How a Tropical Storm Came Our Way

How a tropical storm came our way. Warnings, preparations, unnecessary and sensible fuss, a storm watch and its aftermath Summer is hurricane season in tropical regions. The closer it gets to the end of the hot season, the greater the likelihood of a powerful cyclone arriving—the kind known as a hurricane. Intense heating of the ocean causes rapid evaporation; water vapour meets the colder air in the upper atmosphere—and hello. A hurricane. Hurricanes form north and south of the equator and, in the Northern Hemisphere, rotate clockwise, while in the Southern Hemisphere they rotate counterclockwise. That is why most yachts leave the Caribbean in spring—for Europe, say—or head south of 10 degrees north latitude or north of 10 degrees south. There is a hurricane-free corridor extending 10 degrees either side of the equator, and we keep trying to get there too, but somehow never do :). / . Waiting for the hurricane. How it happened 7 August. Well, our turn has come. A hurricane is heading our way—not a particularly powerful one, judging by our forecast, and it will only clip us with its edge, but still... The National Hurricane Center in Florida named the thing we are all waiting for here Franklin—a beautiful name, in Roosevelt’s honour, obviously. And, recalling the portentous phrase “Fear of loss breeds suspicion,” once uttered by Roosevelt, his compatriots and sympathetic yachtsmen became seriously suspicious that something was amiss. As a result of these suspicions, the cosy bay at Isla Mujeres emptied out at our end, and Lady Mary sticks out in the middle of an empty expanse of water, a silent reproach to every storm. Some yachts moved from the bay into the marina; others stripped everything unnecessary from their decks and fastened themselves more securely to the bottom; a couple of lucky ones took the mooring buoys. Both of them. Just now, a neighbour chugged past our stern under power, with a dinghy-proa lashed alongside (in simple terms, a Polynesian-style canoe with an outrigger): “Lady Mary! All hands on deck! A ‘very strong storm’ is about to hit.” “Thanks, we’re ready! Where are you going?” “Oh, I’m just out for a spin. I’m going to set two anchors now.” It looked as though he had deliberately made a detour to warn us, sticking out there in the middle of the sea. He turned around and went to re-anchor deeper in the bay. ... M-m-maybe there’s something we don’t know? 🙂 . Preparations A storm warning has been issued for Quintana Roo (the coastal areas of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula); people have stocked up on provisions and holed up in their homes. Well, or they haven’t holed up yet, but fully intend to. The liveaboard yachties have done the same. Something should reach us by nightfall; we’ll wait and see. Surely some cyclone or other has to spin its way over to us eventually—it is hurricane season, after all! Since yesterday, we too have taken down the awnings, paid out more anchor chain, bought groceries and even hurriedly repaired the generator, which had unexpectedly given up the ghost. It was a good thing we filled up with water the day before, discovering on the way to the fuel dock that the batteries were refusing to charge from the engine. Andrey went down into the hold and found that the sabotage had been carried out by oxidised brush contacts. He cleaned them up, and everything started working. The most labour-intensive part of the whole procedure proved to be clearing the holds of the four bicycles wedged immovably inside. Fortunately, we managed to get all the jobs done before the wind and swell arrived. So far, two thunderstorms with torrential rain have already passed over us. The whole crew is casting spells for overcast but dry weather during the day. Otherwise, without the awnings, the boat will either flood or turn into an oven (the thermometer reads +30 at night—can you imagine what it’s like by day?). We are idly considering a second anchor, making breakfast, doing schoolwork and waiting to see what the weather brings 🙂 . The crew is ready for the siege. And here it is: the cyclone is closing in, spinning as it comes. It looks as though someone has carved the edge of the enormous disc of cloud in the sky with a knife. The cyclone’s rim is an arc across the entire sky, with a sharp edge. It’s about to engulf us . The day before the hurricane 6 August. Before the storm, we decided to fill the tanks. Just in case :). Everyone anchored here goes to the fuel dock to top up with water. They have both diesel and water there. Only it seems we have the biggest thirst for water around here. And water is not always available. After lunch, we weighed anchor for the second time that day and went to fill the tanks. There had been no water during the day; those before us had drunk it all, they said. We returned to the anchorage empty-handed. The first mate began chopping up a salad, and the senior young sailor disappeared onto the deck. “Shhhhh...” hissed the sea as Nastya, glowing from the midday heat, jumped into the water. The younger one is not swimming yet; she is under house arrest—she made a bad leap from the side recently and is nursing her injuries. For a while after a swim, your body no longer feels boiled, and you can have a bite to eat. Over a whole basin of salad for lunch, the entire crew watched a film. Lucky Number Slevin—a nice, wholesome sort of film, just the thing for family viewing. Only five corpses in the first eight minutes.... But it’s a good puzzle). Now our young sailor is asking questions about who did whom in, and what their motives were.... We explain, and she listens attentively. And so, amid this heart-to-heart conversation, we weighed anchor and set off for water again! The route to the fuel dock passes numerous fishing piers and eateries. The shores of the lagoon ring and shimmer with Latin hits blasting from excursion catamarans. Ladusya and I are dancing with joy and splashing each other.... And it looks as though we’ll get plenty of other jobs done during this water stop. Here’s the maths: we need to take on 600 litres. The pressure from the hose would put any enema to shame: it takes six minutes to fill a 20-litre jerrycan. Question: will we finish before sunset? It is now 16:50, and five jerrycans have been filled. Answer: strangely enough, we finished before sunset 🙂 . But let us return to our muttons—the hurricane, to be precise. . From the logbook during the storm watch. The first mate’s notes 8 August. It all began around lunchtime yesterday. We’re riding out the storm little by little. Rain, then wind gusts up to 30 knots. Nothing serious. It blew harder during the night: a steady 30 knots, gusting to 40. Yesterday we set a second anchor, adding a 16-kilogram Delta to our main anchor on a 12-metre length of chain, linking it in tandem. Meanwhile, right under our noses, one excursion boat was trying to tow another into the lagoon so they could get in before the storm. The second boat’s engine appeared to have broken down. Their towline parted about five times, and the poor boat was slowly but surely being dragged out from the shelter of the island. “Andryukha,” I said, “they’ve got real trouble over there.” The captain looked at them, looked at me, looked at the weather, and said that this time we were not going to rescue anyone. And it was just as well: the boat was large, and her companion’s engine was more powerful than ours. After struggling for about an hour, the lads managed on their own. Here they are Meanwhile, the occasional boat was returning to the bay. Yesterday, for the first time, there were no excursion vessels out at sea, and even the fishermen were lying low ashore. The storm’s first greetings arrived in the form of an old mattress, torn loose from somewhere by the wind and floating across the water. I suspect it came from the “Plastic Island” eco-project, which had prepared for the storm but had failed to secure its mattress properly. Eco-project, my arse... The storm peaked during the night, and we kept anchor watch. Everything is calm now, and our brave dinghy (the tender) is no longer trying to leap onto the high deck in fright. The children are finishing their dreams in the forward cabin; the captain went to bed at half past four in the morning. I’m on watch. All my work at the moment is opening and closing the hatches when it rains. With a hatch open, the wind whistles through the whole yacht; with it closed, it is stifling. Prolonged tropical rain aboard a yacht really is a singularly nasty thing... Mould will start sprouting everywhere again, like mushrooms after rain. Oh, speaking of mushrooms, what delicious fried mushrooms we had for dinner during yesterday’s storm! Mmm... Almost like being at home. Button mushrooms aren’t slippery jacks, of course... Remember the song: “It looks so much like Russia, yet it still is not Russia.” But we have porcini too, given to us by some Russian friends. They left for Guatemala and have probably vanished right into the cyclone’s eye. But they’re an experienced pair, and they’ve been in tighter scrapes than this. Igor and Marina (and this is their yacht) left for Guatemala a couple of days before the hurricane Seeing Franklin off I don’t know what everyone here was so afraid of. We’ve seen worse. And we didn’t even realise that this counted as a storm. At its peak during the night, it reached Force 7–8 on the Beaufort scale. Near gale to gale; a proper storm starts at Force 9, if the tables are to be believed. So it whistles; so it swings the yacht around. The bay is well sheltered, the two anchors are holding like old friends, and there is almost no chop. I’m trying to chicken out and use the lingering wind as an excuse not to swim my usual ten morning laps around the boat, with the eleventh at speed. During yesterday morning’s swim, the yacht gave me a couple of light whacks as she tried to break free from the anchor chain ahead of the storm. Today I don’t feel like getting into the water yet. Ehh... I’ve got strength, I’ve got willpower, but no strength of will. I’ll wait another hour... ... While I’ve been writing this, the cyclone has decided to spit out one final gust. Poor Lady Mary actually shuddered. And the rain keeps pouring and pouring. On the bright side, the dinghy is now half full of fresh water :). And the next day we had a proper freshwater bath—deep and afloat—and washed our little young sailor with foaming shampoo right there on deck in the rain. But more about that in the next post :). Franklin has gone off to wreak havoc on the mainland. There seem to have been no casualties or destruction, but friends say that felled trees are floating in swimming pools in the Yucatán, and everything is flooded. So far we’ve been lucky; no severe storms have come our way. Time to reel in the lines and fly south, towards the equator :). Take care of yourselves!