3/09/01 | Rogue wave

The day began badly. I didn't sleep well and woke with a throbbing head, Britt and I argued over the naming scheme for GPS waypoints and other trivialities, and in any event it was a Friday, an inauspicious day, according to sailing lore and superstition, to begin a voyage. We should have paid attention to the omens. But it was a bright and breezy morning, and we were anxious to get out of George Town and on our way south.

The huge storm that dumped snow in New England and kept us pinned in the harbor at the beginning of the week also whipped up a gale off the coast of Georgia. We saw windspeeds of 40 knots and wave heights of 27 feet on the weatherfaxes. These conditions led to a significant six-foot swell from the north even after the gale dissipated, and we started to see signs of it as we motorsailed toward the harbor's south entrance, mainsail up and engine on. Waves broke heavily across the shallow reefy cut between Stocking Island and Elizabeth Island, and among the rocks south of Elizabeth Island, but the harbor water was placid until we got near the small cut just south of Fowl Cay.

The swells pushed their way through the cut, and I turned off the autopilot so I could steer across them as we passed by on our way to the North Channel Rocks cut. As we passed the cut and gained the protection of Welk Cay, the swell diminished, and we returned to our courseline.

There's a shallow spot on the route just past Welk Cay, where an arm of the reef off the cay extends across the channel 10-15 feet below the surface. Outside the channel, the reef is only 6 feet down. The northerly swell piled onto the reef, and at exactly the wrong moment -- as we were passing by the reef -- some sort of resonance began to occur. We had one gentle, rolling wave, like we'd had near the previous cut. The next wave was completely different, a big, steep-sided ominous thing, sunlight visible through its green tip. I steered to hit it head-on, and as we were lifted up sharply and then down, Britt turned back to me:  "We must not be in the right place!  Are we off course?"

The GPS said no. But the water told a different story. The next wave, close on the heels of the previous one, looked even bigger, steeper, and scarier, a huge green wall of impossible steepness and height. It loomed above us. And then it broke.

Britt screamed, "Turn into it!" but I needed no encouragement; I was already wrenching the wheel to the left, hoping we were not too close to the reef, hoping we wouldn't broach or roll. I was terrified. We'd been in a lot of rough conditions, in storms and in steep chop, but nothing had ever seemed truly threatening before. The breaking wave roared across our deck with tremendous force, engulfing the boom and the foot of our mainsail before punching through our dodger, ripping apart the sun-weakened seams and pouring into the cockpit. We hung on tightly, me to the wheel and Britt to the dodger frame, as the wave drenched us from head to toe.

And then...nothing. As we turned back toward our courseline again, we looked over our shoulder and saw only a light swell where the breaker had been. (Britt kept an eye on that spot as we continued, and never saw another breaking wave or even a big wave there.) We'd just gone through that area at the perfectly wrong time. Somehow the six-foot swell got piled into what we estimated (based on where the wave hit the mast) was something between ten and fifteen feet. We've been in big waves, but they've always been rollers, neither intimidating nor uncomfortable; this was the first time we've ever seen a big steep-sided breaker. We hope it's the last.

Ten minutes later, we were safely through the cut, both sails up and the engine off, heading northeast on a gently rolling sea . But the rogue wave sure made a mess. Our dodger ripped halfway off its frame, nearly every seam burst open; we took it completely down until we can get out the sewing machine and repair it. Our cockpit VHF, supposedly waterproof, can now barely transmit, and our wind instrument started giving wildly inaccurate readings of both windspeed and direction. We had closed all the hatches before setting out, except for the two just under the dodger which were open an inch or so, so a bit of water came in when the dodger disintegrated. Even more came in through the dorade vents, which have a baffle design to keep spray and rain out, but which are as effective as open windows when submerged. We didn't get a lot of salt water below, but it was enough to soak all the carpets, sprinkle most of the cushions in the main salon, and coat the walls with a fine salt spray. Fortunately, our bed and our computers remained dry.

With a big clean-up job and a major sewing project ahead of us, we were feeling pretty sorry for ourselves as we pulled into the west bay of Conception Island. Then we saw the sailboat up on the beach, and the makeshift camp above it. We may be soaked with salt water, but at least Windom's still floating, most of our gear still works, and we'll be cleaned up and dry in a day or two.