Still winds and flat seas

A friend recently asked what sorts of storms we had to weather on our voyages. There were so many, from intense squalls to roaring gales. I wouldn’t know where to start. It's a little like asking someone who fishes to tell about the big fish they caught. When you think of it, it's easier to talk about the times you caught no fish than the other way around.

When the wind dies, you turn on the engine, bunker in the shade of the bimini, get out a good book, set the autopilot on course, and check the radar every few minutes or so. Even if this can be a welcome change, it is easy to become lethargic and inattentive while on watch under such conditions. Yet, if you do spend some time looking out at the water, you often get some amazing sightings.

Here are three stories from still days at sea: when there wasn't even a breath of wind, and yet, somehow, magic found us.

Story 1: Bay of Biscay

This is what happened when I was on watch one day in the Bay of Biscay. Usually, the bay is notorious for storms and the Gulf Stream messing up the seas. We were pleasantly surprised by the calm conditions. I was sitting on deck when I saw flat, round shapes bubbling up through the mirror-like surface of the water. I steered the boat toward them and realised it was a small fleet of sea turtles sunning themselves in the strong afternoon sun.

I shouted out to my father Dave, my sibling D, and my sister-in-law Jen, who were below. They came out and were equally enchanted. We turned off the motor and sat with the turtles for the longest time. Eventually, as if on signal, the turtles all sank below the surface and dived deep into the ocean.

To break up the stillness, we decided to go swimming and race each other around the boat. The goal was ten laps. Jen won.

D was the last to wash down after getting back on deck. The rest of us were below, getting dressed, when we heard them cry out in alarm. We rushed up just in time to see the massive fin and the dark form of a mako shark eerily swimming past, close enough to graze the hull.

The frivolity and excitement of the last hour drained from our faces. We watched it slowly swim away. I thought of our succulent limbs, rambunctiously signalling “here we are,” and couldn't help but imagine the shark warning us, “You're lucky. I just ate something a short while ago.”

Story 2: Somewhere in the Atlantic

This is a story D confessed to only years after it happened. We, the same crew as the story above, were helping my father sail the boat from Grenada to Newfoundland. Somewhere off Guadeloupe, on the way to Bermuda, the wind dropped to nothing. This windless spell seemed to last forever. Everyone became bored.

One afternoon, D was on watch. They became completely absorbed in their book. Occasionally, they would shift sitting positions to avoid the glare of the sun and find a bit of shade.

According to D, it took them an embarrassingly long time, possibly an hour or two, to realise something was wrong with the way the sun kept shifting across their face. If the boat was on one compass course, why was the sun shining from every direction?

Eventually, the realisation struck. They quietly set the book aside, went to the steering wheel, and turned the boat back onto proper course before engaging the autopilot. They sat there in silence for a long while, thinking about how the boat had been looping in wide circles. They prayed Dave wouldn’t figure out their faux pas and tell the rest of us. Fortunately, Dave never noticed. Later that day, the wind picked up and we could sail again.

Story 3: Somewhere in the Atlantic off the shore of New Brunswick

Later in the voyage from Grenada to Newfoundland, we were hit by the worst storm we had ever experienced. It started a day or two after we left Bermuda. Once it became clear how serious it was, my father chose to head out into the Atlantic rather than hugging the US coast. This helped us avoid the congested shipping lanes, which were full of vessels of every size.

As the storm worsened, D and Jen got very seasick. The wind was straight on our bow, and the storm kept growing. Dave decided to heave-to. It must have felt a bit like admitting defeat, but it was really a way of pausing the boat’s motion rather than pushing blindly forward. When you heave-to, you reduce sail: easing out the main and backing the jib to hold the boat in balance. In theory, this counteracts the wind and waves just enough to keep the boat stable and reduce rolling, allowing you to go below and batten down the hatches.

At that point, you are a bobbing cork on open water, driven in any direction by wind, waves, and current.

It wasn’t a decision Dave took lightly, since it meant losing course. But there were only two of us able to steer, and he was the sole navigator. It was probably a mix of prudence and inevitability that led him to it.

Those next thirty hours were hell. The boat rose and fell with the huge waves like a free-falling elevator. And then, just like that, the storm was over. Not only over, but in a few hours' time, the wind dropped, and the sea transformed into a slow, quiet roll.

D and Jen crawled up from the bunk, they hadn’t left for two days. Dave made a strong pot of coffee and began getting some sightings to figure out where we were. I went below to the galley and made us all a delicious stew. Life was sweet again.

The days that followed were perhaps the most wondrous I’ve ever known. First, we had a full day of wind-still, and during that time, we saw many whales, including minke, fin, and humpback. They swam by us in all their glory. When the wind finally returned, and we neared the coasts of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, a multitude of seabirds escorted us to Halifax Harbour.

Years later, D and I spoke about that stretch of the journey. D only remembers vowing never to set foot on a boat again. And I only remember the magic that followed the storm.