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September 24th, 2009 – At Sea, 43 17N, 065 51W
by Herb McCormick
Most everyone has heard of the term “Down East sailing” but not everybody knows exactly what that means. I’ve heard a couple of definitions of the term, which relates to cruising eastward along the coast of Maine and into the Canadian Maritimes, but the one that rings truest relates to the wind and the course, and is attributed to the fishermen of yore.
When you sail “down east,” you do so running before the prevailing summer and fall southwesterly breeze, literally sailing downwind in an easterly direction with the breeze at your back. Over the years, scores of mariners have reveled in the experience, enjoying easy miles and world-class cruising grounds while enjoying some of the most pleasant passages imaginable. However, astute readers may quickly recognize the inherent hazard in this activity, the good old fly-in-the-ointment. And that is this:
What goes Down East – by the laws of physics, seasons, schedules and occupations – must eventually return Up West. And that, my salty friends, can be a less than emboldening experience.
Just ask us, the latest victims of the Up West travails.
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| Ocean Watch sailed into the teeth of powerful southwesterly winds that peaked at over 30-knots. |
Yesterday, the crew of Ocean Watch sailed out of Halifax and into the teeth of powerful southwesterly winds that peaked at over 30-knots. The confused seas that accompanied the breeze were piqued and ornery. We’re tempted to employ a variety of action verbs to describe our travels – words like creamed, rocked and splattered – but simple numbers best describe our progress, or lack thereof. In the first 24-hours after leaving fair Halifax, tacking and pitching to and fro, we managed something like 80-miles made good toward our destination, easily our worst day since leaving Seattle when we were actually trying hard to get somewhere. And just for extra fun, we were almost run down by a ship in the dead of a dank night.
Not wanting to hog all the fun for myself, I’ll pass the narrative over to the skipper, Mark Schrader, from his ongoing Captain’s Log, written early Thursday afternoon:
“We are currently 294 nautical miles east-northeast of Boston, motor-sailing with a double-reefed main and beating into steep, short period seas. From our yesterday afternoon Halifax departure until this morning we’ve been doing one of those ‘two steps forward, one back’ kind of thing. In order to keep any headway into these seas and 30+ knots of wind our course has been due south rather than southwest toward Boston. Five knots of boat speed south computes to two knots of distance-made-good toward drinks and dinner in Boston. I’m using lots of words to say we’ll be late into Boston, but just by a day or so! And, once again I suspect we’ll arrive in port looking like we’ve been at sea for a good long while.
“The highlight of our uncomfortable night was a close encounter with a large ship – still unidentified. Somewhere close to the change of watch at 0300 things started to get a little exciting. Watching a radar screen and peering into the black night looking for lights while pitching every which way isn’t much fun, but that’s the nightly routine. I was watching a blip (ship) on the screen well ahead of us and crossing our very slow moving bow a safe distance away when David Thoreson noticed two very bright white lights – the bow and stern range lights – of a sizable ship. Sure enough, there it was at the bottom of the screen, some six miles behind us.
“We watched the blip, plotted the ship’s course relative to ours and then watched it awhile longer. It was following directly in our wake, gaining steadily – we could now see its red and green running lights. If there is time, the procedure in this kind of a situation is to make yourself as visible as possible (spreader and deck lights) and then call the ship on a designated radio frequency to make sure they have you in view and then determine if they are going to alter course. I called the ship once, twice, probably a dozen times as we watched them get within a mile of us – no response at all from the ship. We were guessing they were on autopilot and the bridge watch was either below getting coffee or just enjoying a nap. The only thing left for us to do was to change course, quickly and boldly, so we did.
“As the ship passed just less than a half-mile to starboard a heavily accented (guessing Russian) voice responded but wouldn’t acknowledge our position or the name of his ship. A close encounter at sea is fine, as long as all involved know the whereabouts of each other and communicates their intentions – otherwise it’s an accident waiting to happen and then tonnage always trumps rules of the road. I’ll admit it’s moments like those that make me wish the good ship Ocean Watch had a cannon – or two.
“While writing this the wind has decreased to something reasonable and seems to be freeing a bit to the north.
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| Skipper Mark Schrader on deck. |
That’s all very good news. We may be able to point our bow toward Boston and pick up the pace a little. We’ll see.”
Let it be stated that the skipper had a brief, interesting and somewhat pointed exchange with the bridge officer on that Mystery Ship, and that during said exchange the crew of Ocean Watch – no neophytes to salty language – learned several new expressions, none of them in Russian.
One final postscript: After months of hardship, we’ve once again regained reception with our Sirius/XM satellite radio signal, and last night during the dark hours we did manage a happy sigh or two as the Boston Red Sox came back to dispatch the lowly Royals behind a solid start by Josh Beckett. The big horse is throwing heat in September. Anything, you know, can happen.
Hours later, however, as Dave Logan and I came on watch, our tender ears were somewhat raked by the blistering wails emitted from the cockpit speakers via the channel called “Bluesville.” With a slightly disturbing, maniacal grin, crewman David Thoreson hollered a greeting:
“We need some music to break waves!”
With that, Thoreson and the captain disappeared below, leaving Logan, Muddy Waters, and me to contemplate our bumpy universe. We hung tough for about an hour before Logan said, “I believe we need something more soothing, something that will sooth these seas.”
Moments later, he’d found the station called “Siriusly Sinatra,” and the melodious stylings from the one and only Chairman of the Boards were wafting over the tempestuous North Atlantic. Soon enough, the seas that Logan had described as “a roiling turmoil” started to lay down, as did the breeze, and now, in late afternoon, the sun has come out and we’re laying a direct course to Boston.
What else is there to say, but…?
It turned out so right…for Strangers in the Night.
Scooby, dooby, do………
- Herb McCormick and Mark Schrader with photographs by David Thoreson
This crew log submitted by Iridium OpenPort and Stratos
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