Sea vs. Me
A typhoon bears down, and SCOTT NEUMAN struggles to hold his course. In the second of a three-part series, Neuman recounts a disastrous journey.
With white caps visible in the background, foul weather gear is still needed. (AP Photo/Courtesy Scott Neuman)
As the sea became more violent, I began to understand where mariners get their superstitions: every time I would verbalize that the wind seemed to be dying down or the sea state improving, conditions would worsen, almost as if on cue.
We didn't know then that we had ventured out into what would become a typhoon. But we had second-guessed the weather and done nearly everything else we could to tempt Poseidon into calling our bluff -- changed the boat's name (bad luck), then departed on a Friday (more bad luck).
By about this time, waves were averaging 20 feet, with lots of heavy cross swells.
Still, we were handling it. After a while, some worrisome damage to our rig held firm and we stopped worrying about it so much and concentrated on our sailing -- trying as best we could to point the stern at a 45-90 degree angle to the swells. We struggled to hold our southwesterly course, but if we were pushed around too much or lost concentration, we found ourselves 30-40 degrees off course.
Having helmed for four hours in what I was beginning to realize must be the edge of that typhoon, I woke up John, who had an amazing ability to sleep even in the roughest conditions. "I think we've got to go bare poles," I called down into the cabin.
We took down all the sails; from now on, the storm would be in the driver's seat.
Over the next three or four days I could never decide what was worse -- the daytime, when I could see the behemoths stalking us from behind and hope to take some preventative action, or the night, when there was no choice but to hold course and take it on the chin.
The first night of the storm conditions, John and I traded off helming duties about every 20 minutes to an hour. The "off duty" guy would stay in the cockpit in foul weather gear and occasionally try to give a heads up of a "big one" coming from behind -- as seen in the dim glow of the aft navigation light. Eventually I said, "Hell, they're ALL big."
By dawn on Sunday, the seas and wind were, unbelievably, even worse. Realizing that we'd soon be exhausted, we had reverted to longer shifts at the helm in the vain attempt (at least in my case) to get some sleep. I was on duty when the sun filtered through the gray just enough for a glimpse of what we'd be facing that day.
What I saw gave me a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.
This was the day my father, who was closely watching the weather and our reported positions -- relayed from Thailand -- from his home in Indiana, ominously wrote in a group e-mail: "Our guys are taking a thrashing out there."
By now, John -- who was the best judge of the conditions -- estimated 30-foot waves and 45-65 mph winds. Serious stuff.
Occasionally, a really enormous swell would rise from behind and there would be a slight panic as we watched to see if it would crest before or after us. Most of the time we escaped by a thread, but for about one in 10, we just had no choice but to take a sucker punch.
Late at night, the sound of the onrushing cross swells took over. As they broke, speeding toward their target, they sounded uncannily like a missile being fired. When they slammed into the hull, it was like a grenade had been set off inside the cabin.
It lent a feeling of being under enemy fire.
TOMORROW: Losing the mast, and facing the worst.
See the previous installment in this series:
Part I: Sailing into a typhoon.
___
asap contributor Scott Neuman is an editor on the Asia-Pacific desk for The Associated Press in Bangkok, Thailand.
___
Want to comment? Sound off at soundoffasap@ap.org .
©2006 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. Learn more about our Privacy Policy.
