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High on a roadside cliff overlooking
the sea, an observer stands, braced against the wind, silently
watching as an orderly procession of giant ocean waves, remnants
of an unnamed and by now forgotten storm, thunderously crash
upon boulder-strewn rocks far below, clouds
of cold saltwater mist blowing everywhere.
To the observer, there is a pattern to
this mosaic, waves are evenly spaced and can be counted. Like
the rumbling of a straining 747, they can be heard and felt.
A thing of powerful beauty, the sea is at times to be admired
and at times to be feared. The words "Thank God I am not
out there." may cross the mind and not the lips, or perhaps
the lips and not the mind. However, if the observer had been
observing from 'out there', they would know that things were
not at all as they now appear. From high on the cliff the scene
seems orderly, perhaps even civilized, when in actuality nature
is hiding the truth, she has undergone a gigantic disorder and
now she is in the process of reordering herself. If it is ever
possible to think of nature as being uncivilized, she was uncivilized
out there. Chaos reigned.
On land the word 'storm' is generally used
to describe strong winds which are often accompanied by rain.
But, describing conditions at sea is a more serious matter, generalities
are to be avoided. Descriptions of the sea's condition, written
in a log book may need to be accurately pictured and understood
by others at a later date. Semantics is the problem, words and
how they are used to form a thought, a mind-picture if you will.
To help, weather conditions have been given standardized labels:
Calm, Light Air, Light Breeze, Gentle Breeze, Moderate Breeze,
Fresh Breeze, Strong Breeze, Near Gale, Gale, Strong Gale, Storm,
Violent Storm and Hurricane. Yet, labels alone do not paint the
needed picture, words are not enough. A wind of 25-knots blowing
for 12-hours over a distance of 400-miles causes different sea
conditions than the same wind blowing for 60-hours. Also, wind
can cause different sea conditions depending on the water's depth,
100-feet versus 1,000-feet. To address these problems, years
ago, meteorologists adopted a ranking system called the Beaufort
Scales, which combines wind and sea conditions. Mr. Beaufort
called the graduations of his scale Forces. Force-1 corresponds
to Light Air, Force-4 corresponds to a Moderate Breeze and so
forth up through Force-10, which is called a Storm, and Force-12,
a Hurricane, usually the most violent of all sea conditions with
winds exceeding
64 knots.
Our full-displacement motor vessel Arcturus
is a Nordhavn 46, built in 1990. It is arguably one of the finest
and safest vessels available for a two-person journey around
the world. She's no lightweight, on the contrary, fully loaded,
our little ship tips the scale at 60,000 pounds. She is a marvelously
sophisticated vessel, as one might expect an ocean crossing 46-foot
motor vessel to be.
We make fresh water as we need it from
the sea and we generate our own electricity; we have two radio
stations, a sewer system, two propulsion systems, which require
fuel, filters and from time to time fresh oil. In tanks, we can
carry over 7,000 pounds of fuel and 2,400 pounds of water. We
also have a myriad of pipes, hoses, fittings, ports, hatches,
vents, miles of wire, hundreds of fuses and an electronics array
in the pilothouse that would have stunned the skipper of an aircraft
carrier just 20 years ago. We are now over 12,000 miles into
our journey and considering the constant dampness, salt air,
the movement of the sea and changes in temperature, it is understandable
that things can break or otherwise become undone.
As we raise our anchor just after dawn
under a beautiful cobalt blue sky at Vavau in the Kingdom of
Tonga, we're aware of several problems that we cannot fix without
replacement parts, which we cannot get until we reach New Zealand.
Our emergency engine is inoperable, the exhaust mixer has cracked.
Our Naiad roll stabilizers have been misbehaving again, so we
have disconnected the hydraulic lines from the starboard fin
and locked that fin down. The sturdy rigging connecting our external
'flopper stopper' stabilizers seems looser than normal, we are
concerned about deploying them until the tension on that system
has been checked by a professional. One of the small pins of
the serial port on our computer has broken off so we'll make
this passage without access to GPS-guided electronic charts,
e-mail and without the ability to receive weather faxes. Using
paper charts, a divider and calculator, we estimate the passage
of 1,341 miles will take just over nine days, not counting a
brief stopover at North Minerva Reef.
Two days later, we set our anchor under
a different colored sky at Minerva Reef. High clouds, 60,000
feet or more, have been building far off to the west, well over
the horizon for most of the day but we see no other signs of
changing weather with the exception that our barometric pressure
has dropped from 1019 to 1018 millibars during the past six hours,
not a great concern but one worth watching. When the rain came,
it was accompanied by a stiff wind blowing hard and cold, more
like October in Chicago than October in the South Pacific--only
not as bone-chilling as October in Chicago can get, but still
cold, windy and wet.
Minerva Reef is actually the rim of an
ancient volcano. The rim is three and a half miles in diameter
and is almost completely submerged under a meter or two of water,
not a single tree, not a single land plant of any description
lives on Minerva Reef. The safest way to find this dangerous
place is to know your exact position and then, with great care,
study the radar's image as you approach the area.
Soon you'll notice waves breaking on the
screen, then you'll see the waves breaking on the surface: You
have found Minerva Reef. A few hundred yards from its only entrance
the water is over 2,500 feet deep but inside the depth is a mere
60 feet, absent of coral heads and with a bottom covering of
thick mud and coral sand both having excellent anchor holding
qualities.
During storms, Minerva Reef, surrounded
by its protecting coral rim, is a safe harbor, a calm saltwater
pool in the vast South Pacific Ocean. After entering the safety
of the pool you can watch the sea as a spectator rather than
a participant, gently swaying at anchor. Few vessels make this
stop so the reef is a virgin fishing ground where lobsters abound.. |
No one can guess how many unfortunate vessels
have floundered
and met their doom on this hidden rim
or how many unsuspecting, unprepared lives have been left here,
never to be heard from again. Running on to these rocks would
spell the end for any vessel. Even if the captain knew exactly
where the reef was and simply missed the entrance by a few metres,
sharp South Pacific knife-edged coral would quickly go to work.
Once aground, the vessel would gently rock back and forth in
the surf as the abrasiveness of the coral 's two inch high granite-hard
teeth filed and sanded, steadily wearing its way through the
hull under the waterline, tearing it apart, bit by bit. Soon
the tide or wind would change, with that change the vessel would
be tenderly nudged off the reef into thousands of feet of salty
water. Survivors, if any, would face a slower fate, no food,
no water, no warmth, no dry places to huddle. Small chance for
survival, although, some have, but survivors are the exception
not the rule if a boat is driven on to the coral-lined rim of
North Minerva Reef.
At dawn the next morning, the wind is still blowing Chicago cold
and wet. As we turn on the HAM radio, we hear the first news
about a huge low-pressure trough that roared out of the Tasman
Sea the previous afternoon. The accompanying localized storm
surprised meteorologists and a lot of people. No one expected
it at this time of the year. Historically speaking, it is too
early in the season for a life-threatening storm but life-threatening
it was. When that 984-millibar low-pressure trough met that 1017-millibar
high-pressure system, "all hell broke loose". Wind
blew at 100-knots over a small part of the open ocean just 400
miles south of Minerva Reef, between us and New Zealand. Yachts
were out there, some were damaged but none were lost and no one
was killed. We'll cross that same ocean, that same water. We
will also run the gauntlet of the Tasman Sea.
We've now been at the reef for three days, the weather is finally
beginning to settle. It's time for us to leave. Very often, but
not always, there is a prolonged settled period following a storm.
We hope to sail in a window of calm as we complete this leg of
our passage to New Zealand. Whenever we choose to leave we'll
be taking a risk, a gamble, because no one really knows when
the next calm period will begin or when the next storm period
will begin, it's all chance. To be safe on the ocean you must
always trust yourself, you must always trust your crew and you
must always trust your equipment but you must never trust the
weather. Always be mindful, not frightened, but mindful of the
weather.
The sea is still high, as we push head-on into 12-foot waves.
We barely make five miles during the next two hours. Sizing things
up, we decide to return to the reef and wait one more day. Things
may be more settled by morning. Our return trip takes just 50
minutes as 12-foot waves push us back to the protection of the
pool.
The next morning, conditions look better. The sea has settled
during the night and is now running 4 to 6 feet. We depart after
breakfast and make good time for the next 53 hours. We're travelling
south-southwest on a heading of 212°, the closest land is
11,700 feet below our keel. We are 334 miles south-southwest
of Minerva Reef and 663 miles north-northeast of Opua, New Zealand.
Australia is 1,800 miles west and Chile is 6,100 miles to the
east.
Nature seldom tries to trick those at sea. The weather changes
but almost never without prior notice, almost never without first
showing signs, almost never without warning. Almost. The first
changes are subtle, barely noticed, easily overlooked, like a
stranger's mood change. Like the sound of bland, half-heard background
music after it has stopped, you can't pinpoint the exact moment
it stopped, you just know it has stopped, it is no more. It is
an absence, not a presence, that is first noticed. Seabirds are
absent, fair weather clouds are absent, comforting things have
been replaced by the un-comforting sensations of aloneness.
A common problem with big storms at sea is, in the earliest stages,
they all look alike and they grow in intensity fast. One never
knows from one moment to the next if conditions will continue
to worsen or if conditions will level off and begin to subside.
From our vantage point in the pilothouse, we watch as the wind
gusts briefly to 30 knots but we have no way of knowing if it's
going higher. At sea, a 30-knot wind blowing for many hours can
be comfortable or uncomfortable depending on its direction and
our intended direction of travel. An unyielding 40-knot wind
blowing for hours on end is always uncomfortable, unsteadying
and relentless.
This morning, the complexion of the ocean is changing before
our eyes. Gentle rollers begin to build from the west as the
wind continues blowing from the south. The sea is not yet high,
as one wave after another begins to nudge its reluctant brother
pushing, shoving and forcing him in a more easterly direction.
Immeasurable forces are now at work remodelling our landscape.
In spite of that, the sea remains calm, it is not confused. Soon,
the sky turns from blue to pewter. Soon, the clouds turn from
white to pewter. Soon, the sea turns from green to pewter. Nature
hones her pencil to a razor sharp point and draws a thin pewter
coloured line across the canvas setting before our eyes. The
only way to distinguish the sea from the sky is to find the line,
above the line is the sky below the line is the sea. Soon, it
will be the winds turn to turn. These are the signs--now comes
the storm--into our pewter-colored world.
Nature's notice of changing weather has been read and understood
by this crew of two. Fear is absent but adrenalin is pumping--a
controlled nervousness and exhilaration at the same time. All
inside areas of the vessel have been checked for loose objects
and everything is now secure. All ports, hatches and doors are
now secure. The engine room and fuel filters have been checked
and are now secure. On deck all lines, chairs, hoses and buckets
are now stowed. The storm plates covering the side window are
secure. The dinghy and kayaks have been checked and are now secure.
Safety equipment has been checked and is now secure. In the pilothouse
the chart table has been cleared and organized as we huddle,
examining charts, developing a storm strategy, straining to understand,
trying to guess. How big will this get? How long will this last?
How near is the nearest land? After strong winds begin blowing
and the sea begins to build, it is safer to stay in deep water
than it is to risk colliding with the shore while racing toward
a small, unfamiliar opening of a harbor or anchorage. Planning
for this storm did not begin here on this day, miles from shore.
It began years ago but it is here, in this before now unknown
place that the scene unfolds...
continued .... |
