#11 Summer reading. Around the world on a 6.50-meter boat. The Great South (the Great Southern Ocean)/2
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On Jan. 13, the wind strengthens a bit. I hoist the mainsail with one hand of reefing and code zero. There is sunshine and a long but not fa- stidious wave. The boat goes very well and starts occasionally in the surf at over nine knots. Light rain arrives in the afternoon. I prepare a freeze-dried paella for lunch and spend a few minutes reading the detailed maps of the Kerguelen Islands. I set a way point 30 miles south of the islands because of the shallow seabed, but also to avoid the influence of high moun- tains on the wind. In the afternoon I pass the Crozet Islands consisting of Penguin Island, Possession, and l’Isle de l’Est.
The sky at dusk is ablaze with yellow, orange, and purple brushstrokes, and with reflections of ocean light it embraces me and the boat in a scene of enchantment. Every four hours or so I activate the satellite phone to check for messages since, since I have passed the Roaring Forty, the situation, weather-wise, requires much more attention than the previous period. Romain writes, “958 hPa cyclone with falling pressure…, to watch!”
Jan. 14: The wind strengthens to 35 knots and soon after reaches 40. I try to advance with just the genoa, but under gust I find myself over-sailed and the boat has a tendency to go sideways. I lower the genoa and hoist the jib. The waves get bigger and bigger and the ocean surface turns white. Often the crest of the waves flies away fragmented into myriads of white claws, just like the great wave depicted by the Japanese artist Hokusai. The back of the sea is streaked with torrents of foam, stained here and there by the violent bursts of liquid light from the breakers. The waves are not all the same, the ocean is often chaotic, and occasionally, during gusts, very large wave trains form, beyond the height of the mast… The boat, lifted by steep, hollow waves, reaches in the surf speeds of over 10 knots, 14…, 18 knots…! Too many!
Walls of water also come in sideways and, intersecting with others, give rise to strange, unusual forces, to sudden, swift waterfalls that run over the boat sweeping the deck. At times I feel as if I am under a real waterfall! Course east, east-southeast plunging into swirling chasms in endless surf for long seconds, breathless, spaceless, timeless… Wave after wave comes aft, grows in a few moments out of proportion, swells, I watch from the cockpit as it rises vertically, proud, huge, overpowering and cold, damn cold. The summit whitens and explodes in a mighty roar, while in its hollow the wave has clothed itself in white streaks, dripping torrents of foam sharpened by wind and gravity…
To observe it in its entirety, I have to raise my head. The bottom of the boat is already on the wave foot, quivering, the bow dives slightly and is pushed back out by the sudden acceleration of the hull. The boat is now mid-wave and almost half the hull is suspended in the void. Beneath the bow a chasm of several meters looks toward the cable, which becomes darker and darker and seems to have the insane urge to engulf everything, the hull, me and the sails….
The summit wall of the liquid monster is transformed in a few moments into a mighty roller, a compact rushing waterfall, a huge breaker, high and wide enough to be scary and leave no escape. The only way out, the only sensible solution is to surf the wave and launch the bow into the void, plummeting along with that wall of cold foam and tons of water. The wave has now broken, breaking, and its water rushes in a mad rush toward the cable, dragging the boat with it. 16 knots, 17, 19 knots! The hull is a newly fired dart, the wave its bow, and the next wave–the target!
The breaker bursts into the cockpit, rushing at me. I crouch on the bottom increasing my grip on the tiller of the rudders.
The stern is facing upward, almost vertically, the bow below me. The surf seems endless, the boat seems to hop like a pebble thrown violently across the surface of a lake. Endless moments, perhaps with no thought except to make sure that I don’t con- sent the wave to put the boat sideways and rip me off the cockpit. With the forces at play, being tied up with the life line may be of little use…. The boat then slows down, 14, 12, 9 knots and resumes its pace until a new blow, a new “cannonade” from the stern that pushes it beyond all limits into the cold ocean abyss.
Away like this, for hours on end. Energy bars swallowed in a hurry and some water. I often check the carabiners of the seat belt with my hand. Night comes, inhospitable and unforgiving. The breakers are whizzing by so fast. In the darkness of the night the white mass running tumultuously at insane speed is impressive. It is not possible to make mistakes. If the boat were to capsize, being out in the cockpit could be the end! I decide to go back inside after engaging the autopilot. I need to regain strength. I prepare a meal and a very sugary hot tea. That’s better, now I try to rest. I exchange a message via satellite phone with Hervé, the TAAF researcher who is Seb’s friend, and with Alex, the skipper of a boat located about 500 miles northwest of me, whom Romain has tracked down.
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