ATLANTIC ALONE Bruce McKenzie

Transcription

1 ATLANTIC ALONE Bruce McKenzie (Bruce s action-packed photo of Osprey beating hard but heading east appears on the front cover of this issue. I hope he has a waterproof camera!) After a couple of seasons in the West Indies I had promised the Chief Mate that we would return Osprey, our Rival 36, to the Greek islands for a change of variety and culture. She does not like the privations of life on long voyages in a small boat and sensibly flew home from Antigua. All my other sailing contacts had other commitments and so it was that, in the first week of May, I found myself in Jolly Harbour, preparing the boat for an Atlantic crossing to the Azores and contemplating that, at the age of 68, I would have to do it alone. With all my preparations completed, I checked the arrangements with our offspring, Duncan and Helen, for them to send me weather forecasts via sat phone. Having decided to sail the next morning, I dined in the convivial company of two other crews also about to depart. I slept well but woke early, keyed up from the start. After completing a few last minute tasks, I spoke with various friends over a final coffee, then cast off my lines. I motored Osprey down the dredged channel, hoisted sail and, clear of the offshore islets, set the Hydrovane self-steering gear. I spoke to the Chief Mate poor reception in the marina Osprey ready to depart 43

2 had prevented a call earlier and with the comfort of her voice, settled on course to pass to the west of Barbuda. Late afternoon, and only six hours after last speaking to people ashore, the enormity of the journey ahead and the length of time without human contact hit me and, for a while, I felt very alone. The moon rose at 2130 to find us, Osprey and me, sailing serenely in a gentle southeasterly breeze with an easy swell. I started a 20 minute sleep pattern which I intended to maintain until I was well away from inter-island shipping. During the night the wind freshened on the beam so we made better progress. A fine dawn broke to find us well on course to pass to the east of Bermuda, at which point, 700 miles north of our present position, I could expect to pick up westerlies. Osprey made fair speed all day under a near-cloudless sky. At dusk a pair of dolphins, mother and calf, visited for a short time. Soon after that we ran into a patch of disturbed water with swells from three directions, and our speed slowed for a while as Osprey plunged and rolled. I altered course for a large merchantman around midnight and another vessel passed about three miles off, reminders that I needed to maintain a vigilant watch. The breeze picked up to knots and we surged over the lumpy sea with a reef in the main. Lightning flickered in the far distance just before dawn and, as daylight broke, I saw a large and ominous cloud a few miles ahead. Concerned about a lightning strike, I hove-to for half an hour while the cloud moved away from our course. I picked up the regular morning forecast, together with a bundle of lovely messages from family and friends which lifted my mood as we ploughed on over a lumpy sea with occasional light rain squalls. After dinner, feeling clear of coastal shipping, I decided to extend my sleep pattern to 45 minutes, using a kitchen timer as an alarm. The wind increased to 20+ knots, requiring a reef, and shifted ahead of the beam. More lightning during the night was alarming at first until I realised it was cloud-to-cloud stuff and I could relax and enjoy the show. I settled quickly into my new sleep pattern and awoke at dawn, refreshed and hungry. With the wind now abaft the beam I eased sheets a little in bright sunshine and altered course more to the northeast. A wash, 44 First sunset at sea

3 shave and clean clothes, followed by a good breakfast, improved matters considerably and I relaxed in the cockpit with a mug of fresh coffee enjoying the lovely tradewinds. The wind fluctuated in strength throughout the day, and I was kept busy with the reefing lines in between checking for wear and tear. The evening meal was enjoyed in the cockpit, lit by a fine sunset. Just before dawn I carried out one of my regular AIS checks and made a sweep of the horizon before returning below. Half an hour later I woke again feeling uneasy, There was nothing on the AIS, but when I went on deck I was alarmed to see a large merchantman passing about 400m astern. I had clearly sailed close across her bow. The AIS alarm sounded and I found that there was now an image on the screen, which stayed there until the vessel was six miles away, then disappeared again. I later checked all the connections to the AIS and found them in order. So a lesson learned: be on deck at dawn and dusk when ships lights are indistinct, and don t assume they ll have their AIS switched on! We enjoyed a fast sail all day under a grey sky, passing the second imaginary waypoint 450 miles out from Antigua. I had broken down the passage into manageable chunks so that I would have regular wins to celebrate it was a boost to move on to waypoint 3. There was no sunset, and by dusk visibility was less than five miles. The breeze dropped to force 3 and began to fluctuate, so that during the night I came on deck to find us heading northwest and twice almost due east, so I was kept busy with sail alterations and adjusting the self-steering. Tradewind sailing at its best 45

4 The fluctuations were a sign that the Azores high was drifting northwest, and as the wind fell off through a hot sunny morning I cleaned the boat and enjoyed a call home to pick up family news. By mid-afternoon we were becalmed with sails furled and, for a while, the engine running to charge the batteries as the towed generator would not operate. Still becalmed at midnight, the silence in the deep ocean was profound. An hour before dawn a few light puffs heralded the returning wind, and within a few minutes I was on deck in the dark hoisting sail. Half an hour later I was hard at work putting in reefs as the wind settled in the northeast at 22 knots. Osprey rode the rapidly rising waves comfortably but, unfortunately, 45 off course, heading north-northwest. The sky ahead was black with rain clouds and the wind moaned in the rigging. The morning forecast suggested that the Azores High would drift north over the Grand Banks and I would have the northeast winds for at least 48 hours, so it was better to gain northing rather than head southeast where I would be becalmed again when the High drifted back. I plugged on through a wet, grey day, buoyed up by good s from home. During the evening I altered course for a large merchantman. The northeast breeze continued through the night but began to slacken after dawn, and we made slow progress during the morning with a 2m swell on the bow. After lunch the wind backed, allowing us to resume our course northeast, now in bright sunshine. The evening forecast warned of a new low pushing in behind the retreating High, with strong winds miles north of my position. The wind freshened after dark, and I was kept busy through the night reefing the main and genoa as it picked up to knots. After dawn it backed east-southeast and settled down to a steady force 5 which held all day, the rain clouds cleared away, and we had a glorious day s sailing at 7 knots. As darkness fell we were still reaching fast under a brilliant starry sky, the Milky Way very prominent. Refreshed after a good night s sleep (I slept through a couple of alarms) I cooked a hearty breakfast and ate in the sunny cockpit as we passed the first 1000 miles of the passage. Our noon Becalmed in the deep ocean position showed we had 46

5 Atlantic greybeards chase us down sailed a respectable 150 miles in 24 hours. The southeast breeze held, gusting to 15 knots, and we maintained good progress through the afternoon and another fine night, though a large eddy from the Gulf Stream to the north meant a 2 knot foul current for some hours. The next forecast advised of a new low forming behind us, with force 7 winds down to 35 N. I was now at 37 N so decided to head south of east, giving up my hard-won northing to avoid being caught by stronger winds than forecast. I hardened sheets until Osprey was on a close reach, and settled down to more windward work. We plugged on through another starlit night fortunately the waves were not large and we maintained good boat speed. By 0600 we were just north of 35 N, so I eased sheets until we were 50 to the wind and we continued our good progress through a lovely sunny morning. The lunchtime messages advised that a yacht about 50 miles astern, part of the ARC Europe Rally, had collided with a whale, been holed and the crew picked up by a freighter. Grey cloud spread in during the afternoon and the wind was flukey, but the shifts were generally favourable though I was kept busy trimming the Hydrovane. Just before dawn the wind picked up to 22 knots and I put in a reef. After breakfast, while on deck sewing a minor tear in the mainsail, we were hit by a sudden squall and I was quickly drenched. The squall passed and we were left wallowing in the swell, but within half an hour the wind returned and we resumed course. A ship passed six miles ahead to remind me to maintain a good watch. 47

6 A weather front passed through in the afternoon with light winds behind, and at around 1700 we saw the birth of a new breeze from the southwest. Fitful and uncertain at first, within an hour it was a lusty youngster, pushing us firmly towards Horta through a dark night. Dawn broke fair, the first forecast of the day predicting lighter winds as the Azores High drifted north again, so I gybed onto port tack to head up to 38 N to avoid the calms. A bank of rain clouds swept in early in the evening, with a big wind shift into the northeast, so I was back between a rock and a hard place. I took the northerly option again in the hope I would find westerlies, and began a long slow plug to the northwest, slamming occasionally as we beat into the lumpy swell. It was a dark and chilly night, but dawn heralded sunshine and a fair wind shift allowed us to head east of north, albeit slowly as the breeze was inconstant, and finally failed altogether in the afternoon. Becalmed, I dropped the sails to avoid them slatting, and caught up with the endless maintenance tasks. It was not until 0100 that the breeze returned, light but steady, and we slipped across the smooth swell at 4 knots. The morning exchange of s revealed that the ARC boats to the north had endured a rough night with confused seas and many wind shifts. Once again, I thanked my weather routers for steering me round the worst of it, even if I had dipped into a zone of little wind. Be patient, I was informed, it will pass! An hour later I noticed we were following a trail of bubbles, and soon saw a 6m false killer whale close under the bow. Spotted dolphins visited for a while, amused at my attempts to gybe the genoa pole, slipping around the foredeck braced against the swell. Gradually our speed picked up, freshening enough in the night to require a reef, which I shook out again at dawn as the wind settled to a steady force 4. The morning forecast suggested a new trough heading our way and I needed to get back down to 37 N to avoid near gale-force winds at my current latitude. With a crew aboard I would have stayed put; singlehanded I decided to be prudent, so altered course to the southeast with the poled-out genoa pulling well. I dismantled the bimini as the air was cool and I needed the sunshine in the cockpit to keep warm. The wind began to fluctuate as dusk approached and continued unstable through the night, requiring frequent adjustments of the self-steering. A cold, grey dawn and the moan of the wind in the rigging made my position feel remote. The advice from Duncan was that I was probably far enough south to escape the worst of the trough, so I hardened sheets and brought Osprey round on a course due east. The wind freshened to force 5 and we galloped through the afternoon. Heavy dark clouds began to mass and the wind veered west, then northwest. The anticipated wind shift to the northeast came after midnight, accompanied by sheets of rain and heavy gusts. I struggled in the dark, wet night to put in the second reef and roll in the headsail until Osprey was well-balanced. Cross-swells hit us before dawn, reducing boat speed to little more than 4 knots, and dawn was merely a feeble light in the heavy rain. By late morning the wind had eased and swung into the southeast, and sunshine arrived in the afternoon as I let out the reefs, to be followed by a welcome forecast of westerly winds which arrived at 0300 and required another reefing spell in the dark. Another yellow dawn, with big Atlantic greybeards bearing down from the northwest. The log showed we were 500 miles from Horta, the sea temperature was 17 C and the air was distinctly chilly. The morning forecast warned of a deepening low passing through our area on Wednesday in two days time. I calculated that I could reach Horta no 48

7 earlier than Wednesday evening, so decided to make for Flores, 100 miles nearer. We sailed briskly into the dark but unfortunately, around midnight, the wind fell light as we ran downwind under twin headsails. By dawn we were 270 miles from Flores, but a wind shift forced me to drop the smaller sail and we broad-reached steadily through a grey morning. Duncan advised me that the low was moving rapidly and was expected in our area in the early hours of Wednesday, with winds of at least knots. This put Flores out of reach and I realised I would have to ride out the storm at sea. We ran on steadily through an afternoon of high cloud and occasional light rain. Heavy rain clouds moved through Bad weather approaching during the night, obscuring the moon and stars, and I rolled in some of the genoa as the wind hit 25 knots. It did not last, however, and dawn found us rolling heavily with a light northwest air. Gradually the breeze improved, and we picked up speed again as frequent showers passed through, creating a gloomy prospect whenever I peered round the sprayhood to check the limited horizon for ships. I prepared a meal, then checked deck and cabin to make sure all was secure. The wind stayed ominously quiet, the swell rolled by, and the sky was a flat, uniform grey. It was a tense wait for the storm to break. The opening shots in the battle were fired before midnight, when heavy rain arrived with a rise in the wind. We surged into the black, wet night under double-reefed main and a scrap of genoa, the glass falling rapidly. At 0200 the storm arrived. The wind jumped from 25 knots to 35 in two or three minutes and continued to rise, the moan in the rigging increasing to a whine, then a shriek. I rolled up the last of the genoa, then hove-to under the reefed main. Normally Osprey will lie at 45 to the wind with this rig, but instead she lay stubbornly beam-on to the rapidly rising seas. I was concerned at the risk of a knock-down as the storm developed, so decided to tie in the third reef, which necessitated going on deck. 49

8 There followed one of the hardest struggles I have ever had, up on the heaving deck, lashed by horizontal spray and rain, buffeted by the fierce wind, now over 40 knots. I managed to tie off the reefs, but hoisting the reduced sail became a huge problem as the wind flogged it behind the shrouds or the mast-steps. Three times I had to climb onto the boom to free it and was knocked off several times, my harness with short tether saving me from injury or worse. Eventually I gave up, lashed the sail to the boom and retreated to the cockpit the waves were already 5m or more and growing all the time. We were still beam-on, although Osprey seemed to be riding the seas well. I hauled the sea anchor out of the sail locker and crawled up to the bow, dragging the bag behind me, then it Dawn after a stormy night took half an hour to sort out the warp and get the sea anchor overboard without it fouling anything. I paid out 50m line and the anchor opened at once, with an immediate strong pull on the warp as the bow came up into the wind. I crawled back to the cockpit, tidied up loose ropes and gear, then looked overboard to check the sea anchor. To my dismay we were again lying beam-on, and in the glare from the deck light I could see the anchor warp streaming back off the starboard quarter. I do not carry a riding sail, but tried to rig up a small piece of spare canvas off the backstay, fighting the flogging fabric until I had it taut. It made no difference. The afternoon following the storm 50

9 Exhausted, I went below for a change of clothes and was surprised to find all this effort had taken three hours. After warm food and drink I lay in my bunk, listening to the wind howling in the rigging, the spray drumming on the deck, and feeling the boat lurch with every passing wave. Osprey seemed to be riding the waves fairly comfortably and gave me much confidence. I got up frequently to check the situation sleep was out of the question. At daybreak the scene outside was chaotic: huge grey seas with steep faces and foaming crests were marching past, spray was being blown across the surface like snow in a blizzard, and looking to windward I could see the waves, 6 7m high, bearing down on us frighteningly quickly. Osprey would give a big lurch and I would look down the steep back of the wave as it passed, or at the green water visible through the cabin windows. I forced myself to heat up some cans and enjoyed the food. By late morning the wind had eased a little. I waited a while, then decided to get moving again, recovering the sea anchor first when I found it had split in two. I set a well-reefed headsail as sunlight skittered over the rough sea and the wind dropped to knots, the Hydrovane working fine as we flew over the waves on a broad reach. We raced on through the bright afternoon, delighted to have survived the storm. Helen advised me that the worst was over, but in the evening we ran hard for three hours in 35 knots before the wind decided to relent. We pressed on into the night, a brilliant moon lighting up the chasing waves. 51 Landfall on the south coast of Faial I caught up with lost sleep and woke as dawn broke, fit and well. The miles ticked away all morning, while I got on with boat cleaning and preparing for harbour. I spoke to Pam on the sat phone she had flown into Horta, now 50 miles distant, that morning and was mightily relieved to hear my voice. Just after lunch I spotted Pico s famous volcano reassuringly on the bow, the wind was steady through the afternoon,

10 Approaching Horta marina. Photo Pam McKenzie and at 1800 I passed Ponta do Castelo Branco, the southwest headland of Faial, which loomed up out of a heavy rain squall. An hour later I entered the outer harbour of Horta, stowed the sails, and motored over to the marina reception quay where I could see Pam waving frantically. Osprey and I had covered 2781 miles in a shade over 23 days. She had behaved beautifully throughout and never once gave me cause for concern, even at the height of the storm. It was a rare privilege to have experienced the passage, to have enjoyed the sense of adventure crossing the ocean, and to arrive in Horta, where so many OCC members have made their landfall. 52