Sailing through a Category 5 Hurricane
Florida to Belize (Day 6)
I wake up, overheating. It’s 1100. Whilst I have been asleep, Argonaut has become a seesaw. And now, in addition to seeing big wind speeds, we have big waves too. Every molecule of ocean and air is being sucked in by hurricane Milton, which (to the best of our knowledge) is North-East of us, hurtling towards Florida.
But of course, it has been days since we had a weather update. The water ingress from waves crashing relentlessly over the decks has ultimately become too much for our switchboard to handle. We have lost AC power and, along with it, we have lost our ability to access the internet via Starlink. Which means we have also lost our ability to communicate with concerned friends and family. And we have also lost our ability to get important updates on the path of hurricane Milton.
But even though we do not have an update on the weather, we can expect these conditions to continue for days on end. Big wind, big seas.
I rummage around in the galley and make myself a bowl of cereal. I am sleepily amused by how odd it looks: the milk and cereal tilted at 45 degrees to the bowl, because of the angle at which the boat is tilting. But my amusement rapidly fades as we tilt further and my breakfast ejects itself onto the counter top and down onto the floor. Sigh. Not even a bowl of cereal is easy. Charles laughs.
Charles: It that doesn’t sum up offshore sailing, I don’t know what does!
At midday, I’m back on watch. I take over the helm. And helming in these conditions is hard. The waves are hitting us side-on, and they are huge: crashing not only over the bow, but over my head in the cockpit too, which I suppose explains the seaweed on the deck. In fact, it’s so salty that Charles swipes a stale water biscuit on the teak deck, to season it with salt.
My right bicep is sore. It’s not so much from steering itself (it’s actually rather low input helming), but from the strength required to hold the helm steady. I want to lock in this rudder angle and keep Argonaut as balanced as she can be in this swell.
An especially large wave breaks over the bow and the spray, airborne, flies back towards the helm. My instincts are to close my eyes and turn away. As I reopen my eyes, it’s 30 knots, 31 knots, 32 knots… and I can see a squall on the horizon. The rain is now pelting down so hard that it hurts my skin. For how many days will this go on? Surely, it must subside at some point?
We discuss the possibility of heaving to, to give ourselves a break.
Ben: When does the fun start, by the way? I’ve been here a month, and all I’ve done is boat work and now this!
When we left Florida, our intended destination was Belize. But given the conditions - both weather-wise and broken systems on Argonaut - we start exploring other options. There is a sheltered anchorage near an island just off the coast of Mexico, about 90 nautical miles away from us. And, as luck would have it, we are pointing straight at it. We make the decision that, rather than fighting to make it to Belize, we will instead continue on our current track towards the Mexican coastline and seek shelter there.
Despite Charles’ best efforts to stem the leak above the switchboard and protect what remains of our electronics, there is still water coming in. The bow locker, once again, is full and not draining. Three tonnes of water weighing down the nose really isn’t ideal when you are trying to avoid ploughing into steep waves. Plus, the bilge is uncomfortably full. We have been on the same port tack since dawn the previous day, meaning bilge water has been building up to the starboard side. This is a concern because the electronic switchboard (which we are trying to stop getting even more wet) is also on starboard side, and mounted rather low. So, we want the bilge water to overflow from the starboard chamber into the main bilge. There are a few ways this can happen:
Allowing even more water to build up in the starboard bilge chamber, enough to cause it to overflow (not quite what we are aiming for here).
Tacking so that water builds up in the port bilge chamber instead (better from preserving electronics perspective, but now we are going the wrong way).
Luffing up so that we don’t heel over as much (giving the bilge water a better chance to escape).
So that’s how I ended up sprawled on the floor, intently watching whether the bilge water was spilling over into the main chamber, and passing up directions to the helm on when and how long to luff up for.
By 1800, I’m back on watch. The waves are bigger in size, but the periods in between them are longer than this afternoon, which makes it much more enjoyable to helm. But it’s still pretty wild out here.
Charles: Water just came into my eye with such velocity that it actually hurt.
I am perched in my happy place, next to the winches on the port side. I find it easier to helm from here. But an unfortunate side-effect is that I now have some nasty windburn stretching all the way up my left leg, which has been exposed to the elements while I helm in my underwear. Yes, underwear. Every piece of clothing is soaked, so there’s not much point putting it on. And besides, we’ve all raced together before, there is no modesty left.
Dinner time comes. Since we are in survival mode, it is of course time to break out our misely rations: a cheese and charcuterie board.
Darkness falls. It’s tiring enough to helm in these conditions in daylight, let alone in the pitch black when you cannot see the waves coming. And so, overnight, we change the watch roster to make it more manageable. On reflection, none of us can remember exactly what we changed it to. But it was very much along the lines of “I’ve been helming a while, it’s your turn now”. We kept one person snoozing in the cockpit on standby - to sub in when the helm inevitably needed a 15 minute break during their shift, and close enough to reach the main sheet if we needed to rapidly dump it.
Ben is now helming, Charles is on standby, and I am trying to get some sleep down below. I am damp. I can hear the whooshing of water all around me, the creaking of the boat, bottles clanking in the galley, and the repeated banging of a wardrobe door slamming incessantly. And the air is littered with the stench of fuel, which we think has been leaking in the bilge for days, but we cannot find the source. It smells like strong white spirit. On my lips, I can still taste salt. And I can see nothing but black.
Then, a wave pushes us, and we end up hove to. Although not deliberate, it is rather convenient: giving us a chance to finally empty than starboard bilge chamber and allowing Charles to jump into the lazarette to check on the steering. We soon get sailing again, and I go back to sleep.
That night is a real struggle. We keep rotating the helm. In 35 knots of wind and 30ft sea state, I manage about 45 minutes of helming before I start to feel myself lose concentration. So I take a break. Then go again.
At one point in the night, we think the sea state has calmed for good, and we see 17 knots of wind! Ben and I celebrate. But it is premature. The sea state builds again and the wind rotates direction, sucking us ever more North towards the hurricane. We are now pointing too far North to reach Mexico on this tack, and the Gulf Stream is pushing us further North too. And we cannot tack (at least not in the conventional sense) because the lazy staysail sheet has become unattached. We do not want to risk anyone going forward to reattach it during these conditions in the dark. So, although we know we are heading in the wrong direction, we continue on.
Charles takes then helm, so I go down and get about three hours of sleep, before waking up to the smell of damp and fuel and being too hot and in a cramped space. I feel an urgent need for fresh air. So, I try to sleep in the cockpit. But it is too cold, even when I put on my foul weather gear. So, I put on the layers I packed for Antarctica. It seems absurd.
Once again, it’s time to take the helm from Charles. It is still 30 knots. And I am losing concentration easily now, sleep deprivation on the winning path.
When it’s time to wake Ben, I recommend he also digs out his foul weather gear, currently in deep storage. He cannot believe it. Surely, not? I confirm that Charles is also wearing his foul weather gear. Sigh.
Ben bemoans putting on his Musto HPX to be sailing in the Caribbean Sea. The worst part is, it’s the right call.
Day breaks. Ben suggests a tack. We try. The backstay gets stuck around the solar panels and Starlink. We tack back. I go forward to clip the running backstay to the shrouds, to keep it out of the way until after we tack. The waves are still big, and water is gushing over my feet. I am clipped on but feel unstable. I need both hands to work - one to hold the backstay, the other to clip it on. So I cannot steady myself with my hands, only my legs.
I get back into the safety of the cockpit. We tack well this time. Then, we put in a third reef and swap the staysail for a jib half unfurled. This allows us to point much better; so much so, that we are finally pointing at land.
I feel like I want to cry from relief.
Take me to Mexico!