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 Captain Paris and one of the crew members on board Ketch Ya Later relax as they ease their way north in the blissful sunshine. These idyllic moments were not to last, alas. | |
I knew our Captain, and there was no way he was of the ilk to duck into some easy port of call on the coast to avoid the brunt of whatever was going to be out there. Were the opportunity readily available at the necessary time, he would choose the more appropriate course of action surely, but he was not about to head the many miles back toward the shore in anticipation of only a gut feeling on my part. Irin, who in the course of the many years he has captained the Ketch Ya Later, has successfully mentored many a sailor into offshore confidence and knowledge, and I used to joke about his being a patriarchal figure to a widespread group of now far flung cruising sailors. To experience a good storm was not something from which he would shy away.
As we continued slowly north, and the forecasts for storms in the area ahead of us remained likely, I became more and more resigned to its eventuality, and went about my duties taking enjoyment from the good weather. Still, there remained an unsettling feeling of foreboding.
As we neared Cape Hatteras, the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, which had been so helpful in its powerful added forward thrust, began to change along with the barometer, skies, temperature, and most apparent of all, the wind. There could be few worse places to experience a storm than this infamous extension of landmass. Our first order of business became, upon seeing the certainty of the powerful storm to hit in our very area and soon, was to hightail it out of the Gulf Stream and its potential for exacerbating the already devastating effects. Too far from shore now to safely be able to make a run into a protected coastal marina, we headed east of the Stream, as fast as we could. The winds were already picking up now, and the seas rising as we ran eastward.
 As the sea and the winds picked up, the crew kept monitoring the Maydays from ships that had not had the opportunity or the forethought to leave the Gulf Stream. | |
Confidence in our boat, our Captain, and ourselves left us more secure than the mere fates might dictate. The wind howled amid a roiling sea, and then torrential rains came and slightly calmed the already terribly turbulent and confused seas by its force downward upon the waters. Throughout the roller coaster ride at sea I was wet, tired, overwhelmed, and at times exhilarated by the majesty of what I was seeing at first hand. It's always a humbling experience to be on a small boat in the middle of the ocean. The majesty of the storm invokes even now my awe at the power of nature. The forces at work right in my face put to rest any indecision as to who the final arbiter might be. We were but a tossed speck in an endless ocean.
Until we could furl it the rest of the way, our Genoa remained so that a smidgen was exposed to the brutal force of the wind. Once out of the danger of the Stream’s aggravated effects, we headed 30 degrees magnetic for six hours at a time and then reversed our heading to the opposing angle to the wind and sea direction. Because of the surface current resulting from the norther, our movement over the ground became 120 degrees magnetic. We were heading into the waves at a safe angle, the autopilot we nicknamed "George" doing his duty endlessly and without complaint. Up and over the watery mountains, skidding down their backsides like banshees through the day and night, and crashing with shocking force into the hard surface of the trough after every rushing downhill slide. Every six hours we tacked. Although we were aiming at either a northwesterly or northeasterly direction, we were taken considerably backward over the ground southeasterly or southwesterly.
 During the brunt of the storm, the watch bill had every crew member on for two hours, off for six—no exceptions. | |
I am glad the women rebelled. In the teeth of it, and as the days rolled on, two hours seemed an eternity. I repeatedly faced the prospect of reentering the cockpit with little desire of so doing. It was about to become another endless stint of being tossed and thrown about every which way to an increasingly angry sea, with the added 'bonus' of at least a few sea water dunkings coming in through the plastic sides of the 'enclosed' cockpit. The relativity of time became very apparent, and a watch only two-thirds of our normal three hours, was easily three times as long to endure. The demands on the single-handed sailor in bad weather cannot be underestimated.
There is some argument between Irin and his crew as to how long the storm actually lasted. We maintain it was four days, while Irin, being an extremely stubborn individual, refuses to accept anything more than two and a half days, a figure he says he has written in his log. This discrepancy, however wide, is more than easily made up for in the consideration that time flies when you are having fun. The green-gilled three of us-constantly wet whether on watch or down below-constantly queasy, and not keeping anything in our stomachs even if we had a thought of eating, will maintain that this storm lasted at least one and half days longer than our Captain, whom I suspect was enjoying it in his way.
 Moving on board became quite a hazardous occupation as the boat rose and fell with the swelling seas. | |
Just after he handed me my bowl, a gleeful rogue wave picked us up and flung us in such a fashion that the entire pot flew through the cabin and dumped its steamy sauce right on my lap and the surrounding sole. I may have smiled as I enjoyed my first warmth in days. It was a relief to not have to eat. Never have I enjoyed the feel of wiping up hot spaghetti sauce quite so much.
When, on the second or third day, having experienced 20-plus-foot seas and 45-plus knots of wind continually, Irin smiled at me and said, "When this is over you'll look back on it as fun," I smiled weakly back, and hoped he was right. And, in a way he was. Looking back, it was an experience I would not trade. A taste of the totality of true sailing, a necessary part of the process one must successfully endure to enjoy this lifestyle we love.
By the third night the seas were still staggering black hills in the night. The torrents of rain had abated, and I began to exult in the thrill of ride, surfing at speeds that far exceeded anything I had heretofore sailed. With the boat rising and falling with regularity, I began to adjust to the conditions, and actually enjoy the great privilege of sitting in the midst of this tapestry of terrible power. I found myself able to view it with a more relaxed and un-nauseated perspective. Lighter gray ovals of luminescence stood out on the huge black cliffs that seemed to rise within a three dimensional Old Master painting of immense proportions, and I was thrilled to be a more complacent spectator to the proceedings. Outside the thin canvas covering the cockpit sides, so close that I could touch it, was danger. It was just beyond my reach, and I was beyond its grasp as well.
 The relativity of time and size becomes very apparent when you're battling the elements. | |
The bow crashed with such force that I marveled at the structural integrity of our good ketch, built to withstand these constant slams of her many tons against the hardened surface of the angry sea. The forward companionway would slide slightly open in this roller coaster ride and the sea poured out its mirth on my bunk directly below. I had to plan my every movement in advance, handholds and bracings thought out well before any attempt made. Hanging on to a secured jib sheet when in the cockpit, while grasping a cleat within reach firmly, were second nature to me by this time. The process of dressing for watch became much lengthier. Not just because everything remained soaking wet. We slept in our foulies, if you can call it sleeping to try to close our eyes while not having eaten for days, cold, and wet against a lee cloth if we were lucky.
The fourth day (I swear it) the wind died to under 30 knots for the first time and I knew our trusty 58 HP Westerbeke could finally carry us north toward our destination. We had tacked under power back and forth at approximately a 45-degree angle to the angry seas directly on our heading, starting almost directly east of Cape Hatteras and ending up 20-30 miles south of the Cape. Our speed, as we were surfing down the backsides of waves, had greatly exceeded any speed through the water with which I was familiar. As we slowly slogged north under power, the wind finally began to die, and the proverbial calm after the storm took hold.
 Ketch Ya Later makes its way into Atlantic City, sore but intact showing that she had indeed been built to withstand the constant slams of her many tons against the hardened surface of an angry sea. | |
Pre-Storm Checklist (1) Have a plan in place. Be certain that you have already thought out what to do in certain weather eventualities, and have read books about heavy weather sailing, as well as discussed it with experienced sailors. Forewarned is forearmed. (2) Be prepared. Make certain that your boat is properly maintained in a seaworthy fashion; and that you have the working equipment onboard you may need in an emergency, including a self-checked life raft and self-packed ditch bag. (3) Secure gear and equipment. If given warning and have the time to prepare, spend as much time as necessary securing everything on deck for adverse conditions, and the extra care to try to secure everything down below that could fly around in heavy seas. (4) Don't eat a big meal beforehand. Eat light nourishing energy food. It's not a bad idea to take anti-nausea pills 24 hours beforehand for those prone to be adversely affected by extremely heavy seas. Have energy bars and the like ready for easy nutrition. (5) Be positive. Look forward to the coming adventure as a challenge to be experienced and overcome. A positive attitude can go a long way.
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