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September 9th, 2009 – At Sea, Labrador Sea, 52 10N, 053 08W
by Zeta Strickland, Mark Schrader and Herb McCormick
(Sept. 9): Forget the news, let’s move right to the weather. The very first line in today’s report on marine forecasts from Environment Canadawrrqqqqqqqq – holy smokes, please excuse the spelling, that’s where I just grabbed the keyboard as we flew off a wave and I got launched from my chair, and that is the honest-to-goodness truth – addresses the South Labrador Coast. Before I was so rudely interrupted, this was the message from Environment Canada (yippee!) that I was about to type:
“Gale warning in effect. Wind northwest 25 knots increasing to 35 near noon then diminishing to 25 this evening…”
I can say with supreme confidence that this is in fact a very accurate forecast. (If anything, it’s a bit conservative.) It reads almost exactly like yesterdays. And the day’s before.
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| So you hots shots thought the Northwest Passage was challenging, so how about a taste of this. |
So, pull up a seat, tighten the seatbelt, fasten your chinstrap, and welcome to Day 3 of what we on Ocean Watch will always remember as the Gale in the Labrador Sea, or what the Gods of Weather are probably referring to as: So You Hot Shots Thought The Northwest Passage Was Challenging, And Were Probably Feeling Pretty Good About Yourselves, So How About A Taste Of This?
I could go on here – and again, truthfully, I was fully prepared to – but the motion in this cabin is severe, the computer I’m working on was expensive, and I’ve got 7,000 miles of voyaging behind me this summer and would really hate to break a limb in a, you know, typing accident, with safe harbor in Newfoundland so tantalizingly near.
Just two quick points: It was absolutely imperative that we had the opportunity to test Ocean Watch in heavy wind and seas before the next legs of our journey, and these last few days have given us that chance. OW has thus far, touchwood, passed with flying colors.
And about those miles: We have seen exactly one other vessel since leaving Pond Inlet on this current stretch of our travels (we think it was a Canadian fisheries boat), so at times it seems like Environment Canada is issuing us with our own private forecast. And that’s not a new development. The guys on watch topsides just called down with an interesting statistic: Since leaving Alaska nearly two months ago, we’ve seen exactly ten boats, and that includes all Canadian Coast Guard craft and commercial vessels. We’re convinced the Arctic won’t be like this for much longer, but for now it’s a lonely, lonely place…and we’re ready for some company.
With no further adieu, as I dive for my bunk to pull a pillow over my head, we have two excellent sea stories on tap for today, the first an update from skipper Mark Schrader’s personal log:
“We’re 100 nautical miles off the eastern-most coast of Labrador and just over 30 nautical miles north of St.
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| It was imperative that Ocean Watch be tested in heavy winds and seas before the next legs of the journey. |
John’s, Newfoundland. I can watch the numbers change on our excellent Nobeltec electronic charts as I sit here and type this. The computations are automatic. At the current speed of 8.4kts we’ll be in the harbor at 0130 on the 11th. Wait, the numbers just changed again – if we could maintain that last 12.5 knot spurt of surfing speed we’ll be there by supper time on the 10th – if we don’t break something in the process.
“Current marine forecasts for the south Labrador coast and the northeast coast of Newfoundland issued by Environment Canada all contain the phrase ‘gale warning in effect.’ Yesterday the same forecasts for today teased us by saying we should now have ‘diminishing wind and seas.’ It looks like we’ll continue to have a spirited ride for the next 40 hours or so.
“I’m off watch now and usually trying to take a nap about this time while the Logan and McCormick team have control of the boat – meaning they are both in the cockpit reading books and navigating, keeping an eye out for squalls, ready to take the helm if our autopilot has difficulty, and completely responsible for keeping the boat upright and pointed in the right direction. With the wind and boat speed increasing I decided to get out of my bunk and have a look outside. The notion of a nap was over.
“Due to space and storage considerations my bunk on the starboard side of the aft cabin is about shoulder high, twenty-four inches or so below a nicely upholstered overhead. When the boat is upright and stable a modest athletic maneuver is required to gracefully get in and out of it. Semi-violent pitches and rolls make entering and exiting that secure little space all about timing the leap with no awkward hesitation.
“The unexpected sliding broach a few minutes ago was relatively minor but interfered with an otherwise perfectly timed leap. I recovered nicely on the floor amidst a pile of clothes and seabags but with some exasperation in my voice loudly suggested we might fall off a few degrees, take the waves at a better angle and slow down just a bit… McCormick asked if that meant I wanted us to jibe – a course that would take us across the Atlantic to the Azores. He wasn’t expecting an answer and I didn’t feel like giving him one.
“So, this will continue for awhile. Ocean Watch careens along at something around eight knots, helpful waves occasionally give us a push to 10 or 12 knots, and about every 100th one or so slams us sideways, tips us over a bit and washes the decks -again – and then moves on. OW recovers nicely, picks up her pace and carries on without complaint. I’ll find some ibuprofen and try to do the same.
“The good news is a week ago we were in beautiful Pond Inlet, which is now covered with the first snowfall of the season, and now we’re just a few miles from balmy St. John’s. The Labrador Sea has been and continues to be…an athletic experience.”
Today’s second piece comes from onboard educator Zeta Strickland, who left the boat in Pond Inlet to travel ahead to St. John’s and attend to advance logistical matters. We like this story because it reminds us of a couple of things, in particular our mate, Zeta, and her hard work and sunny disposition. It also hearkens back to our days in the Arctic…quite a contrast to our current situation. So, with lasting memories of each, here’s A Day in Zeta’s Life:
“A few people have asked me what my daily routine is like on Ocean Watch, and when I might write about a ‘typical day.’ I’ve been hesitant to do so because there is no easy answer. There quite simply is no typical day. Some days we see nothing but water in every direction. Last week in a single day we moved through ice, sailed through the narrow canyon of Bellot Strait, and saw icebergs and polar bears. Which is the typical day? Neither. However, I have taken one day – a single 24-hour period that had a little bit of both examples – and written about it here.
“To set the context: This 24-hour stretch starts at anchor in a protected little spot on Jenny Lind Island, just out of Cambridge Bay and on our way to Gjoa Haven. The afternoon was spent reading, eating, napping and getting ready for the next segment of the trip. My current reading includes tales from the exploration of the Northwest Passage, although being here makes these books feel less historical and more like current reality. (I’ve decided not to read the accounts of shipwrecked explorers walking 500 miles across the ice and the tales of starvation too closely; I’m saving those for when I get home.)
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| Zeta Strickland works on her navigation skills. |
“While Mark plotted out this leg on the computer, I looked over his shoulder; I’m starting to learn the navigation program, and I rather like it. You can zoom in, read water depths, plot our next leg and determine how long it will take to get there. Working backwards from when we want to arrive at our next destination, we discover we need to leave our current spot at midnight. The all-hands call comes at 11:30 p.m. Pulling on my warm gear I meet the rest of the crew up on deck. In just a short time everyone is at work bringing up the anchor. My job is to hose the chain with water so it is mud-free, but I can’t tell how well I am doing. The midnight sun is gone; it’s dark out, and I can barely see the chain, let alone the mud on the chain. I’m afraid that Herb, tucked into a storage locker beneath our feet putting away the chain, is getting more than his fair share of mud. Sorry, Herb!
“Soon we have the anchor up and we are moving. Putting away the hose I join Dave (Logan) in the pilothouse, watching the water depths on the depth sounder and feeding him wind direction, soundings and map information as needed. By 12:45 a.m. we are on course and moving well, and the other watch is on duty. I’ve been told that sleep is the key to successful long distance sailing, so, happy to take the advice of the experienced sailors on board, I go to bed. The call to wake up and go on watch comes too soon: 2:55 a.m.
“From 3 a.m. to 6 a.m. my group is on watch. There is little talking, and a lot of peering through the morning twilight looking for ice or any other hazards. We don’t see much ice, and at 6 a.m. when the next watch appears, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, we inform them of the excitement of our watch: we made one turn, saw 2 birds, and it’s foggy. And now it’s time for bed.
“Since we are back on the daytime watch schedule we are off watch until 10 a.m., four hours away. I take full advantage and sleep for three hours and 55 minutes. This nap is a great example of the challenge of explaining sailing; small events that would barely register on the excitement meter back home take on great significance on a boat, and I simply don’t know how to describe a nap in any way that makes it sound exciting, so you will just have to take my word for it: That first four-hour stretch of sleep after the 3-6 morning watch is truly, gloriously, and amazingly fantastic, and my second favorite time for sleep onboard.
“At 10 a.m. I am back on deck, bowl of oatmeal in hand. We are on watch from 10-2 p.m., and by 11 my eyes are already starting to wobble in my head, as we are in thick fog. After an hour or two of peering into the fog, straining to see any ice that might be up ahead, the mind starts to play tricks on you, and your eyes start to strain. I wish for Superman-style x-ray vision. I don’t get my wish, but we do run across a somewhat thick and thankfully short-lived little section of ice. It is the excitement of our watch. Well, that and we saw another bird.
“At 2 p.m. we are off watch. Since we are now sailing, the whole boat is heeling quite far to one side. I feel like I am walking through an optical illusion when I am below deck; I am standing straight up and the whole world around me is tilting. I have a snack, carefully crawl into my bunk, tie up the lee cloth that keeps me in my bunk during such ‘angular’ times, push on the cloth a bit to make sure my newly learned knot holds (it does), and go back to sleep.
“At 4 p.m. we are sailing past a collection of islands. I am quite excited that we are passing by Zeta Island, just
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| When on watch, there is little talking and a lot of peering through the morning twilight looking for ice and other hazards. |
eight miles to our south. I can’t see it through the fog, but the crew (the entire crew) reassures me it probably looks like the other islands in the area – low, rocky, nondescript and unremarkable. I console myself by imagining my island has really cool rocks, a colony of walruses basking in the sun and was an amazing safe harbor for old time sailors in need. Since we don’t ever get within sight of my island, no one can refute my theory (although they try!).
“At 6 p.m. we are back on watch. More fog, more peering, more binoculars, and at 9:30 p.m. a delicious curry and rice dinner cooked up by David and Harry. It’s been said before but worth saying again: There are some good cooks on this boat.
“11 p.m.: We are approaching the harbor to Gjoa. All hands are up to help drop and secure the sail. Part of the crew is on the bow, watching the progress and getting the anchor ready. Dave is piloting, and I am checking the navigation computer, and becoming increasingly nervous. I can tell on the computer we are going through a narrow channel, and I can look out the window and see the hills loom up out of the dark, but I can’t see well enough to confidently match our location to the navigation computer.
“This does explain the definition of sailing I’ve been recently told: ‘Sailing is 3 days of boredom followed by 20 minutes of terror.’ Fortunately for all on board I am not steering, and within a few minutes we reach the area of the harbor we want and lower the anchor. At midnight I am below deck eating some M&M’s. By 1 a.m., you guessed it: I am in my bunk and asleep. (And this is my most favorite sleeping time on board – right after we have safely arrived and anchored, the boat is quiet and there is a sense of impending adventure tomorrow in a new area.)
“Well, that is a somewhat typical day, as far as one can look for a typical day up here. The main thing is, I’ve come to enjoy all the days…in all the different forms they take.”
- Zeta Strickland, Mark Schrader and Herb McCormick with photographs from David Thoreson
This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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