About Days 19-25

After some more anchoring the weather finally turned. With a light breeze towards the Canaries we set off. Low wind often means lower seas and this day was silky smooth with some ripples, like a pan of smooth gravy getting gently stirred by a smiling, squishy-faced chef.

I was resting when Stef spotted a ship on the AIS. It looked to have changed course and was heading straight at our port side. In theory, we should be visible on the same system and in theory the vessel should know to keep a wide birth. However, best not to take chances when it comes to having a 700metre oil tanker plough into you.

Stef called them up on the VHF radio. “Tanker, tanker, this is ocean rowing vessel Wa’omoni, Wa’omoni. You are on course for us, we are an ocean rowing vessel and unable to move. Please change your course to avoid collision.” A jovial Italian chap came back, “Ay-ya, - ciao Wa’omoni! We come to see you all ok, no? But now we know you all ok, we come to say hello! Oki! Ciao, over, ciao, ciao.”

With this, the tanker steamed ahead at us until about 150metres away then pulled a off a remarkably dexterous turn so that they sat alongside. The whole crew of the massive boat came onto deck to give a wave and take some photos of us. The boys waved back and took some photos of them. Captain Mario got back on the radio, exclaimed how exciting it was to spot some real life lunatics, topped up his Aperol Spritz and got on his way. Ciao Cap’n, thanks for dropping by!

We’ve learnt that a calm day does not mean a calm night and as we closed in on the Canaries the night time introduced us to a new ocean phenomena - the squall. The OED didn’t make it onto the kit list but I’d define a squall along the lines of, “localised storm with vendetta against mariners, especially those with little boats”. 

Stef had the sunset shift and just as Dirk and I were set to snooze a patch of dark clouds appeared on the horizon. These aren’t your run of the mill dark clouds you’d find in the UK. They are dense, black and in a turmoil that causes them to churn through the sky, dragging long dreadlocks of rain across the ocean below. In an otherwise clear sky a squall seems to have purpose; a marauder lashing out with wind and rain and conjuring waves to batter any vessel it’s path.

We watched as the squall stomped towards us. Our little Red Ensign had spent the day lazily flopping from side-to-side, twiddling her little strings and humming Waterloo Sunset. Now she began to flap frantically, tearing at her strings to break free from the flag pole. 

The heat got turned up on our gravy-pan ocean and it began to bubble, splutter and churn. The squishy-faced chef reddened, the smile faded and the gravy sloshed as he stirred with intent.

“This looks like it could be nasty, Stef” I said, “ja, shit, we haven’t seen anything like this yet” Dirk concurred. 

With that, Dirk and I went to sleep and left Stef on deck. Lucky he had his new Musto sailing jacket. When I came out to relieve him a few hours later it looked as though he’d gone for a swim. I explained what a racket the rain had made from inside the cabin and how I’d struggled to sleep but he didn’t seem to have any sympathy! To even things up, we all got well and truly squall’d during the nights as we approached the Canaries. 

Squall! Squall!

I can see you coming,

If I could I’d set about running.

But I can’t!

‘cos I’m stuck on this little boat

In my boxers shorts and a leaky coat.

Squall! Squall!

With your long black hair,

A soggy Ozzy Osbourne

Bringing wind, rain and despair.

How about you veer off to the right?

Or leave it an hour? When Stef’s on tonight.

Squall! Squall!

No where to go!

The hatches are closed and I’ve gotta row.

A months worth of rain

On my head in ten minutes,

I’ve been squall’d in my boxers

And there’s no dignity in it.

The daytime conditions also became choppier, but we didn’t mind as the increased wind pushed us on at pace. Within a few days we spotted the silhouette of a tall island through the fog on the horizon. As we closed in throughout the day it came in and out of view. Then, we clearly saw the rhino horn rock off the northernmost tip.  

It was the moment we’d talked about endlessly and felt would never come. We’d reached “Waypoint 2”: 28 deg North, 16 deg West. Tenerife. Here starts the ‘barefoot route’. Put the oilies away, crack out the sunscreen and get ready for some trade winds. From here, we make up lost ground!

By nightfall we’d reached the main shipping lanes between Tenerife and Gran Canaria. The volcanic island rose up like a giant, flickering termite mound. As though the Milky Way had been scooped from the sky and poured over the top. The starry lights dribbled down the mountain to pool near the shore where great constellations marked the ports and settlements. We spent two nights gliding by and watching the yellow shimmering glow of the spectacular light display.

On the morning following the second night I was jerked from my semi-sleep stupor by a massive crash and violent tip of the boat followed by a squeaking alarm and a call from Stef. 

Scrambling to the hatch I saw a sodden Stef looking at me in alarm. He’d just been knocked from his seat by a monster wave and ended up half overboard. Some flailing arms had caught a jackstay and he’d pulled himself back in. I jumped into my harness and got on deck with Dirk joining us from the bow moments later.

I’d left my shift a few hours before in choppy but not unusually heavy conditions. How quickly things had changed. The wind was tearing, the waves were double-XL. This was some serious weather, we deployed the sea-anchor to stabilise ourselves before we got flipped.

Plopped in the middle of the Canaries main shipping lane with an 80 metre anchor trailing behind us, our position was less than ideal. However, safety first. We radioed the Tenerife coastguard to warn them of our predicament; they seemed ok with it, if a little confused (“I must repeat: you say are in a rowing boat and you say your port of departure was in Portugal?! Now you say you are safe and well but stuck in a shipping lane?”). Time to hunker down for the weather to pass.

Next call to Guru Chris. He tells us we are sat in some kind of micro-climate that has perma-storm due to the way the wind funnels through the islands. There is no sitting this one out. Haul the anchor, deploy the drogue and head in any direction that takes you out of there.

The drogue is similar to the sea-anchor but is used when you wish to continue moving. Instead of a parachute it is like a wind sock on the end of the rope. It drags from the stern of the boat and helps pull the vessel straight. The catch is, if you’re beam on to the waves it won’t necessarily have the force to haul the boat straight into the waves. Heavy wind and waves are incredibly determined to push the vessel beam on.

After a great effort we hauled the anchor. As soon as it was out we lost stability and spun port-side to the elements. The waves rucked and mauled us like the Pontypool front row. Dirk and I heaved the oars to turn the boat, we were churning concrete. Every 20 seconds the sea would set itself up for a big scrum: crouch, touch, pause, engage! Boom. Waves would crash over the port side, the boat would tip nearly 90 degrees and water rush over the starboard gunwale. Spluttering and dazed we’d hurl ourselves at the port jackstays to counter balance the force and keep Wa’omoni upright. Spit out sea water. Gulp for air. Grab the oars. Go again.

Every time we made ground we’d get hit by a wave and the howling wind would spin us back. As Dirk and I battled on the oars Stef deployed the drogue.

After twenty minutes doing battle at max effort on the oars we finally turned her. The drogue line went taught and we started moving - bow first, for a change. The weather continued for an hour or two then suddenly went flat. We’d left the micro climate and peaceful seas were upon us again.