Heading South for the Winter

With the icy autumn wind rattling the rigging, the sailboat rocked back and forth. The eery noise created by the boat prevented any conversation in the cockpit of the 51-foot sailboat. The boat forged ahead, battling against the strong eastward wind and crashing waves. Under the cover of dark clouds, the night was pitch-black, with no trace of light from the full moon and stars. Nausea churned in my stomach as I strained to find the horizon, but the pitch-black night made it impossible at 2 a.m., depriving me of my usual remedy for seasickness on sailing trips.

Steve, a retired hepatobiliary surgeon, and Neil, my younger brother, were trying to catch some sleep in the cabins below deck. I couldn’t imagine how that would be possible as the 38,000 lb boat was being tossed around like a twig in the storm. When the boat came crashing down from a massive wave, it would plow into the trough, creating a thunderous splash and sending a wall of water spraying into the wind. The water crashed against the sailboat’s dodger, creating a tremendous thud and drenching the cockpit, bringing any further forward movement to a halt. A violent shudder jolted the boat as it plowed into the waves, the slamming sound reverberating through the air. I couldn’t help but think about the mere 1 inch of fiberglass separating me from the abyss of the lake, 600 feet below……. Nonetheless, a surge of exhilaration washed over me as I relished the challenge of battling the elements, relying solely on our wits to forge ahead.

After spending the winter of 2023 in Toronto, I had meticulously planned this trip for the past year. However, I had not expected to be drenched by the relentless rain and whipped by the fierce winds of the angry tempest on Lake Ontario. This year, the heat wave had pushed its boundaries into the fall, leaving everyone sweltering in the unseasonably hot weather. It was a close call, as we had missed that by only a day, leaving us with the return of autumn’s cold weather. Our tight schedule, left us with no choice but to leave early on Monday morning, eagerly anticipating the scheduled de-masting in Oswego, New York, 140 miles away on Wednesday. Despite rarely taking bookings, Tiami, the marina manager, agreed to the scheduling the de-masting on that day, to accommodate the shipment of the mast to Scarano Boatworks in Albany, New York. Scarano Boatworks had hired extra staff to replace the mast on the boat the following Monday. All of this was necessary to negotiate passage under the shallow bridges of the Erie Canal that would lead us to the Hudson River and then to the Atlantic Ocean to head south. I made the payment for all of this in advance.

Leaving Port Credit early Monday morning, the winds were surprisingly light as we motored onto the lake. The 20 knot winds that had been predicted clearly was an error. I have found it is often better to make up your own mind about whether to head out on the lake anyway, as weather predictions are often inaccurate.

Leaving Port Credit to head south in light winds on a quiet Monday morning

This was not one of those times. Within the hour, the winds picked up to 15 knots and with the winds coming from the east, big waves were developing. Easterly winds created waves that traverse 150 miles along the lake, building strength and height as they push towards the west where we were. After another hour, the gusts were up to 25 knots and the waves were even larger.

“So, what exactly happened to your last boat?” asked my inquisitive little brother through the roar of the waves. “Were the winds as bad as this?”

“Everything worked out OK,” I explained. “The Canadian coastguards rescued the crew 240 miles off of Nova Scotia by helicopter.” I couldn’t help but notice the look of shock and astonishment that crossed over his face. I attempted to calm his rattled nerves as he looked over the lake while he took an involuntary gasp. “Don’t worry, no one got hurt.”

I paused, not wanting to scare him too much. “The steering had broken, they were out of fuel and food, the sails were in tatters and the crew were terrified after battling hurricane-force winds for 2 weeks. It was the concern of the crew’s safety in such a bad storm that prompted the mayday call.”

Neil’s eyes widened even further. “And the boat?”

“Well, it was spotted off the Azores 6 months later. A passenger on a cruise ship took a picture of it and sent it to the coastguards. I received a call, informing me that my boat had been sighted, floating in the water. Despite efforts to find it, there have been no further sightings of it since. It’s still floating around out there.”

“Do you think that could happen to us?”

The conversation continued to go back and forth for a few more minutes, but as the waves and winds began to intensify, I realized it might be best to omit some of the details from that nautical disaster. The relentless pounding of the waves made the idea of eating impossible as waves of nausea set in. Moreover, the boat’s violent movements in the intensifying storm would send the food flying across the galley if anyone tried to make a sandwich.

As night approached, we decided to take two-hour watches on the deck, while the others would try to sleep. I slept on and off in the cockpit when Neil and Steve took their shift in case they needed me in a hurry. At one point, Steve noted a tanker 10 miles away from us. The chart plotter said the CPA, closest point of approach, was within a few feet, meaning we were on a collision course. Steve suggested I radio them on the VHF radio. I thought, ‘this is an enormous lake, Steve’s over-reacting. There is no way the tanker would hit us. We have an AIS, automatic identification system. The crew will see us on their chart plotter and steer away.’ I stared at the chart plotter as the tanker continued to barrel towards us. Travelling at 20 knots meant that at the 4 miles now left between us, the tanker would leave the boat in splinters in about 10 minutes. I made the call.

“Endevour , Endevour, Endevour, this is Sailing Vessel Ileana, Ileana, Ileana, on channel 16,” I shouted into my handheld VHF radio, trying to remain calm. 30 seconds later, panic set in when there was no response, as the gigantic tanker seemed to have us set in her sights and was coming right at us.

I repeated the same message, this time with a little more urgency and a lot more volume, hoping they had their radio turned on.

“Ileana, this is Endevour. Go to channel 8,” was the response from the heavily accented voice booming through hy handheld. A wave of relief washed over me.

I switched over to channel 8 and replied, “I just wanted to make sure you could see us,” my voice crackled through the radio. The man on the radio expressed surprise at hearing from a boat braving the dreadful weather on the lake. Maybe that was the reason he wasn’t paying attention to his chart platter. After adjusting course, we found ourselves drifting past him, with a comfortable half-mile of raging storm serving as a separation between us.

As morning arrived, we were captivated by a stunning sunrise that illuminated the clouds in a kaleidoscope of colours. With speeds soaring up to 26.9 knots, the winds were howling relentlessly. The lights of Oswego shimmered in the early morninglight of dawn, illuminating the channel markers that would lead us to the Marina. The relief of successfully having conquered the elements washed over each of us as we realized we had made it!

Beautiful sunrise heading into Oswego. A welcome relief from that night.

The shelter of Oswego River I knew would allow for easy docking. Neil and Steve positioned the fenders and dock lines so we were ready to tie up to the dock. I was at the helm. The wind was much less in the shelter of the Oswego River, so after the adrenaline-fuelled crossing, the docking would be an effortless task. I pressed the button for the bow thruster. Nothing happened. I ran down to the electric panel to be sure the power was on. It was turned on. I panicked. I turned the boat back into the river as Steve and Neil who were ready to jump on the dock looked back at me with puzzled looks.

After carefully considering my options, I made the bold choice to attempt docking without the assistance of the bow thruster. Navigating my 51-foot long boat becomes a challenge without the assistance of a bow thruster, as it requires precise steering. It’s reminiscent of the story we were told as children, where dinosaurs were said to have dual brains – one in their heads and another in their tails. Owning a boat comparable in size to a dinosaur has taught me the significance of relying on two distinct sources of power. So over time, I have come to believe the two brain dinosaur theory. I briefed my crew and we gave it a shot.

The wind and current as it happened made docking a breeze. The docking occurred without incident.

I called my friend and boat neighbour at Port Credit Yacht club who installed the bow thruster this summer. I was having doubts about the wisdom of putting in a new bow thruster at substantial cost. He asked me to send him a video of the flashing lights.

“Check your in sail locker,” he said. “You have something pushing on the red emergency stop button of the bowthruster.”

Sheepishly, I texted him back and confessed that I had carelessly thrown the fender on the bow thruster. The bow thruster was functioning properly, but I realized I had some work to do in terms of organizing and securing items on the boat. After falling into a deep sleep that afternoon, I found myself waking up two hours later. To prepare for the following morning, we had a lot of work to do to get the mast ready to be taken off and we were all exhausted. As I drifted off, I couldn’t help but remind myself that this was just the start of the adventure.