I know I've tried to describe what life on the boat is like when we have strong winds and big waves. When I'm laying on the floor of the cabin (Meryl is in the comfy lee berth right next to me)rolling from side to side, with pillows trying to cushion anything hard my limbs may smash into, I start thinking of analogies. I come up with some great analogies while laying there, but can never remember them when it's time to write. My current thought is of those huge rotating barrels at the state fair that you try to walk through. Now try to make dinner, or tie a complicated knot, or even type for that matter. You get the idea.
It's been so rough out that at night the on-watch person tends to spend more time sheltering down below. I had started out in the cockpit the night before, dressed in my only warm tights and top, when a huge wave crashed over the boat and completely drenched me. Since I had on my expensive life jacket with all the "man overboard" electronics in the pockets, I immediately headed for the fresh water shower and slowly took off my clothes as I rinsed them. I then had to take all the electronics out of the life jacket, rinse and dry them before the salt water ate them for lunch.
In a catamaran you sit high above the water in your overstuffed captain's chair with a cup of tea in your hand, looking through a glass window with a windshield wiper. Since you are sitting high up, you can actually see a little bit ahead of the boat. It's very civilized.
On a mono hull you are essentially sitting at water level (staring up at the 10-foot waves towering over you), squinting through faded vinyl windshield that is hard to see through on a nice sunny day, and looking at solid spray hitting anything (like a face) at 22 knots that dares poke around the protection of the dodger. At times I can't see the front of the boat, other times are better.
Having not seen a single boat (outside of the two cats we departed Maupiti with and are now God knows where)for the last three days, you begin to realize how "out in the middle of absolutely nowhere" you really are. So I began to wonder, why even keep watch at all? It's dangerous out in the cockpit, it's cold, it's wet, and most important, it's very scary at times as you hear the big waves rising up behind you, totally unseen until they crush you.
With these thoughts in mind, at 2:00 am in the morning (things always happen at 2:00 am on boats) my 20-minute alarm on the iPhone alerted me to check the navigation display for any vessels showing up on the AIS transponder system, and to do a 360 scan of the horizon for any boat lights. If you're concerned about running into a semi submerged shipping container a'la Robert Redford or maybe a pod of sleeping whales, forget about it.
So having struggled hand over hand to the nav station on the other side of the boat, I stood sleepily staring at the muted screen and then was awoken in one terrifying moment. A 619-foot cargo ship was on a collision course with us. Holy Batman! At certain magnifications on the screen Russia can look like it's your next door neighbor (don't ever say this if you are running for Vice President) and I soon realized as I expanded the zoom that the ship was 18 nautical miles away (but still on a collision course). Given the 1,000 of miles of empty ocean surrounding us how did the only two ships in hundreds of miles manage to steer directly at each other? Gotta wonder.
Since I was under sail downwind, to change my course I would mean having to gybe the boat, no easy task with a 8-man racing crew in these conditions but quite a task with a tired 70-year-old grandpa. I immediately got on the radio and tried to hail the ship. He was probably as surprised to hear his ship name called out of the electronic din. I could hear a very scratchy foreign voice asking who we were and where we were. He had no idea there was another ship within three hundred miles of him! Quickly waking up my brain started to function and I realized that since he was a large commercial ship, he was required to have a very powerful Class A AIS transponder. This transmits his name, position, speed, course, type of ship, and most important, does all the math to see if our two respective vessels are going to crash into each other (which unfortunately, the math said "yes you are"). That's why I could see him but he couldn't see me with my weaker Class B AIS. I tried to get him to turn to starboard but since he couldn't even see me he was a little reluctant. I could understand about every sixth word through the static but we agreed to contact each other as we got closer.
I started running though all our options and decided to roll in our reefed genoa because if I had to crash gybe that sail had to be out of the way first. Meryl, on her rest break, wasn't happy about leaving her comfy berth but we got everything squared away and discussed what we would do if we had to gybe the main (put on life jackets, go out on side deck with waves crashing about, undo preventer line from boom, reattached lines from end of boom (normally attached to the preventer) back to the boom so they didn't rip off the bimini top solar panels when we gybed, then reattach everything back together without falling off the boat.
Now back in the cabin I could hear the Ocean Venture better on the radio. Even though I had every light on the boat turned on, including my radar, he only saw me when he was about 4 - 5 miles away. I could barely see his 619 feet of steel on my radar, I can't image what my 44 foot low slung fiberglass boat looked like with all the rain and waves towering about us. He did pick up my AIS signature but could not visually see a tiny white dot from the bridge of his ship. With that all out of the way we decided he would alter course 10 degrees to starboard so we pass port to port with a CPA (closest point of approach) of about one mile. I could just now barely make out his lights. Thank God he was only going 8 knots versus the typical 20 knots of the big container ships.
With things squared away and our lives spared, we began a 30 minute long chit chat about life at sea. He was from Russia, Vladivostok but grew up on Shalikin Island (if you are a true Cold War fan you'll know why no Westerners ever got close to this military area. He told me his ship was on route from Russia to Chile to pick up cargo. We chatted about the various systems (especially navigation)on board each of our ships, the extensive training he went through to become a captain, and then personal subjects such as our ages, families, etc. His English was excellent which made the conversation possible. When he asked me my feelings on Russia, Putin, the Ukraine, the U.S. and Trump I very diplomatically said I wish we could all get along better. I'm sure he could have talked all night long but I was beyond tired and needed to get some sleep. We said good bye and (another misspelled Russian word) dosvedanya to each other.
Just another average night on Flying Cloud out in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean.
----------
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It's been so rough out that at night the on-watch person tends to spend more time sheltering down below. I had started out in the cockpit the night before, dressed in my only warm tights and top, when a huge wave crashed over the boat and completely drenched me. Since I had on my expensive life jacket with all the "man overboard" electronics in the pockets, I immediately headed for the fresh water shower and slowly took off my clothes as I rinsed them. I then had to take all the electronics out of the life jacket, rinse and dry them before the salt water ate them for lunch.
In a catamaran you sit high above the water in your overstuffed captain's chair with a cup of tea in your hand, looking through a glass window with a windshield wiper. Since you are sitting high up, you can actually see a little bit ahead of the boat. It's very civilized.
On a mono hull you are essentially sitting at water level (staring up at the 10-foot waves towering over you), squinting through faded vinyl windshield that is hard to see through on a nice sunny day, and looking at solid spray hitting anything (like a face) at 22 knots that dares poke around the protection of the dodger. At times I can't see the front of the boat, other times are better.
Having not seen a single boat (outside of the two cats we departed Maupiti with and are now God knows where)for the last three days, you begin to realize how "out in the middle of absolutely nowhere" you really are. So I began to wonder, why even keep watch at all? It's dangerous out in the cockpit, it's cold, it's wet, and most important, it's very scary at times as you hear the big waves rising up behind you, totally unseen until they crush you.
With these thoughts in mind, at 2:00 am in the morning (things always happen at 2:00 am on boats) my 20-minute alarm on the iPhone alerted me to check the navigation display for any vessels showing up on the AIS transponder system, and to do a 360 scan of the horizon for any boat lights. If you're concerned about running into a semi submerged shipping container a'la Robert Redford or maybe a pod of sleeping whales, forget about it.
So having struggled hand over hand to the nav station on the other side of the boat, I stood sleepily staring at the muted screen and then was awoken in one terrifying moment. A 619-foot cargo ship was on a collision course with us. Holy Batman! At certain magnifications on the screen Russia can look like it's your next door neighbor (don't ever say this if you are running for Vice President) and I soon realized as I expanded the zoom that the ship was 18 nautical miles away (but still on a collision course). Given the 1,000 of miles of empty ocean surrounding us how did the only two ships in hundreds of miles manage to steer directly at each other? Gotta wonder.
Since I was under sail downwind, to change my course I would mean having to gybe the boat, no easy task with a 8-man racing crew in these conditions but quite a task with a tired 70-year-old grandpa. I immediately got on the radio and tried to hail the ship. He was probably as surprised to hear his ship name called out of the electronic din. I could hear a very scratchy foreign voice asking who we were and where we were. He had no idea there was another ship within three hundred miles of him! Quickly waking up my brain started to function and I realized that since he was a large commercial ship, he was required to have a very powerful Class A AIS transponder. This transmits his name, position, speed, course, type of ship, and most important, does all the math to see if our two respective vessels are going to crash into each other (which unfortunately, the math said "yes you are"). That's why I could see him but he couldn't see me with my weaker Class B AIS. I tried to get him to turn to starboard but since he couldn't even see me he was a little reluctant. I could understand about every sixth word through the static but we agreed to contact each other as we got closer.
I started running though all our options and decided to roll in our reefed genoa because if I had to crash gybe that sail had to be out of the way first. Meryl, on her rest break, wasn't happy about leaving her comfy berth but we got everything squared away and discussed what we would do if we had to gybe the main (put on life jackets, go out on side deck with waves crashing about, undo preventer line from boom, reattached lines from end of boom (normally attached to the preventer) back to the boom so they didn't rip off the bimini top solar panels when we gybed, then reattach everything back together without falling off the boat.
Now back in the cabin I could hear the Ocean Venture better on the radio. Even though I had every light on the boat turned on, including my radar, he only saw me when he was about 4 - 5 miles away. I could barely see his 619 feet of steel on my radar, I can't image what my 44 foot low slung fiberglass boat looked like with all the rain and waves towering about us. He did pick up my AIS signature but could not visually see a tiny white dot from the bridge of his ship. With that all out of the way we decided he would alter course 10 degrees to starboard so we pass port to port with a CPA (closest point of approach) of about one mile. I could just now barely make out his lights. Thank God he was only going 8 knots versus the typical 20 knots of the big container ships.
With things squared away and our lives spared, we began a 30 minute long chit chat about life at sea. He was from Russia, Vladivostok but grew up on Shalikin Island (if you are a true Cold War fan you'll know why no Westerners ever got close to this military area. He told me his ship was on route from Russia to Chile to pick up cargo. We chatted about the various systems (especially navigation)on board each of our ships, the extensive training he went through to become a captain, and then personal subjects such as our ages, families, etc. His English was excellent which made the conversation possible. When he asked me my feelings on Russia, Putin, the Ukraine, the U.S. and Trump I very diplomatically said I wish we could all get along better. I'm sure he could have talked all night long but I was beyond tired and needed to get some sleep. We said good bye and (another misspelled Russian word) dosvedanya to each other.
Just another average night on Flying Cloud out in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean.
----------
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