Banda Squalls

Each sub-culture has its own internal sub-sub cultures. Musician? Bassist, drummer, or guitarist? Soccer? Field or goalie? Like to read? Novels or non-fiction? Each sub-sub-culture spawns narrower categories. Rock or jazz? Attacker or defender? Modern or historical? In sailing, I can think of several first-order categories: day sailor or overniter? racer or cruiser? monohull or catamaran? with each having its own sub-sub categories.

I was moved to reflect on sub-cultures within sub-cultures while being pelted by driving rain, my foul-weather gear snapping in a 30 knot wind, and our little boat pounding up and down 4-6 foot swells as we sailed southwestward from Ambon to the Nusa Tenggara islands that delineate Indonesia's east-to-west southern border. South of these islands lies the Indian Ocean; north lies the Banda Sea. We were slogging it out on a close reach in the Banda Sea - the wind coming over our port bow, and seas surging up through the netting that separates our two hulls on the foredeck.

Here's the dirty little secret of our circumnavigation so far: not only have we used the auto-pilot to steer our craft for days on end, relying on our hands only when we make the final approach to an anchorage, but we have been sailing almost exclusively downwind - as gentlemen are wont to do. We're following the centuries-old clipper ship routes - ships that were notoriously unwieldy when the wind was forward of the beam.

We left the Banda Islands on a northwest downwind run to Ambon - we needed to check in with immigration, etc., and official Indonesian ports of entry are few and far between. Unfortunately, this meant we needed to make a rare southwest sail when we left Ambon for Nusa Tenggara - sailing at right angles to the southeast tradewinds that prevail in these latitudes. Worse, the seas, which are created by the wind energy, also run SE-to-NW, so we'd be running abeam of them as well.

All good, but then we hit a large patch of nasty squalls - one after another, and suddenly the gentleman-like notion of sailing downwind using an autopilot went out the window. So - back to the sub-cultures of sailing: there are those who race, and those who cruise. Racers tend to optimize their sails by the moment; cruisers by the day, voyagers by the passage. A racer is attuned to the small shifts of wind that can mean the difference between first and last; the cruiser just wants to have fun, and the voyager just wants to arrive safely.

Day sailors have the weekends - they may lack the time or ambition for long passages or overnight cruises, but they learn to make the most of the day's weather - rain or shine, calm or windy, they manage their sails and rudder to the conditions at hand. The day sailor just wants to make it back to the marina in one piece, having experienced the thrill - or boredom -- of the day's weather and sea conditions.

Cruisers tend to set their sails and hope for the best; they tend to favor waters with predictable winds and weather, and can talk endlessly about whether to risk everything by venturing out in anything less than perfect weather. When we were passing through the Bahamas, we'd hear these cruisers discuss whether or not to make the 30 mile trip to another island because of a chance of rain. No problem - if life moves that slow, then why not sit it out for another day?

Voyagers, the fourth category, tend to look at the weather too, but tend to have a higher threshold for any decision to postpone or re-route. Squalls OK, cyclones not OK. I'd put us in this category , and in that spirit, we left Ambon after a fine Indonesian lunch at the Hotel Tirta Kencana, which had hosted us for a few days, raised our sail to the second reef position (we just want to cross the finish line), and left the island behind. Secure the sheets, set the autopilot, and basically watch out for unlit fishing boats.

A day or so later, we were forced to adjust our strategy ... in effect, to shift from a voyager sub-culture to a day sailing culture  ... and even, God forbid, to the racing sub-culture. We entered an area of squalls, and circumstances dictated that we dust off our little-used sailing skills to actually sail upwind, adjusting our course regularly to account for the shifting winds associated with these squalls. One squall would approach - we'd see it on radar, as well with our eyes -- a slightly-more-gray smudge on the horizon - and the winds would drop briefly to 15 knots or so, shift 20-30 degrees, and then, at some magical transition point, the winds would pick up to 25 knots or more, with pelting rain. Calm, squall, calm, squall ... repeat repeat repeat.

We weren't racing, but we were called upon to deploy a more immediate feedback loop between sail, rudder, wind, and waves than we've been used to on this long voyage. It's more tiring to be sure, but it's the price to pay for visiting the many smaller ports and islands on the Nusa Tenggara coast. No one said it would be downwind sailing all the way around the world, but we were getting used to it.

To date, the weather on our circumnavigation has been dreamlike - with just a few exceptions, we've had blue skies, following winds and relatively calm seas. The last twelve hours have reminded us of the alternative - gray skies, blustery winds, and a choppy ocean. Many friends who spent cyclone season in New Zealand faced these kinds of conditions for days on end as they sailed south from Fiji and Tonga - each were relieved to have arrived safely, and a few vowed never to do it again. For me, it's been a useful reminder of our fortune, for one, as well as the need to remain vigilant when we leave Indonesia for the less-predictable Indian Ocean.

The winds have abated enough to permit me to write this, and the skies ahead are tinged with blue; it seems as if the weather system that brought us wind and rain is moving off the northeast, pulled along by the tradewinds. We continue to head southwest, under engine as now the wind, typically and ironically, has completely died. But that's sailing for most people - we've been lucky on this downwind voyage of ours. It's hard to imagine a few hours ago we were holding on for dear life, worried about our sails and hearing the slamming of the waves against our hulls. I've penned a short poem about the experience, included below.

It's nice to know that the sub-cultures of sailors permit re-entry - and that we're still able to recall the skills and attitudes of our racing and day sailing brethren, who learn to take the weather as it comes. And if we do enough of this voyaging, and see more of these weather interruptions, we might just be considered for the ultimate rank of a sailor -- that of master mariner - one who spends his or her life voyaging. One of the books on board refers to this vaunted status by recalling the epitaph of one Captain Augustus N. Littlefield, who died in 1878, and is buried in the Common Burying Ground in Newport, Rhode Island: "An experienced and careful master mariner who never made any call upon underwriters for any loss."

A life to aspire to, but for now, let's just cross this Banda Sea and make a safe landfall and anchorage on Nusa Tenggara.


Banda Squalls

Last night you were pissed off,
Your shirt wrinkled, body roly-poly,
Sputtering froth and foam, slapping me
Sideways, picking me up, and dropping me hard.

After all we've been through, I deserve better.
But I know enough to expect anything different,
So I did what I always do when you come at me:
I time my moves, slide down your back as you lift me,

Turn away from your curling fists,
Duck my head when you spit at me,
Ride your punches, ignore your growls,
Grip the wheel, and keep my boat moving,
Sailing to a blue sky just beyond this darkness.