Canary Islands 2013

Departed Malaga at sunrise, on deck alone in the rain, 10 nm from the cut separating Africa from Europe, the Mediterranean from the Atlantic, the only sunlight in the otherwise dreary sky beckons from the Straight ahead illuminating the Atlas Mountains to the south and the Rock of Gibraltar just to starboard, the sun setting on 6+ years in the Med, home we come!

STS

Those who been following the chronicles of Marlow know that tales of heroism usually pour forth throughout but I am afraid the adventure got the best of us this time around and rendered me speechless. It will have to suffice for now for me to report that we are indeed alive in the Canary Islands as of yesterday 11am UTC and recovering from a time warp of sleeplessness that began Monday with the onset of the gale, and which compressed in my mind all of the events until our arrival as one very long day followed by one very long night. I will say that I was not surprised to hear upon our arrival that the largest wave ever surfed was accomplished this week off the coast of Portugal. I must now return to the infirmary we have organized on board for unnerved sailors and take my prescription of Laphroaig until I can muster the strength to relate our tale more fully.

Yours truly,

STS

Loomings

Since sailing across the Atlantic in 2007 Marlow has mostly been on the croissant circuit, cruising the coasts of France, Italy and Spain with children on board looking for the next great piece of bread. An offshore leg here and there, but we're usually no more than a one day sail from land. Croissants make you soft, and this was something I considered as I prepared for the trip.

The Canary Islands are roughly 700nm southwest of the Med, a volcanic mountain chain rising sheer up from the ocean floor to 9,000 feet at its peak. Upon arrival, when we were just one mile offshore, we were still in 10,000 feet of water. It is said that a large piece of the mountain is crumbling and may one day fall into the ocean causing a 1,000 foot wave to hit the east coast of the United States in 10 hours time on its way 150 miles inland. Maybe California is actually a safer place to live.

The high altitude and distance out to sea away from light pollution make the Canary Islands ideal for astronomy, and the largest observatory in Europe is situated adjacent to Mt Teide, a blown off volcano top that is protected as a national park. On the way over we could see for ourselves why astronomers set up their kit here, as the glow from Casablanca faded away after the third night, the brilliance of the sky intensified and each individual star came into distinct focus. In fact, Slooh's telescopes are here, and I was coming to the island to celebrate our 10th anniversary with our hosts at the Institute of Astrophysics and watch the solar eclipse we are broadcasting with them from Kenya on Nov 3rd. We had a schedule to keep and that is why Marlow departed despite the sketchy weather forecast.

I was captain, T_________, a professional sailor from Mallorca, was first mate, and Steve Funk signed up as crew for his first experience on a sailboat. We had been expecting a fourth crewman but he backed out on T_________ a few weeks before departure. I thought enough of it at the time to tell Steve that the risk profile had just increased and that I would understand if he wanted to back out. As I saw again and again throughout the adventure, Steve does not back down from a challenge, and so we proceeded with our plan, despite being short handed.

We arrived in Malaga at 4pm last Friday after studying the forecast on the train from Madrid. There was a developing hurricane moving across the North Atlantic toward Ireland and the Bay of Biscay forecasting 14 meter waves. Even though it was far away from where we were heading it made me nervous because a major storm will intensify the weather in adjacent systems. Indeed, it was going to be driving 5 meter waves all the way to Morocco, though the wave period was expected to be between 15 and 20 seconds, which meant they wouldn't be steep and therefore relatively safe to navigate. In fact, when the 15 foot swell began on Monday it was the most striking effect I had ever experienced in nature. We were riding the waves and seeing massive peaks about a quarter of a mile back, while feeling the sensation of being on stage in an outdoor amphitheater looking up at a crowd expecting you to recite Shakespeare or something. And before you could say to be or not to be, the wave passed by underneath almost unnoticed, and a new crowd formed again in the distance. This went on for about 5 hours until nightfall with the wind blowing 20kts out of the north/northeast.

Meanwhile, we had dodged a bullet that morning. Our boom is held to the deck by a hydraulic contraption called a boom vang, and it connects to the deck at the foot of the mast with a round pin that is six inches long and one inch in diameter, and which is held in place by two key rings which probably cost 10 cents a piece. During the previous day in 20kts of wind we accidentally jibed the boat, twice!, which caused the boom to swing across the boat with great force and, unbeknownst to us, we broke one of these key rings at that time. 12 hours later out popped the pin, and down came the boom, damned near into the ocean. We wrestled it back into place, made good use of Steve's mechanical skills to replace the pin and continued on our way. We knew by then the wind was supposed to come up that night to 30 kts, so we considered ourselves lucky it hadn't happened under more difficult conditions. Regardless, I considered it a very bad sign. We had caused the issue through poor seamanship, and I wondered to what degree this boat and crew was ready for what might unfold next. I had been feeling this to some degree since departure. When we arrived in Malaga, T_________ had quickly dispelled any concern about a storm so far away, said it was perfect weather for a passage south, and encouraged us to leave immediately, as we could then travel in tandem with a friend sailing down alone. I bought his "local knowledge" regarding the weather, in part because I needed to arrive by the 2nd, and we agreed to depart at dawn despite pangs in my gut that we were pushing our luck. Once underway, I noticed we weren't exactly living up to Bermuda Race safety standards and took several steps to lock her down and reduce risk, most of which T_________ protested as unnecessary. We learned Saturday night as we entered the Atlantic that our traveling companion in our "sister ship" was an alcoholic who had found a stock pile of booze on board and proceeded to get very drunk before being hauled into Tarifa by the port police. Some flotilla that turned out to be.

These were some of the things going through my mind when the gale blew up late Monday night.

STS

It's early on Monday when we spot another sailboat, the first since departure. Maybe the flotilla is getting back together. Funk hasn't chatted anyone up in days and he isn't going to miss his chance.

"Marlow calling sailing vessel off our starboard beam"

British accent, "Orion One here, heading with my wife for the canaries"

"Us too, we'll keep in touch as we go"

I become a bit more confident in the size of our crew. We've been alternating 4 hrs on, 4 hrs off, and we're still pretty fresh, despite the red eye to Madrid and the big night out in Malaga before departure when Funk and I try to pack a European vacation into 8 hrs.

By dusk the wind is blowing a solid 30kts, and T_________ emerges from a nap to grab the helm and surf the waves amid escalating conditions. He's wearing his harness now and finally seems to be taking this as seriously as I'd like him to be. We drive manually for a few hours and then go back to auto-pilot, which I watch closely to confirm can hold its course. The main swell is still 15 feet every 15 seconds, but now there are smaller waves emerging in between, built up by our local wind, and Marlow is starting to bounce around unpredictably. Once this starts, two things degrade…..our cooking and our sleep. The pasta alla bonito I make late Monday is our last hot meal, and no one is asking for seconds.

By midnight it is blowing 35 kts with gusts pushing 40. This is exceeding the forecast and bringing my fears to the fore. Is this precisely what I have been trained all these years to avoid? Departing to keep a schedule in intense weather, undermanned, lack of experience together as a crew, an aging boat? And then I start to feel guilty for putting Funk at risk like this his first time out, and I think about Liz and the tremendous shame for leading her husband to his death, and how JFK jr. blew it in just the same way, leaving on a schedule in sketchy weather, and I even recall for the first time in a decade how when I was seven my friend's father died in a collision of commercial airplanes on the runway in the Canary Islands, and how my kids are going to share a similar fate. And then I look over at Steve and he is sitting in the cockpit looking at me like some loyal Labrador, not a sign of fear or worry, just thrilled to be here, on an adventure, and I take heart. Yes, of course we are going to get home.

The first test comes after midnight Tuesday. Steve notices Orion One dropping back and reaches out. "Marlow, we are very tired. We've had an issue on deck with our lines, we're seeing winds of 60 kts, and we're going to lie ahull. May God bring us what she will." Whoa. Who said anything about 60 kt winds? T_________ is scared shitless. Literally. We found out later that he got locked up and I am convinced the freezing point was precisely at this moment. Certainly any swagger he showed in port was a distant memory from this point forward, at least until the next port was within smelling distance. The winds cooked up to 45kts and we waited for the onslaught that never got any worse.

By Tuesday night we had shortened to three hour shifts, with Steve and I settling into 9pm to midnight, and 3am to 6am, and with T_________ midnight to 3am and 6am to 9am. T_________ was now a ghost………not eating, hiding under a Zuckerberg hoodie, flopping like a Spanish soccer player who has been nicked on the ankle. The second test arrived early Tuesday evening. The wind hadn't escalated all day but the waves sure had. That 15 foot swell had merged into the local wave effect, and we were now seeing 15 foot waves twice as often, and often bigger. I knew Monday night would be our biggest wind, but tonight would be our biggest waves, and I wasn't sure what to expect. Even during the Atlantic crossing we had never experienced more than 15 ft, and I had found comfort then in the fact that some of our crew had seen far worse. Then, at 7pm, as if designed by some magnificent warrior to deliver maximum psychological impact, just as it got pitch dark, and with the full long night ahead, a massive wave, the first ever in all these years, boarded Marlow from the stern and crashed into the cockpit. I was behind the helm and I ducked while it crashed on top of me. I didn't lose my feet or feel a tug on my harness but when I stood up to see how we took it I saw the cockpit full of water, and all of the lines on deck washed away to the port side of the boat. The autopilot alarm went off signaling the boat was off course but I reset it and she found her way without further intervention. I wish I could tell you how big it was but I barely saw it. I heard a sound that I must have sensed was unusually close and turned to see the crest pushing itself right into my face. What a slap. I've been reading about this for decades but that didn't mean I had ever expected it to happen to me. I needed to regroup. I went down below to change my wet shoes. I came up on deck and hid under the dodger, counting the moments until the next one, until I could determine if this was the new normal, or a fluke. I put on Let It Bleed, found comfort in gimme shelter and mick's screeching, and waited for the onslaught of waves that never got any worse.

The final test occurs Wednesday night with shot nerves and exhaustion impacting our judgement. In stable 25kt winds and 15 foot seas, after not having seen another boat for a day and feeling damn lonely about it, we cross a tanker who refuses to recognize our existence, and in fact seems hell bent on wiping it out. We are on a collision course less than 500 yards away before we turn on all of our outdoor lights and he finally turns to starboard to avoid hitting us. The Labrador is unsettled.

It blows the same right to the marina Thursday 11am. We are greeted by screaming dock workers gesticulating in violent terms to offer them dock lines we have yet to attach. T_________ says I am broke and goes to bed, and Steve and I go to get drunk. We have yet to learn the fate of Orion One.

STS