Terry Bingham
11/08/2000

High On The Pacific, part two.

The thing about night is, it's dark. That doesn't normally bother me, but in these circumstances it creates a few problems. Unable to see the swells coming at the boat doesn't allow you to anticipate the movement and the loss of vision enhances the other senses so that sounds now were much accentuated and I wondered then if the seas were increasing. Ditto with the noise of the wind through the rigging and across the sails - did it sound different?

I regard that night as passable. I was able to catch a little sleep and my gut feeling was the wind and seas stayed about the same through the night. I would set the alarm clock for an hour and a half and then get up and check the sails, take as much of a look at the seas as I could in the starlight and make a "Hello all stations" radio call on VHF 16. I would give my lat and long position and ask for any vessels within 25 miles to answer.

At 0130 hours I got a response from Coast Guard Yaquina Bay in Newport Oregon, over 400 miles north. He said "I thought I noted a sense of urgency in your voice. Is everything OK?" I responded by telling him I was sailing in storm conditions with much reduced maneuverability and just wanted to determine if any other vessels were in my proximity - "Keep a watch out." He acknowledged that was a good plan and wished me a pleasant night after asking the length of my vessel and how many persons on board.

Apparently this conversation elicited the next response which was from a container ship about 50 miles south. He wanted only to verify my position as it related to his.

I passed the night fitfully as it seemed every ten or fifteen minutes a wave would break across the weather deck and cabintop causing me to get up and investigate. Were it not for this and the constant atrocious noise from the wind through the rigging and the seas slapping the side of the hull next to my bunk, I would have gotten a fair night's sleep. The motion down at the level of my berth was surprisingly gentle and at the times I got up I would invariably be thrown against a bulkhead or counter, not realizing the boat was still rolling 30 and 40 degrees.

At 0400 I started to perceive a difference in the shade of gray between the sea and sky. A slow subtle change from the black shades of charcoal to a visible pewter and then a lightening of the entire sky to bring on dawn. Whatever this did for the sky, it only enhanced the evility in the seas I had noted at dusk, and I could see that the swell had in fact increased substantially, running quite fast, with many huge white horses breaking in every direction to the horizon, spray flying in sheets with the wind. I also noted the boat had started to pick up speed, indicating an increase in wind velocity.

As I sat in the companionway taking this all in, I looked up the mast and saw the first indication of the toll this weather was taking - the top sail slide at the headboard of the mainsail had chafed through it's attaching webbing and was entirely loose. This needed immediate attention before the pressure of wind caused each successive downward slide to break out like a zipper being pulled. This problem occurs when reefing a sail; all the stress that was formerly carried by the halyard at the masthead is transferred to the headboard and it's attached slides as it takes a lower position on the mast with the shortened sail. The stress is again increased when deepening to a third reef, which I had done just 24 hours earlier.

Putting on safety harness, tether and rain jacket I snapped into the lee side jackline and made my way forward to the mast. As I stood there grasping any available handhold I became aware of the violent motion at this elevation on deck. Looking up it seemed the masthead was striking an arc of more than 100 degrees through the drab sky. Quickly slackening the halyard, I brought the mainsail down and examined the slide.

At this time I became aware of another increase in windspeed - it was surely steady at 40 knots, gusting higher - and I made the decision to furl the main, get the boom tied down and proceed under stormsail only until this wind moderated enough that I could make a repair and hoist the main again. Once done, the boat took on a much gentler motion even though we continued to move at 4 knots with only the 60 square foot storm staysail.

On through the morning and past noon we slowly made progress on the GPS display toward San Francisco. There was no other way to see our movement since the view to the horizon remained the same - huge seas and breaking graybeards - and with the extreme motion of the seas near the boat it was impossible to discern any wake.

At 1300 hours I noted the wind seemed to be moderating and decided to attempt the repairs at the mast. With all the motion, the job took longer than if we were at anchor in a calm harbor, but nonetheless, it was completed in twenty minutes and I thought it best to watch the wind for a while longer before raising the sail. By 1430, with the wind now steady at about 30 knots, I went forward and raised the triple reefed main and noted after a few minutes: "On course steady at 5 knots, 250 miles to go" and wondered if everything else would hold together until then.

Three hours later I had an answer. As I was up in the companionway taking a look around for traffic and checking sails and rigging, I noted the wheel was behaving strangely. While apparently holding the course, it appeared to be moving out of sync with the wind vane. Something wasn't right and I wondered if one of the control lines had come off the cleat or loosened somewhat.

Stepping up into the cockpit and behind the wheel where I could both check the control lines and also get a hands-on feel for the rudder movement, I snugged up both the lines in their cleats and the starboard side line just kept coming with no resistance at all. It was obviously no longer connected to the wind vane steering quadrant which was located in the extreme aft section of the boat, accessed through the cockpit locker. Trying to make a rapid assessment of all the alternatives, I decided to heave to and get the boat in as stable a position as possible in these gale force winds and seas, then remove enough gear from the locker so I could crawl through and into the stern section and assess the problem.

As I sheeted in the main and stormsail I headed the boat up into the wind and seas until we came to a point where she was trying hard to make headway, but couldn't, due to the position of the rudder and the set of the sails. In this condition, she assumes an angle of about 45 degrees off the wind and tries to jog forward at about a knot, but is unable to build any speed or tack through the wind. Locking the wheel at this point I noted how calm it seemed to have become with the stopping of the boat and getting the seas off the beam. This is the great advantage of heaving-to: it feels as if the wind has dropped 20 knots and the seas have suddenly disappeared - a respite in the fury of the storm.

Quickly removing gear from the locker to gain access, I crawled below and through the small opening into the aft section. It was amazing how calm the boat seemed, especially as I was pressed into an awkward, confining, dark space. When I had installed the wind vane three years ago I also installed a light nearby and with a flip of it's switch could see the problem: not only had the control line parted, but it's primary turning pulley was missing, looking as if it had been pried open with a crowbar. I had no exact replacement, but I did have other blocks and sheaves.

It seemed to me an hour working in that confined space under such challenging conditions, but I'm sure it was no more than twenty minutes and the control line was back in place, re-connected and working. Deciding it best to check it out under actual conditions before returning all the gear to the locker, I slacked the sails, unlocked the wheel and the boat fell off the wind and was back on course at speed in less than a minute. After ten minutes of sailing I crawled below, everything looked to be working well, so I returned to the cockpit and began restoring the gear to the locker.

Darkness was approaching and in my mind I was thinking, "I hope this repair can at least make it through the night, if not the remaining 235 miles to San Francisco."

Into the third night of the storm things were holding together and I noted at 2300 hours "Wind is still up in the 30's, but feel the seas are smaller. Vane is holding course at 083M @ 5 - 5 1/2 kts."

Continuing through the night, the boat held course true toward the Gate and we were regularly taking green water over the deck and cabintop. It was about 0200 hours when, standing next to the nav station looking at instruments, I was suddenly drenched from overhead with icy cold water. This occurred with all washboards in place and the companionway hatch closed tight.

Investigating, the only source I could find was a three-eighths inch limber hole in the forward part of the hatch turtle. Apparently enough water had washed across the house-top and infiltrated that hole to build up a quantity within the enclosed space until the boat lurched in a different direction, causing the entrapped water to be forced under the closed hatch and down my neck! Once done, it continued every fifteen or twenty minutes for the next several hours. I'm sure the amount was a half cup, but in the circumstances it looked and felt like a gallon.

At sunrise, I had the distinct impression the seas were down slightly and the wind was slackening a little. However, it was evident there was a secondary swell causing a confused condition which only added to the discomfort. But, after breakfast and coffee - around 1100 hours - I noted the wind was down below 20 knots and the seas were definitely under eight feet. This prompted the exchange of staysail for the stormsail and shaking out of the third reef in the main. We carried on like this through the day, occasionally unrolling the yankee part way, but by dark I decided to go through the night with staysail and double reefed main only. It stayed fairly quiet and I had some decent sleep into daybreak.

At 0600 hours the log shows "wind is gone, seas are quiet." It was as if we had crossed a line and were now drifting in fog with no more than a two foot swell and no breath of wind. I raised all sail to see if we could make any way, but forty-five minutes later we were motoring on the glassy water at 6 knots with 66 miles to go.

During the next eight to ten hours visibility remained about two miles and we encountered a couple of containerships and one fish boat, but no wind. As we approached the Golden Gate a fresh breeze kicked in from behind and with five miles to go we were once again sailing downwind at 5 1/2 knots under main and staysail. There was a full 20 knots of wind right on the stern.

Passing under the bridge at 1830 hours the wind continued to build, but within a half hour the sails were doused and we motored on into Richardson Bay, dropping the hook in nine feet just off the Sausalito Cruising Club. The project list now extended to more than two pages and there would be plenty of time to work on those before heading on South to return to Mexico in November.

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Terry Bingham
10/08/2000

HIGH ON THE PACIFIC

I missed it! Like a red stoplight on the boulevard in an unknown town - I failed to see it. A missed wink from the lady in the red dress across a crowded room. No -- it was more like a plodding freight train approaching the grade crossing while I casually stared at a field of flowers in the opposite direction as I proceeded across. What price would this failed observance extract? The next several days would bring the answer.

For the past week and a half we'd been playing tag with the "North Pacific High", a usually large high pressure system that dominates offshore the west coast from southern BC to central California during the summer. In winter, he runs more South and provides the nice weather from northern California into Baja Mexico.

When I visited the Hawaii Yacht Club on Oahu eight weeks ago, I met the venerable Robbie Buck, an icon among voyagers on the eastern Pacific - Robbie has made in excess of 50 crossings between Hawaii and the mainland and carries an encyclopedia of knowledge regarding that vast expanse of bluewater. Prior to my departure for Kauai, Robbie bought me a drink and said, "Listen up! This is how you do it. Head north from Kauai, right up the 160 until you can clear the top of the 'High' and turn right."

Then, gazing out across the hundreds of boats in the Ala Wai Marina, he quietly said, "But whatever you do, don't go north of 41, maybe 42. If you can't clear the high by then, turn right and go through it. You'll have to motor a ways -- maybe a week, but you don't want to go north of 42."

I told him that had pretty much been my plan and I appreciated the advice. He held his drink aloft and seemed to look right through me, "Over 50 crossings," he said. When the time came to depart Hanalei Bay on the north shore of Kauai, the trades were blowing briskly, 20 to 25 knots, right out of the Northeast.

As I settled into the first few hours of this unknown passage, I spent some time adjusting the self-steering wind vane for the optimum course I could maintain in this wind. Optimum for me doesn't necessarily mean "shortest" or "fastest", but instead, a decent level of comfort which today meant setting a course that would take us slightly west of due north, but keep us from beating directly into the prevailing wind and seas. We would run for a while on a close reach, starboard tack, taking the seas somewhat off the starboard bow and see if that wasn't fairly comfortable.

In addition to the physical clues that derive from the wind and waves, we're equipped to receive WeatherFax, so that first afternoon began a daily schedule downloading to the laptop multiple charts and satellite photos showing the broad expanse of weather across the northeastern Pacific Ocean.

I couldn't have been more pleased with the next seven days. The wind stayed fair, giving us daily mileage in the 140's, and the comfort level was OK - a little too much pounding and heeling to port, but with the good speeds, don't complain. The WeFax came in clearly twice a day and gave a good picture of the Pacific High. While earlier in the month it had been resident well above lat 40N, it had moved substantially southward and it looked like we could clear the top before reaching 40N.

In the middle of the night, as I went topside to look around and check conditions, I noted a fairly good wind shift had occurred with a veering to the South and West, naturally turning the boat to a more easterly course.

"Well, Robbie," I thought, "this is the way it works, isn't it? The wind will continue around and we'll soon have westerlies to take us all the way to San Francisco".

As I said earlier, we'd been playing tag with the high for over a week since that night when we were docilely shepherded around to our eastern course. Then, within a day the high had moved several hundred miles north and west turning the good westerly winds into not so good northeasterlies -- once again we were close reaching into four to six foot seas. At least we were now on the opposite tack, variety being the spice . . . .

For the next several days the high moved, then split, then dissipated or was absorbed by a new one and all the time I would scan the twice-daily weather charts looking for the return of the prevailing westerlies. There was a succession of lows marching eastward just ten degrees to the North.

Robbie was certainly right - that wouldn't be any fun up there. But here we had the NE, then it was from the South and now there was barely a breath and I considered firing up the engine, but gave it a couple of hours and enough wind filled in from the Southwest to satisfy.

After 19 days at sea we were within 600 miles of San Francisco and the wind died again. Without hesitation I started the engine and we motored for three and a half hours till a nice Northwesterly showed up and I thought, "Right on! This will build and we'll ride it on into the Golden Gate".

All that day the sailing was beautiful -- a leftover westerly swell long in period and short in stature was running directly on the stern, quietly lifting us three or four feet every ten or twelve seconds as we moved along at five knots on a comfortable broad reach and the wind not yet building any noticeable chop. The sun was warm and the only clouds resided on the far horizon. It was "the best". During this time Hurricane "Daniel" had been menacing the Hawaii area and out of interest I was following his progress closely on the WeFax.

Late that afternoon the newest charts arrived and as I glanced over them my eyes were drawn not to the hurricane, but to the bold black box drawn only a degree to the east of our current position and right on our course. Inside the box was written: "DVLPG GALE". Then I looked to the west coast mainland and saw the multiple low pressure centers that were lined up along the central California valleys.

These lows are caused by rapidly rising air when a heat wave settles into the area and are called "Thermal Lows" or a "Thermal Trough." Combine these lows with the "Pacific High" and you'll typically see heavy weather all along the offshore coast as the high squeezes up against the land and winds from the two contrasting pressure centers meet, contributing to each other. The winds in the high rotate clockwise and in the low anti-clockwise. Viewed from above, as on a weather chart, it always reminds me of my mother's old "MixMaster" as she would whip up a chocolate cake and the batter would impressively accelerate where it was drawn between the two counter-rotating beaters.
Along this coastline, gales develop not infrequently due to this thermal condition.

How had I missed the signs? However, that question was quickly replaced by "so what next?" and the fact that we were entering the much colder water of the California Current which typically causes dense fog when combined with the heat coming off the valley.

As we sailed into the night the wind began to veer more north and build intensity. By midnight we were on a tight reach under double-reefed mainsail and staysail, beginning to feel the effects of the three to four foot seas, and at 0700, after a moonless night with increasing winds it was evident we needed the third reef in the main and the storm staysail to counter the effects of the now thirty knot winds and seas of eight plus feet. An hour later and under control with the storm sails set, I sat at the top of the companionway with a first cup of coffee and looked out over the "Pacific" ocean.
(Webster's: "Pacific" -- appeasing; peaceful; conciliatory.)

The morning sky was leaden, the water a blend of cobalt and gunmetal. I watched as the wind strafed the wave tops and rippled their faces. I became evermore impressed as "Secret O' Life" rose up and over each swell, albeit with a goodly roll, at times approaching forty-five degrees. Like the proverbial duck bobbing on the water, all twenty - two thousand pounds moved fairly gracefully as the laws of buoyancy took effect and she would rise and fall through a height of ten or twelve feet in a second or two.

Struggling to make a breakfast, I felt safe with hash browns and scrambled eggs. The gimballing of the stove aboard is far past a blessing - I can set a pot of coffee, handle a frying pan and boil water with the confidence that after the next roll, all will still be in place and intact on the stove top.

Returning with the meal to my perch at the main hatch, a place I can wedge against and be stable in most any conditions, I scanned the horizon and wondered if there be any other fools nearby today, still over 350 miles from the Golden Gate.

On through the day the wind vane held the course within a degree or two, a job I wouldn't begin to attempt, and the wind continued to howl through the rigging, continued to heap the seas until, mid-afternoon, I could pick out skiable terrain -- hills and valleys with sufficient height that one could make a series of turns from top to bottom. Still the boat plowed on, making a steady four knots as she visibly slowed on the rise up each swell, hesitated at the top and then rolled to one side or the other dependent on the mass and consistency of the water beneath her. I went below to have a nap.

At dusk the wind and sea conspired to present a truly evil presence in the dying light -- and again there was no moon. Wind speed exceeded 35 knots with gusts above 40 and the seas continued to grow, some above fifteen feet. The only problem these would present is the rare coincidental collision of the boat with a crest that has just started to break, as this will then tumble across the deck or the aft quarter and drive spray across the dodger and the cockpit. The wind vane continued to track a straight and true course, keeping me out of the wet cockpit.

With the last light fading, I slid in the washboards, closed the hatch and went below to heat a can of chili and see what I could find on the short-wave for entertainment. Unfortunately, we were now too close to San Francisco to receive decent WeFax, so would rely on verbal broadcasts. Hopefully, improving weather would be a topic soon.

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