Talk:Hurricane Alex (2004)

Accuracy dispute

I ain't no shit about meteorology so please someone correct any errors. I copy/pasted the info from the 2004 Atlantic hurricane season article and wrote the introduction from that same information. I'm not sure if the information that I wrote on the introduction is correct or not. Thanks in advance! —John | Talk 19:33, Aug 14, 2004 (UTC)

I'm confused. You are disputing your own accuracy? -- Cyrius|✎ 19:41, 14 Aug 2004 (UTC)

Watch your language theres other people using this talk page. 164.106.201.50 17:07, 17 January 2006 (UTC)

Light Flooding?

Flooding was not light! The water rose 5ft in less than half and hour!

Where? What basin? When? -- Cyrius|✎ 11:36, 20 Sep 2004 (UTC)

The eyewall entered Pamlico Sound and there was some moderate soundside surge of 3-6 feet into Hatteras Village and Okracoke. (reference) I also recall local news reports calling Alex "the ambush" because many islanders were not expecting to see Category 2 conditions. Damage was much lighter than Isabel's or Ophelia's mainly because of the angle of landfall and the size and speed of the storm.

Merge?

Storm not that notable. The article is pretty shallow. Unless more info can be found, I vote merge. -- Hurricane Eric archive -- my dropsonde 03:29, 8 January 2006 (UTC)

Discounting the storm history section and the trivia (which is too trivial even to qualify as trivia), I agree the impact section is too short to justify an article. Only a little, though. Jdorje 03:33, 8 January 2006 (UTC)

Keep. This article seems like more than a stub, and it did cause damage and ended up being highly unusual in the end. CrazyC83 21:38, 26 January 2006 (UTC)

Well then what do you think about Hurricane Earl (1998)? — jdorje (talk) 20:59, 10 February 2006 (UTC)

Earl doesn't have the problem of being in a season with too long of a seasonal article. This could stay, provided more is added. Hurricanehink 16:06, 11 February 2006 (UTC)

fixes

This article is linked from Hurricane Dennis which will be featured on the front page tomorrow. So we should try to fix this article up a little bit today. — jdorje (talk) 19:49, 5 February 2006 (UTC)

Redone

OK, I rewrote the article. Any comments or suggestions? Hurricanehink (talk) 20:54, 22 May 2006 (UTC)

Nothing major I can see, but several small tweaks. I think "Trivia" is should be renamed, Landfall is currently a disambiguation, pipe to Landfall (meteorology) instead, MODIS imagery is available, some missing metric conversions, if there's a photo of any damage in Carolina it would be nice too and so on... All minor things, its B-class in my view (however you know I might be biased there....)--Nilfanion (talk) 21:17, 22 May 2006 (UTC)

OK, got metric. I emailed someone about the NC photo, so I'm waiting on that (no PD ones). I renamed Trivia to records. I changed landfall's link, but I'm not so sure we should be linking there. The landfall page is pretty bad now. So is it B class? And don't worry about the bias... :) Hurricanehink (talk) 21:39, 22 May 2006 (UTC)

Hey, I like the way things are shaping up. By the time I escape 2005, the 2004 storm articles will be B-class, like this one.--Nilfanion (talk) 21:43, 22 May 2006 (UTC)

That's what I'm hoping for. Hurricanehink (talk) 21:58, 22 May 2006 (UTC)

Promoted to GA

I would also work on the prose of the Preparations and Impact sections since it doesn't flow too much when you read it. Lincher 14:18, 2 June 2006 (UTC)

NWS reports

• Charleston, SC report
• Wilmington, NC report
• Raleigh, NC report
• Morehead City, NC report

This is for reference, and if not done so already they should be included in the article. Hurricanehink (talk) 17:20, 28 May 2007 (UTC)

GA Sweeps Review: Pass

As part of the WikiProject Good Articles, we're doing sweeps to go over all of the current GAs and see if they still meet the GA criteria. I'm specifically going over all of the "Meteorology and atmospheric sciences" articles. I believe the article currently meets the criteria and should remain listed as a Good article. I have made several minor corrections throughout the article. Altogether the article is well-written and is still in great shape after its passing in 2006. Continue to improve the article making sure all new information is properly sourced and neutral. It would be beneficial to go through the article and update all of the access dates of the inline citations and fix any dead links. If you have any questions, let me know on my talk page and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. I have updated the article history to reflect this review. Happy editing! --Nehrams2020 (talk) 21:17, 18 March 2008 (UTC)

Hurricane Alex: Impact on a sailing boat.

Fcaseymgt (talk) 19:02, 27 February 2010 (UTC)Prelude: I had left my employer in Boston year end 2001 to help build out a NJ based alternative investments firm. My wife and I did live on the NJ coast though, but I missed sailing. We stayed in NJ only during the week, always driving 6-hours back to Boston each Friday evening and returning Sunday evening. We never adopted NJ as our home and longed to return to Boston, which we finally did in November 2007. During that time away, I would sail only occasional summer weekends and one week during summer on someone else’s boat, often on Kevin’s boat Sennen. I had not sailed to Bermuda from Boston since 1992, but longed for the challenge.

Sailing Vessel Sennen: Triumph Amid Defeat, By Frank Casey

Our planned six day vacation sail from Boston to Bermuda aboard s/v Sennen evolved into an eight day ordeal, loss of the boat, and a nearly three week absence. Departing Boston July 31st, with a clear weather forecast, Bermuda bound, we were surprised by Hurricane Alex on the 4th day of the trip. This story is as much about the boat as the crew, for only the skills of the craftsmen who designed and built her combined with those of the crew that sailed her allowed us to survive that fateful voyage.

Sennen is an Alajuela 38, a real “go to hell and back” sea boat, influenced by lines drawn by Colin Archer. Engineering prudence evident in simplicity of design, her stoutness of manganese bronze ports and gudgeons, and her 10 thousand pounds ballast ensconced within her full keel make this 15 tons loaded displacement boat a “sea kindly” vessel. Swamped at least a half dozen times during this voyage, her offshore cockpit shipped small water; she rose nimbly to meet the next onslaught. She tracked well in rough seas, allowing her short-handed crew some respite during stormy watches. Her cutter sail plan was more easily reefed in rampant gales. We appreciated that a good boat and crew is worth more than gold when your life depends on them, and hoped to never discount the team and tools required for survival.

I met Sennen’s captain, Kevin L., in 1988 when he skippered the original Sennen, an International One Design wood boat built in 1937. I owned Cap Ferrat, a sleek Sweden 41 designed along the International Offshore Rule concept. We often raced as crew for the other, mostly in Wednesday evening “beer can “ regattas, and once on Cap Ferrat in the 1989 Marion-Bermuda celestial race where no electronic navigation systems were permitted. We both eventually sold our boats; I sailed for the “other peoples’ boat club” while Kevin bought and refurbished the 1977 Alajuela in 1997, in preparation for a slow circumnavigation beginning Spring 2005. Kevin moved aboard shortly after purchase, preferring to live marina life while downtown Boston. We sailed Sennen on two offshore trips to Lunenburg, NS and Eastport, ME.

Sennen Boston, MA to Bermuda Float Plan (Extract) Documentation # 939431; Call Sign = WCY8722 Captain/Owner: Kevin L. ETD: Saturday 7/31/2004; ETA: Thursday, 8/5/2004 very early morning 8/6/2004 Destination: 32 deg 23 min North Lat, 64 deg 38 min West Long, 687 nm from Boston. S/V Auxiliary Sennen: 38 foot LOD, 29 ft LWL Cutter, Hull Black, Light Green Decks, White Sails on hanks, Tiller Steered with Monitor Wind Vane Self Steering and Electronic Auto-pilot, 1977 MFG with reconditioning 1998 onwards. Total Crew: 3 experienced sailors: 2 USA males, captain and navigator, each with 3-6 offshore trips to BM, ME, NS along with years of coastal sailing, and 1 UK female as Crew/Cook with foreign coastal and ocean experience. Route: Boston-Cape Cod Outside via the “Great South Channel” to Nantucket Shoals R-Fl-Whistle, then Bermuda Kitchen Shoals Buoy Gp Fl 3 -15 sec. to St. David’s Head Navigation: Electronic-GPS; DR (dead reckoning) with Celestial backup Safety: Harnesses with Jack Lines, Life Raft in valise, SOLAS (safety of life at sea rating) Flares, Standard Coast Guard Safety Package, ACR 406 EPIRB (emergency positioning radio beacon). Bermuda Communication: BM Harbor Radio Ch 16 or 27 or 2182 kHz or 4125 kHz; Rescue Coordination Center/Bermuda (RCC/Bermuda) harbor radio, Tel: 441-297-1010, Fax: 441-297-1530, e-mail: operations@rccbermuda.bm

Days 1 & 2: Departure Point: Boston Deer Island Light, MA (42 deg 22.5 min/70 deg 54.3 min) 07312004, 0500h local, 1000h UT. Route: Boston-Cape Cod Outside via the “Great South Channel” to Nantucket Shoals R-Fl-Whistle, then Bermuda Kitchen Shoals Buoy Gp Fl 3 -15 sec. to St. David’s Head, Bermuda.

The wind was on the nose, a beautifully constant 18-22 kts, for the first 2 1/2 days, and while blowing from the south, our ultimate destination, we did not mind being driven southeast close-hauled, as the seas were rhythmic. Once over the Gulf Stream on the fourth day or so, we planned to tack west against little current and then again southeast, if the winds prevailed, onto Bermuda. Sailing was brisk and spirits were high. Noon to noon runs averaged 115 nm (nautical miles), close-hauled. We changed watches every four hours, and with three of us (Kevin, The Cook and I) that meant four hours sailing alone and eight hours rest, an uncommon luxury as mostly crews served four on and four off duty. However, Kevin had signed this female cook for the trip after meeting her on a sailors’ web site, whereon she had posted her resume: she cited transatlantic sailing experience and was a medical doctor. Her picture showed a powerfully built woman in her forties of likely Russian heritage by her name. I was surprised after coming on duty to relieve her of watch that our sails were set less than optimally for the constant directional winds, but I dismissed it as laziness since our wind driven auto pilot was really doing the steering. Cook’s job was really that of third crew member, as we never expected her to deliver gourmet meals, and everyone shared responsibilities anyway. That afternoon was sunny but brisk as the winds blew like a wind tunnel and our auto-pilot steering handled the heavy displacement boat nicely. I recall remarking to The Cook that she had legs of an athlete, not bulky, but shapely and powerfully built like those of a runner. She was evidently proud of them because she wore clothing that flattered her. She replied that I was observant; she had been a broad jump champion at some Eastern-Block college. Her parents were apparently professionals or Government employees as she had received great education. Curiously, though purportedly a medical doctor she did not know the word achondroplasia, a form of dwarfism; my step daughter by second marriage is a “Little Person”, who had stretched herself 27% of her body height through four years of innovative surgery developed in Madrid and executed at Cedar Sinai Hospital in Beverly Hills CA. Again, I was curious about informational disconnects, first the improper sail sets and now her lack of medical knowledge. The evening of the second day brought lumpier seas and a “high-seas” wake up call. While alone on watch, I was knocked from starboard-tack cockpit halfway through the leeward lifelines, stopping myself with my right hand on the winch before my tether extended. My head was in the sea, nose scooping water at 6-knots and all I can recall is cursing that I broke my wrist. It turned out to be only a sprain, but I sneezed salt water for ten minutes!

Day 3: 38 deg. 53 min./ 67 deg. 05 min. 2100h UT: (To Boston: 320.1 deg True air rhumb line course , 272.7 nm distance. To Narrangansett Bay [41.35/71.25] 309 deg. rhumb line course, 257 nm distance. To Bermuda: 162.9 deg. rhumb line course, 408 nm distance directly into the wind).

On the late afternoon of the third day, August 2, having sailed about 280 nm from Boston on an indirect course to Bermuda, Kevin downloaded a weather fax by single side-band radio. A tropical storm had apparently formed around Jacksonville Florida, and was gusting 60 kts while moving northeast at 4 kts. I recommended that we continue towards Bermuda, moving away from the storm’s most likely course along the eastern U.S. coast, rather than risk turning back towards Boston and running into it. One never wishes to cross the “T”, or run perpendicular to a storm’s likely path. Besides, storms always wobble along, never setting any direct course, and so planning your likely position to one is a guessing game at best, and deadly at worse. We should move away on the most perpendicular course that winds and seas would allow. Besides, we should be across the Gulf Stream in another day, which could shelter us. The Gulf Stream is actually a river of warm water traveling along the Eastern Seaboard, bouncing off Nova Scotia towards Ireland. It then heads towards Africa’s Northern shores and completes the circle in clockwise fashion to Key West. Eighty to One Hundred miles wide and a mile deep in places, the Stream moves 1.5-3 miles per hour, driven clockwise by the Correlis Effect of the Earth’s rotation . Water temperatures hit mid-80 degrees in contrast to adjacent waters averaging 60 degrees in summer. Picture a large circular conveyer belt carrying sea creatures and boats in clockwise fashion, touching the great Atlantic Ocean continents. The Gulf Stream is in constant conflict, as it rips through colder waters and winds, thus producing its own weather patterns. Sailors know several certainties about this rather uncertain environment: strong winds blowing against this vast current of water produce tremendous waves with flat sides like a barn wall, the current helping to focus the wind driven energy into higher wave crests than normal storm-driven seas. Also, storms moving along the path of the currents tend to be guided by the Streams energy, feeding off its warmth. Picture a bowling alley with the storm being the ball; you do not want to be the pins. The fluid dynamics of weather patterns, waves, winds and resultant energy may be the root cause of Bermuda Triangle superstitions. Ships unlikely to sink, mysteriously disappear in the Triangle, most of which encompasses the Stream. Sailors know that they might survive a hurricane in Open-Ocean, but would likely die if caught by one in the Stream. No, rather than turn around and risk days of uncertainty, better that we use time to run across the Stream towards the relative safety of the Bermuda High, a stable pressure system warmed by that land mass, which helps deflect low pressure systems away from Bermuda and into the Stream. We would monitor the storm’s progress and projections just in case.

Day 4: 37 deg. 35.5 min./ 65 deg.13.6 min. 2020h UT: (To Boston: 317.61 deg True air rhumb line course , 388.5 nm distance; To Narrangansett Bay 309.8 deg. rhumb line course , 375 nm distance. To Bermuda: 174.6 deg. True rhumb line course, 314 nm distance into the wind).

The wind has been blowing 20-kts straight out of Bermuda, 180 degrees opposed to our desired course, for four days now. Sailboats use the wind to move but only in directions greater than 45 degrees from its direction; they cannot sail into the wind. Thus, a boat must zigzag against the wind in a long dance of correcting headings, oblique to the wind in order to make any progress against it. Though I love to sail open ocean, I do not sleep well on boats and I am prone to sea sickness, especially in short choppy seas such as we had been experiencing. I have been across the Gulf Stream on three previous occasions; twice I was violently sick for 1-day in uneven seas, the third time being a mill pond. Consequently, I estimated that since leaving, I was averaging about 2 hours sleep a night. I would need to catch up and recharge my batteries when we crossed into the calmer waters on the southern side of the Gulf Stream. Late the afternoon of August 3rd, we learned from another SSB weather fax that the tropical storm had grown into a hurricane off Cape Hatteras, moving at a much faster rate NE than estimated. Alex was the first storm of the season and an early arrival. I normally would sail to and from Bermuda from mid June to early July, as one’s chances of hitting deadly storms increases with time, eventually building to a crescendo of probability in late August through October. However, Kevin was late to develop plans to head south, and I was starved for sailing’s charms. I had been without my own boat since the winter of ’91-’92 when I sold Cap Ferrat due to financial setbacks. So with the opportunity to escape NJ, my business required home, to sail from Boston, the city that I loved, with a great friend on a well-found sea boat headed for beautiful Bermuda, I couldn’t resist. While later in the season than I would have liked, between business travel engagements during the previous two weeks, I had checked weather satellite photographs of the area between the west coast of Africa to the Bahamas, the usual breeding grounds for hurricanes and found them devoid of suspicious activity. Everything was clear. The Gulf of Mexico also should nothing unusual but local unsettled weather.

Kevin checked the day before departure and satellites showed no threats. Now, this freak, early storm that spun up virgin off the coast of Florida was projected over the next 24-hours to churn East-Northeast at 25 kts towards our position. We wanted out of the Gulf Stream and away from estimated 110 Kt gusts. To survive, we must run all night on an oblique course towards Africa, away from Bermuda. The 20-kt southerly winds blew steadily from Bermuda causing a rhythmic wave train. Now we began feeling a subtle new wave train crossing the prevalent one. We knew this to be Alex’s advance guard. We would race from afternoon, through the night with sails reefed for storms, and motor running at 2300 rpm to aid stability in troubled troughs. We must put distance between Sennen and Alex’s forecasted position by the afternoon of 8/4, and then hunker down until it passed.

The run from Alex on the early evening of August 3rd to the late morning of the 4th was a test of endurance. Skies darkened early that afternoon, winds increased as our Bermudian blow became a feeder-storm into Alex’s approaching low. She was sucking in energy to grow to Category 2 or 3, as she spun northward. Lightning flashed between clouds and yet the moon would occasionally peek through as clouds scudded across the heavens. Kevin and I gulped liquids in preparation; we tested jacklines running bow to stern on both port and starboard decks to which we tethered chest harnesses; and we pledged our respective best efforts to one another. I stated that “I have always enjoyed sailing with you my friend and I have high regard for your seamanship, which we will need before this night is through”. Kevin reciprocated with similar sentiments, and then I offered a silent prayer to my Higher Being: “Lord, I am not ready to go, but if I must, I am glad to go sailing, doing what I love to do. But Lord, I do have a lot to accomplish yet, and Judy needs me, but if I must go, then I prefer not to go drowning.” So goes the prayers of men against adversity.

The previous day we had asked the Cook to help reef a sail and she claimed that she did not have the strength or the experience. Again, I was taken aback by the inconsistencies: she was a track athlete yet she doubted her physical abilities. So we asked her to stay below this night and ready the below decks for storm tossed seas. She was instructed to prepare saloon lockers by moving items forward to the V-berth in the bow of the boat for safety. All loose galley ware, cutlery and other heavy potential projectiles must be secured in case we fell off a large wave to be knocked down, rolled or pitch-poled end-over-end. The boat hull would likely survive, but lose mast, rigging and sails; however, crew might die from missiles. The Cook began screaming in fear!

We raced along under double-reefed main and staysail, with the engine pushing at near maximum just in case of a stall. Speed over ground averaged 9 kts all night, faster than her theoretical hull speed of 7.5-kts; green water broke onto the deck and into our cockpit often. Kevin and I both stayed in the cockpit and handed off the tiller to each other in a coordinated ballet of shifting positions every 15-minutes. We tried 20-minute stints, but holding the tiller straight against the forces of boat against waves, surfing just below the crests of 15-ft seas, translated into large cramps across our chest, erector back muscles and biceps. Maximum endurance was 15-minutes; Kevin, while still “clipped in” to jackline, would sit by my right side and on command would slide across my lap to take the helm, while I would unclip to reattach on starboard side jackline again. And so the ballet when all night. We asked for water and The Cook tossed out an old soda liter bottle, only filled one-quarter way, as she deemed too hard to stabilize herself below. We asked for food and were given a cold hot-dog in a wrap of white bread, but it tasted great. I felt sorry for her, because I now knew that she had failed several tests and was not whom she claimed to be. Cookie was not a sailor, probably not even a doctor; she was seeking adventure on a idyllic sounding cruise. But high-seas sailing is seldom idyllic. What she was doing here I had no idea, but her confrontational nature was wearing as she constantly screamed that we should have turned back as she had wished. She did not know sailing and she surely did not know anything about survival, and I ignored her. Her screaming rose in crescendo with the waves and the winds. Kevin and I where being beat to death in a wild-mouse ride in storm tossed seas, testing every bit of our skill and metal as men. Adrenalin pumped our bodies and focused our minds, for any slip of concentration would mean disaster as you miss calculated the onslaught of waves, surfing throughout the pitch black night. Flash lightning revealed weathered, tired faces, but we smiled gamely in encouragement. We relieved ourselves in place; no break was forthcoming.

Earlier in life, I had been a career Regular Army Officer, Infantry Captain, with Airborne and Ranger Qualifications. I served four years after graduating from Penn State with a ROTC Scholarship Distinguished Military Graduate designation. My last Officer Efficiency Report stated that I was General material, a potential never likely to be achieved, as I was destined to become Special Forces, and few of the special operations types ever made it past Full Colonel. They were elite but not main stream, and thus were passed over for promotions due to lack of traditional operations experience. I left after making Captain to join the combative ranks of finance. However, I never lost the attraction of serving with an elite band of professionals; sailing was no different. I reveled in focused elite teamwork. I had never been “combat tested” so I never knew how I would act under fire. Ranger School stressed us equally without regard to rank; all Grade was removed when you entered. Ranger Cadets came from all ranks, and sometime foreign elite services. Individuals were systematically stripped to their inner beings, and the group learned to respect and use innate leadership, proven under deprivation of sleep and caloric intake over extended operational periods. Fluff and veneer never cut it, in the service, in finance and in life. Also, I have always held those with combat experience above me as I knew that training, no matter how tough and specialized, could never replace proven performance. I had been a student in the self taught school of sailing over 24-years, able to lead a crew over 650 nm from Buzzards Bay MA to Bermuda and back, using only the sun and the stars to guide me, but I was never combat tested in a true class A storm. Not that I was searching for such mind you, but now that I was here and Alex was bearing down to destroy me, I would be dammed if I would fail. I would deliver my friend, his crew and boat safely into port, or I would die trying. Either way, all I knew in my heart was that I was going to use every ounce of muscle, skill, respect for the sea and distain for fear possible to stay focused in accomplishing my mission. I was sure that Kevin thought the same.

Sennen Log: August 13, 2004 (Extract) Captain’s Entry:

“To my Friends and Family,

It has been five full days since the LNG tanker Golar Freeze rescued us from the angry Atlantic on August eight. During this time I thought of the enormous good will and kindness shown to us by all, and how a sunny 680-mile sailing trip to Bermuda came to this.

As many of you know, we (Frank-Navigator, (name omitted)-Cook and I) departed Boston for Bermuda on July 31 at 5 in the morning. The weather forecast was clear and we made fine progress the first several days of this expected six-day passage. When hurricane Alex developed and was forecast to turn to the East, towards us, we were nearly halfway to Bermuda. To maximize the distance between Sennen and the new forecast track of Alex, we turned the boat to the East-Southeast and pushed her as hard as we could nearly all evening of August 3 and much of August 4. This dash over the Gulf Stream, through a valley of thunderheads looking like angry giants guilded by the moonlight was harsh. The wind was blowing nearly 40 mph, the waves of 20 to 30 feet often swamped the boat's cockpit, and one needed both arms to steer. Frank and I kept at it hour after hour, relieving each other at the helm every 15 minutes. Our effort resulted in over 200 miles of distance between us and the track of Alex, and when the hurricane passed we felt no effect. But our good fortune did not last….” Kevin L.

Day 5: 36 deg. 42.6 min./ 63 deg. 00 min. Bermuda bears 216 deg mag/ 264 nm. (To Boston: 312.8 deg True air rhumb line course , 500.1 nm distance; To Narrangansett Bay 306.6 deg. rhumb line course , 490 nm distance. To Bermuda: 197.3 deg. True rhumb line course, 272 nm distance into the wind).

After running all night and the morning of 8/4, we hove-to about 12 PM Boston time. Hove-To is to drop the mainsail completely, ensure that the outermost forward sail or Jib is furled, and then shift and lock the tiller across the wind so that the cutter’s inner small sail forward of its mast, or stay-sail, is backed, with the wind blowing on the opposite side of normal. This backed staysail wants to push the bow of the boat off to leeward as the wind exerts pressure on the back of the sail. Yet the tiller is positioned to want to drive the boat back across the wind to the place you were before you hove-to. Thus, these two opposite forces counterbalance one another and you fore-reach, or wobbled forward, off and into the wind in small increments. You now drift mostly sideways 1-2 knots, as you move forward one-half knot speed. This is equivalent to a bird putting her head under her wing and drifting in the storm. The added benefit is that hoving-to stabilizes the boat as you create a drift slick that breaks the water’s surface tension helping to flatten oncoming seas. We hoved-to to rest and prepare for the storm’s onslaught, as we figured that she must very near by the pattern of waves and blackening of skies. Unable to raise Bermuda, Boston or other ships, Kevin made SSB radio-telephone contact with “WLO”, Kevin’s Louisiana based email service, and asked that they call Bermuda Harbor Radio and my wife, Judy, to relay our belief that we had avoided the center of Alex and that we would be 3-4 days late into Bermuda. WLO gave us Alex’s 0900 hour estimated position; the plot showed that our overnight-run might have distanced us outside of Alex’s 150 nm storm bands. We gave each other “high-fives” for our efforts. Kevin and I celebrated by taking Joy dish-detergent, saltwater baths while harnessed naked on the foredeck amid 20kt winds and 15-18 ft seas. The shies went completely black by 1700h, clouds blotting out the summer late-day sun. The situation was looking increasingly ominous. Lightening was booming and we felt very small and alone, which we were. (Alex becomes a Category 2 Hurricane 5 PM EDT 8/4.)

Extract from 8/13 Captain’s Log: “Later that evening, the evening of August 4 at around 9 PM Boston, Sennen was knocked over by one enormous rogue wave. We were hove to at the time, lying below trying to rest when we were struck. The force flung people and objects through the air to crash along the top of the inside cabin. We really do not know how many degrees the boat was flung over, but judging by the trajectories, it was between 120 and 140 degrees, driving the mast well down in the water.

In this state, seawater gushed past the closed but submerged Companionway hatch. This seawater immediately ruined much of the boat's electrical system, including all three radios, navigational computer, electrical monitor and inverter, and the GPS. The rogue wave also crushed the fiberglass dingy (stored over the “butterfly-hatch”), and disabled both the Monitor and auto helm steering devices. In addition, the wave forced seawater into the fuel tanks via the tank vents, making the engine inoperative. Fortunately, the boat righted herself quickly, and the hull, deck, and mast were undamaged…”, Kevin

We were hove-to on starboard tack under storm sail with backed tiller. A very exhausted Kevin was unbelievably able to sleep a bit in V-berth with the remnants of the saloon table and dodger’s canvas and poles, all having been destroyed by falling bodies the previous day. The Cook had slipped down below in the cabin and she ripped the heavy wooden table off the wooden bulkhead. I had fallen through the canvass dodger and aluminum frame, which protected the cockpit from flying sea spray, two days ago while helping to tame the sail boom as Kevin furled the mainsail. The Cook was asleep on port settee which was leeward of the wind as Sennen caught the wind and waves on her starboard bow. Having averaged about 2-hours’ sleep for four nights, I was attempting to rest on the starboard saloon floor, snuggled against the life raft valise where the motion was reduced. My head faced the bow and feet towards the shuttered gangway door.

Through out our long night ordeal, we had watched the water temperature, praying that it would drop from low-eighties to low seventies to signal that we had crossed the southern wall of the Gulf Stream. I wanted to be out of The Stream and closer to Bermuda. However, the water remained fairly warm. The temperatures dropped about 4 AM, but then rose again, so I surmised that we had exited the main Stream current only to become ensconced in a warm eddy spin off. Warm and Cold Water Eddies are caused by the Stream’s meander and in the process its edges loop back onto itself. This captures nearby water to form backwaters or eddies, which then break from the main current. Eddies spin 1-3 kts clockwise for warm ones, and counter-clockwise for cold eddies and can span 10-30 miles across. The trick when racing to Bermuda is to find these spinning currents and use them to propel you to your destination, no small feat when you have only an old thermograph taken by a satellite and a sextant to figure position by sun sight. Thus, you watch a thermometer to register probabilities. This warm water now warmed the boat, radiating up through the floor, so I lay in swim trunks and tee-shirt on the dry floor on top of my sleeping bag.

Everything was pitch-black, isolation broken only by the flash-bang of immediate lightning, the pounding of waves and the moaning of wind through the rigging. I then heard the wind gust 40-50kts. I had been in Boston Harbor tied to a dock during a storm and measured 50-kt winds with my hand held anemometer while holding onto rigging standing on my deck, so I knew the sound. A minute or so later, I said to myself, “God that has to be 60-70kts” as the sound roared like an oncoming train. Another 30-seconds and I heard 75-80 kts estimated. (Alex becomes a Category 3 Hurricane north of our position at 2300h, 8/4.)

When I was Airborne, I jumped static line from C130 cargo planes, the last two jumps with full combat gear. In Ranger School I had the thrill of jumping from a C141 Jet. When you were to jump, they opened the door to the sound of 130-mile winds; they swung out a waffle-iron looking door with holes in it to reduce air flow against the hull of the craft. This was to keep soldiers from being slammed into the tail when we jumped. How the pilots ever kept the plane level with all that drag, I never knew, but on red-light warning we stood up, clipped-up to the overhead cable running the length of the craft, and shuffled to that door roaring with the wind from its waffle iron breaker, to jump on green light. Unlike the C130 where you physically hopped out the door as you slapped the outer slides of the craft, on the C141, you simply stepped out. Looking over my toes, I would see the ground; a flash later I was horizontal, caught in the jet’s stream, looking at the horizon. I then rolled my head left to see the plane’s fuselage and tail-numbers go past me as I slowed, and my static line played out to deploy my canopy. One Thousand, Two Thousand, Three Thousand, Four Thousand, and my body jerked as I looked up to inspect my chute. All was quiet except the sound of air whistling by my helmet. I again focused on the approaching ground. I loved jumping this way!

The building crescendo of gusting winds, where not wind at all, but the roar of cascading water accelerating down the face of waves! The loudest was on top of us. Suddenly I was horizontally flying through the air towards port. As I traversed the cabin width, I looked over my toes to see water gushing around gangway hatch boards, like fire hoses were trained on the outside of our secured entrance. We were under water! I also recall thinking: “Lord, please don’t let my head hit the ship’s clock on port bulkhead; it would filet me!” Suddenly, my head was buried deep into the port pilot berth, which is used as a storage area. Upside down, I felt water, books and other under starboard settee locker items pelting my back. Thump! Something metal hit my spine. We snapped back as the keel righted the boat and I flew back across the cabin into the starboard cabinetry. I slumped onto the settee structure, the cushions lost with the settee locker contents. Kevin thought he was having a nightmare and was yelling, “What happened?” while the Cook was screaming from the unknown. I yelled: “we have been knocked-down at least 110-130 degrees from vertical”. I believed that we had been rolled by a Rogue Wave of estimated 50 ft plus, as it picked up and smashed a 15-ton boat down onto its cabin top with ease.

Our interior was in sad but serviceable shape. The gushing water had hit the navigation station near the entrance; salt water destroyed circuits and we lost electronics and engine. Sea water had back siphoned through air-vents while under water to pollute fuel and drinking water tanks. We were about 264 miles northeast of Bermuda. We checked each other for damage, but all were unhurt. Kevin grabbed light and harness and clipped-in on deck to check mast and sails. We lost some minor items but this well-found vessel survived intact. The mast was still standing, the cutter staysail was intact! Impossible! The force of that wave would surely have ripped our sail and broke the mast. The fiberglass Dyer dingy lashed over our butterfly wood and glass deck hatch was severely cracked. The bronze Monitor self-steering system was smashed; its metal pieces twisted with the force of impact. That wave had cupped us in its base, raising us as she built and smashed us down vertically through the water like a falling knife. There was no other explanation. If the cresting wave had been a second earlier we would have been crushed under the weight of falling water. If we had been knocked down then we would have rotated through the ocean’s surface, the force ripping sails and breaking the mast as she rolled. We came down with minimum lateral resistance; we had been dumped upside down!

I logged the event 080504 at 0020h UT or about 2120h Bermuda time on the 4th. We decided to stay put until first light, recheck everything and if sound, continue towards Bermuda, our closest port. The Cook cried the night, upset with every jostle. No sleep was had in soggy environs. I also was very worried about my wife; under some premonition, she had cried for the first time in 24 years of sailing departures. She asked where the insurance policies and will were located; “in the gray metal box as always”, I said. This unnerved me a bit, but I was determined to sail with Kevin. Unbeknownst to me, she had run home to seek solace in the contents, looking for a love letter from me to no avail. A romantic I was not, I guess. Judy had flown for American Airlines for thirty-five years, all of it Boston based. But I had moved her to JFK as we now lived in NJ. While Alex was racing up the coast, she had flown a trip to Santa Domingo, with an overnight stay in Puerto Rico. The Pilots had mentioned that on outbound trip, they would need to skirt the storm area. Judy mentioned that I was down there. Looking at the satellite photos, she overheard them remark, “he is screwed!” As she awoke in PR, the morning weather broadcaster, a perky little blond, said that “…and the good news is, Alex is heading out to sea!” Normally, Judy would have enjoyed her cuteness, but today she feared for my life.

Logging our situation, I knew that my unknown situation was hurting her.

Extract from 8/13 Captain’s Log: “We then decided the safest course of action was to continue to Bermuda. This was due to its proximity, now only about 250 miles away. In addition, the rescue authorities knew this to be our intended course, and I was unwilling to turn Sennen around and sail back over 400 miles, crossing the Gulf Stream again without the weather reports now denied us by the damaged electrical equipment.

So at dawn on August 5, we hoisted sail and steered again for Bermuda, against a stiff South West headwind. We made reasonable progress against this 25 mph wind and by late afternoon Bermuda was only about 210 miles away.

But our fortune again changed for the worse. The head winds increased to 30 mph, then 35, then higher still. The waves grew with the strengthening gale and when the winds exceeded 40 mph and the waves grew to thirty feet with breaking crests, Sennen could make no meaningful progress. Since the rogue wave knocked us down, Frank and I steered the boat every mile, and our fatigue was growing. But sleep was impossible, the cabin was soaked, every bunk, cushion, garment, towel, sleeping bag was drenched with sea water. Sleeping on the bare floor brought no rest, so rough was the motion of the boat. The fresh water supply was beginning to run low.

Frank and I were reduced to either hand steering against the ongoing gales or trying to rest in the briny cabin. But there was no rest to be had aboard Sennen since the knockdown. After all these hours of fruitless effort, the fatigue began to affect our motor skills. Nearly every task resulted in some fresh bruise or abrasion. I reluctantly concluded that, against these ongoing gales with their 35 mph head winds and steep seas, I could not bring my boat with her dangerously fatigued crew to port…”, Kevin.

Day 6: The next morning I concluded that the rogue wave was about 60 feet high or greater, as she flipped a 15 ton displacement boat and its 50 foot tall mast with such ease, and then pinned her at 150 deg. from the vertical for 3-4 seconds. The volume of water required to do that must have been massive. I determined the degree of roll from the metal personal weight scale that Kevin had stored in the bottom most of the starboard settee locker, near the bilge. Only being nearly upside down could have emptied that weight down so low in the boat. This was what had hit me in the spine on the roll. After the wave moved over us, we snap rolled to vertical as the lead keel reasserted righting moment; I had flown back from the pilot berth through the air without touching a thing to smash into the starboard saloon cabinets over the bunk. Later that morning, I noticed that The Cook had left a glass 2-cup coffee press in the galley sink by the gangway. Only its plastic framing was left. The glass had flown through the air to smash against the cabin-house port wall. I knew so, because shards of glass were buried behind solid bronze cabin ports. I could not extract them. The force of the water on that port wall had been so great that the solid hand laid up fiberglass walls, close to bullet proof, had temporarily warped under the strain. The bronze ports and thick glass had not broken but had been push inward by the force enough to allow that exploding carafe to imbed behind their metal rings. As the force passed, the ports and walls snapped back to trap the shards. What an amazing boat to been able to withstand the impact! Luckily, no one had been skewered with those glass arrows.

We set sail about 0900 hours local. The sea state was still unsettled; 20-25 ft waves were marching by. However, winds had moderated enough to allow us to sail with the staysail alone. We battled towards port for 3 more days. After making good distance south and west towards Bermuda during daylight of the 5th of August, that evening onwards brought pure anguish. I had cracked my “tailbone” on the second day out, and was relieved to sit in a doughnut life ring while on duty thereafter. However, we lost in when rolled. Everything is relative in one’s world, and my sharp butt pains were more annoying than sore arms and large seas. We averaged about 4 kts sailing the 6th and 7th, but our handheld GPS, our only surviving electronics, showed that speed over ground was 1 kt. We climbed up steep seas, then down their backsides, making for a lot of effort but little forward progress.

Day 7: On the late evening of the 6th, I was on watch in light winds within a circle of distant lightning. I was in the eye of some small weather system. I was clipped onto the port jackline as the wind was lightly from the southeast. Suddenly, the wind died and I whispered a curse to myself. I tacked the sail in no wind as I prepared for a new direction. I had the premonition of a wind shift to starboard, a dangerous situation if it came on strong as I was now clipped into the low side of the boat. If I fell, I would go overboard. Quickly, I heard a freight train bearing down as I moved to face the onslaught: a white squall? Even in the dark, I knew that I was hearing a vertical wind driven wall of rain so strong that it was churning the water as she quickly advanced. It hit; Sennen took off like a spooked horse, as the sail was set close to center. I lunged for the high side starboard lifelines, now vertically above me. Sennen was sailing on her side, and I could not reach the sheet to loosen the sail against the pressure. I hung in the air from the lifelines, my feet dangling in the water sweeping the cockpit. I flashed my light repeatedly through the windows to get Kevin’s attention; he was sleeping again in “V” berth. The Cook yelled to wake him, and he scurried topside as the boat leveled. He clipped in to go on deck to help me reef the main down to third reef. I stayed at the helm to regain some control. Lightning flashed and I saw Kevin, naked except for his harness tethered to the jackline. He had stripped wet gear to snuggle as best he could into relatively dry blankets up front. A minute later, he was securing the halyard as his privates where lying on metal wire in lightning. Humor is an amazing thing; I was screaming to Kevin while I laughed. He yelled back above the noise, “what?” “Your balls! Get them off the wire or you will fry them on any errant lightning strike!” I yelled. Kevin didn’t think it so funny, but I laughed as I cried.

Day 8: On the late morning of August 7th, while under triple reefed main and staysail, I could not drive Sennen over a huge wave. We slid sideways down this monster’s front, and Kevin responded with questions from below to my yelled obscenities. I was sideways to the oncoming wave and feared that we would be rolled. But, it broke before it hit us and slid under our keel. I decided that “enough was enough”, and hove-her-to again to rest below. I was truly exhausted. Yesterday and today I had been occasionally hallucinating from lack of sleep. I had seen it before. Ranger School tested the will and command abilities of soldiers though deprivation of rest and food. Night was always the worse. While moving through wood or swamp, some Cadets had seen trees walk and talk, while others would stop and simply fall asleep standing, the column of men behind during the same immediately in the dark. For two days, I had seen Judy waiting on the cheering Committee Boat at the end of this race several times after cresting a wave. I imagined seeing port over the top of waves, the mirage failing as I crested them. I knew I was about to go down for a long count.

We spent several hours attempting to purge fuel of water and restart the diesel, but she would not run more than a few minutes. I plotted, that while less than 165 nm northeast of Bermuda, we would need to sail two tacks of roughly 160 nm each in order to reach port in Bermuda. Doing simple math was a bear. At our 1 kt course over ground speed in 40 kt winds and 25-30 ft seas, it would be a very long trip indeed. I then quietly approached Kevin to alert him that a command decision would need to be made within 24-hours. We could remain hove-to until whenever the gales blew out to then proceed to Bermuda, or we could run for Buzzards Bay without information on potential storms and rough seas in re-crossing the Gulf Stream. The third alternative was to trigger the EPIRB, risking the lives of others to save us from either fate. We had never told The Cook about the emergency EPIRB as we believed that she would surreptitiously trigger it in seeking rescue. I counseled that he had to decide as Captain, and that I would follow that decision.

Kevin seemed struck with the enormity of his pending decision and its impact on our safety and the risk for others. We had both agreed that we would never do so while we had another course of action that would mitigate risks. But the crew was emotionally and physically spent, and we could not safely make port. If Kevin activated the EPIRB, I believed that a helicopter from Bermuda Search and Rescue would most likely fly the 160 nm to retrieve us. We jump into the water to be directed by “Para-Jumper” to a basket, then lifted one-by-one into the helicopter. We could leave Sennen hove-to with a drogue to slow her drift until the gales were spent, then hire a tug to retrieve the boat or arrange for salvage.

34 deg 13.2 min/ 62 deg 11.4 min. Bermuda bears 242 deg mag./166 nm: (To Boston: 320 deg True air rhumb line course , 640 nm distance; To Narrangansett Bay 315.2 deg. rhumb line course , 622 nm distance. To Cape Charles entrance at the Chesapeake Bay: 285 deg. rhumb line course , 680 nm distance. To Bermuda: 228.1 deg. True rhumb line course, 165 nm distance into the wind).

Up to this point, we were always working towards a goal, minimizing risk along the way. We had resources: a sea worthy but wet sailing craft, some food and water, and our at least some of our wits. But now our energy was spent and we were becoming a danger to ourselves. Since the rogue wave, the screaming Cook had been suspicious of everything we did. Anything that was different than steady state might further imperil our lives! I asked her bluntly whether she was a drug abuser, as she seemed very irrational. She forcibly answered “No”, so I could only conclude that she was a manic depressive. Every glimmer of sunshine, dying winds or leveling seas brought cheers, while dusk always brought sullen fears. Nights were the worse as she screamed with every unknown noise. This woman was causing me to want off the boat at any cost.

Once Kevin activated the beacon around 2300 UT on 8/7, I suggested that we get dressed in whatever clothes we wanted for rescue, put on harnesses and activate inflatable life vests. We should pack one small personal bag with passports, wallets and one clothing change. Kevin put ship logs and chart into the now emptied waterproof flare canister within an abandoned-ship bag. Flashlights and SOLAS Flares were set up for use in the cockpit. We did not have a functioning radio.

Nothing happened for five hours. We then questioned whether we had properly activated the 406 EPIRB; we had tied it to a winch after doing so. The small print “removal from bracket and immersion in sea activates” left us believing that it must be deployed in the water, though we could not detect any seep holes in the canister that would allow water to enter. To avoid Sennen smashing the floating EPIRB in high seas, we redeployed it from a lanyard tied to a jib sheet, so that it would float 20-feet or so from the boat.

Day 9: Nothing happened for several more hours. I tied myself into starboard bunk, but constant jolts from waves made rest impossible for me. I began getting nervous for the first time. If the EPIRB failed for some reason, we needed to shift into true survivor mode. We were getting dehydrated from the activity, and four days of liquid meals of boxed tomato soup did not sustain enough energy. The stove propane solenoid reactivated the previous day, but the stove was off gimbals, so we only fired it up once on the 6th, tending pot by hand while brewing coffee. Planning began well before daylight on the 8th. In that dark cabin, I wanted to take command as Survivorship Captain. Kevin would still run the boat, but I wanted to handle our lives. This was wrong, but I felt that some military training was better than sailing ability and the boat’s chain of command, so I made my case. I did not plan to drift and die here. I wanted to fight, but on my terms. Kevin said: “I agree with Frank.” The Cook did not reply. I could not see her across the dark cabin so I said: “I will eliminate anything obstacle that gets in my way to ensure the survival of this boat and crew. Do you understand me? You must answer me in the affirmative. In return, I promise you that I will not leave this boat until you are safe.” She answered softly: “yes”. I need your agreement and your body; you are the most rested. You will sail. You will execute your duty as a sailor and I do not care if you die in the process, I thought. “I will eliminate any obstacle”, I reaffirmed myself quietly.

If the EPIRB failed, I suggested four courses of action: 1) Communications: We would rip out the electronics panel in an attempt to hot wire bypass any bad panel switches and establish contact with Bermuda Search and Rescue (BSAR) or the US Coast Guard (USCG) by SSB and VHF. 2) Power-Propulsion: We would once again try to de-water the fuel and start the engine. Hopes were that if the wind and seas prevailed, we might still motor sail the 165 nm southwest to Bermuda. 3) Mark Position and Changed Course of Action: BSAR and USCG most likely knew that we were out here due to our loved ones’ panic and hopefully a functioning EPIRB, but if by noon local time we had not contacted them or fixed the engine and if sea and wind state had not abated, then we would create a debris field to signal them when they searched. We would tie all floating objects together along with the large yellow waterproof flare container with Sennen painted on it. In the container would be our Destination, ETD, ETA and Planned Course. We planned to run back across the Gulf Stream to Buzzards Bay, and finally home. We were aware of the danger that this action entailed as we had about as much information as Christopher Columbus, but Bermuda was out of reach. 4) Lighten Ship: we knew that we might very well need to sail through hurricane or storms in route, with the Gulf Stream presenting particularly high seas. We would thus lighten ship to enhance sailing speed and increase buoyancy in rough water. Thankfully, we never needed to execute this emergency four-step plan.

Extract from 8/13 Captain’s Log: “Late on August 7, I activated the boat's emergency beacon. The Coast Guard and Bermuda Search and Rescue responded, by locating us with aircraft and at their request, the LNG tanker Golar Freeze appeared over the horizon the morning of August 8, and at great inconvenience to the ship's personnel and owners, took us safely off Sennen's deck…”, Kevin.

RCC/Bermuda Log: “Saturday 7th August 9:18 pm RCC Bermuda receives a resolved 406 EPIRB position alert from United States Mission Control Centre for sailing vessel Sennen, 133 miles Northeast of Bermuda. With the position information RCC Bermuda in conjunction with RCC Norfolk commence callouts to the yacht on MF 2182kHz and VHF ch. 16 and Urgent Marine information broadcasts on Navtex, VHF and MF radios. Using the AMVER system commercial ships transiting the area are contacted and requested to divert to the EPIRB’s position. Two ships are diverted, Motor vessels Golar Freeze and Olivia Maersk and a US Coastguard C-130 aircraft is scrambled. The Golar Freeze is first on scene at 5:30 am and after the Coastguard plane drops a VHF radio to the sailing vessel, communications are established. Three crew are removed from the S/V Sennen to the M/V Golar Freeze and the sailing vessel is abandoned. The Olivia Maersk is released to resume its voyage. The captain of S/V Sennen later advises the vessel suffered a knock down by a large wave that disabled the electronics and engine and the vessel had no communications. With damage to the sailing rig, very little food and water remaining, it was decided to activate the EPIRB.”

While we tried to sleep, I spotted a flash about an hour before day-break. At first it was lightning, but it became rhythmic. I yelled that I saw a search plane’s landing lights. She was flying low to the water and distant waves were causing a strobe effect as they marched across her path. We jumped into the cockpit, clipped in and began firing flares. They circled and responded by dropping three white phosphorous floating flares about a quarter mile up-wind of our position. We initially mistook them for rescue boat lights over the waves, still about 20 ft high, and were impressed that they were guiding three boats towards us. After the initial congratulatory yelling and hallucinatory euphoria, the plane flew above the clouds and the flares died. Adrenaline fueled morale quickly faded and we slumped into despair. I suggested that this search and rescue (SAR) plane had marked us and would now guide in a rescue helicopter, as the latter did not have fuel for prolonged search. In about 15 minutes, the SAR plane returned without lights and flew three elliptical 1-mile circles, passing about 50 ft above our 58 ft mast as we screamed joy! It looked like a C130 Cargo plane, the model that I once jumped 33-years ago. We surmised that they wanted a head count so three bodies stood on the cabin, clipped in, holding hand flares. On the plane’s fourth up-wind turn of its elliptical 1-mile circle, the pilot switched on his landing lights. I yelled that he was signaling that he would now make a drop. The pilot expertly deployed a package with long retrieval line attached to a small parachute drogue that draped over our mast and spreaders. What a shot! We hauled on the line and pulled in the floating waterproof canister to discover an active hand held radio tuned to channel 16. Kevin asked me to work the radio while he ensured that we were ready for rescue.

Paraphrased: “Bermuda Search and Rescue this is sailing vessel Sennen WCY8722 on channel 16, over.” “Roger, skipper this is Coast Guard 1502, what is your situation, over?” “This is Sennen, with three people on board, no injuries, asking for evacuation, over” “Roger, skipper, what is the state of your vessel, over?” “CG1502, our vessel is sound, not taking on water; however, communications, electronics and engine are gone and we are too frail to make port. We have our life vest on and are prepared to abandon ship, over” “This is CG 1502, Roger, we have vectored in two ships over the last 7 hours, the closest is a LNG tanker named Golar Freeze, about one-half hour from your location. Do you wish to accept rescue by this tanker, over?” “Roger, CG 1502, we will take any tanker, thank you. (Pause) CG 1502, where is this tanker heading, over?” We sounded rather picky, as if we had multiple options. The radioman dryly said: “Skipper, we did not ask, we will be back shortly, stand by. (Pause) Sennen, this is CG 1502, Golar Freeze is bound Ferrol Spain, over.” “Thank You CG 1502, we are most indebted to you and BSAR, Sennen standing-by, over!”

Over the next ½ hour we relayed out names, emergency contacts and phone numbers, often spelling with military phonetics. As day breaks we hear “S/V Sennen, this is LNG Tanker Golar Freeze, over” “Roger, Captain, this is Sennen.” “Sennen, I could not see you on radar, but I now have you in sight, I will execute a slow circle around you to flatten seas and kill momentum and then will stop, portside to you, one-half mile upwind, with you in my lee. I will drift down towards you, draw you aside, lower a rope ladder to a lowered gangway for rescue, over.” The sight of this orange behemoth stopped and drifting down on us was frightening. She looked 100 ft to her first deck and nearly 1000 feet long with multiple crew decks towering to her bridge. She was huge and moving down on us quickly!

“S/V Sennen, this is CG 1502, we will stay on station until rescue is complete. What is the sea state skipper?” “This is Sennen, I guess about 8-10 ft seas and 12-15 kt wind.” In Golar’s lee and wrestling with fatigue, both were underestimations, seas were 15 ft or more with winds closer to 18-20 kts.

We crashed into Golar Freeze, our starboard bow to her port bow. While Golar flattened her starboard seas, as they popped up from her lee, we on her port side immediately began bouncing 12-15 ft up her side with our mast banging loudly. Golar’s crew was heaving down thick mooring lines from her high deck. We remained clipped in and missed several lines, trying to not to lose a leg or arm from being crushed between ships. Our starboard spreader, the perpendicular support strut half-way up her mast, exploded. Our wire standing rigging parted with the snap of gunshots and out mast broke at the spreaders, falling to the deck. Five-Sixteenth diameter stainless steel rigging wire snapped like extended rubber-bands; winning as it whipped, ready to surgically amputate any body part in its path. The crunching sounds emanating from below, as our bulkheads buckled from impacts, wrenched our guts. We were smashing our rail as we slid along and up Golar’s hull. We drifted to mid length before securing our first line to our bow. As we drifted back, smashing hulls, we noticed a swung out crane with cargo net hovering, just forward of Golar’s stern with its giant propeller slowly turning out of the water. We did not wish to be sucked under her stern and chopped up like confetti in her massive blades.

The Golar crew lowered a Jacobs-ladder, rope sides with wood cross pieces. However, with the LNG tanker listing 10 degrees or more from wind and waves, the ladder hung in the air, not on the ship’s side. They then lowered their gangway 60 degrees from horizontal, but way above our heads. A small crewman worked his way down the gangway and tied himself in to the end post. Sennen was in chaos with the boat jumping on every wave and banging up and down over 15 feet of Golar’s hull. Broken shards of mast, spreader and rigging rained down on us while we attempted to understand their officers’ hand signals.

Verbal communication was impossible in the noise and wind. They signaled that I was to attempt the ladder-gangway combination. The Cook grabbed the hand-held radio from Kevin’s pocket and began screaming into it. I learned over to The Cook and said: “I promised you that I would not leave the boat until you were safe. However, they want me, as the largest person here, to test this evacuation plan. Do you understand that I must go first?” She nodded. I unclipped my harness tether from the jackline and cautiously put the pelican hook in my right jacket pocket. My idea was that if I failed the rescue on my own, I would hopefully have timing and strength to clip my tether to their rope ladder; they could then haul me up like a fish. Falling meant certain death as the colliding ships would instantly crush me, or failing that, I would drown as no method of rescue existed in that situation. I had one shot: jump to live or jump to die, no second chance was allowed.

I timed my jump to a wave top, hopeful to reduce the probability of being flicked off the ladder by Sennen’s mast on subsequent bounces. My body fails to believe that it cannot meet the demands of my mind, which still believed that I was a spry 26-year old Army Captain instead of a somewhat overweight 56-year old desk jockey. I grabbed the rope ladder with stark realization that my strength was totally sapped. I got a foothold on the bottom rung, but when I pushed with my legs, they went out sideways, forming an “L” with my torso. I could not get traction so I began hauling my dead weight hand-over-hand. I was truly scared as I made only slow painful progress. The small crewman roped into the gangway’s last strut and started softly saying, “Be strong, be strong, and pull a little higher. To live, you must pull yourself higher.” I climbed about 10-15 feet and froze in total exhaustion. I was about to hang with one arm and reach for my jacket pocket to retrieve my clip when I felt a hand on my neck collar and a loud command “let go!”. Without military training I swear that I would have questioned what sounded to me like the commanding voice of God. I obeyed instinctively; he had timed the ship’s roll to port to arc me through the air with him serving as pivot. I landed abruptly with my left hip bone hitting his shoe, lower body dangling over the gangway ladder. Focused on falling, I grabbed his ankles for all I had in me. I grabbed his calves until I made some butt contact on the very end of that ramp. He hauled me to the gangway strut so that I got a handhold and then helped me to kneel. Prayer-like, I softly said thank you several times. I then warned that the lady would never make this route. They would need to lift her by harness, I said.

I could not see Sennen from the deck; I realized that the crew was executing orders via radio from officers on the bridge and other high vantage points. I started giving orders and they told me to shut up and sit down. An Officer picked me up like a bouncer throwing a drunk out of the bar, and marched me on tip-toes hurriedly to a wardroom on 1st deck. He had me strip my wet clothes in exchange for a boiler-engineer’s jump suit. After coffee was given, I was allowed to be alone. I was trembling, unable to stand unassisted and wanting to pass out. I did not know if the other two made it alive.

The crew of Golar Freeze continued for an additional 30 minutes to rescue the remaining two crew from Sennen. The Captain had directed that the ladder-gangway combination was too dangerous for Sennen’s weak crew, so Golar then lowered a harness to extract the Cook. She had disobeyed my directive to wear one set of street-clothes and pack one small evacuation bad, instead deciding to wear all of her clothes hidden under foul weather clothing. Apparently, she hated losing her wardrobe but in exchange she looked like the Michelin-Man cartoon. After a lot of failed attempts to successfully fit the harness over life vest and body, the attempt was abandoned. She kept sliding through her oversized wardrobe, while screaming into the radio. The Captain of Golar Freeze then resorted to his last option, the cargo net.

Eyeing Sennen’s heavy displacement hull, the Captain determined that should his cargo net snag on Sennen’s rig or winches while she was bouncing 15 feet in the swells, his crane might be ripped from Golar’s deck when we fell off of a wave, in turn sending crane and Sennen to the bottom. He ordered the net removed from the crane and assigned many crew to manually lower and raise the net. This human bungee-cord afforded quicker situational response and greater flexibility. The crew lowered the net and the Cook, Kevin and Abandon-Ship bags were manually hauled 90-feet to the deck. When they were ushered into the wardroom for similar treatment, we quietly looked at each other with blank eyes, no doubt in shock.

Extract from 8/13 Captain’s Log: “Sennen is lost. Dismasted and battered by the tanker when she came alongside, too far away from Bermuda for a salvager to tow her in, she is gone. This wonderful boat, the source of so much of my pleasure and enrichment, my very hearth and home, I will never see again.

Yet I feel fortunate. I thank God over and over that no one was lost or injured. I have come to tears when I think of the vast number of the men and women of the Coast Guard, Bermuda Harbor Radio, and others who worked for our rescue. I feel humbled too. I could not make port. I lost my wonderful boat, a boat that many of you worked on and took pleasure on too. And I inconvenienced and caused worry for a great many wonderful people.

The Captain of the Golar Freeze has been especially kind to me. He explained to me that such experiences temper us, make us stronger. I will get another sailboat, and live the life God has granted me to live…”, Kevin.

We felt badly having to be rescued, and held off as long as possible, attempting to limp into port rather than ask others to risk their lives to save us. As soon as we got onto that tanker, our effusive thanks was met with "that is our job as seaman and we were happy to do it; hopefully you can return the favor to another!" I replied that I was very glad that the brotherhood of the sea extended from professional to pleasure sailors, and truly hoped that I could reciprocate. Executions in their belief in the value of life and sense of duty by our US Coast Guard, Bermuda Search and Rescue and two ships willing to re-route to our aid, moved us all, yachtsmen and professionals alike. I was near tears.

Strangely to this day, I continue to feel profound sadness, perhaps over our failure to reach port and the loss of my friend’s boat. I was also ashamed to have wrongly wrested control as Survivorship Captain, a perhaps selfish role that I was glad not to have had to execute. No sense of bravado exists, just respect for nature’s power and our fragility. However, I am also buttressed by my belief that loved ones and friends are what really count, everything else being rather fungible in disaster.

To my sailing friends, Paul, Larry and Rob, thank you for keeping my wife briefed on weather and our probable course of action amid tenuous situations; you comforted her during her ordeal with unknowns. To my wife Judy, thank you for your understanding; I apologize for putting you through emotional hell. I especially wish to congratulate the Captain of Golar Freeze, Tibor Grbic, on his ability to maneuver his 94,000 ton ship, with its single fixed non-variable pitch propeller, and without bow thrusters. His ability to compensate for high winds, seas and some cross current amazed me!

I wish all seamen, yachtsman and professionals alike, in particular all Navy and Coast Guard personnel, calm seas and following winds. Wishing you continued best from a very humbled man!

Extract from 8/13 Captain’s Log: “I owe special thanks to my parents and sisters, and to all my wonderful friends at Waterboat Marina, especially Larry, Paul, Linda and Rob. You have been so very generous and thoughtful to me. And to Frank Casey I say…my gratitude to you is exceeded only by my respect for you. Thank you all!”, Kevin

Rescued on 8/8 at 165 nm NE of Bermuda, Sennen’s crew sailed with the LNG Tanker Golar Freeze to Ferrol, Spain, arriving 8/17; they then worked their way via La Coruna-Madrid-Miami-Boston, arriving to the welcome of loved ones on 8/18.

Lessons Learned: • In my opinion, the real story is how a wonderful boat such as Sennen, with two decent sailors, failed to make port. The boat was lost, not due to Alex, not due to the rogue wave, but to crew exhaustion. This state of exhaustion was due to our inability to rest. Frequent gales and lumpy seas were discomforting, but we were unable to sleep because we were always on duty. No sooner did one relieve the other, than he was called back to handle some emergency. We sorely needed a capable relief sailor; the Cook ultimately proved to lack both skill and strength to handle rough winds/seas from day 3 onward. • When serving on a shorthanded vessel, I swear that I will never sail with unknown crew without a daylong pre-voyage test sail. I will also request that the Captain inspect that each crewmember has proper gear prior to departure. • I will ensure that large enough crew is enlisted to afford proper relief. • I will also remember that in life the unlikely will happen, and nature will surprise you. The Western Atlantic was clear 7/28-7/30 and I discounted the small storms in the Gulf of Mexico as unlikely to harm us; such may have spawned Alex. • I have more clearly defined my next boat’s characteristics. I want an easily handled, divided sail plan, full or cut-away forefoot full keel, low freeboard to reduce “windage”, moderate beam that can be easily driven, and most importantly, a boat that can be sailed by a small exhausted crew when needed.

Postscript: 90-days after we abandoned Sennen, she was located in the Sargasso Sea, a calm dead area in the center of the circular current flows around the Atlantic Ocean. TrenchTracker, a cable laying boat running a direct course from Bermuda to Europe, had come across her approximately 460 miles ENE of Bermuda. Sennen was still attached to a drogue to slow her movement and was drifting one-half mile per hour towards Europe. We had tried to have someone salvage her when we first abandoned her, and now we tried again. But, after being battered by seas and Golar Freeze, value was dubious and no one would bother. Sennen was low in the stern and apparently sinking; she was left to her fate, bobbing in an area of the ocean where few would ever go. When I saw the pictures taken by TrenchTracker I cried like a baby. I felt like I had left my dog, or a great wounded friend, out in a storm. Sennen had kept us alive and now she would die alone. Kevin bought another boat, refurbished it, but pined for Sennen. He sold it and bought a third, this time a Kelly Peterson 45, a real ocean boat. He now lives on it and is sailing Grenada. Looking for a boat myself, I was about to bid on a 45-foot sloop. I then heard that my old sailboat, Cap Ferrat, was for sale. The second owner had died a natural death, the third bought her, renamed her Interlude, did some restoration and sailed her for three years. I bought her back, in March 2006, re-christened her Cap Ferrat and am slowly restoring her to glory in Boston.

Wind Speed

I think the maximum wind speed was 120 mph. It showed 165 in the box on the right. I changed it to 120, but it shows 140 instead. Could someone please fix it? —Preceding unsigned comment added by 68.225.106.84 (talk) 03:31, 20 April 2010 (UTC)

Dare County ?

The Ocracoke portion of the aftermath section keeps on referring to Dare county. However, Ocracoke is located in Hyde county, not Dare - as well as Swan Quarter (corrected that bit) which is the Hyde county seat. The reference given is unfortunately no longer available. Ivan Scott Warren (talk) 17:26, 7 April 2011 (UTC)

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