Squally, squally!

Florida to Belize (Day 5)

It’s daytime and I’m tethered to the boat. We are rolling from side to side to side to side. And the waves just keep building. We are all moving about with great care.

The wind speed is only 20 knots, but it isn’t like sailing in 20 knots back in Guernsey. The wind feels stronger, more forceful on the sails. And that’s before even considering that everything on Argonaut is bigger and heavier and harder to do.

I am feeling queasy for the first time this passage. This is brought on, no doubt, by a potent mix of stale heat and the unsettling rolling motion. I keep sickness at bay the only way I know how: by eating. Unsurprisingly, I’m wholeheartedly for this tactic!

Charles and Ben are asleep, exhausted after the events of yesterday (losing steering on a lee shore followed by a small electrical fire). I am also rather tired. And helming in these conditions is draining, trying to keep the boat moving as it rolls and rolls and rolls. So, whilst I regain my composure, I hand over the helm to Otto the autopilot.

In between squalls, I shower on the transom, looking out across our wake. It’s my first shower in three days, and it is rather overdue! It becomes easy to lose track of time at sea as routines go out the window, especially when boat repairs quickly rise up the order of priorities.

Charles goes forward to silicone the starboard saloon windows, the ones which have been allowed salt water to leak onto the electricity switchboard. It’s not a pretty fix, but we are hoping it will slow down the water ingress and allow us to retain our remaining electronics, until we can work on a more permanent fix.

When the sea state briefly subsides, Ben and Charles go forward to pump out the bow locker, which has filled to the brim with water. Picture this: all four dive tanks floating and fenders bobbing. We think there is about three tonnes of water weighing down the bow, which is not ideal if you wish to avoid ploughing into waves. To pump it out, Ben has to climb in. But midway through, a set rolls in, bringing back the larger waves and rolly sea state.

CRASH!

The bow locker slams closed onto Ben’s head. Thankfully, he gets away with just a lump and the need to sit quietly for a while. Another injury to add to the long list of bruises and scrapes.

At this point, we decide to remove the fishing rod. We don’t quite fancy our chances of catching another fish at another inopportune moment, especially on the cusp of a hurricane.

Speaking of which, we are still sailing West, towards hurricane Milton. Why? We are currently North-East of the Westernmost point of Cuba. So, in order to head South to safety, we first need to get West enough to clear land.

Then, we reach what feels like quite a momentous occasion. We tack South. After days upon days of only sailing towards a hurricane, we are now officially sailing away from it.  Of course, there will be more tacks to come, as we zigzag West then South then West to round the point, but this tack brings with it an overwhelming sense of relief. The pressure is off. We should be safe, unless Milton deviates from its predicted track.

We light a celebratory braai. On the menu tonight: rib eye steak, potatoes and carrots (aka remnants of the dinner I prepared last night, before we discovered the leak over the electronics panel and had to switch off power to the hob). We cook enough steak so that we have leftovers the following day. But we leave no leftovers.

As the sun sets, it’s warm and calm. There is no reason to suspect there’s a hurricane on its way.

I’m back on watch at 2100. It’s pitch black. To my left, there is a lighthouse. To my right, there is lightening. We are still trying to round the Westernmost point of Cuba, and we are not quite making it. The wind direction shifted out of our favour. I need to come up in the gusts and make the most of any favourable changes in wind direction for us to make the point without tacking.

We squeak through. At last, we can head South in earnest.

By now, there is lightning all around us. I am a little scared. I check in with Charles, who confirms it’s far enough away. But I am not feeling at ease.

Off watch, it’s finally cool enough to lie down in my cabin rather than the saloon. I drift off to sleep to the tune of winches groaning up on deck above my head. At some point I am woken to put some reefs in.

Come 0600 it’s still dark, and it’s time for my watch again. We are heading South East, but more East than we would like and not enough South. The wind speed has picked up too. We are waiting for a sustained lull to furl the Jib and put out the Staysail. Otherwise, we will wait for daylight. But the wind speed has only increased since I took over from Charles. And daylight is still an hour and a half away.

It has now been twenty-four hours since our last weather update. The AC breaker is dead thanks to that leaky window above the electronics panel, so there’s no hope of turning our Starlink back on. But based on that forecast, hurricane Milton is directly North of where we are now. And I can believe it. The sea state and the wind speeds are ramping up. To shield myself from the worst of the waves crashing over the bow, I pop on Otto and shelter under the hard dodger. Even so, I find myself soaked. Nevertheless, Otto is doing a great job. We have 8 knots of boat speed upwind.

Lightning flashes all around.

All I can hear is the squeak of the autopilot, the creak of the sails, and the groan of the ropes. This quiet lends itself quite naturally to reflection. I feel sick to my stomach knowing how my family will be worrying, not hearing from any of us in twenty-four hours. I hope that the Garmin tracker is still updating normally. My family have already been briefed that “no news is good news”. If something were to happen, and the EPIRB triggered, they would find out rather quickly. But even so. I know they will worry. And so, in turn, I worry.

And I am a little scared about what lies ahead. We know the sea state and the wind speed will keep building, but to what end? There is not much else we can do to prepare for that now, except keep the boat moving South-East until dawn. Then we can get the Staysail out, furl the Jib, and tack South-West.

Once again, I feel a knot in my stomach. I cannot tell whether it is nervousness or sea sickness or hunger. I reach for the box of water crackers which have lived in the cockpit for the past few days. They are soft with no crunch, but they do the trick, keeping those feelings at bay for a little longer.

As I scan the horizon, I can see the first hints of dawn. There are patches of night sky which appear to be slightly more pale in the East. As my eyes adjust to the new greyscale colour palette, I spot a squall. It will catch up with us at some point. I watch the edge of the squall remain comfortably in the distance for the best part of an hour.

Then, all of a sudden, it is upon us. The wind speed jumps to 35 knots. We are still on the J1 but with two reefs in the main. And we are rather overpowered. We hold on tight. We are waiting to reach the centre of the squall and accompanying lull, so we can get the Staysail out in anticipation of another 35 knots on the other side. The sea state is confused and the wind angles are dancing around, but then Charles spots a smidge of blue sky amongst the grey. We decide to tack towards the blue, trying to avoid being dragged East by the squall.

I go forward to the shrouds to unclip the running backstay. Not a second after my foot steps back into the cockpit, the next 35 knots hits.

We settle in.

At least now our heading is pointing directly at Belize.

We chuckle to ourselves. Staysail at dawn isn’t the usual call! Usually, if you are sailing conservatively, you would reduce sail area before nightfall, and put more out at daybreak.

I head down below to rest. But even the most normal aspects of life have become difficult in this swell. Want to walk somewhere? I hope you know how to ice skate, because slippery salt water floods the floors. Need to go to the toilet? Well, first you need to master those climbing grips, bracing all four limbs against various bulkheads in attempt to lock yourself in place. Fancy some fresh dry clothes? Stop dreaming.

As I lie myself down, I can feel the motion of the waves in my stomach, like with a sudden drop you get on a rollercoaster. Except, there is no end to the ride. My stomach flips again, and again, and again. And yet, despite the odd sensation, sleep soon embraces me.