“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.

When I first sailed the Lesser Antilles islands in the late 1970s, I listened to the morning weather broadcast from Radio Antilles. It came on every morning at 8:05, from an AM radio station on Montserrat. “Today’s weather will see winds south of east to north of east, from 12 to 18 knots, with higher gusts. Occasional showers. No significant change is anticipated over the next 48 hours.”

I swear, it was the same recording we heard every morning. 

The trade winds do blow, with predictable regularity, from the northeast to southeast all year long. There’s an occasional deviation: the passage of a hurricane or a few days of calm. There is a wet season in the summer, a dry season in the winter, and short periods of stronger winds—the Christmas winds—in late December through early January.

Still, after 25 years of sailing here, here are my words of warning: You can get lulled into complacency amid these islands. It’s part of their charm. But then you pay for it when the winds kick up.

Christmas Winds

A few years ago, at the end of a delivery from Antigua, I had anchored off the charming village of Sainte-Anne on Martinique. Something awakened me at first light. Still half asleep, I plodded to the companionway.

When I emerged into the cockpit, the weather was blowing like stink. I looked through the dodger window to see hundreds of whitecaps marching toward us. They were only a foot or so high, but they were steep, deep and sharp. They didn’t really bother the 54-foot sloop I was on, but the dinghy astern was dancing a jig.

Then, I heard the surrounding noises. There was a hum throughout the boat as the wind strummed a tune in the rigging, rising in pitch as the wind increased. Other noises mixed in: the snapping of the ensign astern, the flapping of the sail cover, the high-pitched whine of the wind generators above the aft arch.

I switched on the nav instruments. The wind indicator hovered between 20 and 25, then scooted up to 30 as a gust hit. This is a moderate gale on the Beaufort scale.

It was late January. The Christmas winds had arrived—late.

I thought it would blow like this for a few days, but rarely a week. It’s all academic, I told myself. What were the practical implications? Getting ashore in the dinghy would be a wet ride. I was reluctant to leave the boat on its own.

By the time I looked again, the RIB tied off astern was bouncing like a pony trying to throw its halter. The painter couldn’t take too much more before it would tear the ring out of the boat. I had elected to anchor way out at the edge of the field, for privacy and an unrestricted sunset view. That means the easterly wind had a longer fetch to build up these nasty waves.

I hauled in the RIB and tied on a longer painter, figuring more scope might reduce the snapping. It didn’t. Closer in? That didn’t work either.

Other boaters had come to the same conclusion. We all needed to haul our RIBs out of the water. Some had davits; others, like me, had to use a halyard or stow the thing on deck. 

That done, I checked the anchor chain. As the boat was driven back in a gust, the anchor chain straightened out, and the snubber came taught and stretched out. I had dived on the anchor when I first set it and was confident it would hold, but I wondered if I might awake one morning on my way to Honduras.

I watched as two French bareboats attempted to re-anchor. It didn’t go well. The wind was driving them sideways so fast that the anchors never had a chance to set.

The Christmas winds—we’d all just have to sit tight.

Island Effects

The tall mountains of the larger Caribbean islands block the trade winds, creating a wind shadow to leeward. These shadows can extend out to sea for 10 to 20 miles, which means a lot of motoring as you make your way south or north along the island’s flank. It can be a welcoming experience after bashing through the open Atlantic between the islands.

As I was sailing north from the Grenadines up to Antigua last April, I was aboard Richard Thomas’s Reliance 44 cutter. We’d left Prince Rupert Bay on Dominica that morning and were sailing north, west of Îles des Saintes. It was mid-afternoon when we ran into Guadeloupe’s wind shadow. We were about 5 miles offshore and had to proceed under power.

Then, I spied three sailboats, close in with the shore, sailing north, their sails full. Could there be a westerly sea breeze at play? 

“It is possible to make way under sail in the lee of the High Islands?” Don Street writes in his Transatlantic Crossing Guide (my copy is from 1989). “Most sailors assume there will be a total lull close to shore, so they pass 3 to 4 miles off—which is just where you find absolutely no wind. But there is a way to skirt along the lee shore of these high islands, which I discovered in a book of 18th-century sailing directions. There are three recommended ways of passing the islands: at seven leagues (21 miles offshore) or else close enough to be within two pistol shots of the beach.” 

The historian Dudley Pope explains that a pistol shot was a recognized term of measurement in those days and appears frequently in accounts of naval battles. It’s the equivalent of 25 yards.

“So stay within 50 yards offshore,” Street continues. “Which may be a bit closer than you want, but not by much. You stand a good chance of enjoying a smooth, scenic sail the length of the high island. The best time to try this is between 1000 and 1600. After 1600, the breeze falls off rapidly.”

He continues: “During the day, as the land heats up, you’ll sometimes pick up a westerly onshore breeze right up to the beach, counter to the trades, which continue to blow to the west higher up. Alternately at night, the cool air falls down off the hills, often providing a beautiful moonlight sail along the beach.”

This is one of the tricks savvy sailors use when sailing along Hispaniola and Puerto Rico’s north coasts.

“Dawn and dusk are the only times when there is absolutely no wind in the lee of these islands.” Street goes on. “I would say that, except for these times, you’ll be successfully sailing the lee shore about 75 percent of the time. Of course you can always sail up and down the islands, passing to windward of them.”

Night Winds

It’s those night winds Don writes about that concern me most.

Anchored in the delightful harbor of Deshaies on the northwestern tip of Guadeloupe, I’ve experienced these night winds numerous times. All is fine as you nestle in at anchor, and then the winds begin around 2 a.m. Easterly blasts of cool air traveling at 30 knots barrel down through the mountain valley, and through town and the harbor, testing your ground tackle and anchoring skills.

I lay awake in the cockpit, one eye on a fixed light ashore to see if we were dragging. 

“These are katabatic winds,” Chris Doyle told me recently. “Heavy cold air at the mountaintops slides down the slopes in the valleys and out to sea, resulting in a westerly airflow at the sea surface.”

Island Wind Refraction

Refraction is the phenomenon by which waves—light, radio, sound and sometimes ocean waves, currents and wind—bend when meeting an obstacle and curve away from their original path. That obstacle can be an island.

When sailing south one season on Searcher, my 57-foot Bowman ketch, we motored down the lee shore of Dominica with plans to anchor in Saint-Pierre on the northeast tip of Martinique for the night. As we approached the southern tip of Dominica, we began to experience a south-southeast wind, and I fell off to the west southwest. Swells were behaving the same way.

Five miles later, the wind and waves started to come back to the east, and we corrected our course to the south. By this time, we were too far west and in no position to fetch Saint-Pierre. Then, I figured we’d experience the same effect, in reverse, as we reached the northern tip of Martinique. The winds did bend to the north, and we were able to correct our course and make it in.

This effect occurs around many of the islands’ northern and southern tips. Tides also play a part. Even if only a foot or 2, a foul tide can also kick up a nasty chop when running counter to the prevailing wind. 

During last April’s voyage, north up the coast of Guadeloupe, we decided not to duck into Deshaies for the night. We could make the anchorage off Jolly Harbor on Antigua by midnight. As we were rounding the northern tip of Guadeloupe, we encountered confused seas and strong, gusty winds. It was frustrating and uncomfortable.

I’ve experienced this before; the winds get channeled between the main island landmass and two small islands off the tip of Pointe Allegre. After a while, things settled down, and progress could be made. By the time we got the anchor down off the beach in Jolly Harbor, it was 2 in the morning.

No Wind

Occasionally there are days of no wind at all. Larry Tyler, owner and skipper on the charter yacht The Dove, has been sailing these islands for more than 30 years. Recently, he told me, “The only thing that comes to mind is that every year once or twice, the winds die down completely and then suddenly you get a westerly wind blowing you on to beach, if you are anchored too close.

Last April, during the Antigua Classic Yacht Regatta, the first day’s race was a drifting competition in calm conditions. The sea was like a mirror.

Hurricanes

Every summer and fall, from June through mid-November, these islands are visited by a series of tropical waves. Before some of these waves reach the islands, they may turn into tropical storms with winds as high as 70 knots. As they accumulate energy and build strength, they turn into hurricanes, with winds in excess of 70 knots.

The whirling winds, rain, surges and waves pass through the island chain quickly, normally moving along at 12 knots. They come and are gone in less than a day, but the devastation they leave behind can be extreme. 

Hurricane Beryl came through the Grenadians last July, destroying 70 percent of the homes on Carriacou and Union Island, and severely damaging the remaining 30 percent. The peak of hurricane season is September, after the summer sun has heated up the Atlantic surface water, leading to enhanced evaporation, the fuel that drives a hurricane.

Thankfully, these days we have excellent sources to find out what’s coming.

The post Understanding Wind in the West Indies 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.

PredictWind, the New Zealand-based company known for providing sailors with weather data, has introduced the PredictCurrent App.

The PredictCurrent App has a quick-view dashboard where sailors can see wind, current, waves and tide height data in one place. Animated maps provide extensive detail on tidal currents, setting what the company calls a new standard in tidal current modeling.

PredictCurrent’s tidal current maps cover 90 percent of the world’s coastlines, according to the company.

“The launch of the PredictCurrent App marks a pivotal moment in marine navigation technology,” Jon Bilger, CEO of PredictWind, stated in a press release. “Our dedicated team has spared no effort in providing mariners worldwide with unparalleled access to comprehensive current data, fostering safer navigation and informed decision-making on the seas. We’re thrilled to be at the forefront of enhancing maritime safety and empowering users with unprecedented insights.”

The app is supported by ultra-high-resolution models that cover areas characterized by complex bathymetry and high tidal flows. This provides accuracy at 100-meter (328-foot) resolution. Supported by a 400-meter (1,312-foot) resolution within 90 kilometers (55 miles) of the coast and a 4-kilometer (2.5-mile) resolution extending up to 600 kilometers (372 miles) offshore, users can see tidal flows anywhere in the world.

Backed by PredictWind forecasts, the app also provides marine weather forecasts in a table format, including weather warnings, tidal current flows, tide times and atmospheric parameters. Users also can access tidal currents, sea temperature maps, wind and wave displays.

Does PredictCurrent also let sailors see ocean temperatures? Yes, in color-coded zones.

Where to learn more: visit www.predictcurrent.com

The post PredictWind Introduces PredictCurrent App appeared first on Cruising World.

Why were we in French Polynesia during cyclone season and an El Niño year? Well, our plan was to sail to New Zealand after six months of cruising in Tahiti, but we fell in love and stayed. So, we ran into cyclone season, which is from November through April in the South Pacific.

The behavior of cyclones changes during El Niño because of differences in sea surface temperatures and atmospheric conditions, influencing the frequency, intensity and paths of the storms. El Niño started in 2023 and continued into 2024, giving the central and eastern parts of the Pacific Ocean warmer sea surface. This can shift the cyclone formation zones eastward. Islands that are typically less affected by cyclones, such as the Southern Cook Islands and French Polynesia, have higher risk.

The Marquesas Islands are outside the typical cyclone belt; their only close call was Tropical Cyclone Nisha-Orama in February 1983. It developed north of the Marquesas during an El Niño year and had sustained winds of 115 mph in the Tuamotus. Areas more frequently affected by cyclones include Australia, New Zealand, Vanuatu, Fiji, Samoa and Tonga—but it is not impossible for cyclones to affect the Marquesas if conditions are right, such as during El Niño years.

Preparation in Tahiti

After a wonderful time diving with humpback whales in Mo’orea, we went to Tahiti to prepare the boat for the journey east to the Marquesas. Wanderlust, our Seawind 1600 catamaran, is equipped with daggerboards. It adeptly sails upwind. This feature, combined with the robust design and comfortable living space, has made it the ideal vessel for us in our long voyages across challenging waters.

In Tahiti, we inspected the rigging and systems, and unfortunately found cracked wires in the cap shrouds and the cross-beam cable (the martingale). The good news was that there are excellent riggers in Tahiti, but the bad news was that the cable had to come from Australia with a lead time of at least two weeks that turned out to be a month. By then, the easterly trade winds would be in full force and on our nose.

Meanwhile, we stocked up at the island’s markets, which are brimming with fresh produce. At every visit, we packed our bags, ensuring our boat was ready to face whatever the ocean had in store.

Papeete Marina

Papeete Marina is on the northwest side of Tahiti, which means it’s open to northern wind and swell. Large waves enter the basin, creating a significant commotion, chafing and breaking dock lines, ripping off docks or surging them over the pilings. In cyclone season, when the northern swells are more frequent, boats are often asked to seek shelter at anchor. As the inclement weather was approaching, we could already feel some of its effects. The monohulls started to behave like bucking broncos.

Finally, our cables for the repair arrived, and Wanderlust was ready.

Strategy

We tossed the lines on December 4 with a plan to sail to Fakarava, setting us up for a good angle to the Marquesas, but the next round of squalls was hot on our tail so we decided to pull into Tikehau, 150 nautical miles to the northwest. The atoll’s sparse population and natural beauty provided a serene backdrop and time to plan the journey ahead. We were held by the weather, but it wasn’t bad at all.

A couple days later, the weather changed, and we had a spectacular sail during the day. Wanderlust chugged miles quicker than expected, and we realized we would arrive in darkness—when it is unsafe to enter the atoll. We furled our screecher and set the jib to slow down a knot or two. A few hours later, the wind disappeared and was replaced by torrential rain. We had to motor and arrived at the atoll’s pass almost two hours after the desired slack tide. Not a real problem with two 80 hp engines, but it could have been with a smaller boat.

Fakarava greeted us with the rare convenience of a fuel dock. However, we did not make use of it, thinking we would be fine with the fuel we had. Rookie mistake. This amenity would have allowed us to bypass the cumbersome process of ferrying fuel in 5-gallon jerry cans, saving time, effort and my rotator cuffs, which I later destroyed in Hiva Oa by shlepping more than three dozen of them.

Fakarava hosts a vibrant underwater world and UNESCO-protected status, with unbelievable diving at the south pass, the famous wall of sharks, and the grouper spawning under a full moon in July. We were fortunate enough to enjoy that during our previous stay. This time around, the squally weather continued, and we did not even take a dip in the water.

Final Leg to Fatu Hiva

With a northwest wind, we sailed close-hauled for three days. Then the wind disappeared, and we motored in flat-calm waters that are unusual for that time of the year. The silver lining was that we were able to land a 143-pound yellowfin tuna that fed us and our friends delicious sushi and tuna tartar for months. And we learned another important lesson: While trying to lift the tuna using the main winch, I may have used the wrong size rope (I admit nothing). The winch stripper arm broke. It was a most expensive tuna, too.

On day four as the sun was starting to set, the southernmost island of the Marquesas, Fatu Hiva, presented its rugged landscape: the perfect gift on Christmas Eve. Giant clouds resting on jagged peaks, the sun’s evening light casting a golden hue on its face. A distant squall reminding us of what we’d been through. We had navigated Wanderlust about 1,000 nautical miles from Tahiti, upwind, to this Jurassic-like sanctuary for cyclone season. In the day’s final light, we anchored in the stunning Bay of Virgins, a spot already marked on the chart plotter from our previous visit.

Fatu Hiva

This land boasts a rich cultural heritage, friendly people and breathtaking landscapes. After spending some time on the island, we found ourselves reverently walking paths surrounded by raw beauty. Eventually, we stopped trying to articulate our awe, and we became part of the larger tapestry of life and nature. Gently running our fingers on the leaves of holy basil to release the magical scent, inhaling the pungent whiffs of drying copra, and bowing over gardenia flowers to take in their exhilarating aroma. Long-tail tropical birds circled above us in the backdrop of lush volcanic peaks.

Kahoha was the greeting we exchanged with the locals. Even Yoda, our dog, became a beloved figure on the island, responding joyously to calls from across the river. We made friends, bartered rope and other items for fruits, and for wild pig and goat meat. We felt a profound connection to this island.

Getting there was worth every bit of effort it took. We lived an unforgettable adventure that brought us closer to each other.

The post Dodging Storms, Chasing Thrills in French Polynesia appeared first on Cruising World.

More than 1 million cruising boaters are now using PredictWind, a weather-­forecasting service created in 2010 by competitive sailor Jon Bilger. He founded the company after serving as weather manager for teams who won the America’s Cup in 2003 and 2007, when he realized that the higher-end technology could be a boon to the cruising public.

“It’s been quite a journey,” Bilger told Cruising World in early March, adding that as the community of cruisers continues to evolve with different styles of boats, PredictWind has been evolving right along with it. Sailors are still the company’s biggest client base, and those who make the shift to powerboats can now also use PredictWind to help with routing that optimizes fuel efficiency. 

That kind of advancement in forecasting ­capabilities is in great part due to ­technology. What’s possible in terms of forecasting today is far different—and much more detailed—than when Bilger founded PredictWind 14 years ago. 

It’s a timespan that might as well be an eon when it comes to technological advancements. When PredictWind was created, the Blackberry still dominated the handheld marketplace. The iPad was brand-new. So was Instagram. Forget about today’s 4K screens; manufacturers were still trying to get people to understand the difference that a 3D screen could make when watching hot new movies like Avatar. Uber was just one year old. Lyft didn’t even exist.  

It was also in 2010 that Google started to personalize users’ search results. Machine learning began to analyze and predict all kinds of things, as wide-ranging as voter behavior and power-grid spikes. As CNN reported: “In 2010, artificial intelligence was more likely to pop up in dystopian science-fiction movies than in everyday life. And it certainly wasn’t something people worried might take over their jobs in the near future.”

Oh, how times have changed—in some ways, for the better. PredictWind is embracing AI to create products that help with weather forecasting in ways that seemed unimaginable until recently. 

Just one example is the company’s newest service, PredictCurrent, which Bilger says is a world first. 

“This is very, very simple,” he explains. “You put your location in. You say, ‘This is the current I want to know about.’ And then, boom, you get a graph. We give you windspeed and wind direction as well, and you get current speed and direction, and we give you a map, so you can actually see, hour by hour, how the current is changing over the whole area. It’s amazing to see that sort of detail on your iPad or your laptop.”

PredictCurrent covers tidal currents for 90 percent of the world’s coastlines, he says. The level of detail and accuracy is best within 90 kilometers (about 55 miles) of the coast, but there is also information about currents as far as 600 kilometers (nearly 375 miles) offshore. 

“It’s amazing. You can see how the eddies and currents are changing,” Bilger says. “Compute power for the whole world is enormous. The storage capacity is there. It’s a pretty cool thing.”

Another new product from PredictWind is called Over the Horizon AIS. Typically, Bilger says, a cruising boater can receive an AIS signal within just a few miles of an oncoming hazard such as a container ship. Over the Horizon AIS compiles data from the Automatic Identification System worldwide—“We pay a lot of money to get that information,” he says—and customizes it for use by individual cruising boats through the PredictWind DataHub smart device.

“This is very, very simple. You put your location in. You say, ‘This is the current I want to know about.’ And then, boom, you get a graph.”

“It can download the data every minute with a Starlink connection, and it shows vessels out to about 300 nautical miles,” Bilger says. “If you have a container ship barreling at you, maybe you have about eight minutes to take evasive action. We can give you something more like eight hours.”

The capabilities that Starlink offers are hugely important for some of these newer features, Bilger says, but he tempers his enthusiasm for the satellite service with a caution for offshore cruisers.

“We genuinely are huge fans of Starlink. It means that people can get weather forecasting offshore, and get it a lot easier,” he says—adding a big but. “If you go offshore, you need to have a satellite phone, an Iridium Go. If the power on your boat goes down, Starlink requires AC power. If you have a problem with your inverter, you have no communications. You really should have something with a battery backup on it.”

With that said, Bilger is gung-ho about all the information cruisers can now access on a regular basis thanks to Starlink, instead of having only occasional access to downloads. The amount of data coursing through PredictWind’s DataHub, coupled with artificial-­intelligence analysis, can create things such as polars for a specific boat. 

These “AI polars,” as Bilger calls them, represent the performance of a boat in different wind and wave conditions—information that can be critical for weather routing.  

“Normally, you select from a predefined list of polars for all the boat types, and then there’s a velocity-prediction program that shows the ideal speed of your boat in perfect conditions,” he says. “But that’s not reality. That’s not how you sail a boat. With the DataHub, it’s reporting your windspeed, your direction, and it averages that data. It sends it back to our service and compares it. Over time, it will learn how you sail the boat, and you’ll even have a different set of polars for daytime and nighttime.”

Today’s level of artificial intelligence is required to make these types of services possible, he adds. 

“Our service is doing billions of calculations for six of the top-level models, and boom, you get the comparison,” he says. “It’s way easier and very powerful to have. You really have no excuse to get caught out in bad weather.” 

Similar use of technology allowed PredictWind to launch a product last year that helps cruisers better understand the wave state that they are likely to encounter. 

“Generally, all weather services give you the primary wave state,” Bilger says. “We have modeled monohulls, catamarans, trimarans, sailboats and powerboats, and every possible wave state. We know exactly how the boat’s going to perform based on length, beam, displacement.”

This level of detail makes it easier for boaters to make better-informed choices, he says. 

“The real kicker is that we can display how much the boat’s going to roll, and whether it’s going to be dangerous to be on deck,” he says. “The other one is vertical acceleration. If you’re going over a big sea state, you’re going to be going up and down a lot, which affects seasickness. And we can talk about slamming. That’s a big one as well. When you do your weather route, you can see all of that during a trip. If you use a departure-planning tool, you can know which day to leave in terms of the degree of roll you’re going to experience. No one else is doing that, as far as we know.”

All of it adds up to more boaters feeling safer and more comfortable out on the water, Bilger says. 

“We get emails from ­families who say, ‘Thank you for keeping us safe all around the world,’” he says. “It’s ­really cool. It’s why we’re here.”

The post The Data Difference: Advances in Marine Weather Forecasting 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.

Studying weather forecasts is so much a part of the morning ritual on our boat that we automatically associate the smell of coffee with weather bulletins and surface-analysis charts. It doesn’t matter where we are—near a city with speedy Wi-Fi and downloads, anchored in a remote corner of the globe with text bulletins, or underway with the Pactor modem screeching and rumbling for half an hour to get a GRIB file—weather and morning coffee just go together. 

As sailors, we live much closer to the elements than most people. Keeping an eye on forecasts is imperative for the safety of the boat and the well-being of the crew. It’s also a fun and interesting pastime.

Get your bearings. When you start exploring a ­cruising area, the local weather might seem indecipherable. Get a good introduction to the ­dominant systems by ­reading a few articles about the ­regional weather. When is the rainy season? Is there a hurricane season? 

Guidebooks offer a helpful, albeit simplified, overview. For instance, guides to French Polynesia, where we’ve been cruising aboard our 1988 Sparkman & Stephens 41, Pitufa, for the past eight seasons, describe the area as having two distinct seasons: a dry and windy season between May and October, and a cyclone season from November to April with generally rainy, hot weather. This is true for Tahiti and the Society Islands, but the Marquesas are usually dry with two short rainy seasons in spring and fall, while the Gambier and Austral Islands have proper seasons with hot summers and cool winters. If you don’t study this kind of information beforehand, you’ll be in for a few surprises.

Pilot charts. Take a look at pilot charts as well. What’s the strength and direction of the predominant winds? How often do passing low-pressure systems interrupt them? Get an overview, and then choose a few reliable weather sources from the jumble of available information. Check them on a daily basis.

Look at the big picture. When we have a strong internet connection, we download wind forecasts for a large area to observe the distant systems behind the local winds. This technique helps us, for example, keep an eye on passing troughs that interrupt the trade winds, or take note of an acceleration zone on top of a high-pressure system. 

We like to compare the American Global Forecast System model with the one from the European Centre for Medium-Range Weather Forecasts. That way, we can ​see how they differ. We also like to check the models after the fact and keep track of which one was more accurate.

Surface-analysis charts allow us to visually interpret the isobars, and they turn features such as fronts, troughs and lows into comprehensible images.

Some cruisers crop too small of a frame when forecasting and download data on an immediate area without seeing the bigger picture. They’re often flabbergasted (and curse the stupid forecast!) if the wind blows from the opposite direction. By contrast, if you download a larger GRIB file, you might see a convergence zone with northwest winds on one side and southeast winds on the other. The big picture is important to understand because minor inaccuracies in the forecast can result in a major predicament that leaves you pitching and rolling off a lee shore. 

Looking at the big picture also means that you can prepare for multiple scenarios and have alternative anchorages in mind. We like to explore cruising areas thoroughly and have our own GPS tracks to follow to a safe anchorage in the event of a windshift—a tool that is especially helpful if a move must be made during a squall or in the middle of the night.

Get a feel for weather patterns. During a prolonged stay in a protected anchorage, it’s interesting to look at the forecasts every day. What’s typical for the season and area? Do forecasts tend to overestimate or underestimate weather features? How do systems move? What can you expect from windshifts from certain directions—sunny skies or squalls? If you know your weather, then you can enjoy fair-weather sailing downwind or use the windshifts that passing troughs generate to make miles against the prevailing trades. 

Wait for proper windows. Losing your patience and sailing out on a suboptimal weather window is tempting, but it often leads to frustration. Flogging sails in fickle winds, or too much wind from the wrong direction, is worse than waiting. 

Once you find your window, make sure that you have a reliable source for forecasts underway. Whether you’re using an SSB or Iridium, monitoring forecasts means you can change course if needed, or head for an alternative destination. 

Each year, we sail east from Tahiti toward the Tuamotus in September or October, and each year neighbors ask us which island we’re headed for. The answer’s always the same: “Where the wind will allow us to go.” Setting out with winds from the northerly quadrant, we make miles eastward and try to get as far as we can. If the wind shifts back to the east earlier than expected, or has less of a northerly component than hoped for, we have half a dozen atolls from which to choose. 

Keep it up. Continue to look at forecasts even at anchor, and be prepared to move. What looks like a benign calm in the anchorage might, in reality, be an approaching system loaded with squalls. Being prepared with information is better than trying to ride out nasty conditions on the wrong side of an atoll. Fetch can build quickly, and waves can reach surprising heights. We were anchored recently on the east side of Maupihaa in the Society Islands when we noticed that the GRIB files showed a major wind shift within the next two days. Those shifts often come with squally fronts, so we warned our neighbors in the anchorage and set out to explore alternative spots in the atoll that might be safer in the clocking winds. When the front arrived with 30 knots from the northwest, we were comfortably anchored behind a beautiful motu on the northwest side. Unfortunately, the boats that decided to ride out the shift on the east side spent “the worst night of their cruising lives,” according to the skipper of a 50-foot catamaran, even though they were anchored just 2 miles away from us on the other side of the tiny lagoon. 

Birgit Hackl and her partner, Christian Feldbauer, have cruised French Polynesia for eight seasons. For more information, visit their blog.

Check the Charts for Patterns

Cross-referencing pilot charts, local guides, and anchorage guides can offer a good overview and insight into the weather patterns of an area. 

See our satellite data-based global interactive wind atlas at pitufa.at/oceanwinds.

Pacific Weather

The weather in the South Pacific is dominated by two big highs—the Kermadec high and the Easter Island high—with the South Pacific Convergence Zone in between. The trade winds here are not as stable as Atlantic and Caribbean trades, and can be frequently interrupted by troughs that travel along the convergence zone. Every couple of weeks, a passing trough lets the winds clock around, which is annoying when passagemaking westward but handy when hopping eastward along the islands.

We use Meteo France’s weather bulletins and surface ­analysis, NOAA’s surface analysis and cyclone warning site, and the weekly summaries of MetBob’s Bob McDavitt. All of those sites are embedded here: pitufa.at/weather-fp.

For Fiji, see the weather forecasts on the government’s ­official site (met.gov.fj), which includes the marine forecast.

These sources provide a general overview: 

Pacific Crossing Guide (Adlard Coles Nautical); South Pacific Anchorages (Imray); Cruising World, July 2019, “Pacific Weather Routing”; and Cruising World, July 2019, “Pacific Passage Planning”.

We use an SSB radio in combination with a Pactor modem to download forecasts underway, or when in remote areas. SSB propagation is limited to certain times of the day, so some cruisers prefer a satellite phone. No matter which medium you use, saildocs.com provides a great free service to download forecasts, using small files to save data. For French Polynesia, visit pitufa.at/weather-fp.

The post Pilot Charts, GRIB Files and Wind Patterns: Understanding Weather Bulletins, Models and Forecasts Makes for Safer, Happier Cruising. appeared first on Cruising World.

Marine weather guru and well-known seminar lecturer Lee Chesneau passed away Thanksgiving Day, 2021, three years after suffering a major stroke. 

According to an obituary posted on the Dignity Memorial website, after serving in the U.S. Navy, Chesneau spent his career with the National Weather Service, retiring in the late 1990s. He then went on to teach and speak about weather, eventually forming his own consulting business to promote safety at sea. In that role he helped train commercial fishing and recreational mariners on becoming self-reliant on vessel routing and prudent decision making. Together with Capt. Ma-Li Chen from Taipei, Chesneau published Heavy Weather Avoidance and Route Design: Concepts and Applications of 500Mb Charts and numerous other works. He was one of only a few to be certified as an USCG Standard Training, Certification, and Watch Standing instructor for basic and advanced meteorology.

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