Hurricane Paloma and a Night Never to Forget

I skippered ‘Salina 2’, a Salina 48′ catamaran, from Annapolis to Havana in November 2008.

I joined and began to ready the yacht as the TRS (Tropical Revolving Storm) that became Hurricane Paloma developed off the coast of Nicaragua/Honduras on 5th November and tracked North.

This yacht was owned by the directors of Fountaine-Pagot and Msr Fontaine and family wanted their cat in Havana in time for their Christmas vacation.

Hurricane Paloma hit the Cuban south coast, caused a huge amount of damage, and was eventually broken up by the Cuban mountains. The hurricane was downgraded and expected to dissipate further as it continued North.

Ultimately, as skipper, it was my call to leave (but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some almost extreme pressure from the delivery agency (my employer) and the fact that the customer would be less than impressed if their annual vacation was ruined) so, with myself and 2 crew, Ollie and Nat, we slipped lines and departed at 1200 hrs on 11th Nov.

The passage out of Chesapeake Bay was straightforward but as we got out into the Atlantic, it blew into a Force 9. I radioed a US Navy warship for a more comprehensive weather report and was told it wasn’t going to ease off for a few days.

My passage plan estimated it would take us 12 days to our destination, but Paloma and the Gulf Stream had other ideas.

Cat’s don’t go to windward at the best of times, but it was a slow plod south and though we needed to get into deep water and to have enough sea room around us and to keep clear of shipping, we were doing more East than South.

At 1930 hours on the 15th, 4 days after departure, as the wind was building, we lost our mainsail. I was down below when I heard a thundering roar as the mainsail track bracket sheered and the sail dropped. It was the start of the scariest night of my life.

With the barometer plummeting, we were in for a heavy night.

Thankfully, this yacht was the directors’ boat. It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill ‘production’ 48 and not only had all the top of the range navigation instruments, but also autohelm and lots of spare rope in the bulk-heads.

We lashed everything down and to leeward, changed course from 120 (the closest south we could get with this wind) to 010, so the wind was on the starboard quarter, streamed 250′ of knotted warp astern, and now under bare poles had the engine keeping us moving just enough to maintain steerage.

My 1st mate, Ollie, did the evening watch so I could get a few hours rest, and I stood watch from 10 pm until the next morning. I told the crew to try and get some sleep, that I’d only call them if needed, and to see them in the morning.

Double-lashed into the cockpit with a bottle of water to keep me company and hydrated, it was time to ride the night out.

You’re living in the storm. You feel apart of it, intimate almost. Not only is the intensity real, you’re also well aware that you’ve done everything you can and all you can do now is ride it out.

At about 0300, the cold front came through and I have to admit there was, and has been, nothing else like it in my life. The noise was incredible. The lightening momentarily illuminating the surrounding seas (not that you’d want to see the size of the waves). The thunder added another layer to the roar as the seas rushed in. Turbulent. Violent. Deafening and frightening. Everything rolled into one. Time and time again.

You could hear and feel the on-rush of the next breaker as it came in, hit us on the quarter, picked us up, threw us across the ocean, and dropped us back down again. Knowing that now, beam on, if the next one came in before our course righted, we’d be done for. But the autohelm performed magnificently (thanks Furuno!), it never missed a beat, and had us back on track in time for the next breaker.

All of this is in pitch black. The occasional bolts of lightening only added to the feel of being just one step from hell. I couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t leave the cockpit, urinated several times where I was sitting (with the volume of water being thrown about, it was washed away in seconds), and sang my heart out through the night… Led Zeppelin, Rush, Rainbow, rugby songs, the works. Whatever worked. My shouted tunes, loud through they are, were nothing against the combined backing track of Paloma, the Gulf Steam, and the North Atlantic ocean.

Once the cold front had moved through, it’s time for action as when the cold front passes, the wind changes direction and we needed to, else you’re in disturbed seas—first, going with wind and tide/current, as we were—running from the storm; but now though the wind has changed direction the current ploughs on. There’s not a lot we can do against the current (we need to get south), but the wind is the danger here, so we need to about turn and start heading in the intended direction. However, we’ve got our knotted warp streamed astern, so need to get that in sharpish, else with the current going one way, and the wind now going against us, if we stall and a large wave comes in, it could sweep the warp under or over us (or both) and we don’t want it tangled in our gear.

Once the warp was in, it’s time for what can be a?very?dangerous manouver. You don’t ever want to be caught beam-on (side on) to breaking seas of any real magnitude, let alone something like this. But, fortunately, the sea has a pattern to it and, having just spent 6 or so hours counting the waves and patterns, I knew every 7th was the breaker so, once that’d gone, it was time to bring her about.

After everything that happened that night—though it sounds?and was?scary, other than the main track breaking, everything else worked as both planned and hoped—this about turn also went as smoothly as you could hope.

Now we’re going into steep seas, it’s slow going. It’s lumpy, it’s noisy, and it’s damn uncomfortable. But the worst of the danger was over.

Now, with the cold front past us, the wind dropped and there was no longer any need to keep myself lashed into the cockpit anymore.

Finally, I could have a smoke, a hot drink, and crack a smile knowing that I’d just survived the worst night of my life.

The next morning, the wind was down to a ‘mere’ Force 9 (and after that kinda night, you know the boat can handle anything). I checked the wind instruments and it showed 65.4 knots of wind — force 12. Our top speed during the night was 16.5 knots. Remember, this was under bare poles, with everything tied down, and with 250′ knotted warp streamed astern. Had we not had the owner’s equipment on-board, with all this extra rope, it would have been impossible to keep the speed down. In that case, the night would most likely have had a different outcome.

The map shows where we were at the time: deep water, away from shipping, and plenty of sea room. Exactly where you want to be if you have to go through conditions like this.

Visibility was terrible and, during that morning, the radar sounded that we were on a collision course with a freighter. Because of the conditions, neither of us could see each other so I called him on VHF. He told us that he didn’t have us on radar, either. Unsurprising in that sea state and given the size of our vessel, and the danger, I asked him to alter his course. He did.

Later, when I told him I could see him off our port beam (through binoculars) and the distance between us, he still couldn’t see us. I thanked him, advised he could safely resume his original course, and to have a safe journey. Again, a production boat might not have had radar installed (the previous Salina 48′ I delivered didn’t), so we were again fortunate in that regard.

The aftermath

With no mainsail, it took us a further 8 days to get to the Bahamas (12 in total). We tied up in Cape Eleuthera marina at 1630 on 24th November.

I wasn’t prepared to continue without a mainsail, so waited in Eleuthera marina while a new headsail bracket was shipped from Europe.

We departed on 6th December and tied up in Marina Hemingway, Havana, at 1300 hrs on 8th December.

Msr Fontaine-Pagot’s holiday went ahead uninterrupted.