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September 5th, 2009 – At Sea, Davis Strait, 62 49 N, 59 17W
by Mark Schrader and Zeta Strickland
(Sept. 5): Today’s special two-part edition of the Crew Log comes from skipper Mark Schrader and onboard educator Zeta Strickland, who tackle two topics: the current state of affairs on Ocean Watch, and the sometime alien language of shipboard jargon. Zeta flew ahead to our next port of call in Newfoundland prior to the beginning of this leg to St. John’s. Read her report and see if you can guess why!
Skipper Mark Schrader on the Ocean Watch Team:
The forecast issued for today, tonight and Sunday recently downloaded from the usually very accurate Environment Canada website is pretty specific for our immediate area: “Gale Warning in Effect, wind Northwest 25 to 35 knots diminishing to 15 to 20 this afternoon then backing to Southwest 20 knots Sunday afternoon, increasing to Southwest 30 by Sunday evening.” It looks like it might be time to stow any loose gear, make some soup, catch up on sleep and tie strings to our hats.
Instead, two of us are sitting at our computers, one is making a peanut butter sandwich, another is reading a book in the cockpit and – wait a minute I have to count hats – and the fifth does appear to be taking a nap. All of us are enjoying relatively flat seas, partially cloudy sky with nice blue sunny patches, and an outside temperature approaching 40° while motorsailing with a helpful seven knots of southwesterly breeze.
Our trusty barometer has been rising slowly over the past 24-hours and now appears to be steady at 1008.6mb. The few clouds we have are on our southern horizon and look to be receding in that same direction. All of these hopeful signs indicate fairer weather than the forecasters have predicted – but I’ll be the last to suggest they’ve got in wrong until the time period has passed. I’ll let you know how tightly my hat is tied at this time tomorrow.
If all continues to go well through the day we’ll be at the half-way point on our track from Pond Inlet to St. John’s around midnight tonight. With just under 900nm to go it is still too early to predict with confidence our arrival date and time. I will say that if sailing conditions continue to be favorable our predicted arrival on the 11th still looks correct. I think I’m getting better at slipping caveats into sentences.
I hope my admiration for the multi-talented crew on the good ship Ocean Watch has come through loud and clear in these logs. They are an impressive bunch – and I’m including Zeta, Bryan, Michael, Andy and Paul even though they aren’t currently with us. We have an equally impressive shore team handling the less visible but equally important and complicated shore side responsibilities required by a project of this scope. The shore team – including east coast and west coast groups – are making what we’re doing out here possible for us to actually, yes, do. This isn’t one of those gratuitous overstatements voiced for effect. It’s absolutely true. I’ll speak more about our shore support in later logs.
In pursuit of his craft it was fun early this morning to watch professional photographer Thoreson dancing around on the tilted foredeck, long camera stuck to his head, bobbing and weaving while trying to capture just the right image o xt/javascript”> // –> f the beautiful and speedy fulmars showing off their flying skill while turning, diving and climbing around the boat. Trying to get one in his viewfinder must have been as difficult as hitting a fly with a peashooter. I watched as he very nearly twirled himself right off the boat, but no surprise, he nailed the shot. You’ll see it when the pictures are posted with Herb’s story. (Editor’s Note: David’s fulmar shots will be posted before the Labor Day weekend is over.)
They are a talented bunch, this crew, and sometimes the captain has a good time just watching them work.
At the south end of Davis Strait, approximately midway between Greenland and Baffin Island and a few days away from St. John’s, I’m happy to report all are well aboard Ocean Watch.
Teacher Zeta Strickland: A Sea of Words (Part II)
Regular readers may recall that during my first couple of weeks on Ocean Watch, and being new to sailing, I was
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| Some might describe this photo as “white things flopping around,” but Zeta knows the genoa is poled out to starboard with the mainsail to port and Ocean Watch is sailing “wing-and-wing.” |
faced with the seemingly monumental task of learning the correct terms for the parts of the boat. That task grew more challenging once we started moving. We have a copy of a sailing dictionary on board, and frankly that should have served as a warning to me about the sheer number of words and jargon that go with sailing. There have been times when someone on board has said something to me, and I have absolutely no idea what was just said. None. I’ve been told to “dog a hatch, trim the sheet, cleat the painter.”
Ok, boys: “Paper green with omelet surf on the sand dash. Yep.” That is about how understandable it’s been at times. So, for this installment of “a complete novice sailor is on a boat in the Arctic,” I’d like to share with you the glossary of terms I’ve been slowly putting together. Some are broad sailing terms. Some are unique to Ocean Watch. All have tripped me up at some point this past month. So, with no further ado, let’s trim our sails and set a course for (hopefully) better understanding:
Dog: To secure from movement. Dog a hatch means close and secure the hatch. You know, because “dog the hatch” is so much more succinct than “secure the hatch.”
Painter: Not a person that paints. (Surprise!) Instead, it is the line attached to the bow of our dinghy, used to secure the dinghy to the pier, the boat or anything else. Sentence you never want to hear or say: “I accidentally let go of the painter, and our dinghy has drifted away.” (FYI: you attach the painter to the cleat on the boat with, get this, a figure 8 finished with a half hitch. Ta-da!)
Brisk: Prior definition: A bit of breeze, but nothing too bad. Current definition: Weather conditions that are cold and windy, as in “A bit brisk today, isn’t it?” (Note: This was said when the temperature was 31 degrees, the wind was nearly 30 knots, and the wind felt as though it had the ability to peel the skin from your face. Yes, a bit brisk indeed.)
Average: My prior definition: Neither great nor bad; in the middle. Current definition: Awful. Miserable. Bad. No fun at all. None. Zero. As in, gale-bound, in an ice field, while seasick: “This is pretty average.”
Watches: My prior definition: Item used to tell time. Sailing definition: The system or schedule wherein someone is always “on watch.” Each boat sets up their watches a little different. On Ocean Watch, watches are four hours on and then four hours off during the day, and 3 hours on and off each night.
Main activities during watch: reading, eating, drinking coffee, navigation, talking with your two watch mates and scanning the horizon for logs, ice or changes in the wind or weather.
Main activities off watch: sleep. Seriously. I can now fall asleep 3 minutes after my watch ends, and be up, dressed and in the pilothouse within five minutes of waking up when my watch starts. You can still get a solid eight hours of sleep each day, it’s just spread out over three different times. The oddest part of standing watches is that I would sort of lose track of normal time: two or three days can go by before I would realize that I should change my socks or brush my teeth. And when I would remember… well, clean socks have never felt so decadently wonderful!
Rocks: My prior definition: you know, rocks. Rocks to climb, rocks to collect, rocks in all sorts of colors. As a geologist, I happen to like rocks a lot.
Current definition: The things covering every single beach and island we saw through the passage, and somehow, inexplicably, all Arctic rocks seem to be shaped like walruses, seals, musk ox, buildings, boats… Conversations on watch usually run a little like this: “Hey, what’s that on the beach? Is that a seal? Right there: Do you see it?”
“Oh, yes, I do see it, that could be a seal. But it’s big. Walrus?”
“Yes, I think it is… It’s a, it’s a… Oh, wait… It’s a rock.”
Repeat this conversation 4-6 times every single watch. Really. I think when we do see a walrus, seal, or musk ox; we may mistake it for a rock. (A brief aside on musk oxen: they could be the oddest-looking animals I’ve ever seen. I believe it was skipper Mark Schrader who may have described them best as “a moving refrigerator covered by a shag carpet.” It’s the one animal that I can’t tell where its head is, unless it’s moving, and even then I can’t tell where the head ends and the body begins. Seen fairly close up they still look like amorphous fur clumps. By the way, I like them.)
Pitch and roll: Prior definition for pitch: throwing the ball to a batter in baseball. For roll: something buttered and eaten at dinner.
Sailing definition: the (truly awful) ways a boat can move. The boat can pitch up and down as it moves into big waves; the boat literally feels like it falls out from under you and for a moment you feel weightless, right before you drop back onto the floor. It’s quite exciting to be airborne when laying in your bunk and trying to sleep as the boat pitches.
Roll is the side-to-side motion; the boat tilts left, and then the boat tips right. When trying to walk during a roll you weave and stumble from one side to the other, bouncing off walls, furniture and other people like a pinball; there are reasons there are endless hand holds and grab bars around the boat. These motions can last for days. Some people are okay with the pitch and find the roll “uncomfortable.” Others do okay with the roll and hate the pitch. Put the pitch and roll together and you end up with a motion some call “average.” I, on the other hand, call it time for…
Seasickness Medication: My prior-to-sailing definition: Great medication that would be helpful if I had problems adjusting at first to sailing (and I figured I’d need a little adjustment time, since I’d never done this before).
My current definition: somewhat worthless medication that only helped a little as I actually never adjusted to sailing.
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| Zeta never actually got her “sea legs” during her time aboard Ocean Watch, although she’s fine on land. |
Apparently seasickness occurs when your eyes look around the boat interior and interprets the seemingly stable walls as a stable environment, and your inner ear – the fluid filled part that keeps you balanced – sends the message to your brain that you are actually moving. When your brain continues to get conflicting messages, you feel seasick. Eventually the brain accepts the new “at sea” environment and seasickness is no longer an issue. Usually. I’m told. I guess.
For me, during my time aboard Ocean Watch, I actually never really got “my sea legs.” I’m fine on land, happy as can be when the water is calm, and feel quite “average” (see previous entry) whenever we were moving. I did have all sorts of advice before this trip on seasickness remedies, so if you are curious, here we go.
I was advised to (and did) try fresh air, pressure point bracelet, pressure points on hands, green apples, looking at horizon, ginger (in several forms), and prescription patch and pills. Final score: Seasickness 1, Zeta 0.
(But considering that I did have a truly great month, sailed through the Northwest Passage, saw icebergs, sea ice and nearly every arctic animal I hoped to see, I think the final score is more like: Zeta 52, Seasickness 0. Clearly I’ve come out ahead. Factor in the fun of sailing, living on a boat, and getting to know an amazing group of sailors, the score tips even more in my favor.)
So thank you to the crew and the good ship Ocean Watch, and don’t be surprised if you see me in some future port of call. I’m sure there are more “cures” to try!
(Editor’s Note: The permanent crew aboard Ocean Watch rarely agrees on anything, but on this point they’re unanimous – The very self-deprecating Zeta Strickland did a fantastic job during her time aboard; was a solid and dependable shipmate with, obviously, a great sense of humor (right at the top of the list of necessary traits for a sailor); and we’d sail anytime, anywhere with her, and look forward to doing so again in somewhat more placid waters…)
- Mark Schrader and Zeta Strickland with photographs by David Thoreson
This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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