The return to Drake Passage
17th January 2019
0700hrs
We dropped our guests off at the airport at 2330hrs last night. After reviewing the forecast Mike decided it would be best for us to pack the boat up in the same instance and make the leg across the Drake as soon as possible. Even though there is something of a weather window, we are still going to get a good bashing, the forecast shows north westerlies veering west to south west by Friday, twenty-five knots and increasing, coupled with fifteen to twenty foot waves; a bleak outlook but the best option over the next five days. Everyone duly got to work undressing the boat and packing for weather even though we were all exhausted from a week of charter mode and functioning on very little sleep, by 0100hrs we weighed anchor and made for the passage. Everyone slipped into delivery mode and our watch rota has been printed.
When I woke from a grand total of one hour’s worth of sleep, I geared up ready for the onslaught at the wheel; the weather deteriorated earlier than expected and we have to be steering from outside due to ice in the water, we should be clear of the ice by this evening. The aluminium hull has a deceiving level of soundproofing and what I was met with upon entering the cockpit was good proof of this. The thirty-five knot icy apparent winds blow each giant wave that we submarine through over the bimini and whips straight into my eyes, the previous watch leader gives me a quick run down and hurries excitedly to the warmth of the interior. My hands grip on to the wheel with icy resolve as I navigate through the chunks of iceberg that have been battered off the two colossal bergs that condescendingly watch our little yacht bobbing on this relentless ocean. These two bergs are roughly the size of Comino, with the height of Dingli cliffs, purely ice. They lie a few miles to the west of us and shed dangerously to create this obstacle course we now face. Everything glows a fiery red from a spectacular sunrise that lights up this unlikely scene. Even after just twenty minutes at the helm my hands start to freeze solid. The spray of frigid salty mist that hits my face gives me an extra boost of energy, enough to keep me focused on the task at hand.
1900hrs
The might of the Southern Ocean continues to bear down on us. Conditions have worsened at a faster rate than expected, we are now seeing forty knots apparent and trying to gain as much headway West as we can so that our angle to the wind is more forgiving once we make the turn North toward the Horn (a sentence I feel I will not be able to write so often in my lifetime) and the fifty-knot forecast hits us on Friday. Every other wave covers the entire boat in freezing water as our bows fly off with a few milliseconds of hang time. All 209 tons slamming down at the trough of these steep rollers brings a heavy vertigo that gives even the most experienced sailors a dull headache, some of my colleagues are showing signs of sea-sickness. Visibility has deteriorated to a few hundred metres, the wipers on the top deck saloon feebly attempt to push the barrage of sea water off our windscreens. This night will be a long one.
18th January
2300hrs
How many times will I be able to say that I point north toward the Horn? Today was another tough day, there is no sleep to be had as the boat is thrown off a twenty foot wave every two seconds. The weather shows no sign of subsiding; it is unrelenting and continues to worsen. This evening our autopilot gave up, meaning we are handsteering the rest of the way. There is no chance of opening the lazarette to inspect the autopilot with the so much water constantly flowing over the decks. Hand steering is not normally an issue but when the wind is blasting sea water at forty knots+ at your face in such freezing temperatures, a two hour watch seems to drag on for days. The forepeak high water alarm warned us of something going wrong in the sail locker, after pumping the locker out a few times and still being complained to by the alarm we had to send two people forward to investigate, something we were desperately trying to avoid in these conditions. I monitored the bilge manifold while Ish and Rory cautiously crept to the foredeck, Mike turned the boat down the monster swell and held her downwind as well as he could. It transpired that a rogue avocado pip jumped free of its garbage-bag jail cell and lodged perfectly into the anchor chain locker, causing a flow of water from the anchor locker straight into the forepeak. Us millennials would call that a major facepalm moment. Avocado pip out and forepeak drained, crisis averted.
We continue to smash into the mean Southern Ocean, tomorrow we will finally arrive to the lee of Deceit Island and beyond to get some well-deserved respite from this onslaught. Just one more night of no sleep, still a far sight more comfortable than the Antarctic Warriors that have ventured this way, at least we have hot showers!