Sharks on the Sidewalk-Oswald in Oz

 

Braving Oswald

Aside from the huge trees, the navigation buoy, and the clumps of debris floating down the river at high speed, and the wind that stops then starts howling with gusto, and the people scurrying around their boats securing things and checking lines, and the fact that ferry service is shut down, news helicopters are flying overhead and the walkways and lower parts of the city are under water you’d hardly know ex-cyclone Oswald passed through Brisbane recently.

For a long holiday weekend this one sort of sucked. We started with a mild downpour—and giving up on doing anything outside we celebrated Australia Day and Robbie Burns day inside in tandem (Waltzing Matilda chased by scotch). Then the wind picked up and the rain fell harder.

Yesterday, as the storm ramped up even more, Ev and Maia headed into the city so she could start back to circus school. Maia called walking the streets eerie; an empty city (even emptier pubs), broken discarded umbrellas, wailing wind, and rain: so much rain that her raincoat and rain pants simply gave up the effort and turned to sponges.

watch for sharks is not a normal comment to make when walking on the sidewalk

 Last night we kept up on the news—listening as the evacuations kicked in—wondering if we’d be next. The rain fell harder (truly at this point it was more like a solid mass of water). Luckly we never got the worst of the wind and gusts rarely topped 35 knots. But with the city beside us acting as an echo chamber it was monstrously loud. Charlie the cat didn’t like it at all. And our phones kept ringing--message after message offering refuge, assistance, meals and help.

If you’ve ever tried to sleep through bucking and heaving, moaning and screaming (hmm—that reads wrong) you’ll know it’s not an easy thing. And then there was the unknown: what would we wake to.

The beautiful jacaranda at the Botanical Garden was severely damaged

The walkway is underwater

 

We woke to more noise. And by this time I was really, really sick of Oswald (shut up already!) sick of the damp (it seems if you essentially immerse your entire boat it springs leaks faster than you can fix them).

But the worst has passed, and many, many people have flooded and destroyed homes. We just have lots of wet towels, the risk of sharing the sidewalks with sharks and a bit of uncertainty as we wait for the flood to crest-sometime tomorrow or Weds.

Summer Nights (and days)

 

Rainforest hike

 Do you recall when you were a kid how summer seemed to be imbued with a special sort of magic? The days were long, the light was bright and little adventures seemed like big ones?

You’d think for a kid who spent almost three years of her life travelling and exploring during what seemed like an endless summer break that a normal summer holiday, the kind school kids around the world sit at their desks and dream about on rainy days, would disappoint. We haven’t headed out on some fabulous family vacation and there haven’t been cool summer camps; all Maia has are long lazy days, swimming pools, nights with friends and sunshine.

Our search for a waterfall and swimming hole took us to Cedar Creek--though the waterfall has slowed to a trickle a dip in the pools was great

 And oh, that sunshine... Technically it’s rainy season. Statistically December in Brisbane should include enough cloud cover to produce somewhere in the region of  160 mm of rain (we had 50mm—making it the driest in decades and contrasting it dramatically with 2010 when they had 480 mm) and January we’ve had 3mm (compared to an average of 133 mm). And if you missed it, Australia is also in the midst of the hottest heat wave they’ve ever recorded. So it’s hot, it’s dry and the best swimming pool ever is a short dinghy ride away, the evenings are mosquito free and summer is unfolding as it should (minus nagging climate change concerns…)

board games for kids from around the world

 Summertime is working her magic for Maia and as we explore swimming holes, stay up late eating banana splits and start our days slowly I can’t help but feel a bit nostalgic for the years when our entire life felt like summer vacation. But then I realized the reason these days sparkle a little brighter is because they are fleeting.

Dancing in the cockpit and dinner with friends

 

This is the time for Maia to experience the delights of ‘normal’ life; the rhythms, the predictability; the long summer days followed by the rush through winter’s busy schedule. And interestingly when you are just visitors to regular life it’s kind of awesome.

Damn It Freda Make Up Your Mind--Cyclone Season

Is it going to be this:

 

Or this:

Or something else entirely…

Weather watching is something we do more casually now that we are way up the Brisbane River and tied to pile moorings. We do get the occasional wild summer squall and after the devastating floods of 2011 we pay more than typical attention rain fall warnings. But big picture weather watching is something that occurs by happenstance—mainly when we’re checking weather for far flung friends.

We’ve been watching Cyclone Freda for several days though. Initially it looked like she'd hit New Caledonia then continue straight on to Auckland. Bummer for our friends there, but NZ typically has such crap weather they might not even notice a little cyclone. But then the models changed and showed Freda heading for us.

Brisbane does not have much of a history of cyclones, but I was curious what happens if they do get close. Through a quick search I learned about these storms:

1950 - Tracked to Sydney;

1954 - Crossed at Coolangatta

1963 - Cyclone Annie - Sunshine Coast

1964 - Cyclone Audrey - Travels from the Gulf To Coffs Harbour

1967 - Cyclone Dinah - Damage from Rockhampton to Grafton

1967 - Cyclone Barbara - Coolangatta to Lismore

1967 - Cyclone Elaine - Flooding at Logan/Brisbane

1967 - Cyclone Glenda - Off Brisbane 16 M waves recorded near the Gold Coast

1971 - Cyclone Dorra - Hit at Redcliffe

1972 - Cyclone Diasy - Hits Fraser - with Flooding to the Gold Coast

1974 - Cyclone Wanda - Huge flood in Brisbane

1974 - Cyclone Pam - Crosses 500 km east of Brisbane - was an intense system and caused severe flooding

1974 - Cyclone Zoe – Coolangatta (thinking Coolangatta is a bad place to live)

1984 - Cyclone Lance - Wind damage to the Gold Coast

1990 - Cyclone Nancy - crosses near Byron Bay

1993 - Cyclone Roger - Passed near Fraser - back out to sea before heading towards Southern NSW Brisbane Station records 13.2 waves

1994 - Cyclone Rewa - Passed 100 km out to sea and causes flash flooding

1998 - Cyclone Vale - Passes Brisbane and hits near Grafton

That’s just a sampling—for a bigger picture these are the storms which came within 200km of Brisbane in the past 100 years:

Then I started looking up the impact of each storm. Yes, just one of the many ways I like to terrify myself: looking up storm devastation in Australia over the past hundred years. This place is deadly. Back to Brisbane though--the take away seems to be this: Sometimes storms hit Brisbane, not super often though, but when they do it can be a big freaking deal or not.

The good news is even if Freda stays organized enough to hit us she shouldn't be very big. But just to be safe everyone chant with me: Freda, Freda go away...

Pacific Passage Weather Thoughts

Evan here. I thought I'd pass on some thoughts about weather across the Pacific. Hopefully these hints and ideas will prove useful to future sailors crossing in the following years.

Getting a good grasp of South Pacific weather was really important to us having a successful time. Most weather texts do a poor job of S. Hemisphere weather. Read (& re-read until you are sick of it) Jim Corenman's “South Pacific Weather” 1994 letter – found at the Latitude 38 site.

s/v Soggy Paws website has a good listing of a number of these weather documents.

http://www.svsoggypaws.com/pacwx-understanding.htm

Read and understand how the cycles of highs and lows that track W to E affect the weather in the tropics. For example it wasn't until F. Polynesia that I realized how a big High will reinforce (strengthen) the SE trades. Read anything else you can get on the S Pacific weather systems. I think our understanding of weather systems was probably better than most cruisers and we never saw more than 25 knots of sustained wind on a passage (more in short lived squalls, but you can't predict them and they really don't affect your comfort).

Have a strategy for crossing the ITCZ at right angles to the equator – not at an angle which extends your time in this area of confused seas and thunderstorms. It is important to recognize the further west you go before crossing the equator, the closer to the wind you will have to sail to get to the Marquesas in typical SE trades. Even crossing at around 128 deg. as we did, we still had BIG beam seas that were uncomfortable for several days. Those crossing around 132-4 had winds well forward of the beam when they headed south.

Concentrate on the big picture as well as local conditions. Every few days it's a good idea to get a large area, coarse GRIB at say 2x2 deg resolution and covers a week or so.

Weather Resources underway 

GRIB files are used by everybody – but they have lots of limitations. Understand the limitations and you will use them better. They are prepared by computers with NO human intervention. Unless you are looking at multiple models, you might miss something that a particular model is not showing. They don't show fronts, and the associated strong winds though they usually get the frontal wind shift. If you see a strong wind shift with nearby low winds beware – that is probably a front with strong winds!

Before you leave cheap and good internet coverage – check out the various fax options from NOAA and find the correct ones for your area. Their schedule covers a lot of areas so I printed it out and used a highlighter on the few ones that I liked. Bookmark the NOAA fax, Fiji weather maps etc. so when you are using expensive internet in F. Polynesia you can go straight to the correct page.

So also use weatherfaxes and online weather maps when you have internet access. The ones I found most useful were the E and Central Pacific 24,48,72 hr surface faxes from NOAA Honolulu, and close to Australia, the 1,2,3,4 day MSLP forecasts from Australia. NOAA GOES IR satellite pics showed the ITCZ pretty well, but you can't really pick a good area to cross; it changes so fast and moves so much daily The NZ Metservice color fax series is useful for those passaging to NZ.

I didn't ever get good reception from NZ faxes but for those passaging to NZ would probably do best to pick these up, even though they only go to 72 hrs prognosis. The Aus met office online also has a 10 day pressure series that is good to see how fast H and L's are travelling across the continent. The systems to watch (mainly) seem to be S of Australia because they hit the Tasman sea and then turn northward a bit.

I really like the NADI fleet code (send “fleet.nadi”) issued by the Fiji met office. It's only a current surface analysis but you can usually pick out the SPCZ on it. It is usually shown as a trough though. You will need an auxiliary program like Physplot to turn this text file into a weather chart. If you are online you can get the Fiji current chart in better detail from the Fiji met office website. Pick the “new chart”s - it's in colour and is clearer than the B&W versions. NADI also offers text email forecasts for Fiji, Tonga, Cooks and Samoa – but we only got the Fiji versions so I can't comment on the accuracy for other areas. The Fiji forecasts were OK but they only cover one area (Fiji) which is ~300 x 300 miles; too big for a single forecast.

Do get faxes for multiple days in a row before and on a passage. You will see how the systems are moving, and how they are likely to affect you. And don't forget, winds circulate CCW around a H in the S. Hemisphere!

Religiously get Bob McDavitt's weekly weathergram (online via his blog or email via saildocs “nz.wgrm”) every Sunday night NZ time. He can spot big picture stuff for the week ahead very accurately.

The F.Polynesia email forecast (send “fr.poly”) is a bit repetitive (showers and squalls every day), and it is in French so you will need a French – English weather terms dictionary to translate it, but if it says 25+ knots pay attention because conditions are usually ugly when the winds get that strong. Hide in a decent anchorage if you can. You need to have the F. Poly sea areas JPEG chart to understand what area “A25” means.

Australia also has a number of marine forecast documents available through saildocs.

Web sites I use for weather:

http://weather.noaa.gov/fax/hawaii.shtml Honolulu weather faxes – forget the wind/wave charts; they are too general and have weather arrows for only 5 degree squares. Pick the surface charts and 24, 48, and 72 hour forecasts. The colour ones are easier to understand

http://www.bom.gov.au/australia/charts/viewer/index.shtml Australia surface analysis – and forecast maps for the future (click the “Play” buttoms at top)

http://www.bom.gov.au/australia/charts/4day_col.shtml The 4 day map for low bandwidth connections

http://www.met.gov.fj/ Fiji met office

http://www.met.gov.fj/sat-map.html Fiji weather maps – you want the “new” surface maps in colour

http://www.meteo.pf/ French Polynesia met office - in French

http://www.metservice.com/national/maps-rain-radar/maps/tasman-sea-nz-colour-series 

NZ weather charts for a few days prognosis

Trade Wind Sailing - and thoughts about routes

The trade winds are generally SE, but they can be S or E or beyond, depending on what the recent H or L that has passed is doing to them. So if you are crossing the Pacific from E to W, you want trades that have more E than S in them for the most comfortable rides. For monohull owners, that also means you should think of biasing your boats cargo, fuel and water loads to the port side of the boat to reduce heeling (as much as you can anyway) in the southern hemisphere. For cat owners, we all seemed to agree beam seas are the most uncomfortable (and noisy as the waves slap the stbd inboard hull). It's important to understand on which passage you might want really E biased trades. The Marquesas to the Tuamotoas or Bora Bora to Raratonga for instance are more SW courses, so anything you can get in an ESE or E trade wind is more comfortable.

Cold Fronts

Generally warm fronts don't seem to appear on weather charts, and only cold fronts or occluded fronts are shown. Cold fronts will usually bring a dramatic wind shift to the NE, N, then NW, and finally SW before shifting back into the normal SE quadrant. If it's a vigorous cold front expect nasty conditions in it's vicinity. Naturally W quadrant winds are headwinds, and are to be avoided so avoid cold fronts when you can. If one is going to hit you for certain, head N in advance of the front. Cold fronts get weaker closer to the equator. As the wind clocks into the W you can then bear off back to your rhumb line and not have to beat.

Warm fronts are not as nasty, and generally turn into occluded (mixed warm and cold air masses) in the tropics. Don't ignore them but you probably won't see them as much more than some rain.

Sailing to Australia route choices

The obvious route is Vanuatu – New Caledonia (Noumea) – Brisbane. The less obvious one that I would suggest and recommend is Vanuatu – Chesterfield Reef – Bundaberg. Here's why

• Vanuatu to Noumea is very strongly SSW course so in typical SE trades you might end up beating. Ugh.
• Noumea to Brisbane is about 700 n.m. and you are more likely to have a cold front hit you on the way because the cold fronts are coming along every 7 days and you are sailing into their direction of movement, increasing the closing rate. It's also a longer passage to try to get a decent window
• Vanuatu to Chesterfield is about 500 and Chesterfield to Bundie is about 450 miles; much easier to get a decent window. The sailing angles with the trades are easier too
• Chesterfield is absolutely lovely
• Chesterfield to Bundie is further north, so cold fronts are weaker if you do hit one. Get to Bundie and then coastal hop to Brisbane, through the beautiful Fraser Island and Great Sandy Strait.

Class dismissed – oh are there any questions?

Tranquil with a Chance of Waterspouts

We may as well have been glued to the bottom. Between sunrise (when the hills glow pink and gold) and sunset (was that a green flash? Our second in Fiji.) we spent the days aboard, enjoying the most peaceful anchorage we've been in, in the whole of the South Pacific.
There was this nagging feeling that there is more to Fiji than an anchorage of our own, with a stretch of sandy beach and nice diving a short dinghy ride away. But between books that needed reading, naps that needed indulging in and chores that had been put off too long-the need to leave just didn't seem that pressing.
And then there was the weather-not bad exactly, but changeable: shifting from clear blue sky, to a gusting torrential downpour within the span of a chapter, or a nap. And because the trip to Lautoka (our next port of clearance) is carried out inside a reef, which is strewn with all manner of hazards, it helps to have sunny weather.
Yesterday though after a swim to clean the prop (hey, we don't need clothes, we're the only ones here…) it was time to leave Nananu-I-Thake. The sky was clear, the sun was high enough to see the reefs and the wind was calm. We had news that friends were just a few anchorages away and a goal to get to the other side of the island in time to meet more visitors (who are not only bringing our new spectra shrouds [our rigger figures the high-tech solution is the way to go] they're also bringing a new hard drive-because our main one just died. Sigh.)
I love traveling inside a reef-when I can see where we are going.

can you see the reef? no? me either...

 But as the day progressed thunderheads started to build. The wind picked up and the vaguely charted reefs disappeared from view. "Maybe," I suggested, "if I steer toward where the outer reef is supposed to be we'll pick it back up and be able to avoid all those rocks and things." So I steered at the reef; squinting into the water; watching the depth sounder and trying to pick-up the most subtle changes in colour.
When I found the line of brown reef I began to concentrate on the clouds--watching with interest as they changed shape and formed downward aiming points. It wasn't until one of those points dropped all the way down to the water that I caught on, and I called Evan and Maia to see the waterspouts.
Maia did some research and discovered that contrary to popular belief waterspouts cannot be destroyed by shooting canon balls into them. They also don't tend to harm boats--especially when they are small and you're already upwind of them. So rather than causing worry-we got a science lesson.
Just before another squall hit we pulled into another peaceful, empty anchorage at Vatia Lailai. When the squall passed the sky was scrubbed blue, then gold and pink. Rather than a green flash we got a rainbow radiating upward from where the sun had set.
We had planned to continue on today-but there is a reef for diving on just outside our anchorage, and a long sandy beach to explore. And we caught enough water that we can catch up on laundry. And it's peaceful here. So peaceful.
*pictures will be added when we have a more functional hard drive and faster internet
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The Weather is Here

 It almost seems anticlimactic. We rushed and rushed to get ready, then the weather refused to cooperate—in a big way. But over the over the next day, or so, the winds will fill back in and a flotilla of 8-10 boats will be pulling out of La Cruz.

And we’ll be one of them!

A few people asked how it is possible for a bad weather report to factor into a 2700-mile (18-24 day) journey. The issue is most boats only carry a few hundred miles of fuel. The strategy tends to be to save fuel for the ITC zone, emergencies and arrivals—so having a 300 mile region of no wind right at the beginning, coupled with unusually light and fluky trade winds is a recipe for a very long, very uncomfortable journey…

So we waited.

Waiting is a tough thing to do when you’re staring at a long intimidating journey. Sometimes you need the adrenaline and excitement just to carry you through the natural anxiety. But yesterday I noticed my apprehension had grown, my excitement had peaked and I just felt tired and grumpy. I didn’t really care if we went anywhere. I just wanted the uncertainty to end.

But after a good nights sleep I’m ready for the adventure again.

The weather is here—I think it’ll be a beautiful passage.

PS—if you haven’t been reading my friend Monica’s blog THEY ARRIVED!! Check out Savannah’s blog for her (very amusing) perspective.

Whether, Weather…

To leave, or not to leave, that’s still the question.

The problem isn’t so much not knowing what the weather might bring, but the fact we have way too many opinions, forecasts, weather charts and grib files to choose between. And none of the models agree. It’s almost enough to make me long for the good ‘ol days: Back when we could pull down one weather fax—then make our own best amateur weatherman guess. For better or worse.

But know we have a deluge of information. And the best case scenario really is the best case. It’s a perfect 12 knots on the beam, rising to 20 as our overnight passage continues. The seas should be between 3-5’, probably a bit steeply spaced but comfortable enough.

But that is just one weather report. We also looked at four more… And this is where it gets confusing.

Weather is a guessing game at best and it’s amazing how many different scenarios can be extrapolated from one set of satellite pictures. One model has a full blown norther developing tonight—definitely not conditions we want to sail in. Another has the wind rising to NW 18-24 in the afternoon and NW 20-26 overnight—which might be fine, depending on the seas… But the Sea of Cortez rarely has pleasant seas—there is just too much tidal current.

So maybe we’ll wait. But waiting also has its own issues. Because the model we like best—the one that predicts a perfectly okay crossing—also predicts a norther blowing up later in the week. So maybe we’ll go…

I’m going to drink coffee, have a hot shower at the marina, and ponder…

Want to know where we get our Mexico weather?

Stan’s weather:

http://www.saildocs.com/socforecast

Geary’s weather:

http://www.solmatesantiago.com/weather/forecasts.html

COAMPS and GFS grib files from Sailmail

NOAA weather for the Southeast Pacific

http://www.nws.noaa.gov/om/marine/sepacificbrief.shtml

High Seas Forecast

http://weather.noaa.gov/cgi-bin/fmtbltn.pl?file=raw/fz/fzpn03.knhc.hsf.ep2.txt

Fleet Weather

https://www.fnmoc.navy.mil/public/

Watching the Weather

We left the dock yesterday. Somehow every time we do that, it feels like a bit of a milestone. Which I guess it is. We now have a functioning head, a new water tank, a few more freshly painted bulkheads, several clean lockers and a myriad of other little tasks completed.

A grib file showing a norther blowing down the Sea of Cortez

 The next step is to decide where to go next and then wait for the right weather window to get there.

We’re actually not in a huge hurry to head south—even though it’s getting cooler (I had to wear socks and close the hatches last night). But the season up here is winding down. The anchorage has dropped from a high of eight boats to two, and the marina and boat yard are both emptying out. There is still a really nice group of people here though and the marina is throwing us a Thanksgiving party on Thursday. Which is sort of ironic considering about 75% of the boats here are either Canadian, or some other non-US nationality…

Despite the longer than expected stay in Guaymas and the fact we had zero expectations for the city, we’ve consistently enjoyed our time here more than any other period so far.

Part of it has been the endless celebrations. There have been so many that when it came to the lovely parade commemorating the 1910 revolution on the morning of November 20, we only watched it in passing--admiring a few of the floats as we headed up to the movie theatre to catch the new Harry Potter movie on opening weekend. I think I enjoyed the post-parade period more than the parade itself. There was something vaguely surreal about watching everyone wander through town doing errands—still dressed in period costumes and sporting bandoliers and toy rifles.

I’m not entirely sure what else accounts for our contentment. But a big part of it is we feel no pressure to be anywhere else. That realization brings another epiphany: the understanding that other than the dictates of weather and season it’s been our own impatience that’s made us miserable at times.

So here we are—happy to be in Guaymas, but ready to carry on. So we’ll watch the weather and wait for a good moment to head out of the harbour and go.

Somewhere…

Of Movies, Mayhem and Chance German Tourists

There are days when I wake up and all of this seems utterly inconvenient. Friends I'd like to talk to aren't reachable, food I'd like to eat isn't obtainable and mosquitoes I'd like dead have bitten me in that low place between my shoulder blades that is really hard to reach. In these moments a home, a proper home with a bathtub and a front door that leads to something other than water, is all I really want.
But other people, lots of other people, want what I have. And sometimes the only way to see how amazing our life is, is to watch someone else's face when they experience it for the first time.
Tina and Ulle are traveling from Alaska to Argentina on the BMW motorcycle they brought from Germany. We learned this when we sat next to them at one of BLA's three sit-down restaurants. We were struck by the fact that tourists had actually meandered into our little village, and they were struck by how romantic our life seems. Over dinner conversation it came up that Tina had never sailed before and Ullie had only windsurfed. So we invited them for a sail.
We set off in the mid-afternoon breeze. As we sailed Ulle and Tina couldn't stop congratulation each other on their fine luck. Ulle informed us he was now going to sell his bike and buy a sailboat, Tina said she was going to take sailing lessons. Inviting random strangers aboard has been one of the cooler aspects of cruising. We've made friends with all sorts of people this way and in turn been invited into their lives. But more than that, we've vicariously experienced the same joy we felt when we first conceived our life. When this happens the inconvenience recedes and even things like that new tear in our mainsail and the mosquitoes that just won't die just seem like part of it.
When we got back to the anchorage we sent Maia off for a movie and pizza party on Adios 3 along with the five other kids in the anchorage. Then we headed out for dinner with Tina and Ulle. During dinner we watched a big thunderhead build across the Sea. But the locals in the restaurant assured us that the storm was far away and wouldn't bother us. So we ordered another margarita.
As the storm built we started to think about heading back to the boat. There was another big party of cruisers in the restaurant and Meri and Jim from Hotspur had arrived to take advantage of the date night that came with the movie party-reassuring us there was no rush. But when the first gust hit we said our good byes and started racing for the dinghy. By the time we were underway, the waves were breaking over the bow and the sky was bright with lightening.
We decided that with the chaos of the storm and the danger posed by a dinghy trip in rough seas, when dozens of fishermen were rushing back into harbour under navy escort, that the kids were all safer on Adios 3. So we pulled up the dinghy and hunkered down for the blow.
There were moments when it seemed even more than inconvenient: Our daughter was out of reach; A big power boat was dragging toward us; The navy boat was zooming back and forth to escort in the fishermen, who themselves were seeking a safe place to go when there wasn't one; We were too close to one boat when the wind was gusting from one direction and too close to another when it shifted.
But through it all I heard Ulle's voice, "You are not so isolated from life, the way you live. Which is good." As the Chubasco blew the force of the wind stung my cheeks. The seas heaved and spray coated the boat. As it rained the desert took on a heavy sweet smell. And lightening made the sky brightly dramatic as thunder rumbled from a reassuring distance.
There was no way to separate ourselves from the weather and I briefly envied Tina and Ulle their solid, secure hotel. But the storm passed and when Maia could finally return home her hug felt sweeter and tighter than ever. "It's like I'm back from a long journey," she told me as I tucked her into her still rocking bed. "I'm glad I'm home."
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Chubasco—the anatomy of a storm

This is what a storm looks like when it's breaking down. When it's pumping you don't turn on the computer and take a screen shot...

Last night we got the weather we’ve been hoping to avoid. When we pulled down the satellite images of the Sea of Cortez there were massive areas of convection on the mainland side, which were moving our way. After making our own forecast of, ‘we’re going to get smacked’ we checked Stan’s Chubasco forecast by SSB: 

“Tonight on the Mainland there is almost continuous convection on the beach from Mazatlan north to Kino. All of this convection is expanding and moving to the west. I don't think the convection will survive the trip across the Sea, but it might. So I would say there is a chance of a Chubasco all along the Baja peninsula. If it were me, I would go to bed early and get up at 1am local time and see what it looks like.”

Stan seemed a bit more optimistic than we felt, but we prepared the boat for a blow and I headed to bed. Just before Evan joined me we got a call by VHF from a boat anchored across the Sea in Guaymas—he let us know they had just been nailed by a Chubasco and that it was coming our way.

Around 11pm we were woken by chilly rain drops that felt as big as robin’s eggs. When a storm is strong enough, it blows out big rain drops, not the little ones associated with a typical approaching rain. Evan popped his head out the forward hatch and discovered that not only was the sky bright with lightning but a wall of rain was headed our way.

We both jumped up and went through the motions of preparing for a storm—I turned on the motor to relieve stress on the anchor in the gusts. And Evan closed hatches, got our instruments on, and lowered our lightening grounding system. Then he took over the wheel and I put as many of our electronics as would fit into the oven and then put the overflow into the pressure cooker—basically creating a low-tech Faraday Cage. (Check out this great article on lightning protection for tips and ideas.)

By now we had a steady 25-30 knots of wind. By Chubasco standards this was a small blow. What we had though was a lot of nearby lightning and cracking thunder. I took solace in the fact there are some tall mining structures near us (and a very tall mast on S/V Third Day), making it unlikely we’d take a direct hit. As the wind let up, the heavy rain continued—it looked like all that would happen in this blow is we’d get a good boat clean.

post-chubasco lightning--not as dramatic as mid-chubasco lightning, but we were busy then

 

After an hour, conditions eased and the storm seemed to have passed. But we were still seeing lots of lightning out to sea. When we fired up the computer, we discovered all we experienced was a very small cell that had broken off the main one—and that the huge area of convection that stretched from the mainland and ¾ of the way across the sea was still to come. Our guess was if that cell didn’t break down, we would be hit much harder within the hour.

I called the other boats in the anchorage to let them know the bad news (so they wouldn’t be caught off guard by a second storm). Then we waited, and waited. I dozed off and Evan later fell asleep while reading. The storm dissipated and as much as, ‘and nothing happened next’ doesn’t make for good story telling, it does make for good cruising…

A Chubasco on Training Wheels

A classic thunderhead--and right in our way. we detoured around this one.

It's Chubasco season. This means on unpredictable nights, at some point after we're peacefully asleep, we'll suddenly wake to a violent thunder squall. The way to prepare for a Chubasco is to keep the boat ready to head to sea and have an escape route programmed into the GPS, just in case that pleasant anchorage turns into a gnarly lee shore.
We know this. But after a couple of months of peaceful nights, it's easy to get lax. Last night we left the laundry out, the awnings up and the dingy down. It was almost like we were taunting the wind gods.
So they slapped us, gently.
I woke first. At 2am I felt a strong gust-when I popped my head out the hatch I saw a massive lightning squall in the distance. The steps; awnings down, laundry in, dingy up, engine, depth sounder and radar on, were automatic. While we worked, the wind ramped up, the seas built, my hands shook and my mouth went dry.
We've been through squalls like these numerous times. In Florida and on the rest of the East Coast they were simply part of summer, but usually they happened in the afternoon and we saw them coming. Somehow though it wasn't the Florida or even the past Baja storms I thought of, as I watched the squall squat malevolently on the ridge across from us. I thought of the La Cruz storm.
Rather ironically, I've just sold a story about lessons learned from the La Cruz to Cruising World (slated for the safety at sea issue this winter). Even more ironically we ignored the lessons we learned. If the Chubasco had been a fast moving one that came toward us rapidly, while packing the typical 50-60 knot gusts, we would have maybe gotten as far as getting the awnings down. The dingy and laundry would have had to fend for themselves.
Instead the storm was pretty much stationary for two and a half hours. It sat several miles away and gave us plenty of time to think about our transgressions.
Lightning Grounding:
The one thing that did give me some piece of mind is Evan finished up a long planned lightning grounding system. Our boat contains a lot of carbon fibre; including the chain plates, so giving the lightning an easy way out of the boat is pretty vital. Our solution is relatively low tech: he attached a #1 gauge copper cable to the mast and attached it to a copper pipe which we lower into the water during a lightning storm.
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Life at Baja Speed

Maia demonstrating how to get through the Baja summer

When the water is 32 C (that's 90F for those who speak American…) and the air temp is hovering around 39 C (102F), and the humidity is high, and there is no wind, it's best to take life at a languid pace. This means, at most, you should only ever try to accomplish one task a day.
We know this. Mostly we embrace it. But today seemed like a good day to get stuff done. There was a boat to clean, garbage to burn, our stinky clothes were piling up and we're virtually out of beer and fresh food.
So after a beach run to burn stuff (Maia never even asked for a marshmallow to roast, oddly enough), we upped anchor and headed deeper into Bahia Conception. We had a vague plan of hitching a ride into Mulege, where there are stores. But after toiling over our mound of laundry (although the darks can wait, who wants to wear dark right now anyway…) we revised our plan. Standing beside a hot highway in the vain hope someone might take pity on us and drive us to Mulege, then reversing the trip, just so we could have food, seemed foolish.

Evan demonstrates the wrong way to spend a Baja day...

 We decided to see if the local tienda had much in stock. And after dropping $10 we are now reprovisioned to the tune of a dozen eggs, three onions, two tomatoes, a long life milk and beer. The rest of our shopping list was probably superfluous anyhow.
After shopping, we stopped in at Bertha's restaurant--the only one in the area and the first restaurant we've been in since our visit to Vancouver. We decided after all our hard work (basically laundry, garbage and shopping) that we best take the rest of the day off and eat our meals there. Especially because we only have a dozen eggs, three onions and two tomatoes to keep us going until we give in and go to town.
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Under Cover

You can always recognize a boat that has spent some time in the tropics by its sun awnings. I’m not talking abut your basic canvas bimini, but rather a series of awnings and shade cloths that make a boat look like it’s wearing a burkha…

The goal is to cover the boat—shading every hatch and swath of deck from the sun. The difference this makes to liveability is immense. Good awnings can lower the internal temperature of your boat by several degrees Celsius, and when daytime temps are topping 40°C—having the boat 5° cooler goes a long way…

The challenge is finding a way to suspend these awnings in an easy way—there are times when you need to get them down FAST. Usually at 3am, in the dark…

Also, because every boat has a different layout, no single awning system is universal. Every single one is a custom effort—making them awfully expensive to have them made professionally. We know one boat that spent more than 8k on canvas coverings—and considered it a bargain…
Because most cruisers are on a budget, most of the sun awnings are cobbled together as need arises. We started with our bimini, which we had made in La Cruz. Then added a few Ikea awnings to cover the hulls and then added shade cloth to screen in the aft part of the cockpit.

No doubt we’ll keep adding cloth as the summer heats up, eventually we’ll be unrecognizable—but hopefully cool.

To Do Mañana…

 Yesterday we headed into town with a list of seven things we needed to do. Then we spent much of the day walking—searching for this and looking for that. But when the day was over our list still had a bunch of things left on it. Plus a few new things we thought of while out.

Part of it’s our own fault. We’re pretty bad at getting going first thing, so by the time we got to town it was lunch time, which meant we needed to stop and eat. And by the time we were done lunch it was nearly time for siesta: that chunk of time from 1-3, or 2-4, or even 11-4:30 when the shops close.

And it was hot, well over 100°F hot, so we had to stop for ice cream and strategize over which order to hit the shops once they opened again. But the thing is, not every shop reopens after siesta. It’s one of those things that depends. On what? I’m not really sure. 

So yesterday we managed three out of the seven things on our list—then we gave up and went to a beachside palapa for margaritas. In the scheme of Mexico, getting almost half a list finished is actually not half bad. But it means we need to head back out today: with four of yesterday’s to do items and three new ones we added.

You see where this is going don’t you? By the time we actually get everything checked off our list we’ll either know every ice cream shop and palapa bar in town, or we’ll just stop caring about getting things done. After all, we can do it mañana...

Night Moves

I'm watching the boat that's anchored beside us pitch and buck as though it's trying to get upwind in a stiff breeze and steep sea. Which means, barring a few design differences, that we look nauseatingly similar. The thing is, the seas have settled down considerably, so much so, that until I saw our neighbour's boat, I thought it was nearly calm. Which of course makes me wonder what we looked like when the wind was blowing its strongest and the waves matched the breeze in force...
The Inuit may have the market covered for their number of different names for snow, but down here, there's probably an equal number of different names for wind; there's the Coromuel, Chubasco, Elefante, Norther, Tehuantepecer and Papagallos not to mention afternoon sea breezes which funnel through specific passes, pineapple expresses, lows, and named storms...
Last night we had a Coromuel (actually we've had one every night, last night's was just a doozy...). We were told a charming story about this local breeze, which starts blowing in from the southwest around dinner time then (on a strong night) builds to it's peak around 3am, only to ease off as the land heats back up in the morning sun. The story is of a local pirate: a guy called Cromwell. He discovered this breeze was predictable, but only blew near La Paz. So when the breeze hit he'd sail out into the Sea of Cortez, rob a Spanish vessel or two, then catch the daytime Northerlies back to his hiding spot where he could count his plunder. Cromwell is difficult to say in Spanish, we were told. So the wind that carried this nefarious pirate on his pillaging sprees became known as Coromuels.
Whether or not the story is true doesn't change the fact that in spring and summer, when there is a northwest wind blowing on the west coast of the Baja peninsula and warm conditions on the inside, the Coromuels kick in. And because the daytime winds blow from the north, or south, finding an anchorage that protects against everything is pretty difficult.
This is how an activity we once dubbed as the Baja Moonlit Naked Olympics; where we pull down awnings, put away dishes, secure the dingy and stop wine bottles from rattling around, became part of our lives. And like every big sporting event, you end up kind of wrecked the next day, and grumpy. Sort of like a bad attitude pirate who went plunging through nasty seas in search of treasure and came up empty...
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Well, we bailed

Our goal was to head straight to the anchorages outside of La Paz. The next pictures I planned to post were of us frolicking in azure waters and climbing rugged desert peaks.

Instead we’re sitting in Mazatlan’s rather smelly (thanks to the sewage treatment plant) and busy old harbour--in 100% humidity (the interior walls are wet) grouching at each other.

  We're not keen on night entries, but the wide breakwaters and easy anchorage made Mazatlan a good choice.

We knew the upwind ride to La Paz would be a bash. But when motor sailing at reduced RPMs (for fuel savings) was only netting us 2-3 knots toward our destination yesterday afternoon, we knew something had to give. The 300 remaining miles would take a LONG time at < 3 nautical miles an hour.

We decided to give up motor sailing in a direct line, cracked off to a close reach, turned off the motor and started hitting the high sevens in boat speed. That felt much better, we are a sailboat after all. The problem is La Paz was still directly upwind and with the steep nasty seas our VMG (velocity made good) still had us arriving sometime next week.

This is around the time when I started to wonder if I’d gone soft: If two months in a marina (punctuated by two pleasant day sails) had turned me into a sailor who couldn’t hack a few confused seas. I want to sail around the world for goodness sakes, and here I was finding being tossed made me want to go to bed and wake up after it was over.

While I was busy beating myself up for my wimpyness, I happened to hear two boats hailing each other on the VHF. They complained about what a miserable time they were having. “These seas suck,” was the exact quote. They did suck, which is when we realized that one of our tacks would take us straight into Mazatlan. And Mazatlan started to seem like a really nice place to be.

  The old harbour anchorage puts us between ferry docks and sport fishermen moorings

So we made a night entry, dropped the hook in blessedly flat seas and then woke this morning with mixed feelings. In many ways we made the right choice, the seas and wind built through the night and continued to clock around, probably making the seas an even bigger mess.

But we’re not where we want to be and I feel like we quit.