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FBYC History....
Jere Dennison
On September 20, 2004, our offshore racing fleet experienced unpredicted gale force winds during the club's annual long-distance race around Wolf Trap Light located south of Gwynn's Island and north of Mobjack Bay. Many of our yachts were clearly in jeopardy, some were able to finish the race and others abandoned. What follows are some of the accounts of this storm which was one of the most challenging events in the history of FBYC racing on Chesapeake Bay. This month we will read stories from two of yachts finishing the race; in future issues we will publish stories by three that did not, along with an account of one our cruisers on his way to Onancock in the same horrendous conditions.
Nereid's Story
By Eric Powers
(Nereid is a 40' Tartan 40)
Like most folks, we had been warily watching the remnants of Tropical Depression Ivan as he looped and turned through the southeast. At the time we made our race/no race decision, things looked pretty unsettled but the remnants of Ivan's low pressure system looked like it would pass in a weakened state to our south. The morning of the race called for southeast winds 20-25 knots with 4-5 foot seas and a 50 percent chance of showers. Not ideal, but we'd certainly gone out in worse.
We left the dock at the usual time (behind schedule) but made it out to the race course a little before 1000. The south-southeast wind looked to be as-advertised, complete with lumpy seas out of the southeast. There were four of us on the boat: myself (skipper), Jim Morrison, Jan Monnier and Mike Fehn. My nine-year old son Austin stayed back at the club to sail his Opti with the coaches and some of the other juniors. I felt pretty good about our crew. Jim and myself were now seasoned veterans of the 2004 Annapolis-St. Georges Bermuda Ocean Race aboard Nereid and Jan and Mike were very experienced sailors, not to mention US Army officers with more than a little training in coping with adversity.
The R/C was already busy with setting the starting line when we reached the race course but a sudden wind shift from the northwest forced them to reset the line so that we would run a short upwind leg from the vicinity of Piankatank day mark #5 west-northwest to #6 just east of Stove Point. I'll be the first to admit that this sudden wind shift was not expected, and we would have done well to rethink our weather situation and get a fresh forecast. However, without giving it much more than a shrug, we repositioned ourselves for the start along with the other seven boats in our non-spin fleet.
The new wind wasn't much stronger than the old but it was gustier, making it hard to judge the line and time our start. A strong puff hit just as we approached the line sandwiched between Tatiana and Desperado forced us over early although we didnï¿?t come around for another minute or so. At least three of us went back to the line and restarted in what was already a building wind.
Once we restarted and rounded #6, we cracked off onto a reach towards the mouth of the river. The course put the wind well aft and it continued to come around more northerly as we exited the river off the northeast tip of Gwynn's Island. Although many our non-spin competitors sailed a higher course and put well out from the mouth of the River, we elected to turn southeast as soon as possible to get the wind just off our port quarter so we could set our whisker pole and run as short a course as possible towards the 1MH buoy nearly seven miles downwind. Shehallion followed suit and shadowed us even closer inshore.
The downwind leg to the 1MH buoy was peaceful with only occasional gusts up into the upper teens along with misty rain showers to dampen conditions in the cockpit. Our conversation was dominated by talk of work and other gossip rather than the possibility of building conditions. We broke out the sandwiches and drinks and settled into what looked to be a speedy trip to Wolf Trap Light. The rest of our non-spin brethrenï¿?s decision to sail high and further east seemed to look good for us so we relaxed as we headed for what we knew would be a jibe point a mile or two southeast of the 1MH buoy.
I probably wasn't a worried as I should have been about bringing the jib to starboard to head for the lighthouse at around 1230 that afternoon. The wind had built some and came around more northerly. Mike and I went forward to man the pole while Jan steered and Jim manned the sheets in the cockpit. With everything pulling hard, we knew it would be a hairy maneuver but we laid our plan and set to work. We got the jib over but the piston on the outboard end jammed and things went awry on the foredeck. We thought we had things back under control and were trimming the sheet when the inboard pole fitting exploded with Mike standing next to it. With the pole flailing about, Mike hit the deck. Under his oilies, I couldn't be sure what I'd find when I lifted him from the deck. I thought for an instant he wasn't moving and things looked really bleak until Mike came up holding his head, which wasn't bleeding and he said he'd be okay. I knew he'd taken a good one to the head but he seemed to be functioning and continued to assist me with getting the jib back under control.
By the time we had things straightened out with the pole, the wind had come around just east of north and increased to over 20 knots. We gave up on setting a replacement pole and focused instead on making sure Mike was okay and heading straight for Wolf Trap Light, which was by now only a few miles to the southwest of us. As we approached the light, much of the spinnaker fleet was converging at the mark ahead of us. Several of our non-spin colleagues weren't far behind us, and we began to plan our rounding at the mark. I estimate it was around 1400 hours when we rounded but was too busy to write the exact time down.
We boiled down to the lighthouse, which was now the dead leeward mark on a broad starboard reach. With the wind now gusting over 25 we knew we'd have our work cut out for us to jibe Neried around onto a port tack to head back to the northeast for the long slog upwind back to the finish line over 12 miles to windward. As boats around us rounded the mark, it became clear that we had all bitten off more than we could chew.
I'm sure each boat has its own story of gear failures, seasick crew, torn sails, and near crew overboard drills but from what we could see going on around us, most everyone had their hands full. By now the wind speed seemed to be ramping up higher, and the visibility declined to less than a mile with each passing rain squall. The seas, which by now were building over six feet, were becoming steep and choppy against a foul current. Over the next hour, we continued to slog our way upwind under a partially rolled up jib and a single reef in the main. We made good progress but as the wind and seas continued to build, things got more uncomfortable. With each passing gusts, which were now reaching into the low 40's, we were becoming increasingly overpowered but by spilling the main and luffing up in the stronger gusts we could still make good speed. We watched as several boats around us struggled with broken outhauls and sheets but there was little we could do to help. At this stage, getting close to one of the other boats was especially dangerous. Moreover, Mike had become increasingly seasick and was now hanging over the side most of the time. We were a little concerned over the possibility of a concussion. Jan and Jim were doing an admirable job of sticking to their tasks of trimming and hiking. At one point after a tack, with Jan cranking the genoa sheet, the boat gave a lurch and was pinned down by an incredible blast of wind. The lee rail went completely under and the only thing keeping Jan on the boat was a quick snatch in the back of the life jacket by Jim and myself.
As we approached the 1MH buoy around 1500 we crossed paths with many spin and non-spin boats still struggling, some with broken gear. By now some boats had taken to motoring north straight into the teeth of the gale. As the still building seas approached the shoaling waters off Hole-In-The-Wall, the swells refracted shoreward, making each eastward tack a bone rattling rollercoaster ride. In these conditions Nereid's bow would rise skyward over each oncoming wave and then descend into the narrow trough beyond to totally submerge into the face of the next wave. Foaming walls of water bulldozed the decks and occasionally half-filled the cockpit. North of 1MH, the winds increased into the mid to upper 40's and the rain and spray were driven so hard it hurt to look to windward. Only between squalls could we see the shadow of Gwynn's island to our west.
At about 1630 we saw the wind gust to 54 knots off the northeast tip of Gwynns Island. The seas were now well over six feet. We pulled in the second reef in time to see the luff of the main split in two places. We found later that the jib had ripped along the leech as well but there was nothing to do but press on. I felt we would be faster under sail than trying to power into such winds and seas. As we headed into the mouth of the River, the waves had become so large and steep that they were breaking heavy as they approached the shoaling water north of Gwynns Island. After taking a pounding by several of these, we decided to head back north to tack up and around #3 which was part of the course anyway to avoid the breaking seas as we entered the river. Once we rounded the mark and headed up the river, the seas abated and we fetched the finish line around 1730. The wind was still so strong and gusty, we didnï¿?t bother trying to motor into it until we tacked up to the mouth of Jackson Creek.
It wasn't until we reached the dock and heard the reports of missing and distressed boats in our fleet that we came to realize the weight of the situation. The wind at the docks was still gusting into the upper 30s that evening and I suspect it continued to increase further out on the Bay that night. We spent the rest of the evening assisting the R/C determine the location and conditions of the other boats. As a turned out, we were the only boat in our fleet that finished the race.
Juggernaut's Story
By Mike Dale
(Juggernaut is a 27' 6" J-27)
On September 18, 2003 Hurricane Isabel hit our little piece of paradise with what is now called the "storm of the century." September 18, 2004 was the date of the now infamous FBYC Wolf Trap Race. Maybe I'll visit the mountains on September 18, 2005.
I checked five different weather sources on the morning of September 18, 2004. Hurricane Ivan, downgraded to Tropical Storm Ivan, was making his second trip up the east coast. Still inland, Ivan was supposed to continue tracking to the northeast, remaining inland until reaching the New Jersey/New York area. The worst of the five forecasts I read called for winds to build to 30 knots in the late afternoon. I figured that we would be finished before the worst weather ever developed.
While backing out of my slip, before the bow actually cleared the outside pilings, the four raging horses in my outboard motor screamed: the shear pin had sheared. Was my little Suzuki trying to warn me? Was I smart enough to listen? The man on the bow yelled back to me, "I think I can still catch the piling, want me to grab it?"
"No. Let's just get the main up. What the hell, it's a sailboat" I replied. So, still sliding backwards with just the momentum of the outboard's brief effort, we cleared the tight area behind the West dock, hoisted the main and proceeded down Jackson Creek. Before reaching the dog leg, we took the outboard off of the transom and stowed it below. Dale had replaced the shear pin before we reached the starting area. The shear pin incident was merely a hiccup in our usual routine as we always stow the outboard when racing in order to get weight out of the stern.
There were five of us on board that day: Dale Moser, a regular, eight-year Juggernaut crewmember; Stew Wolfe, a Flying Scot sailor from GRSA who had been on board Juggernaut once before; Eric Wolfe, Stewï¿?s son, first time on board; Don Barfield, half of the Smith/Barfield Syndicate from the MacGregor 26, Checko, and me, Mike Dale, owner/skipper of Juggernaut.
Considering the forecast and the fact that the majority of the crew was unfamiliar with the boat, I decided to approach the Wolf Trap Race very conservatively. Even though the wind at the start was probably only around 10 knots, we decided to go with a full main and #3 genny. We didnï¿?t have the crew to fly the chute and I really didnï¿?t want to have to change down after getting out of the calm lee that the starting area occupied. We were slow as we headed out into the Bay, but we were very much in control. As we proceeded east, it wasnï¿?t long before we passed Shamrock and witnessed what I assume was the first casualty of the day: Shamrock's spinnaker shredded after hitting the water. The wind and wave action continued to build. I looked to starboard and saw Wavelength gyrating and silently patted myself on the back for taking the conservative (chicken?) approach. I later found that it wasnï¿?t the weather that caused Wavelength's problems, but that the spinnaker guy had accidentally been released.
As the wind and waves continued to build, Juggernaut really came to life. By the time Wolf Trap Lighthouse came into view, we were surfing from wave to wave at a steady 11.7 knots. The wind was far enough aft at this time that the #3 was useless, but weï¿?d need it again once we got around Wolf Trap to head home. As we flew toward the lighthouse, Eric looked at me and said,"This isn't too bad."
"No, this is great" I replied, "but just wait until we're heading back into this mess." We hadn't been around Wolf Trap five minutes before Eric said, "I see what you mean."
We were taking a beating as we headed north, and it seemed that we couldn't be making any headway. But, as we continued to beat our way up toward 1MH Wolf Trap Light, reassuringly, continued to get smaller and smaller, fading into the gray.
After clearing 1MH, Chilcoot and Shenanigan, both of whom had been outside of us, off our starboard bow, disappeared while we attempted to concentrate and work our way through the growing waves. We later learned that they had turned around and sailed south to seek shelter in Mobjack Bay. By this time, the anemometer was reading in the low to mid 40ï¿?s and the Spectra starboard genoa halyard parted at the sheave. I guess it was time to reduce sail anyway. Eric, the youngest and most agile on board, crawled to the bow, pulled the #3 the rest of the way to the deck, passed it back through the rest of the crew and it was stuffed below, through the companionway.
We continued beating along the northeast shore of Gwynns Island into what must have been 10'-12' waves. We sailed to starboard around Double Eagle, who had started motoring toward home. After we were past Double Eagle, the next boat we saw was Nereid, approximately 75 yards to port. I couldn't help but think how nice it must have been on board that nice, solid 40 footer. After all, Juggernaut was the lightest, and second smallest of the 20 boats that ventured out.
The confused wave pattern definitely got the best of us on one tack. I called the tack and all of us moved from port to starboard, but as the boat was passing head-to-wind, a wave caught the bow and threw us back onto port, trapping all five of us on the low side of the boat. A gust caught the hull and we were pinned at a 75 to 80 degree heel for about 15 seconds. Eventually we recovered, were able to climb back up to the weather rail and continue sailing. It was strange dropping behind waves and being completely unable to see any part of Nereid or her rig.
I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. It looked like Jackson Creek was a couple of miles dead ahead. I had a decision to make: bear away to round the final mark of the course, G3, then tack to the finish, or call it quits and sail straight for Jackson Creek. For hours, foremost in my mind had been getting those four other guys on board with me back safely. I couldn't shake the thought that if the genoa halyard, which had only been used about a half-dozen times, had parted, how many more tacks were left in the main halyard, which had seen much, much more use. If the main halyard let go, we were in trouble. It was too rough to get the outboard out of the cabin and back onto the mount. Even if we could have, my little Suzuki would not have been up to the task of pushing Juggernaut into those conditions. We still had another genoa halyard, but Juggernaut does not sail well under just a jib. I told Dale to raise Mr. Roberts on the radio and inform them that we would be withdrawing and sailing straight for the creek.
I sensed disappointment among a few of the crewmembers at my decision, but as we sailed into the slick calm just outside the entrance to Jackson Creek, a fresh enthusiasm replaced the disappointment as well as the tension that had built over the previous seven hours. After hours of being thrown from and through the waves, and flushed with the warm Bay water, we were home and safe. I brought the boat into the wind, and she just sat there, finally level again. We dropped the main and gathered it sufficiently so that we could secure it to the boom. The outboard was passed up through the companionway and I secured it to the stern mount, hooked up the fuel line and gave the pull cord a tug. What a beautiful sound. She started on the first try and we motored slowly through the dogleg and back to the Club. Once we secure back in the slip, I inspected the main halyard: it was chafed halfway through. I guess we could have taken the extra tacks and finished the race.
After removing the wet sails and sorting through the heap in the middle of the cabin where everything in the boat had landed, I found that the porta-potti had broken from its mount and was upside down on the opposite side of the cabin from where it started. Thank heaven it's so inconveniently placed that it's never used.
The total loss to Juggernaut consisted of damaged batten pockets and broken/lost battens in the main and #3 ($308.00 to repair/replace), parts to repair and remount porta-potti ($45.00) and the broken Spectra halyard (replaced with wire/rope halyard which I already had). Most important though is that no one was lost or injured.
Juggernaut was back on the line one week later for Day 2 of the Fall Series and, along with Dale Moser, both Stew and Eric Wolfe have become regular crewmembers. Don Barfield is still sailing Checko.
Looking back, I ask myself a couple of questions. Knowing how the race turned out, would I do it over again? No. The risk to the crew and boat in those conditions was too great. Am I glad that I did it? I think yes. Through the experience, I gained a greater respect and appreciation for the abilities of my little boat.
And, maybe, just one final question could be posed. Should NOAA consider trading in just one Doppler radar for a few old Suzuki 4 hp outboards to help with their forecasting?