Rudy and JP
That same day at JP’s hillside home in France, his wife, Mayke, begins her daily hike with her two dogs up to their mountaintop perch with tremendous views to the east. She and the dogs climb up a rough dirt road littered with rocks, past the ancient chestnut trees rising from enormous gnarled trunks, and finally into the high country of low shrubs where wild boars live. She passes a rocky cliff where JP removed the flattest stones to use in the columns of the gate by his vegetable garden. She wonders how he is faring on his voyage and how far up the Gulf Stream he might be. Since he left on the trip, her days have been agonizingly slow, and painting has been difficult. The subject of each of Mayke’s paintings is never planned out—she lets her hands guide her, and images begin to take form. Her last painting was of a woman sitting alone, staring at an open door.
It takes her a bit longer than usual to reach the summit because she hasn’t been sleeping well from being on edge, worrying about JP. These climbs to the hilltop usually relax her, but not today. When she reaches the mountaintop, she sits down and gazes across the hazy valley to the next ridge, over five miles away. After a few minutes, her heart starts racing and the landscape she is staring at is replaced by a vision. She sees the inside of a boat, dark except for a few dim and flickering lights glowing from various pieces of electronic equipment. The cabin is moving violently, first up and down and then yawing from side to side. Her heart beats faster. What is this? she asks herself, feeling alarmed and nauseated. Her eyes are open, and she is not asleep, not dreaming. Then, as suddenly as the vision came, it is gone, and before her are the green hills stretching off toward blue skies. With shaking hands, she lights a cigarette and wishes she could tell JP to abort the trip and sail to the closest port. She doesn’t know there are no ports near the current position of the Sean Seamour II. The vessel is approximately 240 miles off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, and 400 miles from Bermuda.
• • •
Across the ocean, JP is taking over the watch from Rudy, sitting alone in the cockpit of his boat, trying but failing to appreciate another sunrise. His thoughts are fixated on the latest weather report downloaded from the Internet, showing the low-pressure system to the north of the Sean Seamour II deepening and gathering strength, its pressure gradients becoming more compact. To the south, the other low-pressure system is moving in a northwesterly direction, slowly closing the gap. Forecasters are calling for winds to increase throughout the day and max out at thirty to thirty-five knots.
JP squints at the horizon and sees an aircraft carrier steaming off his starboard bow far in the distance, likely heading toward Norfolk, Virginia. He raises the carrier on the VHF radio, and the navy radio operator confirms that their latest weather report is the same as JP’s: increasing wind with rain as the low-pressure system intensifies. JP thanks them and continues to sail east, away from both systems and the potential hazards of the Gulf Stream.
Later in the morning, Ben and Rudy are in the cockpit, thankful for the great speed they are making away from the Stream. The seas are four feet and choppy, but the Sean Seamour II slices through them at seven and a half knots. This is the kind of sailing Rudy had hoped for. The invigorating breeze, salt air, and steady progress of the boat make him feel completely alive.
At one p.m. the two men notice wispy yellow-brown clouds off to the north.
“What do you make of those clouds?” asks Rudy, keeping his eyes fixed northward.
“Rain is coming, and maybe a squall,” answers Ben.
Rudy nods. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen clouds that color. They’re so menacing.”
JP comes up from below, glances toward the stained clouds and says, “The winds are forecast to veer out of the north to northeast late in the day, and that’s when they are supposed to really pick up. We’re in for some rough weather, so let’s prepare.”
The three sailors discuss the approaching weather and decide they don’t want to get caught with too much sail up. They begin reefing the sails but continue advancing toward the east and away from the Gulf Stream. JP gets the canvas sides with plastic windows and attaches them to the hard dodger on either side to form an enclosure in the cockpit. The day darkens ominously, as if the sky is in a surly mood that might swell into all-out anger at any moment.
As the winds increase, the men realize the canvas sides will be blown apart, so Ben and Rudy take down what JP just put up. The cushions on the foredeck, although secured with rails and zippers on all four sides, start to flap and are in danger of tearing away under the strain of the wind. Tethered to the safety line that runs the length of the boat along either side, JP crawls forward to secure the cushions. Although the boat is handling the seas well, it is being rocked and jolted. Ben, who is watching JP crawl along the exposed deck, shouts above the wind to Rudy, “This is crazy. He should just let them go.” But JP, being quite attached to the Sean Seamour II, has no such thoughts. He saves the cushions and is soon back in the cockpit.
An hour later, the winds are howling at forty-five knots out of the north-northwest. Raindrops, propelled horizontally by the wind, lash at the three sailors. JP thinks, This is not good. Nothing is going as planned. The weather is not as predicted.
Even though they are almost fifty miles east of the Gulf Stream, it still influences the gray seas around them because they are at the edge of a large eddy that has extended outward from the Stream. The seas are chaotic and have grown to ten to fifteen feet. JP reefs the remaining sails and then raises a small portion of a storm jib. The progress of the Sean Seamour II has slowed considerably, and cold rain pours from the angry sky. All three men put on their safety harnesses and tether themselves to the boat. Rudy has long since stopped reveling in the boat’s bracing ride and is becoming increasingly concerned about the wind, which seems to get stronger by the minute.
As the afternoon wears on with no letup from the storm, JP considers his options. His original plan to sail north of Bermuda later that night no longer looks feasible with the diminished headway. Making a run to Norfolk is out of the question because they would have to cross the Gulf Stream, and besides, they are much too far out to sea to beat the storm to land. The storm is already happening.
JP checks the latest weather reports, but they are the same, forecasting maximum winds of thirty-five knots. Well, he thinks, I learned from Hurricane Bertha to expect the unexpected. And this is the unexpected: JP is soon clocking gusts of up to sixty knots that cause the Sean Seamour II to pitch and roll, which makes moving about increasingly difficult. He decides the best course of action is to reverse course and run with the system. Even with the anticipated wind shift out of the north-northwest to the north-northeast, he has plenty of sea room to run and still avoid the Gulf Stream. He also decides to lay his largest drogue off the stern and let the boat run bare poles with the seas. The drogue is a wise choice, since it acts as a drag on the boat, counteracting the wind and waves that push the boat forward. The drogue device looks like a parachute with holes on its side trailed at the end of a long line, and like a parachute it can be a lifesaver. Besides slowing the Sean Seamour II, it also helps stabilize the helm and keeps the boat perpendicular to the sea, with its stern into the wind rather than beam-on.
Ben and Rudy assist JP with the drogue, feeding the drogue line through the main winch on the port side. JP crawls to the stern of the vessel and guides it through the starboard stern cleat. Despite the heaving boat, JP has no trouble balancing while he works. For a fifty-seven-year-old man, he is nimble, and his motions are quick and efficient—almost catlike. Approximately three hundred feet of line is released, so that the drogue lies deep in the second following wave. The amount of line to let out is an inexact science: If you feed too much, slack can form, and the drogue loses traction, potentially allowing the boat to broach as it slides down a wave, but too little line will cause the boat to jerk violently. The men feel they have set out just the right amount, because the Sean Seamour II is riding the waves with much greater stability. To make sure the line doesn’t chafe, JP adds layers of duct tape and nonsoluble grease around the section of line that will ride in the cleat. The worst thing would be for the line to suddenly snap: That would send the boat surging forward, whereupon it might surf down a wave sideways and slam into the trough where capsizing is a real possibility.
Ben has weathered storms at sea before, and he thinks this one is manageable, particularly now that the drogue is set. The wind seems to read his thoughts. A powerful gust blasts down on the men and pries Ben’s tight-fitting wool cap right off his head, flinging it into the sea.
• • •
With the drogue in place, JP sets the autopilot. The three sailors go below, secure the companionway hatch behind them, and seal themselves in the belly of the boat. The Sean Seamour II is battened down, and all the men can do is wait for the winds to blow themselves out.
Daylight gives way to evening and the storm shows no signs of abating—in fact it is increasing in power. The snarling waves are twenty feet, and many are steep enough to break, filling the ocean with white water and streaks of foam. Each time a comber hits the hull, the entire boat shudders, and occasionally a larger wave slams the vessel with frightening power. More than one wave smacks so hard that Rudy likens it to being hit by a truck. Good God, he thinks, that felt more like a solid object than liquid. The three men glance at one another, but nobody says anything. They know they are in the grip of a major storm, and the only thing between them and the hungry ocean is the fiberglass hull of their vessel.
Around eight p.m., Rudy’s curiosity gets the best of him. He takes a couple of steps up the companionway, partially slides back the hatch, and peers into the darkness. He is immediately greeted by stinging pellets of water that feel like tiny needles being stuck into his face. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he can see enormous black walls of water towering menacingly above the boat. It’s a terrifying sight, and Rudy estimates that the waves are over thirty feet. The roar of the wind and crashing seas is deafening. He’s seen and heard enough and ducks his head, seals the hatch, and climbs below, telling the others about the size of the waves.
Rudy sits at the navigation station, keeping one hand on the seat and the other on the bulkhead to steady himself as the boat’s motion becomes more and more erratic. Ben is wedged in tight at the salon, but JP can’t seem to sit still. He’s fidgeting and constantly checking instruments, his brow lined with concern. He has stopped checking the bilge level, knowing that even after extra packing in the well and tightening of the rudder stock collar, some water is seeping in. His real concern is the mounting force of the storm. With waves this brutal and steep, the drogue is the lifeline of the boat.
Rudy checks the anemometer and can’t believe his eyes. Whenever the boat rides up out of the trough, they are assaulted by seventy-to-eighty-knot winds, with frequent gusts of eighty-five. He turns toward the others and shouts, “We just had a gust of eighty-five!”
JP is stunned. He knew it was bad out there, but eighty-five knots is crazy. He didn’t even know his anemometer could measure anything beyond eighty. The storm is exploding so fast, it is hard to believe.
Ben shakes his head and says, “Well, that’s something to tell my mates back home.”
JP doesn’t say anything, though he can’t help thinking this is 1996 all over again and he’s being mauled by the tail end of downgraded Hurricane Bertha. Only this time he knows the storm is even worse. He hopes the Sean Seamour II, a larger boat than his Lou Pantai, can withstand the punishment. Bertha almost killed him, and he knows he’s in for a long night. This time around, he feels the added pressure of responsibility for Ben and Rudy. He hopes his silence does not betray his anguish for the extra burden he carries. Whatever this freak storm is, JP has a hunch that it is just getting started.
• • •
The storm pounding the Sean Seamour II has other sailboats in its clutches as well. The Flying Colours and the Illusion are near the Gulf Stream, while closer to shore the Seeker is battling the enormous waves. All are caught off guard by the sudden ferocity of this quick-forming storm.
Meteorologists are also surprised by the storm’s behavior. Unlike many low-pressure systems that travel from the tropics or Africa and then expand when they reach the Gulf Stream, this storm began at the Stream, in the same region where the Sean Seamour II is being battered. The two minor low-pressure systems that JP was tracking earlier in the day pulled together to form one super cell that deepened so rapidly that no meteorologist could have predicted its power. Adding to the storm’s surprising characteristics, it does not travel up the coast, as most do, but instead wobbles in place and then ever so slowly drifts to the southeast. A strong high-pressure system to the north has blocked its path, ensuring that its fury will have plenty of time to generate mammoth waves.
Meteorologists call such a storm a bombogenesis because of how abruptly it forms and explodes. They will later label this early stage of the storm as an extra-tropical cyclone that will evolve into subtropical storm Andrea. But the sailors caught in the storm know only that they are being lashed by hurricane-force winds, and it doesn’t matter that the “official” start of hurricane season is three weeks away. And the worse part is that there is not a damn thing they can do about it except sit tight, keep vigilant, and wait.
Rudy and JP