The next leg of our journey takes us to Suwarrow
in the Northern Cook islands, made famous by Tom Neale, a New Zealander who
wrote about his experiences living there alone for many years. Now it is
uninhabited, an atoll famed for its wildlife, visited only by private yachts
and manned for three months in the year by park rangers who will stamp your
passport for a small fee. The island is seven hundred miles to the northwest so
I email Chris Tibbs, our friend and weather router, for a forecast. There is a
cold front developing across our track and we are likely to pass through it in
three days time. It looks benign at this stage but as we are to discover,
Pacific weather systems are highly dynamic and can quickly develop from gentle
depressions into aggressive fronts fuelled by the warm waters of the South Pacific.
The sea is flat calm as we leave Bora Bora
behind us and I am resigned to another twenty-four hours under engine until we
pick up some wind. We are sailing in company with two yachts, Aplus2 and Makena. APlus2
is an Amel 54, owned by a French couple; Jean and Christiane. Amels can be found in
anchorages all over the world and are often referred to as Marmite boats; you
either love them or hate them - for a number of reasons. First they are ketch rigged with two
masts, increasingly rare in today’s world of performance sloops; second
they are quirky, with some curious touches such as faux-teak decks and an
offset steering position insisted upon by their founder, Monsieur Amel. But most important of all they are built for
long-distance passage-making and in many ways they are the ideal yacht for a
circumnavigation. Amels aren’t renowned for their high performance but
Jean sails his boat skilfully and presses hard, always hot on our heels. He also possesses every gadget
imaginable and his chart table is like the flight deck of an airliner, with
cameras mounted up the mast and an array of external lights that earns his boat
the nickname of the Christmas tree.
Oh yes, and being French he has a wine cellar that would put most London
town houses to shame. “Only around two hundred bottles” he shrugs,
as if anything less would be indecent.
Jean’s wife Christiane isn’t a
natural sailor but she is determined to support her husband on this trip, and
with her wicked sense of humour they make a great couple.
The other boat is Makena, a big
Lagoon catamaran, 62 feet long and home to Luc, Sarah and Kai. Luc is a tall
handsome Frenchman who lived and worked in Silicon Valley for many years and is
now sailing around the world with his adventurous young Irish wife Sarah and
their gorgeous smiling baby Kai, who was one year old on the very day that we
crossed the equator. Makena is cavernous inside with 6 cabins, a flying bridge
and acres of deck space that is the perfect venue for a party - of which many
have been hosted by Luke and Sarah who are generous to a fault with their
hospitality. However Makena is not just a floating villa, she is at the upper
end of the Lagoon range of catamarans and has a big carbon rig, fibre standing
rigging and a wardrobe of sails that drive her fast. With no keel, catamarans
have little friction in the water and can be very quick downwind, especially in
the hands of Luc who sails her like a big dinghy, always at the front of the
fleet despite sailing conservatively with his young family on board.
In company with APlus2 and Makena,
our little flotilla of three yachts motors across the flat Pacific in bright
sunshine, looking for the wind. Little do we know at this stage that we will
find more than we bargained for. I
email Chris for another weather update and this time it is slightly more
thought provoking. The cold front
which is due to arrive on Sunday now looks quite aggressive, bringing strong
wind from the northwest in the squalls as the front passes through; maybe up to
gale force in strength. We have experienced gale force winds in the gusts many
times before and we are unconcerned by this development other than it curtails
our plans. With the wind forecasted to come directly from our destination of Suwarrow, we decide regretfully that we will have to avoid
this mysterious atoll and head west directly towards Niue, the next stop on our
itinerary. With our change of course, the route takes us more upwind and we are
able to switch off the engine and sail on a gentle beam reach with Makena and Aplus2 in sight as we work our way west towards
Tonga.
The front is due to pass over us tomorrow so I get another
weather update from Chris. This time the content of his email is more
concerning. The front has intensified and there is a lot of energy in the
clouds due to the instability in the atmosphere, with thunder and lightning
expected in the squalls. Lightning is always a sign of the vertical extent of
the clouds and therefore when the rain falls, the downdrafts can be
significant. Unusually for Chris,
he sends me a second email. This time he warns that winds could be up to 60
knots in the squalls and that we should consider heaving-to as the front
passes. Heaving-to is a tactic employed mainly by yachts in heavy weather,
effectively stopping the boat with its bows head to wind while a bad weather
system passes through. The reason for considering this approach is that 60
knots is a lot of wind. The Beaufort scale, which is used to describe wind
strength in bands using Beaufort Forces, shows 53 – 63 knots as a
Beaufort Force 11, “a violent storm with exceptionally high waves, the
sea covered in white foam, survival conditions”. In fact there is only
one force higher – that’s Gale Force 12, a Hurricane.
I share a summary of the forecast with Andrew and Caroline,
and also with Jean and Luc.
On the morning radio net i give the fleet a
heads up on the conditions because although they have all seen the front
developing on their grib files, it takes an
experienced sailing meteorologist like Chris to understand the potential energy
in the atmosphere and the possible wind strengths in the squalls. This is the
first that many have heard of the intensity of the approaching front and we all
start to make our preparations for the storm. The first thing we do is to head north
to position us as far away from the centre of the low as possible. The storm is due to hit us on Sunday
morning with the worst of the front passing through around lunchtime; then abruptly
the wind will back to t he southwest, a sign that the front has passed and the
wind will abate. Juno is a big
strong boat and designed to take this type of weather in her stride, but
nevertheless it is down to the crew to guide her through the storm and to
prepare her well for the conditions. Andrew and I remove all loose gear from
the deck; we reeve the running backstays to give the mast extra support and
lash the anchor and the spinnaker bag on deck. I tighten the lines on the bimini,
adding extra guys at the stern to further secure the canvas and we strap the
dinghy down hard against its davits. Down below Caroline secures the cabins and
the galley and prepares breakfast, lunch and supper to minimise work down below
in heavy seas. As we work through my checklist, it is a glorious day with blue
skies and no sign of the impending weather, but as night falls I feel the wind
freshen and start to back towards the east, the first signs of the approaching
front.
Dawn breaks with dark clouds developing on the horizon. The
wind has now backed further to the north and by mid-morning the first drops of
rain start to fall. I reduce sail
progressively as the wind builds and we fit our lifejackets and harness lines,
clearing the cockpit of our creature comforts of cushions, pilot books, cameras
and suntan lotion. Just ahead of
the front it starts to rain quite heavily but still we only have twenty knots
of wind and I am conscious that there is lots more to come. To add to our concerns a cargo
vessel is heading across our course so I call them on the radio and ask them to
keep clear, as we are restricted in our ability to manoeuvre due to the
weather. To their great
credit and despite the deteriorating conditions they stay true to their word
and head into the path of the storm to keep clear of us. We have agreed with Makena and Aplus2 to hold a radio call every hour and I can
hear the tension in our voices as we compare weather conditions and start to
run off south away from the building wind.
Then I see it. On our starboard quarter a dark black cloud
skates low across the water and beneath it the sea is white with foam. Despite
their protests I send Caroline and Andrew down below and close the hatch,
clipping my harness to the deck fitting in the cockpit. Our mainsail is already
tiny, just enough to give us some stability and I quickly furl the jib down to
the size of a bath towel. As I push the companionway shut I notice the digits
on the wind speed indicator climbing rapidly as the wind builds from 25 knots,
to 30, 40, 48 and then when it hits 50 I turn away and face the squall that is
screaming in behind us. It is as if
someone has unleashed a monster. The wind shrieks in the rigging as the fist big gust hits us like a fist. The waves are flattened
by the wind as it blows the crests off in dense white streaks, and all around
everything is white. With the sudden increase in wind the waves develop
quickly, steep and close together, towering above me in the cockpit, maybe 6
metres high. Unlike other squalls
that we have experienced this isn’t just a gust. The wind speed
hasn’t dropped below 50 knots for half an hour and I am steering Juno
away from the wind down the face of the waves, tracking slightly north to keep
us moving across the waves for directional stability but not wanting to go too
fast as we power through the spray and spume like a giant surfboard. We are
making nine knots now under just a tiny mainsail and storm jib when the sky
suddenly lights up with huge flashes of lightning all around me, then almost
immediately the two loud cracks of thunder. I don’t need my schoolboy
physics to tell me that the storm is directly overhead. The chard plotter is a
mass of solid purple, showing the radar picture of the squall which I measure
to be around 20 miles across, with Juno a small grey icon, slap in the middle.
The wind eases a little as the first front passes and I open
the hatch to find Caroline lying in the saloon in shorts and t shirt, insulated
from the tempest raging above. She is itching to come up on deck and I am
impressed by her composure but I think it’s safer for her to be down
below. I later hear that Andrew was on the loo at the time the storm struck and
was only mildly inconvenienced; such is the soundproofing and stability of
Juno. I change my shorts and light weight waterproof for my full offshore foul
weather gear and return to the fray, just as the next squall hits. The waves
are now getting significantly bigger after two hours of gale force winds and I
stand over the helm ready to intervene although the autopilot is handling the
boat beautifully. Two waves then hit us in swift succession and the second
breaks on our starboard quarter, rounding us up into the wind. I grab the wheel
and bear off hard just as Juno heels violently and over my shoulder I see the
outboard motor on the dinghy, mounted on davits high above the water, disappear
under the sea until Juno recovers her composure, rights herself and shakes off
the water like a wet dog. In fact, barring that one incident, Juno behaves
impeccably, maintaining a steady track down the waves, despite the wind howling
around our ears and the confused sea state.
I hear Jean on the radio for our hourly roll call. Aplus2
has had 48 knots, Makena 62 knots; we are all in the
middle of this ferocious storm but everyone sounds calm and in control. As the
wind rages and Juno keeps her cool it gives me a great sense of confidence
about the sea worthiness of this strong boat. I glance down at the wind
instruments. The wind is still over 30 knots but it has backed to the
southwest, a sign that the front has passed through and although it is still
windy by any standards I know with a sense of relief that the worst has passed.
Andrew and Caroline come up to the cockpit and I feel like Noah, seeing the
waters recede as the storm abates.
Although the wind is now only a force 7 the seas are still huge and we
are careful to keep our guard against a rogue wave that could still knock us
down if it broke against our beam.
I check in with Makena and Jean.
All is well with them and we briefly exchange war stories from the storm. By
evening the wind is down to 12 knots. The sky is overcast but the front has
passed through and although I am exhausted after 12 hours at the helm, I am
relieved that we passed this test without harm to the crew or to Juno as these
were the worst conditions I have experienced at sea. We were well prepared due to weather
forecasts from Chris Tibbs that are, as always, uncannily accurate, almost to
the minute. The picture above shows our track during the
storm; how we headed north to position ourselves away from the centre of the
front and then our course as we ran off south
I sleep like a hound, thanks in part to Andrew who
generously stands watch an extra hour overnight and by today the clouds have
cleared, our ensign is once more flying proudly at the stern and we are on a
beam reach towards Niue, the world’s smallest independent nation.
Editors Note: Please note that a blog on Bora Bora will follow soon once we arrive in Niue as we are
unable to post all the pictures from our satellite communications at sea.
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