|
|
November 17
On Monday, Diane Stege told me about the hurricane. All the experts said,
'not to worry hurricanes do not travel east.' Lenny moved east all day on
Monday. Tuesday morning the experts said, 'don't worry it will turn
north.' The hurricane moved east all-day and only a hair to the north. I
am east of the storm and just a hair north. All the predictions are that
the storm will turn, but since I first heard about the storm it has
continued to travel in almost a straight line toward me.
I am beginning to think that fear on the ocean is qualitatively different
than most other fears. It lasts longer. If one is confronted by a grizzly
bear (as I was once in Denali National Park) or a lion (Maasai Mara
National Game Reserve), one knows within minutes whether one is going to
survive the encounter. If one falls into a crevasse (Mount Rainer) or
stands in the track of an avalanche (in the Bolivian Andes), one's fate is
decided in seconds. Here I have only to sit and wait.
I have been in and out of thunderstorms all day. When the sun comes out I
think, "all will be well." But, when the sky turns black and the heavens
seem to open, I am less than optimistic. I remember in vivid detail each
aspect of Hurricane Danielle. Now, in this wilderness of water, this
indifferent ocean, I wait for another hurricane. I am by myself, in a
rowboat, 400+ miles from land. If the storm continues in my direction, I
cannot possibly outrun it.
5:30 PM
I've just spoken with Kathy Steward. Hurricane Lenny IS turning to the
North and slowing down. All predictions have the storm passing at least
100 miles to the north of me. For the first time in three days, I can
breathe.
November 18
The hurricane has stalled. The storm could break up and send a large nasty
chunk in my direction, but the greatest danger has passed. The east to
west trade winds are not predicted to re-establish until the 24th or 25th.
In the meantime, I will have headwinds mostly from the southwest.
So, I have three choices. (I have more, but my brain tends to sort choices
down to three whenever possible.) I spoke with Christopher Hebert and
Gerard d'Aboville this afternoon. They were greatly relieved that the
danger from the hurricane had passed. We discussed several options. They
recommended that I consider rowing southeast, to attempt to move south.
Because the winds are from the southwest, this idea has merit. I can make
up ground back to the west once the wind turns, but going south remains a
real struggle. Gerard cautioned that if fighting the wind was too
difficult, I might do well to conserve my strength and simply wait with my
sea anchor out until the wind turns.
Being Tori Murden, I have come up with a third alternative. The wind will
not help me move forward for at least a week. It may even actively push me
toward the northeast. I have decided that my best option while I can still
move the boat a little (while my wind is stronger than the headwinds) is that I
should attempt to move the boat into a favorable current. If I am able to
move the boat into a favorable current before the winds become too strong,
my sea anchor will find a better purchase (it will hold me in position
against the wind more effectively.) There is a cold eddy some 50 miles due
west. If I can reach it before Lenny begins to break up and sends foul
winds toward me, I will be able to ride out the unfavorable conditions on
my sea anchor. Hopefully without going backwards. The peak of the eddy is
around 17 degrees North and 56 degrees west. This is my goal.
November 19
The weather is fairly calm. I am not able to move the boat quickly into
the wind, but I am progressing at just over one mile an hour. Some hours
are better than others. A month ago, this slow pace would have made me
angry enough to chew on the hardware, but these days I consider each mile a
small victory. To move the boat one mile takes between 1000 and 2000
strokes, depending on the strength of the headwind. (In a racing boat it
takes about 200 strokes to move the boat one mile, but I wouldn't want to
face even four-foot waves in such a craft.)
When a rower takes a stroke, the blade of the oar leaves a small vortex in
the water. Rowers call these "puddles." Normally as one rows, one has the
satisfaction of watching the puddles move past the stern. When my puddles
begin to stand still or travel in the direction of the bow, I know it is
time to stop rowing and to deploy the sea anchor. Were I not so profoundly
delighted about being several hundred miles away from hurricane Lenny, I
would find my lack of progress annoying.
As it stands, I would be contented to wait another month out here. As my
friend Irv Bailey once said, "I don't mind living on the edge, but I like
living." I do. I REALLY enjoy living.
|
|