BY ADRIAN JOHNSON
November 3. Fourth day at sea. The skies are lightening and I can see the coast under broken skies. The wind is now straight out of the mouth of the Strait, 12-15 knots and building. I brave the wet foredeck to peel the #3 to a #4 and put away the #1 that's been sitting up there for a day and a half. The leech has been occasionally dragging in the water, tearing away the mylar. I kick myself for being lazy and not putting it away earlier.
Every time I check the weather it sounds more unpleasant. The latest news: 15-25kt easterlies, building to 20-30 in the western part. Wind waves 3-4 ft. I've slept maybe an hour in the last 4 days, am cold and damp, and ready to be home. Beating into a gale is not my idea of fun at this point. I am making slow progress, but at 08:45 I have finally passed theCape . The chop is unpleasant, and every 3rd or 4th wave makes it all the way into the cockpit.
Around 10 o'clock I'm finally pastNeah Bay
My feet are wet. The air is in the thirties, and the wind around 20 knots. I curse the wind and chop. The chop is perfectly timed to make the boat slam into each wave, and I'm worried about the loads on the rig. I'm sailing an ultralight, a true downwind machine, and I haven't had good downwind sailing since Friday. With every gust I scream at the wind. My progress is a pathetic 2 knots up the Strait, for 5.5 knots over water. Every time a wave shakes the rig, I plead for the boat to make it through the day and promise her I won't make her do the race. It's too much; too much for the boat, too much for me.
Every time I check the weather it sounds more unpleasant. The latest news: 15-25kt easterlies, building to 20-30 in the western part. Wind waves 3-4 ft. I've slept maybe an hour in the last 4 days, am cold and damp, and ready to be home. Beating into a gale is not my idea of fun at this point. I am making slow progress, but at 08:45 I have finally passed the
Around 10 o'clock I'm finally past
My feet are wet. The air is in the thirties, and the wind around 20 knots. I curse the wind and chop. The chop is perfectly timed to make the boat slam into each wave, and I'm worried about the loads on the rig. I'm sailing an ultralight, a true downwind machine, and I haven't had good downwind sailing since Friday. With every gust I scream at the wind. My progress is a pathetic 2 knots up the Strait, for 5.5 knots over water. Every time a wave shakes the rig, I plead for the boat to make it through the day and promise her I won't make her do the race. It's too much; too much for the boat, too much for me.
I couldn't handle the boat going downwind Friday. This is even less fun. A wave blasts over the boat and soaks me, slowly adding to the moisture in my foulies. I make a note to tell Kregg to punch me in the face if I ever try something this stupid again.
I think back to the last time I was out on the Strait, in May. I was competing in the Swiftsure race, and fell overboard shortly after the beginning of the race. For some reason I feel like that was much more pleasant than what I’m experiencing now.
Neah Bay is now out of sight, and I probably wouldn't make it there by dark, so I'm committed to running the gauntlet. Every time a tack brings me close to shore, I look for some form of shelter, but the coast is featureless except for the occasional rock.
My hands are freezing from the touch of the aluminum tiller, so I put some fleece socks on my tiller hand and switch hands every 5 minutes. I put a neoprene dinghy boot on one of my wet feet to see if it'll help. This is no place for fashion.
I write in my log: "17:17 – the last 8 hours have been horrible." I haven't been taking notes, just steering to try to avoid the worst of the chop. It's getting dark now. I manage to heat up some chili without making too much of a mess, and fill a thermos with instant coffee. I am a quarter of the way up the strait.
My hands are freezing from the touch of the aluminum tiller, so I put some fleece socks on my tiller hand and switch hands every 5 minutes. I put a neoprene dinghy boot on one of my wet feet to see if it'll help. This is no place for fashion.
I write in my log: "17:17 – the last 8 hours have been horrible." I haven't been taking notes, just steering to try to avoid the worst of the chop. It's getting dark now. I manage to heat up some chili without making too much of a mess, and fill a thermos with instant coffee. I am a quarter of the way up the strait.
The forecast is still the same, but the wind report from Dungeness Spit is either calm or light southerlies, so I have hope that there is a point soon where the chop will ease. I just have to get to the other side. The ebb is against me now and my progress is pathetic.
I'm trying to hug the shore to shield myself from the chop, timing my tacks to get as far inshore as possible, with the dark shoreline looming in the moonlight. Several times I chicken out and tack before my time is up. At one point I've just tacked inbound, and given myself 20 minutes to go below and get warm, when the boat suddenly stops. How can I have run aground with 17 minutes to go? I've hit something!
I'm trying to hug the shore to shield myself from the chop, timing my tacks to get as far inshore as possible, with the dark shoreline looming in the moonlight. Several times I chicken out and tack before my time is up. At one point I've just tacked inbound, and given myself 20 minutes to go below and get warm, when the boat suddenly stops. How can I have run aground with 17 minutes to go? I've hit something!
No comments:
Post a Comment