July 13 I call Joe Bob for another weather report (at this point we are starting to wonder why we are even bothering) and he informs us that we had experienced an unexpected tropical wave during our last passage.
I was NOT secretly glad to have experienced that. In fact, I am perfectly happy sailing in ideal conditions for the rest of my life. Joe, just the messenger so we are not mad at him, tells us that another tropical wave is projected to hit our area in four days. The weather looks decent for the next few days so we decide to make a run for it to Providencia, 130 miles SE of us, before the next tropical wave hits us. The wind is 10 knots out of the SE, the seas are calm except for a 4 foot, long period swell. Its cloudy but not stormy. The GPS will not turn on at all now and the port engine is following suite. We must have burnt up the impeller trying to get to Media Luna because the motor is not pissing. Conor entered the GPS coordinates for Providencia and for several large reefs that lay in between us and Providencia, into our handheld GPS. The GPS Conor has had since high shcool isn't our ideal navigational equipment, but it is the only thing that is working right now so we are making due. Even though the conditions are nice (finally) we only have our genoa out due to Salty Dog can only sail at about 2-3knots with their main all the way up and about 1/5 of their torn jib out. After about an hour of slow sailing both boats start to realize that floundering about in these light winds with not much sail out is not going to get either one of us to Providencia before the tropical wave. Salty Dog needs fuel and we need to pull out all our canvas and get some miles towards Providencia under our hulls. At 9:30am, after several sat phone calls to Joe Bob to research places to safely land on the Nicaraguan coast, Salty Dog decides to head to Puerto Cabeza, Nicaragua to fuel up and then motor to Providencia. We have tried to stay together during the time off the Nicaraguan coast, as this area is notorious for unfriendly drug runners, (I believe the more theaterical term is pirates ) but our conditions make it a necessity to separate. Con and I wish them safe travels and they wish us the same and we leave it at, hope to see you in Providencia, if not Panama whenever we get there! We pull the main sail up, and let the genoa out and our speed increases to 5-6knots. Beautiful. The handheld GPS only lasts about 24 hours on a set of AA batteries, and we only have two sets, so we turn it on, plot our position, then turn it off. The rest of the time we just try to keep our compass heading that takes us safely past the edge of Edenburg reef. We need to squeeze between Cock Rock (yes this made me giggle even in our circumstances) and Edenburg Reef before we are in open water and can head to Providencia. Our handheld GPS has no information other then what we have programmed into it (i.e. no maps) and we are very relieved when we get past the reefs without any storms blowing us off course.
As dusk came we could see on the horizon what looked to be like a large fishing boat burning. At some point I guess the fire got put out or perhaps their engines just make that much smoke. But this boat made us nervous and it was right at our exit point past the reefs. We were glad when darkness came and we sailed silently past this weird ghost ship with all our lights off. We were close enough that we could see and hear men on the back of the boat drinking and screwing around, and I don't think they ever saw us. The rest of the night passed by with us sailing at 4-5knots with both of us able to sleep on our shifts off. I am starting to remember why i love sailing. Throughout the night we pass several fishing boats that are anchored in over 100feet of water. Conor is sure they have a windlass.
The peaceful night was shortlived and brought a bitch of a morning. At 6:30am, as the sun was starting to shed some light on the day, we see dark storms clouds in the distance. We start our routine of double reeefing the main and readying ourselves for the weather. The seas are 8-10 feet and the wind picks up to 30-40knots. There is white wash everywhere. The ocean looks crazy. It is angry but the heavy rain pouring down tries to flatten the seas, leaving huge white lines running down the face of the waves. If I wasn't so stressed and currently experiencing it, I would have thought it to be beautiful. Just as I was starting to appreciate the beauty in the beast, a loud crack jolts me back into reality. The genoa haylard clutch had exploded laterally off the mast and over board. I'm not sure what strange configuration of pressure would cause that much tension on the halyard, but it did. Luckily it was cleated off after passing through the clutch, so we were able to keep going. This storm lasted approximately 30 minutes, and during that 30 minutes we were blown 8 nautical miles off course. A short calculation puts our boat speed at roughly 16 knots, with a double reefed main and about a third of the genoa rolled out. Then 30 minutes later another nasterier looking storm chases us down (at least it felt that way) and visibity drops to next to nothing. The pelting, stinging rain is coming down in sheets and the conditions are the same if not worse than the previous storm. The most frustrating part is that these storms are pushing us farther west because we have to run with the wind and waves to ease the violent pressure and building seas. The waves are too steep and scarily close together to take them on the beam. Conor later described standing at the helm while the boat is stradling the peak of a wave as feeling like the boat is on jello. And it is so scary to look down because the trough seems unnaturally far down there. His imagination painted a picture of the Gualby sitting on top of one of the japanese paintings of a wave, where the wave is tall and steep and shaped like a pillar.
It's now 8:00AM and another storm is forming in the distance. We feel tired, wet and worn out from the back to back storms that keep pushing us away from our hard earned miles to the east. We continue to battle the weather as best we can. At 10:00am the steering stops responding. There are storms all around and we cannot control our boat. Conor sees nothing in the water around the rudders, so goes below to check the steering cables thinking that perhaps something fell on them during one of the storms and is blocking the cables from turning correctly. Nothing is blocking the cables on either side but we are still unable to steer the boat. We check in the water again and see one small white lobster trap buoy. Shit. It has to be wrapped around the starboard rudder. And this isn't any ordinary American style lobster trap. The Honduran and Nicaruguans only use one lobster buoy for every 50 traps or so, with all of them hooked together, so not only is the line stopping our steering from functioning but the traps are acting like an enormous anchor, pulling on the starboard side of the boat. I am scared to let Conor get in the water to fix this problem but we have to get this lobster trap anchor off our rudder before this next storm line hits. Con reviews what I need to do if I have to run a man overboard drill and with my heart in my throat I listen and nod. I am too focused and scared to even think about crying. I tie a bowline tight across Conor's chest, he puts on his mask and goes over the side with a knife. I am so incredibly scared at this point. I am trying to steer as much as is possible but I can't keep my eyes off that line that is attached to Conor. Conor cuts the lobster trap line loose and the boat lurches forward attempting to get back up to its previous sailing speed. Somehow he gets safely back aboard. When Conor pulls himself out of the water, naked except for the bowline across his chest that I tied so tight I'm surprised now that I can breathe, I exhale, not even knowing I was holding my breath.
We sail all day and no matter what sail changes we make we cannot hold a direct line to Providencia. Dark, menacing clouds are forming in the distance and since the seas are already 6 feet and the appraoching weather looks intense Conor readies our sea anchor. Our life raft has already been sitting in the middle of the salon, ready for action if the worst occurs, since the first round of the storms days earlier. Before this storm hits I run below to call our weather man. We are so tired, physically and mentally from the back to back storms we are hoping for some news of a little relief to look forward to. Not today. Joe explains that the tropical storm system has sped its little hellish self up and is going to hit Providencia tomorrow morning. This news is spirit crushing for us, our window of getting there before the tropical wave has been eliminated. The overnight forecast is for winds out of the SE at 25-30knots and seas builing to 12 feet. I slowly make my way back to the cockpit, harness myself in and look into the eyes of my exhausted yet still amazingly handsome husband and give him the forecast. He is calm and smart and so together. I want to cry and throw my fists into the humid, electricity filled air around me and scream "Give us a break already!!" but not my man. I heard somewhere that the best marriages are when the two people balance each other out. Wanting to cry and scream unfair vs. logical, rational, calm. Balance it is for the Gorhams! Con and I discuss our options. There is no Media Luna type refuge near by so our only option is to just sail as hard and as fast as we possibly can towards Providencia. At this point we share a kiss and tell each other we love each other and are proud of each other for making it this far. I know it sounds dramatic but we really did this! Our spirits just felt so crushed by the anxiety these storms produce. Not because we think we aren't going to make it but because we are tired and are working so hard together as a team, and we mean it.
At 4:30pm we ready the boat for heaving to, a first for everyone on board. We have hove to once before but not in conditions like this. You may be wondering why we haven't attempted to heave to prior to now, but our logic was this: The one time we did it was in relatively calm conditions, and it seemed like the boat was oriented to take the waves almost too close on the beam, so in very steep waves that didn't seem appropriate. From all we've read it seems like it works better on monohulls than on catamarans. And finally in bad storms, we thought it would be safer to try and keep the boat moving instead of leaving the ocean to toss it around at will.
One of the worst things about the storms is losing all the hard earned miles towards our destination. So one of the main deciding factors for trying to heave to was us hoping that heaving to will decrease the number of lost eastward miles. We configure our sails in what we hope is the correct formation for heaving to and wait in silence at the helm watching the angry skies start to billow towards us. Observing the calm before the storm and waiting for the fury to be unleashed is a bit of an unsettling feeling I must admit. The storm hits and Gualby performs beautifully. She is doing exactly what she is suppose to be doing and it is not that uncomfortable of a ride! The rain starts pouring down and Con and I look at each other and decide to head inside, I mean that's what you do when you are heaving to, right? We go inside to a slightly less wet environment and the dogs are happy to have our company. A stressed Penny wants to sit on Conor the whole time, and he pretty much just lets her. Bubby seems remarkably calm and dry, looking like he is bit annoyed that Penny has been panting furiously and taking up all the oxygen. The waves are hitting the beam of the boat with a fury that we have never experienced before, breaking over the side and hitting the dome windows. The boat is also drifting backwards at 2.5 knots, but this is way slower than sailing at 13 knots in a westward direction. But the Gualby seems to be handling it fine. After a little over an hour, the wind has let up, the rain is still staying strong but we decide to try and keep sailing forward. We have to keep moving if we are going to get to Providencia before the full fury of the next tropical wave. The great thing about this heaving to set up is once the sails are reefed, one person can heave to, and one person can do a 360, filling the sails and keep sailing towards Providencia. This is crucial because it lets the other person sleep a little bit, and just knowing we could do this instilled a chest-full of confidence back into us.
The storm brought slightly north of east winds which lets us make up some lost miles. The seas are 8 foot and the rain is continuing to fall steadily, winds right at about 20 knots. We are keeping the sails reefed just in case a storm sneaks up on us. Through out the night we don't hit a single squall and the light of hope that we can make it to Providencia before the tropical storm is starting to grow. The sun starts to rise and it is outlining the gorgeous mountains of Providencia in the distance. It looks like a postcard with rays of sun filtering through light rain clouds, illuminating random bright green areas of the palm tree covered mountains. We are so close, only about 13 miles away! We start tacking our way slowly towards the safety and comfort of what lies in the protected anchorage between those mountains. Just to keep our morale and spirits in check, we get one more storm but we heave to like pros for 45 minutes and hardly lose any ground. We are tacking the tightest we can possible do, tweaking the sails like we are professional racers and not two hippies that are still learning. We cannot do anything better than parrallel to the shores of Providencia. If we weren't so tired it would be almost comical, almost. To say we are frustrated is an extreme understatement. Conor, determined to get us there before the weather, checks our fuel and says fuck it, we are motoring straight there and if we run out of fuel (which is a pretty good probability) then we will figure it out if and when it happens. Con pull starts the port engine and it is barely dribbling water but we figure we will hear the alarm before we totally overheat and kill the engine and the starboard engine is running good. We head into the wind and seas and keep our fingers crossed, praying and willing we make it before the fuel fumes run out. A little after 9am on July 15th, we dropped anchor in the harbor of Providencia. The sound of that anchor dropping has never been sweeter. We are delirious from lack of sleep and our bodies are pruney from the almost constant fresh water down pours and from our clothes that are in a continuous state of dampness but we are overjoyed. We made it. We made it. We have to say it to oursleves and to each other a few times to make sure it is real.
M.
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| Pulling into Providencia Harbor |
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| Despite 20kt winds and clouds, the mountains surrounding the harbour keep it protected and mild |
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