Caribbean Crossing

Wow, what a week it’s been! Eight hundred fifty nautical miles through the Windward Passage and across the Caribbean Sea from the Bahamas to Panama.

The predeparture forecast we received back in Great Inagua was spot on—steadily building easterly trade winds across the Caribbean. In the central Caribbean between 15° North and 11° North, winds were expected in the 17-27 knot range with gusts to 34 knots and wave heights of 7-9 feet. We expected these to be somewhat “salty” conditions, and they were, but well within what we and the boat should be able to handle on an offshore passage.

We kept a loose pattern of alternating four hour watches, giving each of us each day twelve hours total of watchkeeping and twelve hours for sleep, cooking, chores, and relaxing. In practice, thanks to the new autopilot, watchkeeping was more relaxation than anything else. Mainly, keeping watch meant keeping a lookout for squalls and other vessels, checking the weather forecasts, trimming the sails, and making sure everything on the boat was in order.

Forecasters give “significant” wave heights, an average of the highest one third of the waves. Individual wave heights can be more than twice the significant wave height. So in eight foot sees we saw occasional waves of sixteen feet, not especially big by the standards of offshore ocean sailing, but nonetheless the biggest I have ever sailed in. Our Wharram catamaran, sailing on a broad reach, handled them beautifully. This kind of trade wind sailing is exactly what she was made for. She was in her element.

Life on a Passage

I was a little less in my element at first, especially when trying to sleep. I often describe sleeping on a boat as like a baby being gently rocked to sleep. With waves averaging eight feet, and some much higher, the baby was being rocked a little too hard! A lesson learned is that getting enough sleep is critical. With only two people to keep watch, falling behind on sleep can be dangerous. I made it through the first couple of days, but only marginally.

Moving around the boat was challenging at times. Our galley is tiny compared to typical cruising catamarans, but the narrow space was a blessing on a brisk offshore passage. I could always brace myself as I cooked.

The new clear vinyl cockpit enclosure panels we invaluable for protecting us from wind and spray.

As predicted, winds collapsed abruptly within about 180 miles of the Central American coast. With the wind no longer pushing us, but large residual swells, we sailed as best as we could for fifty miles but ultimately we had to motor the rest of the way against a strong counter current on our beam.

In the Doldrums

Closer to Panama, skies became cloudy. Radar showed numerous squalls in the vicinity. We were now in the Monsoon Trough, also known as the Inter-Tropic Convergence Zone, a band stretching around the globe near the equator where trade winds of the northern and southern hemispheres converge. It’s an area of normally little to no wind, except in frequent squalls. This is what sailors call “the doldrums.” We fortunately missed the worst of the thunderstorms. Within ten miles of Panama the skies cleared enough to reveal the stunning outline of mountains.

We made it! Safely below 10° North, the southern boundary of the Atlantic hurricane zone. For the first time in twenty-five years I no longer need to worry about what the hurricane season might bring. More than getting us to our destination, this passage gave Joe and me much greater confidence in our boat, in each other, and in ourselves. We’re looking forward to cooling our heels in Panama for six months. We’re also starting, slowly, to anticipate the much longer passages waiting for us on the other side of the isthmus.