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LOG ENTRY DATE: November 21, 2003 I've decided that the ocean is basically a practical joker with a dark sense of humor, but also with a conscience. We've been sitting here now, in the middle of the Atlantic—known for it's winds and it's fury—with almost no wind for the last 4 days. It's as if the ocean is saying: "I'm not getting my usual kicks from sinking ships and terrorizing people, so I think I'll frustrate them by doing nothing". Or, not really "nothing", but rather something a little more diabolical: the ocean serves up a little wind, here and there, and from varying directions— just enough to make us stop the engine (we are burning fuel at a desperate rate, far from our landfall), hoist the sails (usually requiring a completely different configuration from the last set, due to the changed direction), and speed up to 3 or 4 knots. . .. a half-hour after which the wind dies down again to nothing. Down come the sails, on goes the engine, the cycle continues. . . We are hoping that the ocean will grow tired of these games. . . sometimes one wishes for a challenging gale in these circumstances—as one wishes for calm during a gale. But the ocean does manage to assuage its guilty conscience over such antics with small offerings from time to time. More often than not, it's the amazing sunsets or sunrises that we get. Certainly sunsets and sunrises are over-photographed and over-talked about, but out here no two ever seem remotely the same. . . vivid purple and orange one night, blazing yellow and streaking out above and below clouds the next. And, we get the rare treats like the dolphins visiting at night; two evenings ago, Ed and I stood on the bow for a half hour and watched their phosphorescent trails crisscross under the boat (with no depth perception in the dark sea, they looked like collisions), occasionally hitting concentrated pockets of plankton that exploded with vivid bursts of bright light. We even get the odd land bird that tries to alight on the boat for a rest, or the regular visits from the shearwaters that ride up and down over the sea, following each contour and pivoting in new directions effortlessly. Not to mention the dorados that offer themselves up to us on a fairly regular basis. Finally, given that all boats move pretty much the same speed with no wind, we've managed to meet up with Juanona in mid ocean, exchange gifts (we threw them a needed Celesticomp battery, in a bag weighted by a potato that said "eat me" on it, and they threw Reese's Cups at us), and to keep them within VHF hailing range. Given the windlessness, we've had to search for sailing strategies that will get us to forecasted winds. The traditional advice when crossing the Atlantic from east to west has been to sail south until the trades winds are reached, and then turn for the west. Since this is the longer course, and since modern sailors have engines, that advice has been eroded somewhat. . . nowadays, we (i.e. us) "cut the corner", and head southwest, confident that as we head southwest (instead of south) from latitudes of 28 degrees north, the trades will fill in by the time we reach 20 degrees north or so. The problem is that that intersection is a long way away—in our case 900 miles from the Canaries. Given our fuel capacity of 80 gallons, which we burn at .5 gallons per hour, we can steam for 160 hours at 5 knots, which is the equivalent of—surprise!—only 800 miles. Moreover, there's no guarantee that the trades will actually be as high up as 20 degrees. So, we listen in to our single sideband "net", of which one member seems to have a pretty good grasp on deciphering weather charts. It's been his interpretation that the winds will continue to be light until Sunday, November 23; today is the 21st, and we left on the 15th. At that point, the forecast calls for 13 knot winds (a veritable hurricane!) from the northeast, all the way up to 20 degrees north. Since we are now at 21 degrees north, this looks pretty good. But, since the forecast a couple of days ago called for no wind at latitudes above 16 degrees north until next week, we had dived south intending to find them. . . As a result of our modern technology, we've end up zigzagging all over the ocean, responding to the latest predictions, when we probably should have just heeded the ancient mariner's advice in the first place, and sailed south until we reach the trades and then headed west. Our current strategy—given our position of 21 north, 26 west, and Antigua's position of 17 north, 61 west—is to simply sail where and when the wind lets us, optimizing for speed, and hoping that the general direction is somewhere between the cardinal compass points of west and south, and that we'll ultimately stumble on the trades before we run out of fuel. Behold the makings of a first-class command decision. Despite the psychological toll all this has no doubt taken on the crew, they remain cheerful and hard-working—despite the possibility that two of them might miss their scheduled planes home. It's another obvious case of tropical sailing poisoning. . . they seem to have sunk into the depths of the disease's relaxation and lack of stress, as indicated by the classic symptom of not knowing the specific day. Fortunately, Tom and I have experience with the treatment of the malady, and will use the time wisely to nurse them back to a full state of recovery. This is generally marked by a willingness to get back to land, eventually, while permanently accompanied by a subtle, yet insatiable urge to return to the sea again. |
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