17/12/2019
By the evening of Day 3 of the crossing, we got our wind wish. As we sailed properly into trade wind territory, or the conveyor belt as they call it, the wind continued to veer until it was nearly behind us. We were no longer able to sail the angle on a broad reach, so it was time to get the downwind rig out. This setup uses an auxiliary pole that attaches at a right angle to the mast. We rig the Genoa sheet through an eye in the end of the pole to increase the sail area. On the other side of the boat, we barber haul the jib sheet out to likewise increase its area. The effect is that both sails should fill up with wind like a pair of gull wings and make for fast and effective downwind sailing. Discovery yachts with their twin headsails are particularly well-suited to this sail configuration, so we were hopeful this new rig would get us the rest of the way across. Getting the rig set up was quite an operation in these big seas. The 3 gents were on the foredeck clipped in, wrestling the massive pole down from the mast and securing it in place before passing the sheet lines back to the girls to run them through the correct blocks then back to the winches in the cockpit. It took a few gos as we experimented with getting the pole angle just right, as if it’s off, you can do serious damage to your rig, especially if you gybe. Once the rig was set and secured however, she seemed to work beautifully. Florence was hooning along at 7-11 knots in about 18-25 knots of breeze. Unfortunately, we were still pitching around uncomfortably in the confused seas, but occasionally we would catch a big wave just right and surf down it at serious speeds. At one point, our boat speed reached 16.2 knots as we surfed down a massive one, which was just wild. It felt as if we had been lifted up out of the sea and were flying above it - almost a floating sensation. It caught us all off guard!
As we were getting ready to settle down for night 4, our bilge alarm kept going off strangely. This is by far the loudest, most shrill alarm on the boat, and every time it goes off, I jump in my skin. We checked the main bilge, but there was barely any water in it. We couldn’t figure out why the alarm kept sounding - had the pump or the trigger switch failed? One of my fears for the crossing is the bilge pump malfunctioning, as this would potentially allow our boat to fill up with water from the bottom up - not a good scenario. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the film Titanic (probably not - it was an obscure, small-budget indie film starring some random named Leonardo DiCaprio), but to clue you in, when the bulkheads on that boat fill with water, it doesn’t take long for the whole thing to sink to the bottom of the Atlantic. So yeah, a working bilge pump is a good piece of kit. The crew did some sleuthing to try to figure out why this alarm was continually blaring, and after some digging around, we realised it was coming from the lazarette lockers at the rear of the boat. Stephen and I didn’t even know we had a bilge pump and alarm system in those lockers (although we probably should have...oops). We took everything out of the stuffed lockers, which took some time in the dark and in big, pitching seas, but once emptied, we were relieved to discover only a small amount of water in the lockers. This isn't unusual, as with massive amounts of water rushing across the decks as the boat plows though the water, some water ingress into the lockers in inevitable. We decided to turn the bilge alarm off and deal with it in the morning. Other than that, Day 4 had been a big success, with Florence crushing another 205 nautical miles. At this rate, we will make it to Barbados 4 days early!
My watch that night was pretty spectacular - we were flying downwind. All I had to do was to keep the wind either right behind us or slightly on our starboard quarter to avoid a gybe, which in these winds and at this speed would likely snap our pole away from the mast. I decided not to reef, as the wind wasn’t getting much above 25 knots and Florence seemed well-balanced. I avoided a couple small squalls and enjoyed the ride. I saw 2 other boats on our chartplotter for the first time in a days. While they appeared to be practically on top of us on the screen and hence a serious collision risk, we had the scale set to an 100-mile radius, so in reality they were both well over 10 nautical miles away. When they each got within 2 miles, I gave them a call on the radio just to be sure of their intentions. One was a large, private power vessel (I have no idea what they were doing out here in the middle of the ocean, and they didn't disclose...sketch), and the other was an American sailing vessel doing the Atlantic crossing as well, heading to Antigua. We crossed paths about 2 miles away from each other, and then Florence was alone again, as I expect her to be for most of the crossing.
So, you may well wonder what we do all day, day after day, at sea? Here is a taste. Passage making is all about routine, and the longer the passage, the more important the routine becomes. Obviously each individual’s daily routine is dictated to a degree by what part of the watch rotation they fall into, but in general, the boat’s routine is as follows: first order of business in the morning is obviously coffee, and lots of it. We've determined Brad makes the best coffee, so if he’s up and at 'em (he usually is), he’s our man. The person on sunrise watch is responsible for checking the main bilge for water in the morning to make sure we haven’t sprung some horrible leak and then will check the batteries. Since it looks as if we will be sailing across this entire ocean without needing the engine, the batteries need periodic boosts. We have solar panels which decrease our energy consumption by about 20%, but with 5 people living on the boat, using lights, showering, charging appliances, etc., Flo’s batteries need to be topped up using the generator at least twice a day. So sunrise man is also turn the generator on man, keeping our batteries charged above 24.5 DC volts at all times (riveting stuff, eh?). Next, around 11 AM, we download a forecast for the day using our satellite data package. We use a system called Iridium GO that allows you to use pre-purchased minutes to dial a satellite and either download a block of weather or send emails. This weather forecast will determine if we need to adjust our passage plan in any way. Thankfully, the forecast each day has been pretty consistent: 25-35 knots of wind coming from our quarter or stern, with 12-15 foot waves coming on our quarter. We haven’t seen any large storms encroaching, just the occasional squall, so so far, all good on the weather front. Next in the daily routine is to send an email at 12 PM giving our exact coordinates to a handful of land-based family and friends. This gives the landlubbers peace of mind in knowing that we haven't sunk yet and also serves an important safety function, as if our land support do not receive the email, they will know something must have gone wrong, and Florence will never be further than 24 hours away from her last known location. Sending this email is something the crew always looks forward to, as it’s cool to track our progress and see how far we’ve gone each day. We do our mileage calculation and feel a tremendous sense of victory when we have a 200+ nautical mile day. Florence is just bloody fast. We also have fun writing a little update to accompany the coordinates with anything notable that happened in the last 24 hours. We then plot our position on our physical chart. Even on the days when we smash out over 200 nm, our position fix from one day to the next on the massive Atlantic chart seems to barely move. Damn, this ocean is big…
People tend to have lunch at their leisure, as the middle of the day can either be watch time or sleeping time depending on what shift you are on. When not on watch, I find myself either blogging, journalling, reading, or attempting to nap (though I am not a good napper by nature so this is normally an exercise in futility. I’m surprised by how much energy I still have despite only getting 3-4 hours of sleep a day!). Occasionally I try to throw in a handful of lunges or crunches to get some form of exercise, but with the boat pitching around furiously, the attempt is more comedy for the onlookers than anything else. The big crew event for the day is the evening meal, which is the one we all eat together. Crew members take turns preparing it, and every evening around 6 or so, all 5 of us join together in the cockpit and enjoy breaking bread, taking the time to catch up, discuss highlights/lowlights of the day, etc. I cannot tell you how much a hot meal means at the end of a long, tiring day pitching about at sea. After dinner, people either hunker down for some sleep or get prepared for their night watch. A few general rules we have for night watches: the person on watch is always clipped in and never leaves the cockpit without alerting another crew member. If someone is alone on night watch and they go over, it could be hours before anyone else realises they’re gone, and even if it had only been seconds, the chances of recovering someone back on deck in these big seas and at these high speeds is pretty much zero. So yeah, hard and fast rules around safety during a night watch! Our nights thus far have been quite squally, more so than we anticipated, so the radar is always up and running. This allows the person on watch to monitor not only traffic (of which there is very little if any) but more importanly squalls, as squalls bring not just rain but often lots of wind, making reefing necessary. And then, after a long night flying through the darkness, the sun starts to brighten the sky and another day aboard begins. Rinse, wash, repeat.
The crew are still getting into the rhythm of the passage, and even though we’ve had no major issues thus far, there are always challenges each day that need to be dealt with. Our biggest challenge by far is lack of sleep. The sea state has just not calmed down at all, and Florence is rocking pretty aggressively from side to side all day and all night. Being below deck is always a tricky affair, as you need to constantly brace yourself to avoid slamming against walls. The boat seems to know exactly the wrong time to pitch as well, choosing the precise moment you open the fridge, the contents flying off the shelves, or the split second you take your hand off that pot of tomato sauce you were heating up. In those moments, all you can do is take a deep breath, reboot, wipe the tomato sauce off your face, and get the sponge. I bit off way more than I could chew last night when prepping dinner. Instead of just throwing one of our pre-made dinners into the oven or microwave, I decided to pan-sautee some fresh chicken breasts with garlic and mushrooms, serving them with green beans and shallots and roasted garlic potatoes. What the fuck was I thinking? The whole process took me over 2 hours of rocking back and forth, holding various pots and pans in place with my elbows, knees, ears, whatever I could get some purchase with. There were so many instances when near disaster struck. The only thing I think motivating me to keep it all together were those slides of burn wounds I had seen on our Medical First Aid at Sea course. That was NOT happening to me! I somehow pulled it off without sustaining any third degree burns, and the crew seemed appreciative of the meal, though I will not be trying that again. We have a freezer chock full of pre-made food and a microwave for a reason.
Another highlight for me yesterday occurred as I was bending down to get something out of the fridge when the boat lurched and I felt a violent whack at the base of my spine. Our kitchen fire extinguisher had come loose from the wall and launched itself across the boat and into the small of my back. The pain was searing, but the sheer shock of it was perhaps worse. Once ascertaining I was alright, the crew had a good laugh at the new fire extinguisher-shaped tramp stamp of a bruise I had for myself. You can’t make this stuff up. The crew have all been amassing their own collection of nicks and bruises along the way, but I venture this one takes the cake.
Another downside of being below deck is the noise. It doesn’t matter how diligently you try to strap things down, there are always things clanging about when the boat is moving this fiercely. The noise is magnified at night, when it seems every pot, pan, mug, glass, container, and tool is slamming all over the place in a cacophony that makes sleeping even trickier. Our soundproofing does however get a bit better each day, as we tackle one clang at a time.
And we take everything one day at a time, trying to sleep when we can, and trying to soak in and appreciate every waking moment above deck as we slice through the sea. Because along with the bumps, bangs and broken sleep come sunsets, stargazing and this amazing sense of solitude - of being out in the middle of nowhere, away from the clutter of everyday life. So we embrace the challenges with the triumphs and give in to the rhythm of the ocean. This passage is about the journey, not the destination. I am taking it hour by hour, day by day, sunrise to sunset, trying to let this singular experience sink in.
