Through the Eye: Nome to False Pass

The strategy for the crossing is "go west of east": head west first so we can run south on the back of the lows moving in. There are also at least two feasible bail-out points on the way, St. Lawrence and St. Paul. And indeed a low-pressure system is on the map — but we can use it to our advantage and let it sling-shot us toward the Aleutians.

By Saturday evening the weather has eased, and a part of the flotilla leaves Nome as soon as the winds fall below 15 knots. Vanuily, Aglaia and I are on our way. Coro Coro and Aegir want to top up diesel and will leave on Sunday.

We make progress as anticipated, more of an upwind sail for the first day. On the second evening I check the weather and find that the low has gained considerable power in the forecast: gale warning, 45 knots, 18-foot seas. That is serious. Waves the height of a house, likely breaking. My route stays in deep water, which is good — it helps the waves stretch out and build period, which in turn reduces steepness and breaking.

The options are to turn around and retrace to St. Lawrence, find a poor anchorage and wait for the storm to pass south of it, or continue with Plan A and ride it out. Neither prospect is without risk, and more often than not something will break in 45 knots of wind on the boat. I opt to go for it, I save at least half a week. I know what to expect, I know what to do, and I know the hard part will last ten to twelve hours. Vanuily and Aglaia choose to divert to St. Lawrence.

To prepare, I cook a proper meal and tank as much sleep as I can. The route I planned takes me straight through the eye of the storm: first easterly winds, which I take in first reef and jib; then nothing, the eerie silence of the eye; and then the notorious south side of the storm depression.

While in the eye, I motor and prepare the boat. I put the main in its third reef, its smallest configuration. I clear most things out of the aft cockpit, usually a sheltered place but not in these waves. I also flake 120 meters of mooring line that I could stream as a drogue, tied to both hulls, to slow us down and make the waves break fifty meters astern instead of on the transom. I don't think I will need it, but I am prepared. Below, I stow everything; nothing hard is left lying around. Then I go to bed and wait for the wind.

Midnight approaches. And sure enough, it comes. I watch the wind graph climb: 10 knots, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35 — how far will it go? That is the question. I am nervous. Forty is no problem at all; 45 and 50 are serious. Above 50 I would need to get the main down and go pretty much downwind, maybe with the mooring line out. That’d be some risky work. Injuries happen quickly.

As the wind builds through 35, I go to reduce sail — and the furling line is stuck. When I set the jib earlier, I unfurled it a bit carelessly, which derailed the line on the drum. It happens sometimes. Now it is in my way, and I better deal with it at 35 knots than at 40. In full gear, clipped in, I go forward and free the line. Not so easy and I get properly washed. Then I furl the jib to two thirds, and shortly after to half.

Back inside, it is tense. When will the trend on the wind plot stop and plateau? It climbs through 40 and eventually stabilises at 45, gusting 50. That is okay, as advertised in the forecast. We have had that before. I know we can do it. On WhatsApp I chat with Adrian and Vanuily - thank you guys!

Of course the seas still have to build. Hour after hour they get bigger.

All of a sudden the sail starts flapping and we round up. What is going on? A breaker has hit us on the side and knocked the autopilot into standby. It does that without any alarm. I have had it happen only once before, in the Biscay with Frederic. It happens twice more: a strong wave shoves the boat sideways, the autopilot switches off. No beep. What a sneaky way to bail out!

The heater quits too — I think the problem is its exhaust on the weather side. It can’t handle the wind / wave pressure and reverses the airflow. Now it will be cold and wet on top of everything else. Every time I go out, even for a few seconds, I come back drenched. Heavy rain and salt spray everywhere.

Well, I asked for it, now I have it. Try to enjoy it. I steer a course as far south as I dare and as far east as I find necessary to keep the worst breakers off the beam. I write a log entry every hour, with special attention to wind force and barometer. In the eye it read 984 mbar — a properly deep depression. Now it climbs two to three millibars an hour. It will take a while to reach a normal 1014!

Even though I prepared as well as I could, some things fly. A book takes off from the shelf. In a galley cabinet a container of oatmeal tips over and opens, and I only notice once the oats are already everywhere.

So I sit and wait out each hour. Since the autopilot cannot be trusted, I check its display with every oncoming wave, and hour after hour I add to the log book. At 10:00 the wind finally seems to be easing: 42 knots instead of 46, the barometer at 1000. Still Force 9, but I think we have made it. Do not slack off now — the waves are still tricky. 11:00: 41 knots. 12:00: 39. 13:00: 37. 14:00: 35 knots and 1006 mbar. It may not look like much on paper, but there is a big difference between 35 and 45 knots of wind. The forces are far higher.

By 18:00 there are a comfortable 30 knots. I unfurl the jib fully but leave the main in its third reef. I want to sleep. With the various alarms in place I set the timer to 40 minutes and fall asleep readily, in spite of the noise from waves and wind.

The rest of the sail to False Pass goes pleasantly uneventful. I am very happy when the mountains of Unimak appear on the horizon. An impressive sight. I will anchor around midnight and wait for daylight and the right tide for the crossing of the bar into False Pass.

No boat likes a storm like the one we just weathered. She took good care of me, and now it is my turn to take care of her: there is a tear in the sail bag that needs mending, two hatch stops broke off when the helm hatch slammed open in a large wave, for a most likely unrelated reason the grey water pump stopped working and a general desalination and bilge emptying is in order.Read more