“Hurricane coming,” Ray Pentrack quipped as I passed him in the Cruz Bay grocery store. He was the manager at Cruz Bay Marina on St. John in the US Virgin Islands. I had just flown in from Maine, looking ­forward to a few weeks on my boat before hauling out for ­hurricane season. 

“What hurricane?” I asked.

“Hurricane Hugo,” Ray said. “It’s going to be a whopper. Category 3. We have our hands full. Can you take care of your boat?” 

Afaran, my Lord Nelson 41 cutter, had spent the summer on a mooring in nearby Great Cruz Bay. 

 “Sure, but when?”

“It should make landfall on Guadeloupe tomorrow, and then hit us sometime on Monday. Many of the boats are heading for Hurricane Hole at the east end of the island.”

This was the first summer I’d left Afaran in the Caribbean, on a rented mooring, instead of sailing back to Maine with the seasons. Now my mind went into hyperdrive. Was Afaran ready for this? Was I ready? 

I had an idea of what it was like to live through a hurricane. Two years earlier, in September 1987, Afaran and I had managed to ride out Hurricane Emily in Bermuda—barely—thanks to my 75-pound fisherman-style storm anchor. Afaran’s working anchor was a 65-pound CQR on 300 feet of chain. I had a 45-pound Danforth too. Enough?

The bigger question was whereto anchor Afaran. I’d just have to go look.

I loaded the shopping cart with extra jugs of water, bread, canned goods, frozen chicken, peanut butter, jam, UHT milk and cereal. By late afternoon, I was moving it all onto Afaran’s deck.

Next, I unlocked and opened the companionway, shoved back the hatch, and went below to inspect the bilge. It was dry. I then prepared the boat to get underway as the VHF radio’s weather channel droned in the background. 

“Hurricane Hugo will pass near or over Guadeloupe Saturday night. Winds are predicted to be in excess of 140 knots, seas to 20 feet, with a storm surge of 3 feet or more. On Sunday evening, we expect Hurricane Hugo to pass over the Virgin Islands as a Category 3. All mariners are urged to make all necessary ­preparations for a very dangerous storm.”

It was like listening to a judge hand down your life sentence. I seesawed between thrill and dread—excitement for the challenge and fear of the disaster—as I removed all the sails and stowed them below. 

 Eventually, I turned on the running lights and motored out of Great Cruz Bay. At the beach off the Caneel Bay Resort, I dropped the hook for the night.

Saturday, September 16

As Afaran rounded Privateer Point at the east end of St. John, I could see a few boats anchored in Hansen Bay. Up in Hurricane Hole, I saw dozens of boats squeezing in, bows riding to anchors, crews tying off stern lines to the mangroves and then rigging fenders. The scene looked like a boat show. It was too crowded. 

I motored over to Coral Bay Harbor, where the large anchorage was surprisingly unpopulated. With an eye on the sounder, I picked a midharbor spot in 15 to 20 feet of water. I dropped and set the CQR, then dived over the side to inspect. Sand had buried the plowshares, while the shank and chain rested on the seabed. No coral heads or rocks to foul the anchor lines or chain.

  With no breeze, it was hot, sweaty work. I rigged the 75-pound fisherman-style storm anchor, this time securing two nylon rodes to the 30 feet of chain. I let one line slack to take up the strain as the first one stretched out. I slipped the anchor over the side into the dinghy, motored out and set it, creating a V with the chain on the CQR. To mark each anchor’s position, I buoyed each with an empty gallon water jug. This, I figured, would alert others not to anchor between them.

Next, I spliced a thimble into one end of a 30-foot nylon snubbing line, shackled it to the anchor chain, slipped a 3-foot length of reinforced hose on for chafing gear, tied off the bitter end on the Samson post, and then let out 10 more feet of chain, allowing the snubber to take the chain’s weight. Now, before the chain became taut, the nylon line would stretch out, cushioning the CQR anchor. 

I rigged chafing gear on the two rodes that ran over the bronze rollers on the bowsprit to the fisherman-style anchor, then deployed a third anchor off the port quarter, just in case. I stowed all the deck gear below but decided to leave the dodger in place, giving me a place to hide out of the wind.

While wolfing down a PB&J sandwich at lunch, I listened to a commercial radio station on St. Thomas. Hugo would hit Guadeloupe that night with wind gusts up to 140 mph. We would begin to feel the effects of the storm the next evening. We could expect winds over 100 mph, with gusts to 140.

Toward evening, with little left to do, my concern turned to worry, and then anxiety. My mouth was dry. A knot grew in my belly. My mind raced with disaster scenarios. A chain link would part. An anchor would break out. Afaran would be driven into the mangroves astern. Another yacht would drag down on us, entangling its anchor line with mine. The hulls would smash, with the storm dragging both boats to the beach. 

 Then my rational brain spoke up. When in trouble, what do you do? Seek local knowledge. I needed to talk to someone.

It was happy hour ashore at Skinny Legs Bar and Grill. I pulled up a stool next to someone I knew: a burly Kiwi named Derek. He was the mechanic at Cruz Bay Shipyard who had worked on my boat. Seated on the opposite side were his wife and teenage daughter. They lived in Coral Harbor on their 50-foot ketch, which was anchored on the other side of the harbor from me.

“How can anyone expect to survive a hurricane like this?” I asked.

“It can be done,” Derek said, slowly nursing a Red Stripe.

“It blew 115 knots during Hurricane Emily two years ago when I was in Bermuda,” I said. “It lasted only two hours, but that was enough for me. It’s supposed to blow 140 knots, and for 10 to 12 hours. I don’t see how any boat can survive.”

“Go forward every half-hour and inspect the chafing gear.”

“How can you see anything when the wind blows rain in your face at 100 miles an hour?”

“Use a mask and snorkel.” 

That sounded reasonable. 

He added: “Most of the damage done to boats at anchor or on a mooring during a storm comes from lines that chafe through.”

I had one more question, as I glanced at his wife and daughter: “Are you staying on your boat or going ashore?” 

“Stay with your boat,” he said. “Protect your boat—it’s your home. Just check the chafe gear every half-hour. It’s the one thing you can do to ensure that you have a boat the next day.”

I ordered Derek another Red Stripe, and all four of us tucked into a dinner of conch fritters and fries at the bar.

Later, under an almost full moon, I removed my dinghy’s outboard engine, secured it in the cockpit, and hauled the dinghy on deck, deflated it, and packed it in its bag, securing it to the life raft just forward of the mast. Then I crawled into my bunk. 

The night was full of dreams—huge waves, pounding surf—and the feeling of being underwater, rolling around.

Sunday, September 17

The day was still and hot. There was nothing more I could think to do. I sat on the foredeck, reading Tom Clancy’s The Cardinal of the Kremlin. As more boats arrived, I shooed away those ­attempting to anchor in front of me.

In the afternoon, high, thin clouds began to cover the ­eastern sky. The land-based AM radio stations were full of news. Hugo had crossed over Guadeloupe the night before, with winds over 140 miles per hour, 20-foot waves and a 2- to 3-foot surge. A dozen people were killed. Hugo’s expected path would bring it directly over the Virgin Islands from that night until the next morning.

By dusk, more than 50 boats were anchored all around me in Coral Bay. Some people dropped a single anchor, left their sails on, jumped into their dinghy, and went ashore. Few stayed aboard. 

As dusk arrived, so did the tendrils of wind, sweeping down from the sky to hit the water at the far edge of the moored fleet and then shoot across the harbor, tearing up the water, kicking up spray and knocking boats flat. It went roaring up the hillside, stripping leaves from the trees. It left a brown path of snapped trees and torn-up brush in its wake. 

This went on as darkness fell. I sat on the life raft and watched.

Then the rain began—not all at once, but in fits and starts, along with the wind that came and went. I went down and stuffed a can of warm beef stew into my stomach. I put on my foul-weather jacket, pulled the hood over my head, and strapped on my dive mask to keep the hood in place. I was not about to leave my bald head unprotected. 

I would be spending the entire night on the foredeck, crammed in between the windlass and the bulwarks, out of the wind.

By 10 p.m., we were in it. The winds initially came from the east, then gradually shifted to the south as Hugo’s eye slowly moved northwestward, passing just 30 miles south of us, over St. Croix.

Gusts blew well over 100 knots. By 2 a.m., we had 5- to 10-foot swells entering the harbor. Afaran rose to meet each swell, only to plunge into the steep troughs. I worried that we might hit the bottom, but the surge had increased the water’s depth. We bottomed out only twice, with a thud.

I lay on the deck, in the dark, the wind shrieking through the boat’s rigging, the air full of rain and spray blown off the tops of breaking waves. A gust would hit the boat, and it would rear back like a horse trying to shake the halter. With my flashlight, I watched as the nylon lines stretched out. Then, when the gust retreated, Afaran would surge forward, the stretched-out nylon rodes acting like rubber bands. The lines hung limp off the bow rollers until the next gust drove us back. 

Every 15 minutes, I turned on my flashlight and inspected the rodes and chafing gear. I was gratified to watch the bronze bow rollers as the rodes and snubber line stretched out. This ­minimized friction compared with stationary chocks. 

Occasionally, the night was ablaze with light. Derek, on his boat, had fired up his big searchlight and was sweeping the harbor to see what was happening. I raised my head above the gunwale to follow the light. Each sweep saw an increasing ­number of yachts piled up on the beach.

On deck, the noise was deafening, like standing on a New York City subway platform as the express roared through. Every hour or so, I crawled back to the cockpit to check the ­windspeed. Steady at 100 knots. 

Descending below, I found the cabin alarmingly serene compared with the hell up on deck. I’d drink water and tap the barometer. The needle would jump down—the hurricane was still advancing on us.

By 3 a.m., things were at their worst. Derek’s spotlight revealed that more of the anchored boats were missing. The 90-foot Bermuda yacht had taken two others ashore with it.

By 5 a.m., it was getting lighter. At 7 a.m., I could stand on deck. I removed my mask and snorkel, and looked around. 

There had been 55 boats anchored in Coral Bay. I counted only five of us still riding to our anchors. The mangroves and the beach road were lined with boats, two and three deep.

At 9 a.m., it was all over. The wind stopped. The sun came out. 

It had been 12 hours. Hurricane Hugo had left the building.

 My boat never lost electrical power, refrigeration, music or a working stove. As Afaran and I cruised from island to island, we were alone. For a week, I saw no other boats underway. It felt as if we were the last boat left in the world.

Editor’s Note: Six years after Hurricane Hugo, Lyman rode out Hurricane Luis aboard Afaran at anchor in Mayo Bay, in St. John, USVI, before Hurricane Marilyn finally took Afaran, leaving behind only the mast, engine and pieces of the hull no larger than a refrigerator door. Lyman was not aboard during that storm. 

The post Riders on the Storm appeared first on Cruising World.

It was, in fact, dark and stormy on that night in September 2023. The sunset had been extraordinary, shining orange and pink on breakers pounding the headland of Great Wass Island in Beals, Maine. Spray leapt 20 feet into the darkening night until the lasting image was foamy fangs of white against the gloom. 

Hurricane Lee had sent these waves as shock troops before the true impact. The wind was fitful at first, and then it steadied from the northeast. Our 43-foot cutter, Gusto, moved against its anchor, pulling slack and then settling into the center of the deep water. 

Then it was full night. The clouds moved in. The only lights were our own. 

When the storm hit, our initial experience was not through sight, but through the ears and the body. Our eyes were locked out by cloudy midnight and sheets of rain, but our ears magnified the creaking anchor rode. Our bodies felt the rattle of halyards and pounding rain on the deck. 

As the big blast arrived and the first big tug on the anchor held, I was up the ­companionway. The spotlight showed trees raving wildly around, catching the wind and holding the worst gusts above us. The water was coated in pine needles and dust. This hurricane harbor was like a foxhole, and we were down there getting religion. 

This was the first time that I had ever been on board in a place where the National Weather Service predicted a hurricane would hit. For most of us, hurricanes happen to other people. This one was about to hit me, my wife, Whitney, and our Gusto. 

When a hurricane is headed in your direction, what decisions need to be made? Which ones do you absolutely need to get right? The first attempt at most anything is tricky, whether that’s changing the impeller or docking the boat. 

The biggest lesson I learned from Hurricane Lee? The psychological challenges are as big as the physical ones.

At the Start

The National Hurricane Center advisory for September 13 was that Lee would remain a large and dangerous cyclone while it approached eastern New England and Atlantic Canada. Hurricane conditions and coastal flooding were possible in eastern Maine, southern New Brunswick and western Nova Scotia, and a Hurricane Watch was in effect.

It was an unusual advisory. Most years in Maine, these systems spin out to sea. Hurricane Lee made it personal by coming straight for us. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Lee was supposed to fade east, and we were supposed to enjoy Down East cruising from Roque Island to Eastport before coasting on to Nova Scotia. 

Cell coverage is not what it could be on that bold coast, so, after a placid phone-free weekend, it was bracing to sail into cell service and see the phone light up with texts: “Look out!” “Plan for Lee?” “You might be in the bull’s-eye” “Pull the boat and move ashore!” 

There was the bright-red pinwheel passing Bermuda and tracking by Cape Cod, Massachusetts, toward this cul de sac where Maine ends and Canada begins. This storm wasn’t blowing itself out to sea. It was blowing itself right up Gusto’s wake like a big, bad wolf on our scent. 

Whitney and I sailed to nearby Jonesport to make our plan.

Today, you know that Hurricane Lee landed as a tropical storm, and that winds merely blew 60. In the pause preceding impact, we had only alerts and imaginations. For most cruisers, when the storm has passed, it is easy to assert a confident storm strategy. But the days before, while a sinister swell rocks the sea, we all feel ambivalence. I know that I did. At that time, those of us afloat between Schoodic Point and Cape Sable had three days to ponder just how violent our tropical visitor would be.

That interval interests me: the time between innocent summer cruising and the deadly named storm. Given how warm and stormy the Atlantic has become, we should all get better at this process of preparing for impact. 

Into this countdown, every skipper packs weighty decisions that can’t be undone. Your choices about location or anchor or boatyard accumulate into a storm reckoning. You wrestle with uncertainty, hesitate to make definite decisions from indefinite information, strain your brain while sharing evolving ideas. I suppose I’m saying that storm preparation is physical and mental, and it’s worth acknowledging that the story of tying lines and setting anchors can look far too straightforward. 

The truth is, Lee kind of wore me out. The maritime museum in Castine has old photos of schooner captains. They look careworn, stern and preoccupied. Now I know why. 

Analyze, Think, Repeat

Today’s sailors have weather information that the skippers of yore would have drowned their mates for. Yet, we have so much information from so many sources that we get overwhelmed—salty paralysis by analysis. We’ve all become anxious supercomputers processing web pages and storm videos and weather routing and insurance disclaimers and Weather Service alerts. Surely you’ve seen the cruisers at one marina or another circling around and around the forecast with decision anxiety.

And why not? That storm strategy might be the most important decision any of us make, and we have to make it in soggy shoes, considering places we’ve never been, obliging crew with travel plans, and waiting for new forecasts. The old-time sailors sniffed the breeze and tapped the barometer. Whitney and I reloaded updates in far-flung harbors with spotty cell service, holding our devices skyward like pagans propitiating sky gods. 

The first question for any storm is: Where do I put this boat? From our anchorage off Roque Island, Jonesport was close and attractive. We motored there through fog denser than lobster bisque. Then we wedged into a man-made affair that crowds four-score lobster boats between town and breakwater. 

Too bad that it was open to the northeast, and too bad that the northeast was where Lee would blow the hardest. Whitney wondered, “Would a mooring get us through?” 

The generous folks at the Jonesport Shipyard thought theirs would, even though Gusto was the largest of four sailboats in the harbor. Staying there and hoping for the best was certainly tempting but, deep down, felt like the ostrich option where we put the pennant on the cleat and hope. This forecast had so much northeast in it and these boats were so close together that we were tempted to do this easy thing, but we decided to find another plan. 

“I’d put her up on land,” the dockhand said. “Safe as going to church.” 

Around us, lobstermen hurried to pull their boats. I asked Whitney, “What about hauling?” Doable: Haul Gusto at the shipyard, put a bunch of jack stands around her, cinch down everything, rent a room on high ground. She joked that it was like my Sharktivity app that spots great whites and warns: “The only way to avoid sharks is to stay onshore.” 

But hauling your boat on short notice in a small harbor is not simple. As we talked it through, I concluded that I didn’t want to see Gusto stilted precariously above some parking lot by people I barely knew. Could they even schedule us? We didn’t want to pester these generous folks about scheduling and extra jack stands and tie-downs and space from other boats. And, if we weathered all that, then we’d have to get her launched amid all the fishermen hungry to get back to work. No, those deficiencies were real, and sufficient to focus my mind on hurricane holes.

Our third option was to anchor Gusto somewhere with good wind protection, sufficient room to swing, and shelter from waves. We wanted a hurricane hole. 

The Plan

I’m glad to say that what Down East Maine lacks in luxury amenities, it overachieves in steep-sided coves. A hurricane hole is a secure anchorage, a natural refuge from a storm’s wind, waves and surge. The chart showed a snug shelter not far from Jonesport called Mud Hole. A promising title for our heavy anchor.

Mud Hole looked to have the requisite characteristics for surviving Hurricane Lee: wave protection from all sides; wind protection from most directions, and especially the north; good holding; and room to swing. 

The morning of September 14, we untied from our Jonesport mooring and felt the rising tide lift us toward Mud Hole on Great Wass Island. We motored through cloying fog with only a few lobstermen for company on the radar, and we hoped that this decision would be the right one.

Mud Hole is basically an Olympic-size pool reached through a crooked passage and hemmed in by 50-foot trees atop 20-foot cliffs. That’s a lot of shelter.

The long axis is a half-mile of east to west, and the short axis is 400 feet of north to south. You enter on a rising tide and then place yourself in the center of the muddy pool that gives the place its name. Hurricane holes turn out to be like music clubs in New York: The harder it is to get in, the better it is once you’re there. Sheltering banks north and south, mud flats to the west, and a sinuous maze of ledges to the east. A fjord? Whitney’s Norwegian ancestors probably wouldn’t call it a fjord, but it was close enough for our purposes.

Obviously, it felt good to be there because the protection was profound, but it also felt good to be there because we had decided to live with our decision. No more studying storm videos or wondering about Travelifts. It was time to get into the physical process of storm preparation. 

My own punch list is probably shorter than many sailors would make, and probably more than a few others would complete. In this case, my attention went to anchoring, windage, chafe, scuppers, dinghy, sleep and food.

These are mostly self-­explanatory items, but a couple merit discussion. First is my choice to put out a second anchor. I’ve read anchor theory about two anchors on one rode (tandem anchoring), and I’ve sailed in the Bahamas enough to know about the Bahamian moor, but my approach in Mud Hole was simpler than both, and it worked. 

Basically, the primary Rocna went in toward the north side of our muddy pool, and we set it well. That’s 73 pounds of Rocna and 120 feet of chain in the mud. Then Whitney and I fished out our trusty Fortress, attached its chain to line rode, and motored at a 60-degree angle west of the Rocna. We tossed the Fortress over, set it well, and then adjusted that rode to complement the primary. 

This V theory trusted that the primary would hold us when the wind hit. If we dragged the primary at all, then our Fortress would get involved in holding us against the north wind. As the weather backed west late in the storm passage, I wanted the Fortress to keep us off the new lee shore to our east. So the two anchors were set to compound their holding in the primary blow, and then to guard against dragging east when the wind backed gusty to the west.

Of course, swinging room is paramount to any anchor plan. We had our choice in lonely Mud Hole. In Gusto’s days there, we had not one other visitor—not a fisherman , not a powerboat, not a sailboat. It’s important to have space to anchor away from others whose gear might fail, so I felt glad about that security. 

At the same time, Whitney and I couldn’t help but wish for one other salty craft, an experienced skipper to say, “You’ve chosen well.” Some ancient mariner with a tale of great storms weathered in this perfect spot. 

Instead, it was just me and my swinging room to ponder what would come next.

Preparations

The anchors performed even better than I’d hoped, with the big Rocna holding tight and the sturdy Fortress doing its part against the west wind. It was easy to adjust the rope rode on the Fortress because Gusto swung on the ­primary, so I could fine-tune that other scope within inches of my goal. 

Our sturdy bow pulpit and anchor roller made it straightforward to pad the rope rode for chafe and set the primary chain on my burliest snubber. The only real complication for these dual anchors came the day before Lee arrived. That day’s mellow calm let the tide swing Gusto in a lazy circle that tangled the rodes. Solving that was much easier than most boat projects: I walked the dinghy forward, undid the rope rode from its cleat, passed it in a bundle the correct way around the chain, and cleated it again. 

Obviously, that’s not the sort of unweaving I could do in 50 knots of wind, but they tangled only because there was a calm and a 12-foot tide in those hours before the system arrived.

Windage was on my mind when Lee was reported gusting 100 in the Gulf Stream. Whitney and I took down the genoa, flaked it, and brought it below. Our mainsail furls into the Schaefer boom, so we tucked that in as snugly as it would go and then tied off the boom. We removed the sides of the dodger but left the canvas over the top because we felt so well-protected by the Mud Hole topography. We removed loose cockpit items and prettied all the running rigging with any slack.  

OK, so that was wind. Whitney pointed out that if we were going to get drenched under 6 inches of rain, we’d better think drainage. 

Kind woman at the grocery store: “You on that sailboat? You take your pretty wife and come stay with me. You’ll both get killed out there.” 

The scuppers were clear of obstructing lines. The cockpit drains I snaked clean before any flying debris would clog them. The hatches and dodger would just have to do what they were made to do. 

As it turned out, Gusto drained well. Indeed, we used galley pans to gather water for cooking in the deluge. The only problem was that our gallant dinghy gathered so much rain so fast that I had to bail her with a bucket in a momentary lull. 

And, yes, the dinghy trailed aft instead of being hoisted aboard. Others might have deflated their dinghy, but we thought that our little inflatable could be as content trailing there as on a daysail towing behind. And it was…except for collecting 50 gallons of rainwater.

Finally, we set the intention to make extra food, eat regularly, and get plenty of rest. I figured I’d be up all night during the storm, so any extra sleep I could get would be money in the proverbial bank. And it was.

And then… 

After all of that preparation, Hurricane Lee became Tropical Storm Lee. To be honest, the real work was the mental processing of all those storm tracks and the constant shifting of all those variables between Gusto and shelter. In this sense, the expectations were the hardest part because they kept changing, while the storm preparations in Mud Hole were simple physical actions we’d performed dozens of times. Each small chore made us feel more in control of our destiny while the clock counted down to impact. 

The grind for skippers is surely the mental pressure to make clear choices from fluctuating inputs about storm track, timing and direction. This means that hurricane planning should include storm psychology. To me, it seems crucial to allow time and energy for that mental element, recognizing that once you have selected your storm strategy, enacting it is a familiar series of seamanlike tasks. 

Of course, others might say that storms often miss, and that all these preparations are just nervous foolishness—unhealthy signs of an edgy disposition. 

Maybe. But remember, if the storm hits, all this preparation is the only thing between your pants and the cold waters of eternity.

The post Surviving the Storm: A Sailor’s Tale of Hurricane Lee appeared first on Cruising World.

Relief efforts for Hurricane Beryl are underway in the Caribbean after the storm pounded Carriacou, Petite Martinique and the Grenadines on Wednesday.

Beryl, the first hurricane of 2024, has made headlines for its devastating damage in the Caribbean before more recently making landfall in Texas. The storm began unusually early this year as an exceptionally dangerous category 5 hurricane. The National Weather Service has previously predicted above-normal hurricane activity in the Atlantic basin this year with 4 to 7 major hurricanes.

Following what is expected to be catastrophic damage in Grenada’s islands, Caribbean sailing publisher Doyle Guides has created a list of items needed for relief efforts. Grenada’s National Disaster Management Agency (NaDMA) has requested the following items:

• Water
• Tarpaulin (100ft, 40x30ft)
• Nonperishable food (powdered milk, canned vegetables, sardines, corn, etc.) that has an expiry date at least 1 year from now.
• Cots & sleeping blankets
• Pillows
• Batteries & battery packs
• Hygiene kits for women, men, and children
• Toiletries
• First aid kits
• Hand sanitizers
• Sanitary napkins
• Baby diapers & wipes
• Baby formula
• Adult diapers
• 5-gallon Jerry cans (water)
• Reflective vests
• Collapsible water bladders (3,000 gallons and bigger)
• Emergency solar/battery-operated radios
• Flashlights (solar)
• Solar lights
• Generators (2,000+ watts)
• Chainsaws + Spare bars & chains (18 – 32-inch blades)
• Fuel cans
• Books/coloring books for children
• Medical supplies (please contact NaDMA in advance about these)

In addition, people on the ground are asking for;

• Hard-bottom shoes to protect against hazardous debris
• Temporary housing (tents, sleeping bags, inflatable beds)
• Water filters (easy to assemble and use)
• Short-range communication devices (VHF radios, walkie-talkies)
• Solar fans, hats, sunglasses, sunblock, long sleeve shirts
• Waterproof containers to store remaining belongings
• Electric wires (3G, 2.5mm)
• Headlights
• Tape
• Gas
• Waterproof bags

Doyle Guides notes that these needs will likely change over time, and sorting donations in advance would be helpful. 

The publication has also compiled a list of relief efforts organized by location and type (monetary or goods). Doyle Guides states that they have not had time to vet any of these efforts, and this is simply a list of those available. 

Additionally, those who decide to sail to affected areas without guidance of an official organization should keep in mind that these islands are still in a state of upheaval, and secure storage and equitable distribution are major concerns. Blindly leaving donations ashore unattended or without direction could result in potential looting and unfair distribution.

As much as we’ve tried to confirm the details on this page with official sources, there are still conflicting reports, even between government officials of the same country,” Doyle Guides states on their website. “Be aware that any aid that you attempt to deliver outside of established organizations like Hope Fleet, NaDMA, MAYAG, and NEMO may be out of line with prevailing government regulations at the time.”

Doyle Guides’ list of relief organizations is available below.

For those sailing abroad

Hope Fleet has partnered with the Seven Seas Cruising Association to organize boats willing to transport humanitarian supplies to the affected areas. Those interested in helping sail to any of the affected areas with donations can sign up here. You will be asked to prepare and provide a list of items you are bringing.

• In St. Vincent & The Grenadines: Please email svgremotelogistics@gmail.com ,who are coordinating yacht-based aid efforts with the St. Vincent National Emergency Management Organisation (NEMO). 

• In Carriacou: Yachts with donations can now bring them directly to Carriacou. After Ours / Frog’s restaurant in Tyrell Bay is being set up as a community center with a community kitchen and day care, and is accepting and organizing relief supplies for distribution. 
• You can dock (or use the dinghy dock) at Tyrell Bay Marina to offload donations, but call or WhatsApp Joanna at +1-473-419-6492 in advance to schedule a time for her to meet you. If you are unable to do so, ask for Emma Williams or the NaDMA team at the dock. 
• Please have a detailed list of your donations to give them, and it would be helpful if you could sort donations ahead of time. Please arrive fully self-sufficient with full gas and water tanks.
• Great care should be taken on approach and when anchoring as there is debris everywhere and sunken boats. A PDF map of Carriacou and Petite Martinique with nautical information (created in 2020) is available here.

• In Grenada: The Marine & Yachting Association of Grenada is organizing volunteers, deliveries, and taking donations from Gleans Garage on the Lagoon in Grenada. Email mayagadmin2@gmail.com if you would like to help transport donations to Carriacou.
• If you would like any assistance upon arrival in Grenada, please contact Caribbean Sailing Association Board Member Brian Sylvester in Grenada at +1 (473) 535-2583.
• Noonsite.com also advises to hail the Coast Guard on channel 16 when you’re within distance of Grenada with your intentions as there have been reports of looting. Great care should be taken on approach and when anchoring as there is debris everywhere and sunken boats.

Local Relief Organizations

• Grenada’s National Disaster Management Agency (NaDMA) – Elvis Young: 473-419-0199, Terry Charles: 473-420-9207, relief@nadma.gd, www.nadma.gd, Facebook Page
• Grenada Red Cross – +1 473-404-1483, team@grenadaredcross.gd, www.grenadaredcross.gd, Facebook Page
• Caribbean Disaster Emergency Management Agency – Keith Goddard, Communications and Public Relations Specialist, (246) 434-4880, keith.goddard@cdema.org
• Action Bequia is accepting monetary donations to aid the Grenadines here.

If you are in Grenada

• Grenada’s National Disaster Management Agency (NaDMA) is accepting items daily at the NaDMA Headquarters in Morne Jaloux, St. George. More info +1 473-440-8391, relief@nadma.gd. Facebook post with list of items needed here. 
• MAYAG is organizing volunteers, deliveries, and donations from Gleans Garage on the Lagoon. They are also looking for boats to deliver items. Email email mayagadmin2@gmail.com or meet at Gleans at 10am any day this week (July 1st). Facebook post here.
• Items can also be delivered to Breakfast Bites on Kirani James Blvdfrom Tuesday to Friday Between 9am and 5pm. To request pickup of items call or Whatsapp Annandale Waterfall & Forest Park / Lady Irie – 473- 421-4320. Facebook post here.

International & Monetary

• GOVERNMENT OF GRENADA NATURAL DISASTER FUND (more info here)

You can now donate through an online payment portal here, or via wire transfer to the accounts listed below.

Beneficiary: Government of Grenada Natural Disaster Relief Fund
Beneficiary Bank: Grenada Co-operative Bank Limited
Swift code: GROAGDGD
Bank address: 8 Church Street St. Georges
Beneficiary A/C #: 121004900

CORRESPONDING BANK FOR USD TRANSACTIONS

Bank Name: Bank of America
Bank Address: Miami, FL
SWIFT: BOFAUS3M
Account No.: 1901964767
ABA #: 026009593

CORRESPONDING BANK FOR CAD TRANSACTIONS

Bank Name: Bank of Montreal
Bank Address: The International Branch, Toronto, Canada
SWIFT: BOFMCAT2
Account #: 1019198
TRANSIT #: 31442 001

CORRESPONDING BANK FOR GBP/EUR TRANSACTIONS

Bank: Lloyds TSB Bank
Address: UK International Services, London, UK
SWIFT: LOYDGB2L
Sort Code: 30-96-34
GBP
Account No.: 01017544
IBAN: GB98LOYD30963401017544
EUR
Account No.: 86161549
IBAN: GB32LOYD30963486161549

• The High Commission for Grenada in the UK is accepting monetary donations to the following account: 

Grenada Disaster Relief Fund
Account Name: Grenada Disaster Relief Fund
Account number: 00584503
Sort Code: 30-92-83

The High Commission will also have a donation desk at Heritage Day scheduled for July 6th at Perth Road Playing Field, White Hart Lane, Wood Green, N22 5QJ. We will be prepared to accept financial donations there, and to provide additional information on the shipment of food and other items to Grenada.

Should you require any additional information, please feel free to contact the Mission at office@grenada-highcommission.co.uk or call 02073854415/ 07375330696.

Official notice on the website here.

• Global Giving Hurricane Beryl Relief Fund (tax deductible) is here.

• General GoFundMe campaigns

A general Union Island GoFundMe campaign is here.

A general Mayreau GoFundMe campaign is here.

A general Carriacou & PM GoFundMe campaign is here and here.

The Carriacou Animal Hospital GoFundMe here or PayPal here.

Additional GoFundMe’s are available on Doyle Guides’ original post found here.

Item Donations by Location

• Caribbean – In St. Martin, MV Spirit will be accepting cargo from July 10th – 13 for stops in Dominica, Antigua, St. Lucia, and St. Vincent. Contact Tanya from Instant Shipping services at +590-690-65-20-37

In Antigua, Promise Kept Shipping will be accepting cargo July 4th – 6th to go on MV Spirit. Contact +1-268-783-5299

• London, UK – You can donate items and funds to: Mo Better Cuts, 316a Ladbroke Grove, London, W10 5NQ …Or….300 Old Brompton Rd, London, SW5 9LB

More info: Saskia, 07572492258, Facebook post here.

Islandwayz Limited UK is also collecting items and will be shipping a few containers of building materials, food, furniture, appliances, and household items from the UK. Closing date is July 15th and they can pickup items within the London area. Call +447456534772 to arrange pickup or for more info. 

They are also accepting monetary donations to go towards purchasing items in the UK, shipping costs, and immediate aid. See the Facebook post here for details. 

• New York, U.S. – You can donate items and funds to; 

July 3rd – 8th to Compass Shipping, 730 Chester St., Brooklyn NY, 11236, (718) 773-5430, 9am – 4pm. Label drop-offs To: Solange Dowden, c/o Valini, Lavish & Wings of Sparrow. Facebook post here.

July 5th – Aug 5th at Nostrad Hall, 713 Nostrad Ave, Brooklyn NY, 11216. Mon- Fri 4pm – 7pm. Contact Natasha for more info 929-386-6037 / 347-322-2347. Facebook post here.

1369 Rockaway Pkwy, Brooklyn NY, 11236. Before dropoff call +1 (347) 371-5443 or WhatsApp 929-428-5328. See Facebook post here.

Irica Frank, 2003 Bergen St, Brooklyn NY, 11233, Contact SpiceKidd (631) 948-8964. Facebook post here.

Camelo (Garz), 963 E 77th St, Brooklyn NY, 11326, Contact SpiceKidd (631) 948-8964. Facebook post here.

HMF Foundation – Whiskeys Shippers & Movers Inc, 4461 East 99th St, Brooklyn NY. More info +1-473-425-1098, hmffund@gmail.com. Facebook post here.

• New Jersey, U.S. – You can donate items and funds to; 340 Amherst St. East Orange NJ, 07018. Contact SpiceKidd (631) 948-8964. Facebook post here.

• Atlanta, U.S. – You can donate items and funds to; HMF Foundation – 2047 Gees Mill Rd, Suite 226, Conyers GA, 30013. More info +1-473-425-1098, hmffund@gmail.com. Facebook post here.

• Florida, U.S. – Global Empowerment Mission is accepting item donations Mon – Fri 10am – 5pm at 1850 NW 84th Ave, STE 100, Doral FL, 33126. info@globalempowermentmission.org. More info here.

• Canada – You can donate items and funds to; HMF Foundation – 13 Fairglen Ave, Unit 1, Brampton ON, L6X 5E8. More info +1-473-425-1098, hmffund@gmail.com. Facebook post here.

The post Hurricane Beryl Relief Efforts: How You Can Help appeared first on Cruising World.

It figures that a hurricane’s projected track aimed right at our Stevens 47, Totem, while we were an ocean away from it, having traveled by jet from Mexico to Europe and South Africa. That was Hurricane Kay, in early September. Last week brought Hurricane Ian, which we watched approach Florida, glued to updates, fearing for the boats and livelihoods of friends along Florida’s west coast.  

Actively tracking weather is one of the most consistent features of life on a cruising boat. You don’t just feel the elements more directly; your immediate security is weather-driven. Looking at GRIBs through PredictWind remains our mainstay weather tool. And, we love the new GMDSS addition: graphical display of GMDSS text forecast details (lows, highs, tropical depressions, fronts) over a GRIB. Anyone in my husband Jamie’s classes at Cruisers University in Annapolis from October 10-16 will see a bunch of these. 

Other specialty tools provide input to keep informed and make decisions about our everyday comfort and safety. Writing recently about chubascos, a weather phenomenon in the Sea of Cortez, we focused on how valuable the GOES band 11 viewer is for anticipating these weather bombs. Here are other tools that may be less commonly tapped, but helpful for those of us living at weather level. 

Weather Radar

Radar is an excellent tool when it’s available. Radar on a boat is a fine way to get squall size, location and tracking to mitigate the conditions (Squall tracking, more than avoiding hazards at the night or in fog, is the #1 use of Totem’s radar, in fact). Weather service radar, accessed via the internet, offers a dynamic wider-region view. This requires internet bandwidth.  

A weather radar source with a time loop helps visualize movement and the squall or front’s increasing or decreasing footprint, to preemptively adjust course and or speed. You may not be able to bypass the weather, but even reducing the duration of your exposure to volatile weather is useful. 

On our last days in South Africa, we actually had more wind than Puerto Peñascohad, Mexico, from Hurricane Kay’s attempted swipe—this front line brought 50-plus knots. It was wild to watch (from inside a cozy beach house), but for locals, was “just another Sunday.” 

Real-Time Lighting

Real-Time lighting strike maps show where the sky is more or less electric. Like radar, this tool provides a visual for a storm’s size, intensity and track. For folks on boats, the devastating power of lightning can be even more daunting than wind and rain. 

We like the display on the website Blitzortung for this, and there are a range of real-time lightning map mobile apps as well.

Satellite Imagery

Another satellite imagery resource is Zoom.earth. It’s instructive, but not targeted. Still, for sharing satellite-informed views of your location without freaking out your kids or in-laws, try giving them this view. The red areas show heat detected by satellites. This tool influenced our driving route to avoid hot-season wildfires.

Surge Estimators

Hurricane Kay ended up tracking outside of Baja, California, a much lower risk to Totem than it might have been if it tracked up the Sea of Cortez. But it was late when we considered that, even though the system was relatively distant, there might be a surge effect near our boat’s location. And, as Murphy’s Law would dictate, of course it would coincide with peak tidal swings in an area notorious for extremes (22 feet isn’t unusual). We watched CERA, a collaboration between the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and Louisiana State University, for modeling surge. It indicated that water might not just rise above the level of the slipway, but also spill further into the yard. Not so good for boats in sand or gravel, and not good news for things on the ground. Like our new-in-the-box engine.

Water level exceeding the slipway would have been a first at the boatyard. (We still, by the way, feel this is the best possible option for hurricane season on the Pacific side of Mexico.) From South Africa, we watched and waited for updates. 

And recently, we watched as the surge forecast from Hurricane Ian developed for Florida—especially Southwest Florida, where folks we care about in Punta Gorda have their catamaran. It was tough to see the surge increase and consider the havoc it caused. NOAA’s estimate was 12 to 18 feet. There’s not much good that comes from an 18-foot surge (or even “just” 12 feet) when you’re tied to a fixed dock. 

Wave And Swell

Boaters tend to focus on the wind forecast, the sea state tends to be a much bigger influence for real feel on a boat. And yet, wave and swell forecasts have long been the least accurate reflection of real feel in the weather toolkit. GRIB Wave forecasts only display one wave forecast at a time. Secondary or tertiary waves and swell, such as a swell from a far-off gale, can really increase the motion of the ocean. The information is often available, but clunky to view and interpret. PredictWind has a new tool set that uses all wave and swell data, and then models roll, pitching and slamming based on specific dimensions of a given boat. Its new Automatic Wave Routing feature is a big step toward interpreting a real-feel to make go or no-go decisions. 

If we’re near a surfing region, we also sometimes use surfer websites such as Magic Seaweed to understand the magnitude of local swells. Farther offshore, there might be a weather buoy near a planned route. Looking at real-time data, such as NOAA’s National Data Buoy Center site, can help determine the accuracy of forecast information.  

Tsunami Danger

This isn’t something we really thought about a lot before cruising, but we’ve ended up needing to track tsunamis a few times when we were potentially in risk zones. It’s no joke, and we know enough people who have had truly dangerous tsunami events while cruising. 

While our first tsunami was a nonevent, the second warranted more attention: We watched as the depth changed 6 feet up then 6 feet down in 15-minute intervals. One boat missed a swing and ran aground in a channel.

What are your tools for this? A U.S. Geological Survey website details earthquakes worldwide, and a global scattering of tsunami monitoring stations are on this UNESCO-funded site.  

The 2022 hurricane season finally did get spicy, as promised. While Hurricane Ian left a trail of heartbreak in Florida, we received news that our friends’ boat in Punta Gorda came through nearly unscathed. So many others did not. Neighboring boats were found sunk, or on top of the dock, or in the adjacent yard. And now, on the Pacific side, we watch Orlene. The tropical depression is expected to become a hurricane, and is tracking toward Mazatlan and the Sea of Cortez, where we lie at the northern tip.

The post Sailing Totem: Adding Tools to the Weather Toolbox appeared first on Cruising World.

After hours of grinding fiberglass, my dust-covered clothes are tossed in the washing machine on Totem. Washing them twice is my end of the day routine. Totem’s water tank was low, so I put hose to deck fill and opened the tap. As municipal water slowly trickled in, I went below and shifted focus to an article I’m writing while waiting for the first cycle of washing to complete. My head became immersed in the language of safety at sea: how can I communicate techniques to help cruisers think about their approach? In a meditative blink, it was time to start the second round of laundry, then pack up and walk back to our apartment… another exhausting day done.

The next morning, Behan and I drove in to the yard to check with the painters on supplies we needed for priming Totem’s hull. Pancho reported hearing a pump running inside the boat. Weird, I thought, climbing the ladder to check. Sliding the companionway open and looking inside to HOLY FLOATING FLOORBOARDS! Water, water everywhere! Three inches above the floorboards. Shit, I forgot the hose…?!

My mistake, and one to recover from and then chuckle over: this was a series of three failure points breached.

1. Normally, an overfilled tank would back up the vent and drain overboard, but I had the tank inspection port loosened.
2. Normally, the tank overflowing and flooding the boat would activate the bilge pump and send the excess water overboard.
3. Normally, we’re not painting our hull, with all through hulls removed. The bilge hose WAS poking through the hull, but it got bumped, pushed, shoved, kicked, coaxed, enticed, seduced… well, who knows!? The point is that this hose no longer exited the boat. Our trusty 4,400 gallon per hour pump bilge worked hard all night, sending water into a closed locker and back down into the bilge.

I was well on the way to sinking Totem on dry land! Some days… Water drained and dried and without damage, even the submerged freshwater pump worked fine. And the lesson is? Totem is missing water. We all are…

While water cascaded out of Totem, Jamie’s head popped over the rail with an expression somewhere between shock and mirth as he looked down at me and Pancho. Once identified and rectified, what else could we do but laugh at the situation? There’s no damage, or not much; it’s water. The pump for our pressure system was submerged; it dried out and starts, so far. The engine starter may be impacted – right, the engine that we’re removing. Mostly it’s a cleanup job, as our less-than-sparkling bilge contents were distributed around the boat, several inches over the sole. But the wetted wood was dry in hours, thanks to the desert climate.

We all have bad days! And hopefully, you’re not having any like ours lately. There are also good days: the work Jamie’s getting done in the transom is AWESOME. The swim steps are taking shape! He’s been working hard on this, daily. The temperature indexes over 100 daily, and grinding fiberglass isn’t fun in the best of conditions – much less searing sun! Sometimes, the heat and effort might even distract one enough to forget to turn off the water.

Hurricane Nora, Inbound

Meanwhile, another thread of un-invited water looms. Or does it? Hurricane Nora has formed off southern Mexico; it’s getting ready to hip check Banderas Bay on a north/northwest track. Some models show it going right up the Sea of Cortez, straight towards us.

We’re not worried: historical tracks show that this far north, the systems have lost their punch – like Hurricane Marty, in 2003. It’s mostly just a lot of rain. But farther south, where many boats linger, it could be different. With a few days to prepare, as we watch (and hope Nora spins out into the Pacific!) and hope for the best.

For more information: check out weather resources for hurricane season, or because GRIBs don’t represent hurricane conditions well, see real-time tools for watching hurricane conditions.

The post Sailing Totem: Some Days Are Better Than Others appeared first on Cruising World.

It’s hard to believe, but it’s been a solid three decades since the south coast of New England and Rhode Island—including my hometown of Newport—has been slammed with a direct hit by a major hurricane, so you could say we were overdue. Despite the innocuous name, 1991′s Hurricane Bob was a formidable event, making landfall in Newport as a Category III beast with upward wind speeds of nearly 140 miles per hour. It took me a solid couple of days to clean up my mom’s backyard of the downed branches and debris, and we were the lucky ones in our neighborhood.

Our 30-year-old hurricane-free streak ended earlier this week with the well-forecast arrival of Hurricane Henri, which came ashore at roughly midday on Sunday, August 22, this time in the seaside town of Westerly (hello summer resident Taylor Swift!), right on the Connecticut border. Happily, it was a Category I storm, and was quickly downgraded to tropical-storm status about the same moment it reached Interstate 95. There was little of the drama that accompanied Bob, but it did wreak its quick share of unwanted havoc.

Henri had plenty of advance warning, and local sailors, perhaps remindful of Bob’s bite, quickly went into action. All of the immediate boatyards were bombarded with anxious mariners eager to haul their boats. My colleague Ted Ruegg had his Grand Soleil 34, Grand Plan, parked on a commercial mooring in Newport Harbor and was told unceremoniously that he had to get lost. Immediately. All the familiar local anchorages, including the Kickemuit River in nearby Bristol, filled up rapidly, mostly by on-the-move cruising sailors who were forced by the Newport harbor master to also vacate the premises: no anchoring allowed. It took Ted no less than 18 phone calls—and 17 rejections—before he finally found an available slip in nearby Wickford, across Narragansett Bay.

With a track to the west of Newport, we were largely spared from Henri’s wrath, and the major rainfall—which would cream New York City later in the day—was over and done with locally by mid-morning. That said, the nearby buoy reports from Point Judith and up the bay were recording formidable gusts of near 70 knots. Still, by mid-afternoon, things had moderated to the point that Ted and I ventured out to check on our respective boats; my little Pearson Ensign, visible from Fort Adams on its well-protected mooring in Brenton Cove, came through unscathed.

Matters were much different in the town of Jamestown, across the Newport Bridge, which was immediately clear as we crossed the span en route to Ted’s marina in Wickford and had a glance at the shoreline, which was littered with vessels. After a quick inspection of Grand Plan—which was also just fine, nestled in a very protected slip—we made a detour in Jamestown on our return trip to inspect the carnage.

Exposed to the northeast, with a fetch from Newport across the bay, Jamestown’s mooring field took the brunt of Henri’s might. A half-dozen sailboats were scattered along the coastline, with another casualty a few miles north in another open anchorage adjacent to the bridge. The town’s residents were out in force, also checking out the mess, and several of the grounded vessels were still attached to the mooring-ball warps that had clearly failed and sealed their fate. Not a pretty scene.

All in all, however, on one hand it felt like a bullet dodged. On the other, I reckon, when it comes to big hurricanes, we’re still overdue.

The post Hurricane Henri Pays a Visit to Newport appeared first on Cruising World.

An above-normal 2020 Atlantic hurricane season is expected, according to forecasters with NOAA’s Climate Prediction Center, a division of the National Weather Service. The outlook predicts a 60 percent chance of an above-normal season, a 30 percent chance of a near-normal season and only a 10 percent chance of a below-normal season. The Atlantic hurricane season runs from June 1 through November 30.

NOAA’s Climate Prediction Center is forecasting a likely range of 13 to 19 named storms (winds of 39 mph or higher), of which 6 to 10 could become hurricanes (winds of 74 mph or higher), including 3 to 6 major hurricanes (category 3, 4 or 5; with winds of 111 mph or higher). NOAA provides these ranges with a 70 percent confidence. An average hurricane season produces 12 named storms, of which 6 become hurricanes, including 3 major hurricanes.

“As Americans focus their attention on a safe and healthy reopening of our country, it remains critically important that we also remember to make the necessary preparations for the upcoming hurricane season,” said Secretary of Commerce Wilbur Ross. “Just as in years past, NOAA experts will stay ahead of developing hurricanes and tropical storms and provide the forecasts and warnings we depend on to stay safe.”

The combination of several climate factors is driving the strong likelihood for above-normal activity in the Atlantic this year. El Nino Southern Oscillation (ENSO) conditions are expected to either remain neutral or to trend toward La Nina, meaning there will not be an El Nino present to suppress hurricane activity. Also, warmer-than-average sea surface temperatures in the tropical Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea, coupled with reduced vertical wind shear, weaker tropical Atlantic trade winds, and an enhanced west African monsoon all increase the likelihood for an above-normal Atlantic hurricane season. Similar conditions have been producing more active seasons since the current high-activity era began in 1995.

“NOAA’s analysis of current and seasonal atmospheric conditions reveals a recipe for an active Atlantic hurricane season this year,” said Neil Jacobs, Ph.D., acting NOAA administrator. “Our skilled forecasters, coupled with upgrades to our computer models and observing technologies, will provide accurate and timely forecasts to protect life and property.”

This year, as during any hurricane season, the men and women of NOAA remain ready to provide the life-saving forecasts and warnings that the public rely on. And as storms show signs of developing, NOAA hurricane hunter aircraft will be prepared to collect valuable data for our forecasters and computer models.

In addition to this high level of science and service, NOAA is also launching new upgrades to products and tools that will further improve critical services during the hurricane season.

NOAA will upgrade the hurricane-specific Hurricane Weather Research and Forecast system (HWRF) and the Hurricanes in a Multi-scale Ocean coupled Non-hydrostatic model (HMON) models this summer. HWRF will incorporate new data from satellites and radar from NOAA’s coastal Doppler data network to help produce better forecasts of hurricane track and intensity during the critical watch and warning time frame. HMON will undergo enhancements to include higher resolution, improved physics, and coupling with ocean models.

As the hurricane season gets underway, NOAA will begin feeding data from the COSMIC-2 satellites into weather models to help track hurricane intensity and boost forecast accuracy. COSMIC-2 provides data about air temperature, pressure and humidity in the tropical regions of Earth — precisely where hurricane and tropical storm systems form.

Also during the 2020 hurricane season, NOAA and the U.S. Navy will deploy a fleet of autonomous diving hurricane gliders to observe conditions in the tropical Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean Sea in areas where hurricanes have historically traveled and intensified.

As with every hurricane season, the need to be prepared is critically important this year.

“Social distancing and other CDC guidance to keep you safe from COVID-19 may impact the disaster preparedness plan you had in place, including what is in your go-kit, evacuation routes, shelters and more. With tornado season at its peak, hurricane season around the corner, and flooding, earthquakes and wildfires a risk year-round, it is time to revise and adjust your emergency plan now,” said Carlos Castillo, acting deputy administrator for resilience at FEMA. “Natural disasters won’t wait, so I encourage you to keep COVID-19 in mind when revising or making your plan for you and your loved ones, and don’t forget your pets. An easy way to start is to download the FEMA app today.”

In addition to the Atlantic hurricane season outlook, NOAA also issued seasonal hurricane outlooks for the eastern and central Pacific basins.

NOAA’s outlook is for overall seasonal activity and is not a landfall forecast. The Climate Prediction Center will update the 2020 Atlantic seasonal outlook in August prior to the historical peak of the season.

Hurricane preparedness is critically important for the 2020 hurricane season, just as it is every year. Keep in mind, you may need to adjust any preparedness actions based on the latest health and safety guidelines from the CDC and your local officials. Visit the National Hurricane Center’s website at hurricanes.gov throughout the season to stay current on any watches and warnings.

The post Busy Atlantic Hurricane Season Predicted for 2020 appeared first on Cruising World.

In early September, hurricane Dorian slammed into the Bahamas and became the most devastating natural disaster on record for the islands. Savage winds flipped boats, leveled homes, and traumatized an otherwise peaceful corner of this beautiful country. On the cusp of cruising season, the dramatic headlines put plans in flux for many. Here’s what to know about cruising the Bahamas in 2020.

The Bahamas are open! …mostly

First it’s important to know that overwhelmingly, the islands of the Bahamas are unaffected. Dorian’s impact was focused on the very north: Grand Bahama, and Abaco. Grand Bahama is officially open for tourism again; only Abaco is not. We spent three memorable months cruising through the Bahamas, and none of the miles we sailed were in the path of Dorian.

However, for many seasonal visitors, the Abacos are the Bahamas. While they’re not open for general tourism, the Abacos are an opportunity for the right boat/crew to contribute to recovery. Hopeful cruisers often say they want to give back through voluntourism or otherwise contributing to improving life in the communities they visit: this is your chance! If your seasonal path winds back to the USA, consider routing via Abaco.

Who should go to impacted areas?

If you are self-sufficient, AND willing and able to help, by all means – sail to the Abacos! Volunteer workers are encouraged. However, relief organizations and the government tourism board are aligned that this area is not open to tourism. Services are minimal and as residents return, meeting local needs come first.

The first word we heard from post-Doran Abaco came from our friend Justin Smith, who charters his 72’ custom sloop, Kai, based from the USVI. He has deep ties to Abaco and when delivering Kai from the USA down to Bahamas the month after Dorian hit, turned his trip into a relief mission. Justin survived Irma and Maria on St John, USVI; his experience rebuilding informed the cargo he knew would be most needed in the near-term aftermath. Kai was loaded heavily with tarps, nails, roofing tar, paint, and tools.

What Justin experienced in October had sobering notes, but on balance was more encouraging: both for the resilience of island communities, and the opportunity for independent cruisers to safely come and lend a hand. Conditions varied by Cay and port, and recovery related to dock condition (the lifeblood of Bahamas commerce are the mail boats and barges bringing everything from diesel to toilet paper, and you can’t land one if the town dock is gone), yet conditions exceeded his expectations.

Be part of the recovery!

You don’t have to go to Abaco to help. Just being in the Bahamas and putting your funds into communities makes you part of the bigger solution for helping Bahamians. The economy benefits; pictures and messages sent home helps demonstrate that overwhelmingly, the islands are open for business to the wider world…encouraging instead of discouraging visitors. The bottom of this post includes a link to recommended relief organizations.

If you can contribute to recovery by sailing to Abaco and offering services, it’s warmly welcomed. The need for this help is ongoing. Specialized skills such as plumbing, electrical, carpentry, roofing, mechanics or operation of heavy equipment are especially welcomed, but grunt labor is helpful too.

Contributing to recovery can be tremendously rewarding. The family on SV Anjulia Sue started cruising from Nova Scotia last spring; they arrived in Green Turtle Cay on New Years Eve. Bonnie related a few days ago that “we have been having probably the best time since starting cruising! It is all down to forming the relationships with fellow hard working and very well-meaning cruisers, and a community completely and utterly welcomes you and your help.”

FAQs for cruisers on Dorian-hit areas

Plan ahead: try to connect with a locally-based person or organization in advance of arrival, so that 1) you can have guidance on what’s needed to bring, and 2) you can be clear on their need of your aid. Even volunteers can be overburdening to communities.

Clearance: Most boats headed to Abaco to help are clearing in at Cooperstown. You’re still on a tourist visa, and this port has grown accustomed to managing duty-free importing of relief goods; Grand Bahama (or Bimini) are options too.

Power: electricity is still widely unavailable in Abaco, with generators on shore; this presents obvious complications on everything that electricity is helpful for from powering pumps for fuel or water to keeping things cold that need it to avoid spoilage.

Fresh water: varies, but largely you must be self-sustaining; no problem for boats with watermakers.

Water hazards: Yes, there’s sunken debris in the water in some places, but remember this is the Bahamas. Gin clear water, if there’s a hazard – you can almost certainly see it.

Security: It’s safe. Justin wondered as he arrived in October with Kai if there might be issues, and was extra watchful. Taking safe entrance into a back side anchorage in the weeks after the storm, he admitted twinges of fear, which heightened when a boat came running straight towards him. As he mentally prepared a plan, the boat passed by with a greeting waved from the helmsman, who proceeded to anchor and dive over and to look for conch. OK then!

Phone/internet: coverage is widely available, with some variation based on US carrier roaming plans.

Attitude: you may see some things that are upsetting; be prepared and don’t overreact. Bring positivity and a forward-looking view. If you arrive saying – “hey, I have some stuff and I can donate some time. What can I do to help?” – you’ll never regret it.

Avoid being a burden

Anyone traveling to Dorian-impacted islands should expect to be completely self-sufficient. For most cruisers, that’s a natural inclination, and just means a little extra planning. You might be able to get water, fuel, and other supplies – but just because they are there, doesn’t mean you should avail yourself; locals need these scarce resources too. It’s always incumbent on us to be good guests in the countries we visit; there and now, the importance is heightened.

Not being a burden means sensitivity to feelings of people you meet, too. The trauma of surviving a hurricane like Dorian is unimaginable for most of us. Asking someone about their survival experience – no matter how well intentioned –may only cause them further pain. Don’t assume anyone wishes to engage on this topic! Let them bring it up, or leave it off the table.

Justin survived the two 2017 hurricanes on St John, and speaks from experience when he says “being emotional or apologetic only brings it back; it may even invite animosity.”

A few destination details

Notes below for a couple popular destinations to help baseline, with links to local resources for the latest updates to help planners…accurate as I could glean on January 14, 2020. Updates welcomed in comments! Meanwhile, an excellent site for the latest on what’s open in Abaco is maintained at Little House by the Ferry’s website; her Little House page on Facebook is also a good resource.

Green Turtle Cay

Anjulia Sue’s crew has been here two weeks already and thrown their effort into the mix. “Restaurants and stores are open. The Green Turtle Cay Marina is opening officially March 1.” Meanwhile, moorings are in place; check in with Donny’s/Brendal’s for availability and logistical questions.

Reports are the marina has already begun selling fuel and water, basic provisions aren’t hard to acquire on shore (Sid’s grocery is open!), and trash service is available. The morning VHF net helps organize volunteers, and cruisers potluck weekly.

Man-O-War

One of the families we’ve worked with as coaching clients has roots here; the Lee family arrived in November on their boat, Sargo, and left only recently. “It’s NOT a vacation,” says Jayme Lee. Demolition to clear houses and buildings that aren’t recoverable, roofing to protect those that are; a lot of manual labor. “That doesn’t mean you don’t get to go swimming and enjoy nice weather sometimes and have fun,” she adds. Her kids are helping, too, from clearing debris to cooking meals for the community.

There are grocery and hardware stores open. The generous team at Watermission is steadily pumping out fresh RO for anyone who needs it – including cruisers who are there to help. An excellent contact before coming here is Beth Browne: she’s a powerhouse of organization, coordinate volunteers and groups. She reported there are currently moorings available, but they are limited in number and prioritized to volunteers. Those with mechanical skills, carpentry, electrical, or plumbing are given priority. Beth underscored Jayme’s comment that while tasks are varied, “all require physical labor and some stamina.” Full time volunteers even get fed at the Hibiscus cafe! Across the water, Marsh Harbor was hardest hit, but even there provisions are available.

Research before you go!

These local-based outlets are good sources of information.

• Green Turtle Bulletin
• Hope Town Bulletin
• Man-O-War bulletin
• Dorian Yacht Chat And Bahamas Relief Group
• Association of Bahamas Marinas

Aid groups making a difference

These NGOs need a shoutout for their exemplary response in the Bahamas. If you would like to assist from afar, consider a donation.

• Samaritan’s Purse: info or to donate
• Christian Aid Ministries
• Heart to Heart
• All Hands and Hearts

Fundraisers and other disaster relief organizations changing lives for the better:

• Missionary Flights “…bringing supplies and volunteers from almost day one.”
• Watermission.org‘s tireless RO production of potable water
• World Central Kitchen: the power of a hot meal for people who have lost everything
• Hope Town Rising
• Hope 4 Hope Town: Information and GoFundMe
• Man-O-War Relief fund

Team Otter

Our friend captain Judy Hildebrand, has been bringing supplies to Grand Bahama for distribution. She’s bringing a boatload on each run and getting ready for her 6th (7th? I’m losing count!) trip. Personal ties to her beloved Abacos mean she’s been able to source specific things to fill needs. She’s got some stories! “The best, for me anyway, was a freezer for a woman who has a generator to run it while living in her tent with the kitten she refused to abandon during the storm while in water to her neck! The freezer kept cold drinks for the kids in her tent city during hot weeks.“

Later this month, Judy’s heading back to Abaco on Otter with supplies to teach residents how to build their own solar stills to make fresh water, among other things. “What we do is a drop in the bucket but it feels right and with enough drops the bucket will eventually be full.” If you’d like to help her fill the bucket, contact Judy directly.

Thanks to Justin Smith, Matt & Bonnie Thornington, Jayme Lee, and especially Man-O-War resident Beth Browne for helping provide local insights; see also Beth’s article in Cruising World.

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