Lucaya, Grand Bahama Island to Saint Simons Island GA April 18-19
Making ready to bid Lucaya a fond farewell, I did my usual engine
checks. Hmmm.
That fan belt I'd bragged on - and just tightened - so recently was
very stretched out. Since I'd just tightened it, that was a clear sign
that it was on its last revolutions. As we had a fairly long passage,
including a Gulf Stream Crossing ahead of us, I might find it useful
to have the engine running. Accordingly, I put a hold on the countdown
and changed the alternator belt. As it's behind the raw water belt,
one must first remove that, but as many times as I've had the raw
water pump off lately, this was a walk in the park. Ten minutes later
we resumed our countdown. We cast off our lines from the poles we'd
borrowed, and at 7PM, headed for the entrance to Port Lucaya.
The exit was a bit fussy, as it wasn't full tide, but we saw nothing
less than 9 feet and basically followed our track we'd made on the way
in a few days ago out past all the buoys. Because of the way the
island lays, we weren't able to make a direct run to our destination,
but the nature of the shoreline and sea bottom was such that we hugged
the coast pretty closely.
By the time we got to Freeport, it was full dark and the oil platforms
and pilot ships were very brilliantly lit. We made sure to give them a
wide berth, and enjoyed viewing the large ships moving into the area
from a reasonable distance.
As we approached West End, about 9PM, we heard one of our recent
acquaintances hailing us on the VHF. They wondered how we were doing,
and I wondered back about their anticipated departure the following
day, as conditions were supposed to worsen by dawn. We'd later wonder
how they made out, given our experiences.
Once clear of Grand Bahama Island, we set a rhumb line for Saint
Simons Island. The weather was forecast to be good for the Gulf
Stream, and I wanted to ride it as far as we could before getting off.
Our acquaintances, also Chris Parker clients, were very concerned
about the western wall of the Gulf Stream, wanting to stay close to it
to jump out in case of a reversal of the primarily southerly wind.
(The Gulf Stream runs roughly north, with up to 3.5 knots of speed.
When that's hit by a north wind, things can get very uncomfortable
quickly due to the wind against the current producing what's known as
"square" waves - very short period [the time between waves] and very
steep angles. *Lots* of north wind makes for not only discomfort but
also potentially dangerous circumstances. Most sailors won't go out in
the Gulf Stream with a wind that has "N" anywhere in it.)
We made about 7 knots pretty consistently for the first several hours.
Lydia thought we must have been in the Stream, but listening to the
forecasts showed that we were still some 18 miles east of the eastern
wall, so our speed was due to our clean bottom and easy wind.
Unfortunately, the wind got even easier, about 10 knots, by 4AM, and
the sea state's rock and roll made for a lively ride, despite our
speed of under 5 knots. When the occasional puffs arrived, we got back
up to 7 knots, but they were infrequent.
We estimated arrival in the Gulf Stream somewhere between 7 and 9AM,
and, sure enough, about 7AM our speed picked up to 7.1 knots, no
thanks to the wind. As we moved further into the Gulf Stream, our
speed over ground continued to build, and by 10AM we were making mid-8
to low-9 knot progress, with the wind at only 8-10 knots.
By 1PM, the wind had shifted to nearly south. Dead downwind is the
least efficient point of sail, but if you have the main out to one
side, and the genoa out to the other, sometimes you can make very good
progress. We tried to use our spinnaker pole, but the pin which
releases it from the deck mount, and from the sheets on the sail in
case you have to get it off quickly, had frozen (well, seized), as it
does if it's not used frequently. I got out the loosen-er-up and gave
it a shot, waiting for another day.
In the meantime, we prevented the main, and did the best we could with
the genoa. The rolling made for a pretty floppy sail, though, and a
lot of pressure as it filled each time it rolled back the other way
from its dousing at the hands of the waves. So, unlike the pretty
pictures you see of the sailboat going downwind on a perfectly calm
sea, genoa full and main out to the other side, a wing and wing
configuration, I characterized ours as wing and flop :{))
However, we were still making 7-8 knots speed over ground, and by 4PM,
the spinnaker pole's seizure had abated. Accordingly, we put the genoa
out on the pole, albeit with more effort than usual, a curiosity which
didn't strike me until later. That made for a much quieter, and
somewhat faster ride, of course. No sooner had we stabilized than we
caught our Mahi for dinner. Fortunately, the seas, while rolling a
bit, were soft, so I got myself into my harness and out on the
platform to clean the 30-incher. I'm getting much better at filleting,
now, and we had a very substantial portion to put into the marinade.
At least three meals from her.
No sooner had I gotten cleaned up than I saw that our pole needed some
adjustment for better orientation of the clew (the part at the end of
the sail) - it was too low the way I set it first. I tried, but couldn't
make it go any higher. DANG! The pole lift (the part connected to the
end of the pole that controls the height of the sail end) was fouled
around the radar. Fortunately, at 6PM, I was able to clear the foul,
and, once again, the end of the pole went up and down easily. Small
victories :{))
Because we'd been in very overcast, mostly calm conditions in Lucaya,
our batteries were a bit low due to the lack of solar and wind
assistance, so we turned on the iron genny to charge up a bit.
Checking to see how my exhaust system kludge was working, I saw water,
again! This time it was a fitting in the cooling water riser. Off
comes the engine, and I root around in my plumbing bin until I find a
part that will work, make the repair, and start again. No leak.
Another small victory, but I'll have to lay in some more spares when I
get ashore, as that was the last of the type I had. By 8:30, we were
motor-sailing. I did the calculations and found that we'd made 170
miles in our first 24 hours, very good, indeed, given the
circumstances. It looks as though our Savannah-bound folks were right,
and it would be a fairly quick trip.
That evening had us making high 10 to low 11 knots over ground, in
estimated 15-18 knot south wind, which was lovely to experience. By
11PM, we were making 11-12 knots in an estimated 15-20 knots.
Unfortunately, for whatever reason, after more than 24 hours of never
spontaneously going into standby, at 1AM we had multiple instances of
our autopilot taking a vacation. The boat's response was to instantly
turn into the genoa, trying to put us in irons. I was pretty busy
controlling it, and finally gave up and manually steered for a while,
still making 11-12 knots.
At the 2:AM watch change, when Lydia took over, the winds were
building, but all was still well when I went down to sleep. The motion
was still rock and roll, but manageable for my sleep. However, I was
awakened at about 3:30 by the sense that all was not well. In addition
to our rock and roll, suddenly (well, maybe not suddenly, but it's
what woke me) we were also slewing notably from side to side, and the
rolls were getting more pronounced. I was instantly awake and on deck.
As the wind built, so did the seas, and we were no longer roughly in
phase with them. That creates a condition where, if it becomes severe
enough, you can have an induced broach. Dinghy sailors call it the
death roll because each successive roll becomes worse, and each
successive yaw increases; eventually, the keel catches broadside to a
wave, and suddenly you're on your side. In our case, it would mean
either the genoa pole or the boom would be hit with the massive force
of the water pushed by our 40,000 pounds moving at up to, I later
learned, 13.3 knots. That was not a circumstance I was eager to
experience. We had to get the genoa furled.
We estimate that the wind had built to 25-30 knots, and the seas to
6-8', contributing to the yawing we were doing as we slid down one
side of a wave, and up another. The sea state was significant enough
that before I even got started, the life raft came flying off the
perch on the deck (in the cockpit, behind the dodger), along with all
the starboard cushions in one of the port rolls. The rest of the
cushions followed suit as it rolled back to starboard. That had me
pretty focused on getting it in, and I knew I'd need to use the winch
on our furling line due to all the pressure on the genoa.
Our spinnaker pole setup is such that the genoa can be furled with it
in place, and, in my urgency to get it in, I overlooked one very
crucial point in rolling up a genoa in high winds (well, always, but
especially so in these conditions). That is, in addition to
controlling the sheet which is pulling on the sail, you have to keep
slight tension on the other one, the "lazy sheet" - which in this
case, with the genoa flapping mightily, wasn't lazy at all. Instead,
both sheets were tangling with both the other sheet and the sail
itself as they flailed.
The end result was to have the sheets foul as we wound in the genoa,
and we were presented with an hourglassed genoa. That's where part of
it's furled, but the top and bottom aren't, and those are flapping
away. Well, nothing to do but turn on the spreader and foredeck lights
and go out there and try to get it fixed. Things were, to be
charitable, pretty busy out there, so I had to clip in at the bow to
one of the lifeline strong points, which severely limited my movement.
After trying mightily, and failing, to undo the foul, I had Lydia run
downwind to try to blanket the genoa as much as possible with the
main. Of course, we're still in the Gulf Stream, and moving north
inexorably, but now, since the wind has changed to southeast - and
increasing - we have to go offshore, as well, when we do that.
That maneuver didn't materially alter the situation out on the deck. I'm
a pretty strong guy, but there was no way I was going to win against
the howling wind in trying to make the sail unfurl to the point where
I could unfoul the sheets. Eventually, I gave up and tried to lash it
with the spinnaker halyard. That's a process we go through whenever we
expect a major blow; it keeps the edges of the furled sail from
getting caught by the wind, getting wind under it, and eventually
causing damage. My thought was that I might be able to get around the
balloon above, similar to dousing the spinnaker with the sock, and
eventually get it controlled enough that it wouldn't be fully loose.
No such luck. The spinnaker halyard was nearly instantly captured
inside a fold of sail, one I couldn't make come out. After many tries
of hurling our anchor snubber's stainless steel end over a gap in the
sail at the clew, in order to pull it down, flattening the open
section a bit, some of which included being bonked in the head several
times when I missed, that part succeeded, but didn't materially
improve matters. Next try, pole lift. Meanwhile, I'm crawling along
the deck, clipped to the jackline on a very short leash, to get back
to it, and then back to the bow. I have some, but very little, better
success with the pole lift. Since I'm tethered right there, on a
violently pitching deck, I can't do what I'd ordinarily do, which is
to get a turn over the sail, and then walk it down the deck, back over
the deck and again forward, all the while keeping tension on it. The
result is a very poor compromise, but it's the best we can do. The
unrestrained remainder of the ballooned portion of the sail flapped
and flailed mightily, leading to visions of forestay failure, but we
had nothing else we could effectively do other than to press on. Of
course, the knowledge that our rig had survived an estimated 3-5000
impacts during our wreck gave us a little confidence that it would
also survive this :{)) Just after dawn, I'd done all I could do, and
we turned back to the West.
As is usually the case, I see I've succumbed to logorrhea, and will
leave you here, pitching, rolling, with the building seas and winds.
Stay tuned!
L8R
Skip and crew
--
Morgan 461 #2
SV Flying Pig KI4MPC
See our galleries at www.justpickone.org/skip/gallery !
Follow us at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/TheFlyingPigLog
and/or http://groups.google.com/group/flyingpiglog
"Believe me, my young friend, there is *nothing*-absolutely
nothing-half so
much worth doing as simply messing, messing-about-in-boats; messing
about in
boats-or *with* boats.
In or out of 'em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter,
that's
the charm of it.
Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your
destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never
get
anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in
particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to
do, and
you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not."
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