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December 14th, 2009 – At Sea, 22º 35’S, 041º 21’W
by Herb McCormick
The first inkling that change was upon us was at sunset, or should I say, about twenty minutes before the sun should’ve set, just around 6 p.m. local time last evening. To the west, a thick blanket of cloud coated the continent, suggesting that the folks living on the coast of Brazil might not have enjoyed the clearest, calmest of days.
The orange solar orb disappeared behind this blanket prematurely, to our way of thinking, as the one thing we’ve been able to count on of late were spectacular sunsets, including an unprecedented string of days when we were treated to a green flash on the horizon’s very edge as the sun kissed the day good-bye. Very quickly, however we realized that cloudy gray wall wasn’t stationary, no, not at all. In fact, what we were gazing at was a big slab of weather, at roiling cloud and associated turmoil, and what’s more, that it was rolling directly toward us at a right hasty clip.
What we were looking at, in figurative and literal terms, was the very definition of elemental. What we were looking at was a cold front (see main photo).
Today, the crew of Ocean Watch had closed to within 150-miles of our latest Shangri-la, the city of Rio de Janeiro, home to the masses. The sky was overcast, and the afternoon cool. David Thoreson took it all in and said, “Wow, after all this time, we have weather again.” It was the aftermath of the cold front.
South of 20ºS – in other words, at our current position – cold fronts are ubiquitous, a fact of meteorological life. Luckily, ours struck at a fortuitous moment, with light overhead; an hour later would’ve been a different story. Running before a northerly breeze in classic wing-and-wing fashion – the mainsail eased all the way to starboard, the jib poled out all the way to port – we were sailing with a rather complicated rig of vangs and guys and downhauls that would’ve presented interesting logistical challenges dousing it all in the dark.
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| The boat was in fine fettle as the breeze died, inhaled, exhaled, and shifted 180-degrees, from north to south. |
As it was, half the crew went forward to strike the jib, the other half remained aft to jibe the main and steer the boat, and the result of this rather straightforward choreography, if we do say so ourselves, was that the boat was in fine fettle as the breeze died, inhaled, exhaled, and shifted 180-degrees, from the north to the south. There was maybe a minute during this transition when it was utterly still. No more. At first the new wind was a gentle whisper. Then, in the next hour or two, its mood subtlety changed. If the wind can be miffed, this was miffed wind. To vent its frustration, like a hungry child whose patience has waned, it decided to howl.
It had been a weird day that segued into a long night, peppered by 25-knot gusts. All afternoon, we’d skirted a series of oil derricks, supply ships and even a couple of huge, self-contained oil rigging ships, tethered to the ocean floor with a half dozen mighty cables. “It looks like Waterworld,” said Thoreson, and he was right. (Not long after, remarking about another scorcher of a day, he also said, “I can’t wait to wear fleece again.” Little did he know…)
Once night had settled, and the southerly had filled in, with nasty little seas for mischievous accompaniment, the oil-field theme continued. The sky was alight with flashes of heat lighting, which we understood, but off in the distance a loom over the water had us baffled. Several hours later, we were abeam of a towering open flame, the associated byproduct of a big drilling operation. Even that wasn’t the strangest thing. No, that had to be the cruise ship, all lit up as well, that came steaming by the tower of fire, close aboard.
Where, one might wonder, travels the tourist who’s seen everything? Now we know.
Another strange thing happened at the change of midnight watch, but in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been surprising: After all, this was a cold front. But suddenly, after weeks and weeks and weeks, there was a decided nip in the air. And yes, in David T’s prophetic words, in the dead of night we were scurrying through our lockers, searching for fleece. By dawn, the temperature had dropped to – get this – 68 degrees. And not only had the feel of the sky changed, so had its aroma. Early this morning, Dave Logan came on watch, took a deep breath and said, “The air smells different. Like tidal flats. Like the Pacific Northwest.” And later, emerging from his cool aft cabin, looking more rested than he had in some time, he added, “That’s the best sleep I’ve had since Halifax.”
In a very related news flash, today in our main cabin, for the first time in 49 days – 7 weeks! Since leaving Miami! – the temperature in the main cabin did not crest 90-degrees, but topped off at 84.
And there was joy on the blue wilderness. Yeah, verily, the angels did sing.
There are a million reasons I’ve gone to sea, and go back to sea, but near the top of the list is this: In no other
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| “It looks like Waterworld,” said Thoreson, and he was right. |
way, at least that I know of, can one interact so closely – indeed, does one’s very wellbeing insist that they do – with the wind and the seas and the elements all around them. In my experience, no one gets to view fronts and gales and calms like you do on a small boat afloat on a great body of water.
Yesterday, before everything got interesting, in a moment totally unrelated to what was about to transpire (for there was no way of knowing what truly laid just over the horizon), scientist and meteorologist Michael Reynolds said, out of nowhere, “This voyage has been fantastic. Crossing the doldrums, sailing in the tradewinds…” He went on to rhapsodize – really, he did – about how different this trip has been from the countless days he’s spent at sea on big research vessels, where lunch is served in air-conditioned boardrooms and you can and do retreat from the outside world whenever you want.
“You see it all here,” he said. “You’re part of the weather.”
Now we’ve all learned a ton from Michael in his days aboard Ocean Watch, and it’s been an honor and privilege to sail with him. But I have to admit, it was good to hear that he was learning something we offshore sailors discovered a long time ago.
By late afternoon, the wind and waves had moderated, we were back in shorts and t-shirts (it’s all relative; after all, it didn’t snow), and Ocean Watch was gobbling up the final miles to Rio with the engine throttle down.
So, yes: We’d tasted our first Southern Hemisphere cold front. It won’t be our last.
- Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson
This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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