-encompassing ocean. Many smaller swells would pass before the behemoths in their triad reared their wind-swept heads again. The sun was shining and glinting off each facet cut by the wind like the surface of exquisite diamonds. It flowed in constant search of the perfect pattern within which to capture and reflect every colour hidden in the full spectrum of the sun’s light.
Above the sea, massive clouds loomed black on the horizon against the rising sun. Our own personal gale, clearly visible, lay just to the north along our port side. The sun itself was ringed in a massive, celestially-scaled sundog. The otherworldly scene is one I will not soon forget.
Unbeknownst to us, the Azores high is taking shape...yep, just to our North directly in our path. As we search the grib files for a route across, we realize that these fabulous winds pushing us along our rhumbline are about to expire, leaving us in a vast and growing sea of calm. Panic. The only thing worse than too much wind is not enough. We must head north quickly. We have only so much fuel and with every minute the distance we need to cover to get to the northern fringe of the high where we’ll find westerly breeze to take us home increases. The high is getting established. We start motor sailing at our most efficient rpms. We have about 100 miles to cover in the next ten hours and 675 miles left to go to landfall. We need enough fuel to keep the generator running for at least another 6 days to be safe. We need enough reserve to motor into the marina at the other end. We have three Gerry cans onboard for emergency use. Let’s hope we make it.
Well, we did make it. In fact, our last few days sailing were among the most glorious we’ve ever had. For three days, we had a consistent 10-15 knots of wind. The sea presented us a long gentle rolling swell in brilliant sunshine and cool air temperatures. Dolphins came to visit us every day in large pods of diminutive leaping playful creatures. Whales, large and grayish in colour, meandered past, not close enough to look into their eyes, but close enough to detect a mother and her calf with two other adults alongside. Another pod of huge whales swam past the second day, this time brownish in colour and with a fin that identified them as sperm whales. During the day, we flew the spinnaker. At night, we reduced down to the yankee which would allow one person alone to jibe in an emergency. It was fantastic. We wished it would never end.
Then, with 125 miles to go, the wind began to build, the seas whipped up a fury, and the skies grew darker and wetter. It rained gently, reminding us of the grand soft rains of Ireland back home. We literally flew toward Horta. The magnificent speed of 8.5 knots felt supersonic compared to the calms and gentle conditions we’d experienced.
As we approached Horta, on the island of Faial, we could barely make out the skyline. Then, as we got closer, we could make out a perfectly arranged European style village along the shores of a very protected harbour. It was curious because somehow it did not feel as though we had crossed an ocean this time. It felt like we were simply arriving at yet another island destination. Our friends aboard Talulah were hailing Per Mare, and we intercepted the call for advice about entering the harbour. They arranged a space at the fuel dock for us, helped us tie up, and brought beers along for the celebration! Now that’s friendship. We’d seen them last on the other side, and here they were again!
Despite the basically easy crossings we all had, we heard of two sailors who had lost their yachts along the way – one in horrendous conditions. One additional yacht was being towed 500 miles after having broken a forestay, their transmission, and their rudder. A couple who had smuggled drugs aboard had been shipped off to Lisbon and their boat lay impounded in the harbour. And our friend Roy, aboard Guiding Light, had made it back safely to St. Lucia.
We have since moved inside the harbour and have been rafted up with an Argentinean crew heading home aboard their Frers & Cybils and a British couple heading for the Mediterranean. Our friends on Festina Lente arrived this morning and we greeted them with a breakfast of steak and eggs, fresh Portuguese bread, juice and tea. We’ve received word that Northabout is en route from Ireland so we hope to link up with them. In the next installment, we’ll let you know how it all went. Suffice it to say, we are most pleased to be back in Europe. The weather has cleared and the Azores high has settled over us. Looks like we’ll be here for a while.
The current intention is to see a bit of the Azores before crossing over to Cork about 1200 miles northeast, then working our way up the West coast of Ireland. Yet as we know, plans change daily.
Bom dia from Aleria in the Azores,
Daria & Alex & Onyx
Designs ]