A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back - Whale hunting on passage to Nantucket

Whale hunting on passage to Nantucket

A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back

Sam and Alex Fortescue

Sat 9 Jul 2011 00:34

41:17.29N

70:05.06W

We have made it, dear reader, to Nantucket - the whaling island. For generations, Quaker ship owners living on the island would send crews out to sea to fill the holds with barrels of whale oil, literally obtained by emptying the vast cavity of the whale's head, then melting down the animal's blubber in portable ovens erected on deck. There is a whaling museum here which is said to be excellent, and it had better be: we spent the day being cold, wet and slightly alarmed to get here.

You see, we had arrived on Martha's Vineyard yesterday after 55 miles of some of the hottest sailing we've had this year. Despite months of exposure, we both burned as if it was our first day in Marbella. Even after we arrived in Vineyard Haven, and the sun went down, it continued hot and muggy into the night. Alex and I repaired ashore, keen to settle in one of the highly reputed 'taverns' for a snifter. We were nearly thwarted by some queer local by-law which proclaims that one must buy food before one can order alcoholic beverages. It seems there isn't a bar on the island, and despite its name, the tavern was nothing of the sort.

Ever the quick thinker, I suggested ditching our left-over lemon chicken supper on the boat in favour of some local shellfish at the Black Dog, this securing our right to purchase a pint. This worked splendidly, and we had a fine view from our table out over the harbour, where we could watch a day-trip schooner anchor and drop its sails. After supper, we ambled to the kino, where they were showing Bad Teachers - a very funny but ultimately brainless number starring Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake. By the time we were ready to head home, a light fog was already gathering over the harbour. The outboard refused to start, so we had to paddle our way back to Summer Song.

Today, then, was a stinker. It began with dense fog, which duly lifted, only to allow the passage of a monumental thunderstorm (see pictures below). A small school of Optimists was buzzing about the harbour as a thick black cloud rolled in. With no warning at all, the wind leapt from 8 knots to 35 knots, gusting up to 41 knots (it reminded me of our Solent sailing course six years ago). The Oppy's scattered but amazingly remained afloat. Summer Song heeled over and darted about on her anchor.

Spurning the further delights of Martha's Vineyard, we set sail at about 11am for Nantucket - 25 miles away as the crow flies. But as we got the sails up, the fog swooped down to envelop us again. Nantucket, which we had been able to see briefly, disappeared as if eaten - only to reappear seven hours later when we were two miles out. As we tacked back and forth, staring into the swirling fog to spot buoys and boats, we heard an intriguiing announcement from the Coastguard, over the radio.

'Securite, securite, securite.

'For information relating to a dead whale in Nantucket Sound, please switch to channel 22 A...'

We don't have this channel, but Alex was able to obtain the whereabouts of the whale carcase by radioing in to the Coastguard. I set a stealthy course for the beast, thinking it would be easy to spot from a distance and with notions of photographing it. In the fog, though, this began to look like a less clever idea. As we approached its last reported position, visibility was down to a hundred yards, and we began to worry about sailing into a mountain of putrifying whale flesh. The tide had done its work, though, and we sailed through the spot without incident.

In the meantime, we got into a large fish. It was the third in 24 hours, but this time he stayed on the hook. As he came up to the stern, it was clear the beast was a decent-sized bass. Graham would be mortified to know that I put the fish out of its misery with a swig of Teacher's whisky. It gave up the ghost very quickly, and depoarted with a pleasant malty smell to it. We are having grilled fillets for supper.

The hatches are being battened down, as the fog is closing in again. We're anchored half a mile from the shore, but you can't see it, and even the boats moored around us come and go as the fog wafts around us. Every surface glints like crystal with thousands of cold droplets of water. In what is becoming a familiar accompaniment, a fog horn on the shore sounds its eerie, disjointed dirge. Even the guide books here warn that it is a rare day when you can view the island as you approach. In fact, they do little other than warn. We shall see...

Block Island... waiting for the fog to lift