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December 22, 2009 – At Sea, 33º 30′S, 052º 07′W
By Herb McCormick
Today’s gray dawn, frankly, didn’t have much going for it. The dismal weather brought to mind an old song lyric from the great John Hiatt: “She came on to him like a slow-moving cold front.” That’s to say, over the previous 36-hours, a slow-moving cold front had come on to Ocean Watch.
We’d watched the clouds above follow their usual, natural progression in such matters, beginning with a milky cirrus, merging into a wispy cirrostratus, descending into a hazy stratus, and finally, inevitably, morphing into steady rain. Things in general deteriorated accordingly. The breeze shadowed the clouds, veering gradually from northwest to north to northeast to east. The changing nature of the weather above, of course, had a direct cause-and-effect influence on a sail plan below, specifically the one we were carrying aboard Ocean Watch.
You could say the sky, the wind and the sails were all in harmony; at sea on a sailboat, everything moves in rhythm, even when you don’t like the tune.
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| Over the previous thirty six hours, a slow-moving cold front has come on to Ocean Watch. |
As the front moved over us we changed down from a spinnaker; to a wing-and-wing set-up, with the big genoa poled out to starboard and the deeply reefed mainsail eased out to port; to a furled genoa sans pole; to a staysail alone. Then the wind went away and it started raining. At that juncture we threw up our arms and switched on the engine, which brings us back to this morning’s rather uninspired beginning, with Dave Logan and I on watch. What we were mostly watching was one another’s beards grow.
And that’s when the albatross wheeled into view.
Albatross, of course, are the ultimate seabirds, spending their lives entirely on the ocean except for brief shore-side liaisons on remote islands to mate and ensure the progression of their species. Then they’re back to sea, and home. With enormous wingspans and aerodynamic frames, they don’t fly so much as glide, effortlessly, a creature born to soar and hover. Albatross don’t flap their wings so much as unhinge them from their sleek, slim bodies, in the subtlest manner imaginable. To put it another way, an albatross in flight doesn’t nod, it blinks, and it’s not a terrible exaggeration to say we could gaze upon this airy magic for quite some time.
And that’s how we spent this morning, as we closed to within 200-miles of Punta del Este, Uruguay, with an ETA of the 23rd.
To paraphrase yet another fine songwriter, one by the name of Jimmy Buffet, this current passage from Rio de
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| Albatross are the ultimate seabirds, spending their lives entirely on the ocean except for brief shore-side liaisons to ensure the progression of their species. |
Janeiro to Punta has brought to the crew of Ocean Watch both changes in latitude and changes in attitude. A good, fast voyage will put a smile on any sailor’s mug, and this quick, tidy run from Rio has done so to ours. The trip from the Caribbean to the “river of January,” in simple terms, was long, arduous and ugly, and reminded us that one of the best traits any offshore sailor can sometimes have is a short bloody memory.
We kept telling ourselves that the endless coast of Brazil was the price of admission for what tantalizingly lies ahead: Patagonia and Cape Horn. Now, Brazil is behind us and Uruguay is abeam, and Argentina and the Falkland Island and Chile and the Horn are all just around the corner. Yes: changes in latitudes, indeed.
The fact that we’ve just enjoyed some of the best sailing not only of this trip, but of our lives (cold-fronts notwithstanding) has been icing on the cake. But the quick, quiet miles haven’t been the only factor in this fresh attitude adjustment: For once more, after too many miles across placid waters, the ocean has again come alive.
In just the last two days, we’ve seen a big turtle, a couple of pairs of porpoises, and birds of all persuasions. On top of all that was the… Wait a moment, as skipper Mark Schrader tells the tale:
“There we were, flat-footed on a pitching foredeck, in the middle of dropping an uncooperative staysail, when David Thoreson let go of the sail and yelled ‘What’s that?’ Doing my best to ignore the wildly flapping sail trying to sweep us both off the boat – now doing 10+ knots through the water – I followed his gaze and finger pointing to the portside of the boat. What a sight!
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| Dave Logan (l) and Herb McCormick are enjoying a good, fast voyage to Punta. |
“A large, brilliant green splash just aft of Ocean Watch’s stern, no more than thirty yards from our hull, caught his attention. Then, as we both watched, a very large Orca, distinct markings in clear view, knifed through the water and out of a wave right next to us. The Orca gave us a quick look and then made an astonishingly fast exit, stage right. We’ve both seen plenty of Orcas, but this was the first time either of us had seen one at speed, literally flying out of a wave and swimming away with a burst of speed hard to imagine. We’re talking about a locomotive on a surfboard at warp speed.
“Michael and Herb quickly joined us on the foredeck, hoping for another glimpse of the magnificent creature. Ocean Watch was steering herself via the autopilot – as she does, 98% of the time – downwind ahead of medium-sized waves driven by a generous amount of sail area. She’s 44 tons, and at 10+ knots downwind would be impossible to stop in a hurry. That’s what I was thinking while standing at the bow anxiously looking ahead to see if our Orca friend had decided to return, or worse, stop in our path. I was very much hoping it had an appointment somewhere else. Colliding with a whale is an experience I’d like never to repeat.
“Twenty-three years ago, a day out of Newport and returning from the Azores after qualifying for the single-handed race around the world, friends John Osberg and Jim Thumlert and I were relaxing on the Valiant 47, Lone Star. The day was flat calm, visibility was forever and nothing was in view. We went below for a few minutes, opened the last three beers while Lone Star motored along at eight knots on autopilot. Just as we clinked bottles to prematurely toast our safe return there was a terrific crash as Lone Star came to an abrupt and immediate stop. We landed on the floor amidst broken bottles and warm beer. I thought I must have hit another boat, although minutes before none had been in view. It took a minute to untangle ourselves and then I raced on deck, apprehensive about what I might see.
“The ocean was still flat calm; no boats were in sight, nothing out of the ordinary – except a tell-tale large swirl in the water just aft of the port bow, nothing, no bits and pieces of anything. Days later when we hauled the boat in Newport to have a look for possible damage – sailboats don’t like to be stopped suddenly – the entire port side looked like giant fingernails, or barnacles on a whale, had scraped the hull from bow to stern. This had a happy ending, the whale didn’t die and we didn’t sink, but I have a vivid remembrance of the experience. I’m sure John and Jim do as well. It’s one none of us care to repeat.
“So, Mr. Orca, it was very nice to see you, we enjoyed the show, thanks for coming by, and we wish you safe travels away from Ocean Watch.”
The conclusion of Mark’s whale’s tale brings us back to this morning’s albatross, arguably the most regal bird in the air, expending the least possible effort and extracting the greatest possible gain. Before long, a squadron of his brethren joined the previously solo member of the dawn patrol. Photographer David Thoreson was soon on deck, camera gear in tow, conjuring his own morning magic. Meanwhile, Logan dove below to grab his well-thumbed copy of Peter Harrison’s Seabirds of the World, one of Ocean Watch’s most useful reference works, and it appeared the albatross union had sent a committee from the yellow-nosed and black-browed locals to welcome us to the higher latitudes.
Fittingly, perhaps, with the front now passed and the barometer rising, the sky began to clear and fade to blue, and a new breeze eased in from the south. We shut down the engine, and once again unfurled and trimmed the genoa and staysail as the albatross swooped alongside in company: white sails set, white wings locked, white foils intertwined in lovely unison. Cleaving through flecks of – what else? – whitecaps, Ocean Watch scampered south purposefully as the cold front moved out to sea.
-Herb McCormick with photographs by David Thoreson
*This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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