Womble's Gulf Stream Log - Summer 2001

Day 9 : Thursday 5th July 2001

Log Summary

Log Detail

Daily Synopsis

More squalls and thunderstorms overnight; more tension and frustration as we are left becalmed under the pouring rain, eventually driving us to motor for a couple of hours to avoid the sensation of being sitting ducks in Thor's shooting gallery. We have dismissed attempts to sail away from any fronts encountered so far; none have appeared dangerous enough to warrant such caution, even if we had enough wind to do so. The more pessimistic of the crew assume that such tactics would lead to a never-ending voyage anyway, so we are generally resigned to scowling and bearing it.

Our original float plan estimated arrival in coastal New England by Wednesday, although we had advised the ladies not to panic until Saturday at the earliest. Being considerate chaps, we attempt to raise Woods Hole CG, and are soon successful; they are wonderfully helpful, and contact home for us. The response to the forwarded question "When will you get in?" is much merriment and little sensible reply, but we are happy to have confirmed our continuing existence, and return to the business of sailing and drying out.

A discussion with the CG about the weather forecast ensues; at first we are told that the wind will be blowing to the SouthWest - a puzzling statement, as convention gives the direction the wind is coming from, not where it is blowing to. This is bad news, as we will be heading up Buzzards Bay, and a NorthEast wind will be on the nose. Questioned further, the CG chap sticks to his story, and we resign ourselves to a hard beat up the Bay.

When the wind does come up it is indeed... from the SouthWest. Doubly good to be right this time.

Back in familiar and noisy waters, we feel oddly detached from the working and cruising radio chatter; we carry the isolation of the ocean with us, and still feel our separation from the others on the water, despite first intimations of being at journey's end. However, any maudlin nostalgia is kept at bay by the continuing realities of life at sea; much hilarity springs forth from Tony's Heath Robinson pump-out contraption, as we debate the merits of using clear pipe for pumping out the holding tank. Tony is somewhat aggrieved at the lowly station he has reached in life - such are the risks of retirement, although we remind him that the job is very much back to the basics of his chemical engineering profession.

We encounter a midday mist approaching Buzzards Bay, and are careful to keep a sharp ear out and close eye on the radar; eventually it disperses without mishap, the sun comes out and we are treated to a glorious reach up one of the classic New England sailing grounds. It is dusk as we clear the entrance to Cape Cod Canal at Cleveland East Ledge, and reluctantly douse the sails and start up the engine. We have husbanded our fuel well, and estimate more than five gallons remaining, so motor happily through the canal and emerge into a beautiful orange moon rise over Cape Cod Bay, and the last whispers of the dieing wind. Stefano comments on a growing feeling of claustrophobia as we came through the Canal, putting a label on the vague discomfort we feel returning to a sea that has land for a horizon instead of waves.