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One Dark and Stormy
Night
7/15/02
Blaine Parks
I
held my breath as I felt Charbonneau’s bow being pushed to port by
another breaking wave.
Even in the complete darkness, I knew what was to come.
I yelled down to Janet to hold on as I double-checked my harness
and tether for what seemed like the one-thousandth time.
My yelling sounded like a mere whisper in comparison to the
avalanche of water being thrown at us.
But the noise was nothing compared to what came next.
I kept thinking, “My God,
how did we ever get into this situation?”
Down below, Janet
held onto the dogs, braced herself, and was having her own
conversation with God
– “Please God,
give us the strength to survive this storm.”
It always started with an unseen wave crashing against the bow.
Charbonneau would continue falling off to port, slowly at first.
Then as the rolling wall of water picked up steam, hurried along by
forty-knot winds, Charbonneau would roll over onto her side and accelerate
into a sideways free-fall until she plunged into the steep trough some
twenty feet below.
Our home would shudder with the impact from each fall, followed
quickly by a wall of green water filling the cockpit.
How many times could she take this abuse before suffering the final
‘knock-out’ blow.
We silently cheered her on as she struggled to right herself each
time and boldly climbed the next wave.
And then we’d remember to breathe.
In our previous 11,000 miles, we’d never seen conditions like this.
We were careful in planning our passages, using all the weather
data available to us.
This three-day passage from the Abacos to Charleston was no
different.
We found ourselves motoring the previous two days with winds much
lighter than forecast.
The ocean had become completely still.
So we motored on, thankful to have too little wind rather than too
much. Then,
late on the second day, the wind filled in enough to set all sails and
turn off the motor.
The boat’s speed, encouraged along by the Gulf Stream’s
northerly current, ranged between seven and nine knots.
Twice each day, I’d check weather forecasts via our SSB radio and
compare them to our actual conditions.
The forecast
was for three to four more days of light SE-SW winds and no
significant features.
Our conditions agreed – with the exception of some lightening off
to the northwest around midnight.
I chalked it up to the upcoming western edge of the Gulf Stream and
continued with full sail.
It was the only logical reason for the lightening with the
forecasts we’d received.
I discussed the conditions with Janet and she agreed to
keep a close lookout for squalls on the radar.
I kissed her goodnight and made my way below to get some rest.
I’d have to be back on watch at 0300.
Janet gently shook me awake just before 0200, telling me that she was
starting the motor to try and outrun a few small patches of rain she’d
spotted on the radar.
There was no change in the sea-state, but she’d call me on deck
if it looked like she couldn’t outrun the squalls – something we had
done a hundred times before.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.
At 0245 Janet came down again to ask for help in preparing the boat for a
fast-moving squall.
Two squalls she was trying to outrun had twisted around and formed
one large one just to our northwest.
While trying to determine if we could turn more southerly and run
from the squalls, they completely surrounded us.
The winds were beginning to pick up and a strong gust of cold air
greeted me as I climbed into the cockpit.
Not only was it a cold wind – it was coming from the northeast.
Something we didn’t want to see while still in the Gulf Stream.
Janet and I quickly reefed the mainsail and furled both the headsail and
staysail.
Since there was still no change in the weather forecast, we
motor-sailed into the northwest with just a scrap of mainsail to steady us
in the building seas.
It’s typical for us to push through squalls with this sail
configuration and then re-set our sails after the storms pass, usually
within thirty minutes.
An hour later, we were still in the throws of a full-tilt squall
with heavy spray, building seas, and torrential rain.
Again, I checked the forecast.
No change.
At 0430, we had our first ‘fall’.
Visibility was reduced to just beyond our bow with the rain and
thick cloud cover.
I don’t remember if I saw the three-foot wall of white water
before or after I heard its deafening roar.
I do remember looking straight up into it as Charbonneau buried her
bow and took the storm’s first sucker punch.
The waves had become vertical columns of water reaching some
fifteen to twenty feet into the air, pounding into us every five to seven
seconds.
These waves were far too big, far too steep, and far too close
together.
And yet, the winds increased again.
In less than an hour and a half, conditions had gone from a fast, warm,
pleasant sail to a nightmarish fight for the safety of our boat.
And still the forecasts were for light, southerly winds, not the
30-45 knot northeasterly winds we were caught in.
Just twenty miles to our north, another boat was struggling to stay
afloat after taking on more water than the bilge pumps could handle.
A Coast Guard helicopter was circling overhead, while the husband
and wife delivery crew worked feverishly to keep up with the incoming
water. The
high water had left them with no engine or battery power.
Their communications with the outside world were getting fainter
and fainter as the batteries in their hand-held VHF began to give out.
Up until then, I was only praying for our safety.
After listening for a few moments, I looked in on Janet and the
dogs, told her about the other boat’s situation, and said a prayer for
all of us caught out in this storm.
We experienced crash after crash while waiting for the pre-dawn light of
the new day.
When daylight came, I almost wished for the darkness to return. What
I saw with the new clarity of light was much worse than my imagination had
served up through the hours of darkness.
Seas, like marching buildings came at us from every direction.
Before climbing out of the deep troughs, the waves reached up to
just below the spreaders on our mast.
Instead of breaking waves, the roaring wind would blow the top
quarter of the waves off and hurl the water down with an angry growl.
Most of the time, Charbonneau was half submerged and staggering to
keep her balance.
Charleston harbor was still forty miles to the northwest.
We saw our first change in the forecast on the VHF weather at 0700.
What I mistook for squalls was the leading edge of a strong cold
front that dipped down far below its forecasted position.
A front that was predicted to stay north of the North
Carolina-Virginia line had pushed as far south as northern Georgia;
catching us and several others by surprise.
Moreover, the weather was expected to worsen over the next
twenty-four hours before subsiding to less than twenty-five knots of wind.
So, now I knew how we got here.
It was time to look for a safe way out.
We had to decide whether to continue northward or make an attempt to run
off to the safety of
St. Helena Sound.
St. Helena was closer than Charleston by some twenty miles and
would give us the benefit of running more downwind, reducing the apparent
wind significantly.
The danger in choosing this course change would be in turning the
boat around safely.
The waves were so steep and close together, that turning the boat
required just the right timing and every ounce of courage I could muster.
Making the turn as a wave broke over our bow would send us into
another free-fall with the very real possibility of pitch poling (rolling
the boat end over end).
Not making the turn left us exposed to the endless brutality we’d
endured for the last six hours.
Taking what I believed could be my last breath, I turned the boat
quickly just as our bow came over the top of a wave.
Time stood still right there on top of that wave.
It seemed like hours before Charbonneau’s rudder gained purchase
and began pushing us over to port.
Only this time, instead of falling off, we surfed down the face of
this mountain and began climbing up the backside of the next one.
With an exhale that I’m sure was heard around the world, we
settled into a course for St. Helena Sound with the wind and seas running
along our stern quarter.
The conditions kept us on the verge of being out of control, but the
reduction in apparent wind and the change of angle limited us to only one
more crushing free-fall before sailing into the safety of St. Helena Sound
at 1500 on June 8th.
I remember being weary and my muscles ached from holding on as we
traversed those last few miles into the harbor. Just before we got
there, a pod of spotted dolphin (the smaller, more playful variety), came
racing along to escort us into the Sound. I couldn't help but smile
as they jumped and played, sometimes leaping out from high atop the huge
waves and then spinning before splashing gracefully back into the deep.
Once again, the magic of dolphins raised my spirits and I knew that this
would not be our last passage. You
probably don’t remember where you where, or what you were doing, on the
morning and afternoon of June, 8th, 2002, but we’ll never
forget.
We arrived in Charleston the following day after anchoring in Steamboat
Creek for a much needed night of rest.
My parents, knowing we’d had a rough ride, arranged for us to
have a slip at the Charleston City Marina.
We’d kept our families informed of our progress both before and
during the storm by checking in twice daily with our friends via SSB
radio. They,
in turn, would email our family with updates of our position, conditions,
and any other information we passed along.
We can’t thank Paul, Colleen, and their girls aboard Triana Marie
enough for this valuable service.
They teased us for having ‘boring’ conditions during those
first two days.
There was no tone of teasing on that last day.
We’ve been asked many times if we would do anything different if there
was a ‘next time’ in similar conditions.
I started to rattle off a dozen different things we might do
differently when I remembered that our basic assumptions and decisions
were based upon a weather system that fooled even the experts with all
their forecasting equipment and modeling tools.
We reefed when we should have reefed.
We powered up the motor to help us push through what we suspected
to be a squall.
And we endured fall after fall as we motor-sailed over steep
mountains of water cloaked in the complete darkness of rain and clouds.
Heaving-to was an option that came to mind during our ordeal –
until I remembered that we were in the Gulf Stream and our state of
affairs would be much improved if we could just get out of the current.
I might have attempted to turn downwind sooner.
However, after seeing the conditions in daylight, making that turn
at the wrong time, in complete darkness, might have left us clinging to a
life-raft, or worse.
So, we gained plenty of experience and learned many lessons, but I
don’t think we’d approach the situation any differently next time.
Janet’s vote is for us to never have another situation like this
one – she may be onto something!
Remember the boat taking on water in the middle of the night?
Fate would have it that they were moored in a slip directly across
from us in Charleston.
Through a miracle of perseverance, they were able to pump out
enough water with the manual bilge pump to get the engine started and put
the electric bilge pumps back into service.
Although we had never met before, we shared an immediate bond of common
understanding.
We had both been pushed to new limits of terror and increased our
respect for the ocean's ability to dole out punishment.
More importantly, we’d survived to collect our thoughts, mend our
bruises, and face the oceans on another day.
We’ll
see you on the water.
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