Tag Archives: rough seas

Santa Marta to Cartagena

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Let's have a drink or six before I leave Santa Marta!

Let’s have a drink or six before I leave Santa Marta!

And so, the intrepid (in hindsight, a more appropriate adjective would be half-witted), adventurer left his newly found Moët & Chandon converts behind and set sail for Cartagena.

Why?

I’m still asking myself the same question, though impending alcohol induced liver failure does come to mind…

The sensible thing to do, given that it was blowing a gale, would have been to stay an extra day, or week for that matter. I certainly had the incentives. However, my departure documents stated I was leaving “pronto”, and who was I to contradict what was signed, stamped and dutifully bound in triplicate.

Changing my mind would mean having to repeat the whole week long check-in rigmarole, much to my agents joy, and my wallet’s distress.

Santa Marta to Cartagena via the mouth of the Magdalena River off Barranquilla

Santa Marta to Cartagena via the mouth of the Magdalena River off Barranquilla

I left it to Eileen of Avoca, (once again), to do all of the hard work of taking me from point A to point B. Having set her try-sail, stay-sail, wind-vane and other hyphenated sail-things, I thought it best to settle down below to nurse what was rapidly becoming a contender for the title of “mother of all hangovers”.

On route, I spent as little time on deck as possible. Partly because there was very little traffic to worry about, but mainly because I didn’t like what I was seeing there.

Surf…

I’m not generally worried about big seas, the exception being when those seas break, as was the case a mile out from the mouth of the Rio Magdalena. It’s not the first time I’ve been among breakers with my Yarmouth23. You would think that I have learnt by now how to avoid them (breakers that is, not hangovers…), but no…, It’s much easier to sit through yet another lesson on white-water induced cork dynamics. In fact, I’m thinking of taking a double major in it.

Through Boca Grande and on to Cartagena

Through Boca Grande and on to Cartagena

Thankfully the turbulent effects of the river were short-lived, even if Eileen didn’t seem adversely effected by it. By morning (24 hours after leaving Santa Marta), I found myself motoring tranquilly through Boca Grande.

Safely docked at Club Nautico, it was time to play tourist.

Foremost on my (predictably one-track mind? but let’s say…) agenda, was discovering whether Aguila girls prefer Cartagena to Santa Marta?

 

What happened to all those regular updates?

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Approaching Lagos... Canaries exit...stage left

I’d like to say that I’ve been alone, cut off from the world valiantly battling heavy seas for weeks at a time, tempering my physique whilst exercising my mental mettle, but the reality is that I’ve been tremendously busy making unplanned social detours at every opportunity.

Following a night of pontoon festivities, [where alcohol refreshments were enthusiastically consumed by sailors young (that’s me) and old (i.e. everyone else… OK, not you either Marta…) and gathered for one last bash under the twinkle of party lights and thrum of music emanating from the little blue boat], the majority of southerly migrating yachts (three out of five) left Cascais on the 2nd of November bound for the Canary Islands, (Madeira had become a no-go zone due to forecast heavy seas).

After a teary goodbye by the throngs of well wishers gathered to witness Eileen of Avoca’s departure [(that would be the crew of Angel of Rio and Apodis), and enthusiastic (if somewhat imaginary) jostling by hoards of fans crowding the shoreline (now I’m harboring illusions of fame and grandeur but do bear with me, the phenomenon is generally transient…), eager for just one last glimpse of number 9 putting to sea], I spent a thoroughly undignified and sleepless night dodging all manner of royal annoyances including cruise liners from the Duchess and Empress, to the Princess and you-name-it-ness, all apparently intent on running me down.

The high priestess and priest of 'yea almighty' Lupin

Despite managing a respectable 100 nautical miles in just 24 hours under just tri-sail and stay-sail, I quickly satisfied my quota for ‘hours logged in a confused swell’ (yes, I’m ready to accept the label of wimp!), and took a left hand turn round Cape Vincent, setting course for Lagos to satisfy a newly devised theorem on mollifying seasickness with ice cold larger ashore. After promising initial trials at the marina cafe, I managed to significantly expand on my basic proof, concluding that the miracle cure for nausea at sea is to be found in hot vindaloo at an Indian restaurant, courtesy of old 3-day friends, (oh… and only after a foundation of several refreshing pints).

The official version of my story reads: faulty wiring with Eileen’s tri-light forced me to put to shore on safety grounds, but upon exhaustive testing and intense scrutinizing (I flicked the switch back and forth a couple of times), the mysterious intermittent problem resolved itself. There, you see! Having a technical background specializing in troubleshooting does pay off!

Determined to make the most of this unscheduled stopover, I went hunting for the crew of Riviera Magic (wintering afloat), to pay homage to the resident feline deity “Lupin”. Those of you who have been diligently reading all my updates (ah… dear mum), will recall that I met the high priest and priestess (Brad & Diane), serving yea almighty Lupin, on Riviera Magic in May while sheltering at La Coruna. I am pleased to report that Lupin is well and may consider an extended public tour after sufficient rest this winter.

Heading for the Canaries... Take 2

At dawn I made my second attempt to reach the Canary Islands… For the moment, lets just say I didn’t quite make it.

Crossing Biscay in late September

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Sainte Marine near Benodet, France

It seems I’m always running late with my planned itinerary. Having a slow boat doesn’t help much but this time it’s definitely not my fault that I’m crossing Biscay in late September. Not that it’s such a big deal, but the appropriate weather windows grow few and far between this time of year.

Oh, and it’s now decidedly frigid after sunset.
I waited three days in the seasonally busy (read currently devoid of all life), but charming holiday village of Sainte-Marine until my chance to reach Spain presented itself.

Weather situation leaving France to cross Biscay

  • Day 1: Up to Force 5 Northwesterly winds in moderate to rough seas.
    The Aries wind vane steered Eileen effortlessly toward Gijon. I spent most of the time bouncing off the cabin fixtures (usually head first) and shivering despite my five layer wardrobe, but that’s a small price to pay for getting under way.
    Hats off the the 65+ sailing set. They must be made of sterner stuff than I am. While I’m certainly not finding my spiritual self alone at sea, I’m certainly discovering the measure of my physical self. This via a series of bruises, bumps and assorted muscular pains or strains. My trim office physique (hard as marshmallow) is having a hard time adapting, and if I hit that particular bulkhead one more time I’ll undoubtedly risk a serious concussion before the day is out!

The fishing vessel Magellan came rather close!

  • Day 2: Force 3 to 4 Northwesterly winds in settling seas.
    I’ve had to switch to my electric Tiller Pilot as the apparent wind is not strong enough to persuade the Aries vane gear to cease it’s incessant zigzagging.
    I’m at last far enough from any shipping to risk a good four hour sleep. With my new AIS system set to wake me if any vessel draws dangerously near, I snore to my hearts content as Eileen of Avoca’s automated systems take command. Bet you wish you could do that with your car!

Safe with Avel Vat at the visitors pontoon in Gijon.

  • Day 3: Force 2 Variable winds on a smooth sea.
    I’m motoring along at 4kts trying to decide whether to turn toward La Coruna or continue with my current course for Gijon. NAVTEXT weather forecasts are usually the adjudicating factor but in this particular case it’s my stomach that insists on having the final say. I eventually defer to it’s interminable grumblings and make haste for Gijon (in order to gorge myself on pizza and to stock up on Chinotto).
    On the horizon I spy another sailing vessel and interestingly it stays on an almost parallel course for much of the day. I say interestingly, because I’m used to being rapidly overtaken by just about anything that floats. Driftwood has been known to overtake my yarmoth23 in light winds! I conclude that they obviously have engine difficulties.
    By sunset I’m tying up alongside the very boat that has kept pace with me all day. It’s the French registered Avel Vat with it’s one man, one boy, crew.

The fearless crew of Avel Vat

I introduce you to Frederic and Vivien on their way to Martinique and blogging all about it (in French) here:
http://fredericconstant.blogspot.com/
They’d been watching me with equal interest and even took a picture of Eileen of Avoca on route:

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Nygl8nAqDqQ/TKHnS8R7EpI/AAAAAAAAARY/aU4NxmU5JDc/s1600/P9270372.JPG

Barbate to Rota in turbulent seas.

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Weather west of the straits

Just 5 miles west of Barbate I found myself sailing around the many shoals off Cape Trafalgar. Yes, this is the site of the famous, or infamous, (presumably depending on your nationality), 1805 naval battle between Villeneuve and Nelson.

I’d checked my almanac and Imray pilot to time the departure for a complementary tidal stream, but after an hour of speeding west at 7.5kts I realized my northerly stream was not altogether northerly! If only the disclaimer printed beneath the tidal stream extract was given more prominence, I might not have taken it as gospel. Lesson learnt.

The wind was now gusting to twice that predicted in the “windguru.com” and “windfinder.com” web site forecasts and the direction was anything but favourable. I was obviously in for another rough trip. A brief glance at the brevity of my ships log (one entry 6hrs after departure) is testament to this.

So why was I stubbornly heading North toward the bay of Cadiz instead of just heading out to sea on a direct route to Portugal?

For several reasons:

  • Firstly, I found it was difficult to trust the weather forecasts for one day, let alone the two to three that I’d need for a longer leg;
  • I also wanted to take advantage of the promise of smoother seas further north (clearly shown in my weather forecasts an example of which is posted above).
  • A degree of wanting to play tourist also had to be taken into consideration.

Ugly but functional

By sunset I was bouncing my way into the bay of Cadiz. No torn mainsail this time, but the bronze rail at the end of my boom (tensioning the mainsail), was dramatically ripped from its fastenings. For now, I have decided to do without it, and have come up with this (see photo) elegant solution. OK, I’ll admit it isn’t pretty, but it does work!

Of Rota, I saw nothing but the refueling pontoon by night. Fascinating. So much for the argument of heading north to play tourist. 🙂