Harmon and Randall's Voyage…

Cape Verde to (somewhere in) South America

Day 3

Sunday, July 27

Noon Position: near 10N and 23W. Somehow I failed to note noon position!

Course/Speed: SSW 6

Wind: SW 3

Sail: Motoring in heavy slop

Noon Miles: 154

Total Miles: 435

Six times through the doldrums and not once seen like this. Where the forecast called for the expected large area of flat calm, we had light wind from the east and a short, steep sea from the S. Where the forecast called for light winds from the SW, we had heavy squalls one after the other driving that southwesterly to due south at 20 – 25 with a drenching rain. Mo pounded into the heavy chop, flinging herself and water skyward on the rise and falling into the trough with an explosiveness worthy of cannon fire. At night there was no way of anticipating the movement. All fours all the time. When sitting, one was braced or risked flight.

Around midnight the squalls starting lining up at hourly intervals, and I had the sense we were in the heart of it. Now we kept Mo under power and sail at two reefs and just punched through as best, as fast as we could. There was no point in sailing purity, in the romance of a dirty night at sea under sail alone; that would be like going close hauled against a brick wall. The pounding would have stopped Mo cold and the calms following the squalls? … We would never achieve escape velocity.  

All night I sat at the autopilot adjusting course by 30 – 60 degrees as we passed from the weight of squall to squall-less cloud and then back to weight of squall again. Over time, a red S formed on the chartplotter, the only indication of our progress through the darkness. It was not a hard job; Harmon could have easily pressed one of the two buttons, but I had started and wanted to finish; to see the end of this raft of squalls.

Nights like this are complete black-out as cloud blots everything, even a bright moon. One can see the cockpit instruments, the stern and bow lights and nothing else. Entering a new squall was announced only by the wind direction on the instruments slowly backing from SW to S and moments later by the drumming of rain and its sparkling reflection in running lights. After some time in the range of an hour, we would exit; a time of calm and then dry southeasterly would return. After some time in the range of an hour, another squall. And always the teeth gritting thunk and punch of waves you could not see.

Speaking of sleep, if one had the misfortune of being in his bunk as Mo fell from a wave, the compression was such that he felt ribs touching spine. On the rise was the sense of being unpleasantly weightless, knowing what came next. After one night searching, Harmon reported that his usual berth in the forepeak was not a place where sleep of any kind existed in these conditions. His eyes were hollow and gave off a sense of crazy, as if he had spent hours in a washing machine on heavy duty cycle and was slated for more of the same. I gave him my low bunk in the main cabin. Whether I am a good sailor is debatable, but I have two traits that flow in that direction: 1) I don’t get seasick and 2) I can sleep anywhere, anytime. Between squalls I’d been dozing happily in the doghouse and came through the night not entirely bereft.

By dawn we were through the mess and had entered a steady southerly, the true southern trade, on which we tacked from a course taking us to Africa to a course taking us to South America. That was July 27 and may she always rest easily…on the other side of the horizon from our position.