Bumbling Around Buzzards Bay

Saturday 26th - Sunday 27th September 1998

A beautiful sunset in Buzzard's Bay lulled us into a false sense of security¹; as darkness fell across the Bay, we were confounded by a strong south-westerly breeze that only relented when thunderstorms swirled rain, lightning and furious gusts randomly around us. It was one time when I almost regretted having the radar - with no warning from the weather forecasts and after sunset, we knew something was coming up, but not quite what. Then I glanced at the radar and I realised the provenance of the expression "my heart nearly leapt out of my mouth" - the picture was of a forlorn little dot surrounded on three sides by huge, dark, menacing masses of... what?² We didn't wait to find out - inexperience notwithstanding, we reefed the main and furled the jib in record time, and then we... waited...

Eventually, we realised that the radar picture had been a little (but just a little) over-dramatic; gusts did not get above about 35 knots (estimated - our anemometer became uncommunicative above 19 kts.), and the center of the storm did not hit us directly. However, one is terribly aware of that bloody great metal pole sticking up into the sky, and I was morbidly certain that we were going to get hit, as the bolts rumbled and belched up in the clouds, sea strikes blasted the air, and the percussive rainfall on the deck drowned out desultory attempts at reassuring conversation. Eventually, I took a final fix, disconnected all the electronics and distracted myself with the challenge of dead-reckoning navigation for an hour. Luck must have been with us; we did not get a hit (though there were several tickles), and our last DR plot was less than 1/4 mile from the indicated position when I plugged all the gadgets back in.

"Ahh, this is such fun; a life on the ocean waves, eh Neil?"
"Oh, absolutely - where else would you like to be at this time on a Sunday morning?"
"In church - praying."

There is a reason this picture is poorly focused and badly coloured (or, as some might say, "crap") - it is a shot looking astern, over the port quarter from underneath the dodger, illuminated by one of the not-so-few lightning strikes that peppered³ the sea around us during that first night out.

Weather aside, it was an eventful night. Early in the evening, the alcohol stove attacked the chef ⁴and was only beaten back with numerous wet towels.

In the stormy darkness, the boom tackle parted company with the traveller and went swinging off into the night; we eventually wrestled the boom back inboard and replaced the failed shackle, which had unscrewed itself sufficiently to let the force of the boom bend it open.

Not long afterward, the drive cog of the autopilot (which was not in use) broke and jammed the wheel, sending us careering round in circles in the storm gusts until the whole unit could be detached; this involves removing numerous allen screws and the wheel itself...

We lost part of the wind vane, and, as mentioned, the anemometer decided that any windspeed above 19 knots could just be shown as "9.8"...

Our stance at the helm was quickly reviewed when a slumbering crewman catapulted on deck enquiring as to why we were anchoring at sea, in the middle of the night, under sail - it transpired that the legs-akimbo position left the port-side foot on the windlass switch, running out the anchor rode as we heedlessly sailed through the dark waters; occasions such as these allow you to appreciate the real value of silly little devices like that anchor retainer.

The chart (on the Yeoman) shows our route during the night, although you can't really make it out; we were in Buzzard's Bay (the North-East, or top right, corner of the chart) at 23:00 hrs., and had beaten a very indirect passage across the Narragansett shipping lanes down towards Block Island in the South-West (bottom left) corner of the chart - a grand distance of 22 miles in 8 hours. I had hoped for better, but was fighting to raise my thoughts above the "glad to be alive" level, so didn't feel too disappointed.

For storm-tossed sailors, the first watery light of day after such an ordeal gives real profundity to the otherwise clichéd relief of dawn. Neil, after a valorous stint at the wheel during the worst of the storm, swapped watches with Tony, who celebrated our survival by sacrificing the first of many hats to the wind and waves.

As if in compensation, the sun soon displayed a beautiful alchemy, transmuting the leaden grey sea and sky to glorious gold. However, the weather forecast, having noted record heat and humidity facing a cold front barrelling down to the New England coast, eccentrically forecast only a slight chance of thunderstorms; we were not fooled...

During the night, Block Island had become a focus of our frustration as we tried to tack to the South of it without losing way to the East, but in the end we decided that discretion was the better part of valour⁵; the relief on board was palpable, and we happily retreated to the wonderful Block Island harbour, and the last hospitable marina, to avoid more thunderstorms and get a few hours sleep.

Only thirty six hours since we left? And where are we? Are we having fun yet? What day is it? Whose underpants am I wearing?

A bizarre day ensued, as we zombied our way around an island preparing to hibernate for the winter, trying to balance our primal needs for food and sleep with the necessities of getting the boat ready to continue. Eventually we gave in, and, shortly after we all goonishly sat in a café wondering what on earth we were going to do with the second beer⁶, the crew slumbered the sleep of the righteously knackered. And righteous we were, as the lightning cracked and gusts far stronger than the previous night threatened to elope with the flighty dinghy, vindicating our faith in our own amateur forecasting over that of the professionals (safe in their land-locked houses). A sally on deck to curtail the dinghy's storm-inspired escapade was an opportunity to feel the real strength of the wind, and I was somnolently smug as I sank soggily back to sleep, secure and steady at the dockside (excuse the alliteration - entirely acsidental (sic)).

Notes

(Click on a number to return to the relevant reference).

1 : After we got over the trifling matter of fouling the prop while in the path of an inbound tanker, that is.

2 : No - not cliches; rain squalls, actually.

3 : Perhaps "salted" would be a more apposite condiment metaphor.

4 : In fairness, this was a provoked attack; the chef was a little over-zealous with the priming.

5 : ...and a flat-calm harbour berth was the better part of 20-foot waves and 50-knot gusts.

6 : Somewhat surprisingly, we drank it.

Excuse : The pictures on this page are stills grabbed from a video film; I apologise for the poor quality, but maybe you can just think of it as that cinema verité style, eh?

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