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.