Mariners try to avoid storms and the rough seas that accompany them. Sometimes, however, that just isn’t possible. One spring, shortly after I’d purchased Dreams, Nancy and I took our good friends Mark Reedy and Valerie Clarke to Catalina Island. They were both from the Midwest, caught in the throes of a particularly long and miserable winter, and looking forward to spending some time in sunny California. We sailed to the isthmus of Catalina Island, where we picked up a mooring and planned to spend several days hiking and exploring the island. Unfortunately, the weather took a sudden turn for the worse, and by Sunday morning, our planned day of departure, a small-craft advisory was issued, warning of winds of 30 knots and gusts of 35 or 40 knots. Since we all had travel plans for the coming week, we could not stay and sit out the storm. One option was to return to the mainland on the Catalina Express, a fast, twin-hull passenger ship destined for the Port of Los Angeles. But if I did this, it would mean leaving my new boat unmanned on a mooring in Isthmus Cove, Catalina, and there was no way I would do that.

Thus, we decided that Nancy and Valerie would return to the mainland on the Catalina Express, take a taxi from the Port of Los Angeles to

Marina Del Rey, which was my home port at that time, and meet us there. Mark bravely agreed to help me sail back to Marina Del Rey. Dreams is a sturdy boat, designed for blue water sailing, with a full keel, high shear on the bow, big drains in the cockpit—everything needed for heavy weather. I wasn’t worried about the boat not being equal to the task. Mark and I got under way soon after that, one reef in the mainsail. Leaving the island, we saw that conditions really weren’t so bad, so we put up the staysail along with the mainsail and put out a fishing line. All was well for the first hour or so. After that, once we were in the San Pedro Channel and away from the lee of Catalina, the seas and the wind started building. The fishing line came in first, then the staysail was furled. As we got closer to the mainland, the wind—originally out of the northwest—swung around to the north, and soon we had both wind and waves “on the nose” as the saying goes, meaning we were going directly into both wind and wave.

At this point, Mark was hunkered down in the cockpit, feet braced against the bulkhead, holding on to the cockpit rails. We both had on lifejackets and safety lines. We were also both wet and getting wetter. I had to impose on Mark to take the wheel so I could go forward and drop the mainsail—a task that he did not welcome, but he nonetheless acquitted himself well. For the next several hours we slogged our way north. After a while, I got the rhythm of the seas coming our way. I could maintain our northerly heading for six or seven waves and then we’d get a bigger one, and I would swing the boat to take it at a 30 degree angle to minimize the slamming. This worked most of the time, but not always; sometimes a second or third big wave followed the first. With the biggest waves—around 10 feet high—water would break over the bow pulpit 8 feet above the waterline and come back amidships before running off. Seawater would fly clear back over the dodger into the cockpit, drenching us as if a giant hand had thrown a trash can full of cold seawater in our faces.

For those who are not familiar with the Marina Del Rey harbor, the main channel runs northeast-southwest and has two entrances, one on the northwest side and one on the southeast side, the latter our direction of approach. There was a lot of shoaling at the south entrance at this time. In front of the harbor entrance there is a long break-

water running parallel to the coast. Boats enter between this breakwater and the jetties that form the edges of the main channel. As we approached the southern entrance, I could see that good-sized seas were running down the coast, into the north entrance and out the south entrance. I informed Mark that the trip was going to be a little longer—I didn’t want to go into the south entrance with those seas running. I could imagine getting in that confined space and having the engine die or something else happen. So, we beat our way north past the breakwater and then came in the north entrance, bare poles, motor idling—at 7 knots, the fastest the boat had gone since I’d owned it!

Mark and I are still good friends, but if you ask him about sailing, he will roll his eyes and say, “Let me tell you about the time….” As in many such incidents, the waves get bigger with each telling of the story. Afterwards, when we cleaned the boat up, it was amazing to see how much salt there was on it—everywhere, in every nook and crevice.

As storms go, this one was puny. Later we will hear from sailors with considerably greater experience, who have braved seas two to five times higher than these, and a few who have seen seas 10 times as high—100-foot extreme waves!

The storm we experienced was not severe and was typical of those occurring during the winter and early spring months in Southern California. A common cause of such storms in our locality is wind shifts that bring cold air from Canada or Alaska south into California, as opposed to the more typical track southeast into Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado.

The leading edge of a mass of cold air, moving fast at around 600 miles per day, is called a cold front. When cold dense air meets warmer air, it slides under and pushes the lighter, warm, moist air upwards. As the warm air rises and cools, its temperature drops, and moisture condenses, first forming clouds and then rain as the air saturates. Warm fronts are the leading edges of warm air masses that typically move more slowly than cold fronts (180 to 360 miles per day). In the United States, they might originate in the Gulf of Mexico, or in the Pacific or

Atlantic along the Tropic of Cancer.¹ Fronts arise in response to some disturbance or force aloft. The appearance of a front is usually accompanied by a drop in atmospheric pressure. The pressure drop can be gradual or rapid; if it is rapid and prolonged, the resulting storm will be severe.

Meanwhile, the entire system generally moves in an easterly direction, driven by the prevailing winds. Rain and strong winds can occur at the interface between the two fronts but also can occur elsewhere. For example, the most important weather with a traveling low-pressure system is the warm sector to the south and east of the low, where the rising air and typically strong south-southwest winds contain the most active showers and thunderstorms. Such storms are sometimes called extratropical cyclones since they have the characteristic rotating motion of a cyclone, but being outside tropical waters lack the driving force of the warm water “heat engine” that creates a true hurricane.²

One of my heroes is Brad Van Liew. Brad is modest, unassuming, and one of the handful of people in the world who have sailed around the world alone in a small boat. He is probably the most talented sailor I know. Consequently, I knew I had to go to Charleston—his home base—and talk to him about storms and waves for this book. A word about Brad: He started sailing at age 5; beginning at age 12 he went to Newport, Rhode Island, during the summers to work on boats for his uncle. As a teenager, he gained sailing experience by working as a crew member during the Newport to Bermuda race, the Newport to Annapolis race, and other offshore regattas. He is also an experienced aircraft pilot, with multiengine, instrument, and instructor’s ratings. For several years after he graduated from the University of Southern California, he operated an aircraft charter service.

Brad first considered taking part in the Around the World Alone Race in 1990, while still in college. He took leave from the university during his junior year and tried to raise the money to get a boat and enter the race, but he was unable to get the financial backing he needed. In 1996, 28 years old and now married to Meaghan, he decided to try

again, this time for the 1998-1999 race. The race would depart from Charleston, South Carolina, and continue to Cape Town, South Africa; then from Cape Town to Auckland, New Zealand; from Auckland to Punta del Este, Uruguay; and from Punta del Este back to Charleston—a total distance of 25,400 nautical miles. Meaghan was an invaluable ally, helping raise the money needed for the race and also managing his support team. This time, with support from friends, borrowed money, and several corporate sponsors, he was successful.

You sail alone in this race. There is no one to stand watch at night so you can sleep. If something breaks, you are the one to fix it. Not only do you not have a crew, but since most of the race takes place in some of the world’s most distant and inhospitable waters, you are unlikely to even see another vessel. Brad’s boat, named for his principal sponsor, was Balance Bar, an open 50 class sailboat, 50 feet long on the deck, beam of 14.5 feet. This was his home at sea for nearly five months through some of the roughest oceans known to man. It is best to let him tell the story in his own words.

“I was approaching Cape Horn and was around 700 nautical miles west of the Cape, when I got word that a major depression was forming. I knew about a week beforehand that it was coming. There was a free fall of the barometer as the storm approached from the west—it dropped to around 920 millibars, as I recall. As the storm approached, winds were at 70 knots, and swells heaped up from the northwest with 20-foot-high waves. [Note: when speaking of wave height, Brad is using wave amplitude, not crest-to-trough. Crest-to-trough for a 20-foot-high wave would be 40 feet.] As the storm passed the boat, the wind became southwesterly, gusting to 100 knots, and the swell direction changed, with the swells now 30 feet and sometimes running into the swells coming from the northwest. The problem with multiple swells is that they can start colliding and at some point if you’re in the wrong place, they’ll grab you and spit you out the top.”

At this point in our interview, in a courtyard near the swimming pool outside the hotel where I was staying in Charleston, South Carolina, Brad looked around and directed my attention to the hotel building behind us.

“When I was in a trough, the oncoming waves were as high as

that,” he said, pointing to the building. I looked—the wall of the building loomed over us. It was five stories high.

“That high?” I asked.

“Yes—probably 30 feet or so—equivalent to 60 feet crest-to-trough. The top of my mast was 75 feet above the deck, and the waves were as high or higher.³

“Anyway, once the wind clocked around to where it was blowing to the southwest, it was blowing against those northwesterly swells, causing the faces to get steeper. At this point I was down below, braced at my navigation table in the center of the boat. We were running on autopilot, bare poles, and Balance Bar was surfing those big swells at 12 knots due east toward Cape Horn. Suddenly the boat heeled over 90-plus degrees so the mast was parallel to the water, and the boat slid sideways down the face of the wave. I happened to look at the global positioning satellite instrument at that moment and saw that my direction of travel was now south and Balance Bar was making 15 knots sliding down the swell on the boat’s side.

“I said to myself, ‘Come on baby, come on,’ and moments later Balance Bar righted herself and the mad dash continued. Something was banging around on deck—the spinnaker pole had broken lose. At this point I decided I’d better go topside and see what things looked like. On deck, with foul weather gear, goggles, safety line, freezing water, snow, and hail—you couldn’t see without goggles to protect your eyes, the wind was blowing so hard—it was an amazing sight. I fixed the spinnaker pole and then spent about an hour on deck watching—I was mesmerized by the seas—I’d never seen anything like them before.

“On most waves, the boat would ride up and the swell would pass under the boat and break later. Every now and then a larger one would come, maybe 40 to 50 feet, with the classic ‘graybeard appearance.’ The top 3 to 6 feet would be foamy streaming grayish water, churned and blown off by the wind. Below this was the dangerous stuff, a wall of water that could break the boat or crush you. As I watched, I could see the surface layer of this wall of water sort of break loose and slide down the face with a glistening, white rippling effect, resembling water sliding down a water slide in an amusement park ride. Finally one of these waves broke on the boat and we began the down-wave slide again, me

hanging on for my life as tons of water poured over me and over the boat—holding my breath as long as I could until finally the water ran off and the boat righted. At that point I decided I’d better get back down below.

“I got into my ‘coffin bunk,’ so-called because it was made so I could squeeze into it and not get tossed around when the boat’s movements got pretty wild. Things were fine for a while and then all of a sudden it got dark and very quiet, and I found myself on the over-head—the roof of the boat. There was a plastic bubble above my navigation station where I could look out and see how we were doing. Looking into this, all I could see was very deep blue water. I realized that the boat had broached; I was upside down in the Southern Ocean. It was an eerie feeling. At one moment there was the howling of the wind, the rattling and banging sounds of water hitting the deck, wind whistling through the rig—then suddenly, silence. Being upside down made for quiet running. The light was surreal—no more white light from the sky, but diffuse blue light—daylight being filtered through the ocean, then coming in the windows that were underwater.

“My first thought was, ‘Well, this is it. I’m going to die.’ Then I got angry—angry at the sea, angry at myself for putting myself in the position, mad about a lot of stuff. About then another wave hit the keel, gave Balance Bar a nudge, and we rolled around and came upright. After a few moments to calm and steady myself, I went topside to survey the damage. Amazingly, the rig and mainsail were still there—no major losses. There were some minor things, but I could fix them. Later I found out that the mast stays and standing rigging were badly stretched and I no longer had a nice tight rig.

“I had four or five more knockdowns, but didn’t roll again, and managed to clear Cape Horn and get into Punta del Este, a scheduled four-week stopover, where Meaghan and my support team were waiting for me. We had some discussions about whether it was worth it—whether I should continue or not. Meaghan and I had previously agreed that if either of us decided it was time to quit, I would quit. But we decided that, having come this far, I would continue for the last leg back to Charleston. Besides, wasn’t the worst of it behind me? Hadn’t I made it around the Cape?

“I should have replaced the rig, but without money the best I could do was tighten everything up—retune it—and hope for the best. With this I left Punta del Este for the last leg home. Leaving the Rio Plata, near the Uruguay-Brazil border, I stayed inshore. There is a continental shelf there. This was a mistake—I should have immediately headed for deeper water. As it was, I got into some really rough water—waves that were only 6 to 8 feet high, but they had short wavelengths and really tossed the boat around, raising it and then dropping it with a crash. The strain was too much for my beat-up rig and the mast broke in three places. At that point I was really demoralized and ready to call it quits, but when I called Meaghan on my satellite phone she and the crew urged me not to quit.

“I jury-rigged my spinnaker pole as a mast and got up two sails—my storm jib and another—and limped back into Punta del Este. It took me two days to get back and then seven days for repairs. Thanks to Meaghan’s efforts and the help of many other people, Balance Bar got fitted with a new mast and I restarted the race, 1,000 nautical miles behind the other competitors. With good luck and hard sailing, I managed to catch up with the fleet and finished third, only a couple of weeks behind the leaders.

“So, here’s a lesson for your book; waves don’t have to be big to be mean.”

There is a sequel to this story. Van Liew competed again, in the 2002-2003 race, this time in a boat called Freedom America. He not only won the race in his class but completed an unprecedented sweep of all five legs. I asked Brad how this race compared to his first attempt.

“On the second race, the southern oceans were not the toughest part of the race,” he said. “I went from one low to the next. The lows march from west to east across the Southern Ocean, moving at about 30 knots. I tried to keep on the north side of the low, where I consistently had 15- to 20-foot waves and 25- to 40-knot winds. These waves were 200 to 300 yards apart (about 15 to 20 boat lengths), so I’d ride up on one and then I could see the last one out there ahead of me. I like to stay on a beam reach to a broad reach. I found that I could slalom through those swells. I was able to maintain a fast speed—averaged around 9.5 knots over the entire 7,800 miles sailed between New

Zealand and Salvador Brazil. When the wind gets above 40 knots, the waves start to heap up and you can’t go as fast.

“I found the Indian Ocean to be the most dangerous. Leaving the Cape of Good Hope, you encounter the Agulhas Current. In a previous race, two boats rolled in the area. One—I think it was a modified Swan 44—pitchpoled two times. You want to get past the Cape and into deeper water. However, heading east towards New Zealand, you first pass the Crozet Islands and then the Kerguelen Islands. These lie in shallow waters and you can have some horrendous seas building there.”

After 148 days at sea alone, Brad triumphantly sailed into Newport, Rhode Island, and into sailing history. He had arrived a full three weeks ahead of his nearest competitor.

On the west coast of Alaska, south of Valdez, destination of oil tankers, is a mountain called Mount Fairweather. Not far from it is a beautiful, secluded bay called Lituya; more about that later. This is the area swept by the Alaska Current as it curls northwest from Vancouver and then streams west along the Aleutian Island chain. It is an area of unsurpassed fishing grounds, prolific in its production of salmon and other species. It is also unsurpassed in the spawning of storms characterized by high winds and giant waves. It became the site of an incredible rescue in horrendous seas.

Fishing is a dangerous occupation—certainly in these waters, far more dangerous than coal mining or almost any other hazardous employment. At the same time, the area between Sitka and Anchorage is one of spectacular natural beauty—sharply rising mountain ranges, crystalline blue water beneath the edges of glaciers, bald eagles perched in treetops overlooking isolated coves. During the summer months, you would be hard-pressed to find any area of the world more beautiful, and during the winter months, any place with deadlier weather. Dense, cold air created near the tops of the high mountains along the coast settles down long valleys toward the sea, creating sudden, unpredictable, tumultuous winds—williwaws—that blast out into the ocean. Storms blow in from the Bering Sea or arise in the Gulf of Alaska,

creating a nightmare for boats large and small. Storm winds frequently reach Beaufort Force 12 at 80 to 110 knots and, blowing over a long fetch of up to 430 nautical miles, can produce 80- to 100-foot-high waves.

Salmon trollers and others who make their livelihood from the sea depend on the United States Coast Guard as their ultimate lifeline in times of disaster. For this area, the Coast Guard operates from a base in Sitka and has a main support center in Kodiak. Here, one of the most amazing air-sea rescues of all times took place in January 1998. Late in the season, the fishing vessel La Conte went out to Fairweather Ground. In this location, about 60 nautical miles from Cape Fairweather, the bottom rises up to within 13 fathoms of the surface and there is excellent fishing for red snapper and other bottom fish, although January is a dicey time to venture out to Fairweather Ground.

The La Conte, with a crew of five, got caught in a horrific storm and started sinking. Spike Walker, a writer, and a man who has fished in these same waters, interviewed the surviving crew members and the Coast Guard personnel who rescued them, and wrote a riveting account of what happened to them in his book Coming Back Alive.⁴ Just before La Conte was finally pushed under by a huge wave, the crew was able to get into their insulated survival suits and grab the emergency position indication radio beacon (EPIRB). Tying themselves together with a length of line, they jumped into the frigid water. Their only thread of hope for survival was the EPIRB. Fortunately, they had the newer type that broadcasts on 406 megahertz.

Dreams is equipped with a similar instrument, but other than periodically testing it to make sure it is functional and the batteries are still good (they are supposed to have a five-year life), I have never had to use it. It will activate automatically if placed in water or can be turned on by a manual switch. Each EPIRB has a unique identification number that is registered with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. This provides information about the vessel: size, color, radios on board, and other information essential to a rescue operation. Once the EPIRB is activated, it sends a 406-megahertz signal to one of several overhead satellites (the COSPAS-SARSAT network). The signal enables the satellite to determine the latitude and longitude of the

EPIRB and to alert the nearest Rescue Coordination Center. The EPIRB also transmits a homing signal on 121.5 megahertz so that as a rescue vessel or aircraft gets close, it can home in on the exact location. A high-intensity xenon strobe light flashes to make visual identification possible at night. The battery is designed to last 48 hours.

Within minutes, notification that an EPIRB had been activated at Fairweather Ground reached the U.S. Coast Guard base at Sitka. A Coast Guard helicopter was dispatched to the area, which was about 110 nautical miles northwest of Sitka. Miraculously, the helicopter found the tiny dot of flashing light in mountainous seas—and the four men tied together. (The fifth man had been pulled out of the rope by a large wave and disappeared from sight, presumed drowned.) The pilot tried to maneuver the helicopter into position above the men, fighting 70-knot headwinds with gusts that were even higher. Time and time again as he descended to 100 feet above the sea to deploy a lifting basket, he had to pull up when a huge wave threatened to knock the helicopter out of the sky. When he pulled up, the fierce winds blew the helicopter backwards, sometimes as much as one-half mile, and he had to fight his way back and relocate the crew. Once, flying at an altitude of 100 feet, as the pilot concentrated on maneuvering the helicopter, a crewman suddenly screamed, “Up, up.” As he looked out the door in preparation for lowering the lifting basket, he looked up and saw a rogue wave higher than the helicopter about to break on them. With engines straining at maximum power and skillful flying, they escaped by the narrowest of margins. Back and forth the battle with wind and waves went, until the helicopter reached the point of no return on fuel and had to return to Sitka. Below, the men in the sea struggled to keep their hopes up, to keep together, and to fight their way back to the surface after each 70-foot-high wave buried them under tons of water.

A second helicopter was dispatched from Sitka, but the results were the same. Despite numerous heroic efforts, it could not maneuver the rescue basket close enough to the men in the water to retrieve them. A third helicopter was dispatched. By now, the men had been in the frigid waters for hours, constantly battered by waves 70 to 90 feet high, and were slowly losing what little strength they possessed to assist in their own rescue. Finally, after nearly seven hours in the water, the third

helicopter managed to place the rescue basket about 30 feet from the stranded fishermen. One man cut himself loose, grabbed a second man, and swam to the basket. He managed to get in, but the second man hung half in, half out, and as the helicopter crew frantically tried to raise the basket, it was slammed several times by giant waves. Finally up, the crew succeeded in getting one man into the helicopter, but at the last minute the second man lost his grip and fell to his death. Again the basket went down, again two crewmen got in, but at that moment a huge wave crashed on the basket and knocked the second man out. Now the third helicopter was running low on fuel, but the crew elected to try a couple of times more and miraculously got the basket close enough to the third survivor that he half swam, half floated into it and was saved. Later, the fourth crewman was recovered by yet another Coast Guard helicopter, this time sending a diver into the waters to recover the body.

The helicopter crew members who rescued the La Conte survivors were awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for their efforts. Sometime, long ago, in the midst of launching a small rescue boat in heavy seas at Cape Hatteras, a Coast Guard sailor looked at the conditions and lamented, “We may make it out, but we’ll never make it back,” or words to that effect. The man in charge replied, “The regulations say we’ve got to go out, but they don’t anything about having to come back.” The phrase “You have to go out, but you don’t have to come back” has become a watchword for U.S. Coast Guard response to marine emergencies.⁵ Anyone who spends time on the water has only the greatest respect for those who risk their lives daily so that others might live.

A squall line sometimes can be observed in advance of an approaching front, but more often than not, there is no front nearby. A squall line over the ocean at higher latitudes may be due to the outflow of cold air pushing ahead and causing a boundary. It can range from 20 to 1,000 miles in length. A squall is created when there is a flow of moist air in front of the advancing cold air. The denser cold air causes the warm moist air to rise. As the system approaches, sometimes moving swiftly,

there will be a sudden onset of higher winds and precipitation. As it comes nearer and passes overhead, you can see a dark black cumulus cloud mass. Wind and rain are intense but usually brief. Squall lines can be accompanied by thunderstorms.

Squalls have been life savers to persons stranded at sea without water. My favorite story of survival at sea concerns three young navy fliers who had to ditch their carrier-based scout bomber in the South Pacific in the early days of the Second World War. Their story impressed me more than most of the other great survival epics (Captains Bligh and Shackleton, for example) because in the other cases they were experienced mariners, with seaworthy boats, food, water, and navigation instruments, while the navy crew had no experience, no equipment to speak of, and only their sheer determination to survive.

Barely in their twenties, two were from the midwestern United States and had no special knowledge of oceans other than the introduction they got in basic training. The pilot, however, lived near San Diego and had grown up near the sea. The three of them were thrown together as a crew for this particular flight; they did not even know each other well. Of the three, only Harold Dixon, the pilot, knew how to swim. Yet with ingenuity, great courage, and resolution, Dixon guided their small 8-foot-long rubber raft for more than 900 nautical miles and 34 days to a successful landing on a small inhabited South Pacific island, where they were eventually rescued. To accomplish this, they had a 0.45-caliber automatic pistol and three clips of ammunition, a pair of pliers, a pocketknife, a whistle, a small mirror, a fabric bailing bucket, a manila lifeline, two life jackets, a pencil, and the clothes they were wearing. Dixon used the pencil and one life jacket to construct a chart of the area from memory and, from the last known position of the plane before it crashed, determined a course to the nearest island. He improvised a sea anchor with the line and the other life jacket, improvised paddles from a pair of shoes, kept a course by dead reckoning, and, without oars or a sail, “sailed” the life raft to a safe landing. By the time they landed, they had lost all of their equipment in rough seas during the numerous times the raft swamped and overturned, as well as all of their clothes. The only thing that remained was the whistle.

They survived by catching rainwater from squalls, spearing fish with the pocketknife (including one good-sized shark), and catching or shooting birds (before the pistol became too rusted to use). A few floating coconuts made up the rest of their food supply. When a squall approached, they removed their clothing and used it to soak up water, which they first drank, storing any extra in the bailing bucket.

Once ashore, friendly natives fed them and restored them to health. For the first week on land, they were unable to walk. Shortly after landing on the island, the barometer started falling and winds built to gale force, and then became a full-blown hurricane that lasted three days. Great damage was done to the island: About one-third of the trees were blown down, and taro and other crops on low-lying sections of land were wiped out as great waves washed inland and over parts of the island. No one wants to imagine what would have happened had they still been in their tiny raft when the storm struck.

Dixon subsequently received the Navy Cross for “extraordinary heroism, exceptional determination, resourcefulness, skilled seamanship, excellent judgment, and highest quality of leadership.”⁶

The North Atlantic Ocean has historically been noted for horrible winter storms. Even the biggest ships in the U.S. Navy are not immune to the effects of large waves. One of the first supercarriers, the USS Forrestal (CVA-59), 1,076 feet long, saw its share of rough weather during 21 deployments between 1954 and 1993. My good friend Ray Holdsworth was a young lieutenant (junior grade) on the Forrestal from 1965 to 1967.

Ray described to me the winter of 1965-1966, when the carrier returned from a Mediterranean cruise to Norfolk, Virginia. The Forrestal passed Gibraltar on its way into the North Atlantic. A few hundred miles south of Newfoundland, a large storm arrived, bearing down on the carrier from the northeast. The storm lasted for one and one-half days and left in its wake enormous swells—too much for even the mighty carrier to take head-on. The Forrestal altered its heading to take the swells at 15 degrees and slowed to 8 knots. Even then, green

water flowed over the bow and onto the flight deck 60 feet above the waterline.

Normally, rough weather had little impact on the carrier. It was the destroyers and other escort vessels that suffered. During really rough seas, serving meals was impossible on the smaller vessels and the crew made do with snacks or whatever they could grab as their vessels pitched and rolled. The carrier would alter course at the dinner hour so the escorts could prepare and serve an evening meal. This was known as a “dinner course.”

In June 1967, the Forrestal was deployed to Vietnam. Shortly before 11:00 A.M. on July 29, 1967, as Forrestal was preparing to launch planes in the Gulf of Tonkin, a fire broke out on the flight deck. Planes blazed out of control, and bombs and ordnance exploded. Ray was climbing a ladder leading to the bridge at the time; the blast literally knocked him off the ladder. When the fires were finally put out, more than 130 crewmen were dead and hundreds injured in the worst naval disaster since World War II.

After making emergency repairs, the Forrestal limped into the big naval base at Subic Bay, Philippines, for additional tests and repairs. From Subic Bay she steamed west through the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra. Crossing the Indian Ocean, her route took her past Madagascar, where she rendezvoused with a British tanker, and then around the Cape of Good Hope and back to Norfolk and dry dock at the Portsmouth naval shipyard for repairs.

The Forrestal traveled alone—the other ships could not be spared and remained behind in Vietnamese waters. All her aircraft were removed (those that had not been destroyed), since flight deck damage precluded launching and recovering aircraft. So, unarmed, unable to defend herself, unescorted, with major holes in the flight deck (some 20 feet in diameter), the Forrestal passed through the Agulhas Current, rounded the Cape, and entered the South Atlantic. Fortunately the Agulhas Current remained calm, the weather was benign, and no more problems were encountered. Ray remembers it as a long trip of 34 days; the maximum speed the Forrestal was capable of at that time was 12 knots, and the loss of so many crewmates had saddened the entire crew.

If any vessel is impervious to heavy weather, you’d think it would

be a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier. I asked Rear Admiral Bill Cross, a U.S. Naval Academy graduate who commanded the nuclear aircraft carrier Dwight D. Eisenhower from 1990 to 1993 about carriers and heavy weather. The Eisenhower is 1,092 feet long and carries a wing of 70 aircraft. The flight deck is composed of steel plates 1.5 inches thick. The crew totals approximately 5,800 persons, of whom 3,000 operate the carrier and 2,800 operate and maintain aircraft.

In the summer of 1991, the Eisenhower was back in the Persian Gulf following the first Gulf War. One of Admiral Cross’s vivid memories of that time was the Kuwait oil well fires. With more than 500 oil wells burning, smoke rose high in the sky, where the prevailing winds spread it out in a huge black layer. At night the flames from all of the burning wells lit up the night sky, turning the underside of the immense black cloud orange and red, visible even to the carrier far out in the Gulf, and making the demanding task of flying from a carrier at night even more difficult.

The Eisenhower next was deployed to the North Atlantic to take part in a North Atlantic Treaty Organization exercise in March 1992. The exercises were planned to take place off of Norway. Word came of a large storm coming up through the North Atlantic. As the storm approached, the air pressure dropped to 920 millibars and winds were 70 knots. All night, as the carrier raced north at 34 knots, the seas on the port quarter imparted a rolling motion to the carrier. Waves were typically 40 feet, although some were 60-plus feet because they broke over the bow of the carrier and washed over the flight deck. The carrier was rolling at about 6 to 8 degrees. This was hazardous because there were approximately 50 aircraft chained down on the deck. The cyclic stress of the rolling motion tends to loosen the chains: too loose, and a $40 million aircraft would roll over the side. Crewmen had to venture out onto wet, icy decks, in the face of intense winds, to check and periodically tighten the chains. Whaleboats—secured on the side of the vessel, high up in sheltered mounts—were stripped away and lost by the force of the storm. Further inspection of the vessel showed that the hurricane bow (steel plates at the bow of the vessel below the flight deck) had been bent inward by the force of the waves. Temporary repairs were made by welding steel I-beams to the deck inside to brace and

reinforce this area of the ship. The storm finally abated as the Eisenhower reached the coast of Norway.

Weather conditions are key to understanding how extreme waves on the surface of the ocean form and propagate. The next several pages summarize some of the principal types of weather likely to be encountered at sea.

Thunderstorms occur when there are strong upward currents of warm air with considerable water vapor. The air rises to an altitude of a few miles to as much as 12 miles, forming the distinctive cumulonimbus cloud rising to an “anvil” top. The anvil appearance is caused by the high-velocity winds in the upper atmosphere blowing the tops away from the updraft. The rising air reaches an altitude at which the temperature is well below freezing, causing small particles of ice to form. In the center of this turbulent region of swirling air and abrupt temperature, electrons are stripped from some atoms and are swept to other parts of the cloud, leaving some portions negatively charged and other parts positively charged. When the potential difference has built to a high enough value to break down the resistance of the air, a lightning flash occurs. Thunder is the sound of lightning; the rapid passage through the air of the lightning flash’s huge electrical current heats air to a high temperature and creates a shock wave we know as thunder.

Waterspouts are caused by a strong updraft over a large body of water. They are more likely to occur in tropical latitudes where the water temperature is at least 27 degrees Celsius (80 degrees Fahrenheit) than in higher latitudes. Lower atmospheric pressure within the center of the rotating column of air sucks water from the surface of the sea and also condenses water vapor in the swirling air. A waterspout is similar to a tornado but occurs over water and can be as high as 1,500 feet and last as long as half an hour. Waterspouts occur occasionally in the Pacific near Southern California as well. One or two per year are observed here, usually close to land. While they can be damaging to small craft, it is usually possible to avoid them. However, in December 1969, a waterspout struck the Huntington Beach, California, pier, destroying the head of the pier, injuring 17 people, and killing three.⁷

Large storms also arise in the middle and high latitudes where the ocean water is cooler than 25 degrees Celsius (77 degrees Fahrenheit). Warm air flows mainly horizontally toward the low, and there is a lesser but important component that is rising near and within the low. Cold air also flows mainly horizontally toward the low and tends to sink along the way. The occluded front, when there is one, is the boundary between the patterns. At the ocean surface, there are clear boundaries between the air masses along the cold, warm, and occluded fronts, while aloft there are not many sharp differences. Such storms are caused by cold polar air. The denser cold air overtakes the warm front of the depression, creating an occluded front where the warm air is forced upwards by colder air (occluded means “blocked”). Sometimes these occlusions fade away, but at other times they grow into huge rotating storm systems, as great as 3,000 miles in diameter. Extratropical storms differ from hurricanes; there is no warm, clear eye. Also—and most important—is that they have a large area with fairly similar, widespread, strong winds and waves. The storm moves in an easterly direction, traveling at a little more than 90 degrees to the occluded front, which is the boundary between the warm sector and the cold region. An abrupt wind shift often marks the passage of the occlusion, resulting in steep, confused seas.

The barometric pressure drops associated with extratropical storms are not as great as those of hurricanes, and the maximum winds are often less powerful than those of major hurricanes. The great danger from extratropical storms arises from the fact that they can extend over a much broader area and can last for several days. With longer duration and greater fetch, they can produce very large waves and dangerous seas. The resulting swell can travel extraordinary distances, as noted in Chapter 5. A rapid fall of the barometer is a sure sign of an intense storm; however a steady barometer is not a guarantee of good weather. Many a storm has seemingly “come out of nowhere” with no barometric warning.

A more serious storm is a tropical cyclone. These are storms with winds that rotate around a low-pressure area as described above but require warm water (26 degrees Celsius, 79 degrees Fahrenheit) as one of the driving forces. In their most violent form—when their winds exceed 64 knots—they are called hurricanes in the Atlantic and East Pacific and typhoons in the Northwest Pacific. These names have an interesting etymology. Hurricane is derived from Hurican, the Carib god of evil, and was probably conveyed to Columbus or one of the later Spanish navigators who followed him. Hurican may himself be patterned after the Mayan god Hurakan, who was believed to have taken part in the creation and whose breath created storms and floods. Typhoon probably came from the Chinese tai fung, meaning big wind, or possibly from the Greek tuphōn, after the Greek god Typhon, a mythological monster with many heads believed to be the source of whirlwinds and hurricanes.

However, to be classed as a hurricane, a tropical cyclone must also have an eye, an eyewall, and outer feeder bands that spiral into the center. In the higher latitudes, these features are mostly absent. In a North Atlantic or North Pacific cyclone, there may be a clear center, but it is diffuse and broad, not tight like a tropical hurricane. The difference is usually obvious from satellite and radar imagery.

Tropical cyclones always begin as tropical depressions, a name given to storms in which the winds are flowing in a circle around the low-pressure zone but have speeds less than 33 knots. The name derives from the characteristic low barometric pressure at the center of the storm, which is “depressed” compared to the general area around it on the weather map. Sometimes a tropical depression remains just that; it moves into an area where conditions above it and around it cause it to weaken.

Alternatively, a tropical depression can gather energy and grow. Meteorologists have identified some of the conditions necessary for a tropical depression to become a storm. The first requirement is warm water—at least 26 degrees Celsius (79 degrees Fahrenheit)—covering several hundred square miles of ocean or more. This pool of warm

water needs to be at least 200 feet deep, otherwise the turbulence from an expanding storm could stir the water enough to bring up colder water and shut down the process. When conditions are right, warm, moist air flows into the tropical storm near the surface, following a spiral path inward. It speeds up as it approaches the center. As it rises, the air cools, some of the water vapor condenses into small drops of water or ice crystals, forming clouds and rain and releasing heat. This is a critical feature of a tropical storm, the reason it is sometimes called a heat engine. At the upper part of the storm (say, above 20,000 feet) the air spirals outward. The rising warm air creates a low-pressure area that causes still more air to flow inward. As the process expands, the wind near the sea’s surface strips water droplets and spray, increasing the humidity in the column of rising warm air and adding more heat energy to the process. Finally, if the winds in the vicinity of the growing storm are light or maintain the same direction and speed to an elevation of around 40,000 feet, the nascent storm will continue to grow, its winds accelerating until it becomes a tropical storm with wind speeds in the range of 34 to 63 knots. When the sustained winds reach or exceed 64 knots, the storm is called a hurricane or a typhoon. At this point it is moving in a generally westerly direction at 5 to 15 knots. It is characterized by a central region called an eye that is 6 to 38 miles in diameter and is surrounded by an eyewall; within the center there is little wind or rain. The air in the eye is warmer than the surroundings. In comparison to squalls and thunderstorms, tropical cyclones cover a wide area, have sustained movement along westerly-northwesterly tracks (usually), and can last for several days to a week or more.⁸

The passage of a hurricane has an interesting effect on the sea. After it passes, the surface seawater temperature drops by as much as 1 degree Celsius close to the center of the storm. In the first few days following a hurricane, the sea temperature along the hurricane’s track may be as much as 3 to 5 degrees Celsius (6 to 9 degrees Fahrenheit) cooler.

Tropical storms can develop rapidly and move quickly, one of the reasons they were so dangerous to shipping from the time of Columbus up until the early twentieth century. Prior to the advent of satellites, radar, single sideband radio, and sophisticated weather forecasts,

the mariner had to rely on his observations of the sea and sky. Gathering clouds, a change in swell direction, a falling barometer—these were potential warning signs. Knowing that a storm was coming was no guarantee of safety, because ship captains never knew for sure what direction the storm would take. Their ships were almost always too slow to outrun a storm, so unless there was a safe port nearby, they had no choice but to secure their vessels as best they could, shorten sail, and ride it out. Even today, with the latest weather and storm forecasting computer models, there is no guarantee that a given storm will behave as predicted.

Tropical storms originate in specific areas of the oceans where sea and wind conditions are suitable. They also generally occur at specific times of the year. For example, in the North Atlantic and the Caribbean—from Venezuela on the south to the East Coast of the United States and Central America on the west, Newfoundland on the north, and eastward to Africa—they occur from June 1 to November 30 and peak from August to October. The specific times for other major ocean basins are available in the literature.

The frequency of storms varies with location and from year to year. The western North Pacific is the most prolific source of tropical cyclones, averaging about 25 per year, approximately 18 of which become typhoons. Long-term records show that the frequency of hurricanes increases in some years and decreases in others, generally on a scale of decades. For example, 1991 to 1994 were “quiet years” in the North Atlantic and Caribbean, while post-1995 has seen an increase in activity. In Australia a downward trend has been observed, while in the Northwest Pacific the trend has been up. Likewise, the trend has been upward in the Northeast Pacific but downward in the North Indian Ocean. The reason for these changes is not understood, but is thought to be the result of shifts in ocean water temperature, the wind patterns in the upper atmosphere, and, in the case of the North Atlantic, the number and type of storms coming off Africa.

The paragraphs above should be considered with a caveat: Major storms can occur during any month in the hurricane season and sometimes (rarely) in other months. They also can sometimes originate, or travel, outside their usual boundaries. However, no hurricanes arise

within 5 degrees north or south of the equator and a storm within 10 degrees is rare.⁹

The area of Southern California (latitude 33 degrees north) in which I live lies north of the main hurricane grounds of the Northeastern Pacific. Two popular cruising destinations from Southern California are the Hawaiian Islands or Baja California and the Sea of Cortez, Mexico. These trips need to be planned with hurricane avoidance in mind; for this reason, the annual Newport to Ensenada race takes place in April; the TransPacific Race, Los Angeles to Honolulu, in July. On the East Coast, the Charleston to Bermuda Race takes place in May.

Normally, hurricanes that are spawned in Mexican waters track out into the Pacific toward Hawaii and then dissipate—but not always. They can curve back and cross over Mexico or Southern California, eventually blowing themselves out over the California and Arizona deserts.

In the year 2000, to celebrate the new millennium, I planned to sail to Guadalupe Island (Mexico), a barren, windswept island 150 nautical miles west of the Baja California coast and 300 nautical miles south of Newport Harbor, California. I scheduled the trip near the end of October, hopefully past the storm season. The weather had not been great, but it finally cleared, and with two crew members—Russ Spencer and Erik Oistad—I got under way on a Friday night at 2130 hours (9:30 P.M.). It was a clear, moonless night, and it was a wonderful feeling to finally see the coast slip away behind us after days of preparation. Dreams sailed all night, finally reaching San Clemente Island at 8:00 A.M. We spent the next two days diving, relaxing, playing poker, and doing last-minute boat checks. Before jumping off for Guadalupe (a straight run to the south of several days and nights, depending on the winds), we made a final check on the weather, using National Weather Service weather faxes obtained over the single side-band radio. (See example in Chapter 3.)

Alas, the weather reports were not good.

The outlook had changed suddenly as we relaxed at anchor in Pyramid Cove. Cold weather and rain headed our way from Alaska, and there was a small-craft advisory of winds at 25 to 30 knots and seas of 10 to 18 feet. In the other direction, a tropical depression was com-

ing up from Mexico; the seas around Guadalupe Island were forecast at 29 feet.

We decided to backtrack to Catalina Island and wait out the storms in Catalina Harbor, a run of about 40 nautical miles north, in the direction of the coming storm. When we left San Clemente Island at 9:00 A.M. it was a bright sunny morning; by noon the sun was gone and it was cloudy and overcast. By 2:00 P.M. we were in foul weather gear, it was pouring rain, and visibility was about 1 mile. By the time we reached the harbor at 5:00 P.M., rain was falling in sheets and visibility was down to a few hundred meters. We had to wait from Sunday to Tuesday for the weather to clear. Guadalupe was postponed until the next year, when we finally had perfect weather and a delightful trip to that island and three other island groups south of the border.

Normally, Southern California is spared the impact of tropical cyclones, but not always. I’ve sailed in or out of the Newport Harbor entrance at least 100 times, in the day and at night, in good weather and poor. There is a comforting feeling when returning at night from several weeks at sea or even from a weekend fishing trip, when the red and green lights marking the end of the two stone jetties that form the harbor entrance finally appear as faint dots on a dark horizon. At this point you know that the dock, home, and a bed that does not rock are not far away.

Not so in September 1939: It had been an unusually hot week—so hot that on Wednesday, September 17, schools were closed. By the weekend, people sought the beaches to get relief from the heat, and sailors took to their boats. Sunday, September 21, was cloudy and overcast. Shortly after noon the weather changed dramatically. In around 20 minutes, winds increased to 50 knots and soon were gusting to 65 knots. In the local area, such storms are often referred to by their Spanish name, chubasco—literally, storm, squall. When the storm hit, boats out sailing for the day struggled to get back into the shelter of the harbor. Huge waves slammed into the breakwaters at the entrance to the harbor, made even higher by collision with the outgoing tide. The storm impacted the coast as far north as Los Angeles Harbor, where towering waves lifted one sailboat over the breakwater and deposited it

inside the harbor, and others knocked out the windows on the first and second floors of the San Pedro lighthouse.

Amazingly, the storm was documented by a bold photographer, who stood on the jetty shown in Figure 17 (Chapter 8) and filmed it with a movie camera. The film was placed in storage and forgotten for 50 years, but it was recovered in 1992 and incorporated into a documentary by the Newport Harbor Nautical Museum, where on a given day it is possible to watch dramatic jerky, grainy images as tragedy unfolds.

Huge waves can be seen rolling into the harbor. Their height is unknown, but because sailboats and fishing boats that appear on the crest of one wave totally drop from sight into the trough of the succeeding wave, they must have been in the range of at least 15 to 30 feet high. One sailboat races by, driven at hull speed like a giant surfboard. Next a 34-foot-long cabin cruiser appears, hesitates on the crest of one wave, gets hit by another wave, and capsizes with nine people on board. Eight are rescued—by a pair of local youths who ride out on surfboards! The ninth person, a woman, drowns.

The captain of another sailboat, returning from Catalina, wisely decides that returning to the harbor is not a good idea and elects to run before the storm. His boat is blown all the way to the Channel Islands, a distance of nearly 100 nautical miles, and returns several days later after the storm has died down. A power boat, the Paragon, 140 feet long, is returning from Catalina Island with 24 passengers and a professional crew at 8:00 P.M. It is now dark and the storm is at its peak. The captain refused to take the boat into the harbor, considering it too dangerous to do so. The owner then took over the wheel and tried to run the gauntlet of waves; the vessel was hurled sideways, hitting the jetty, which punched a hole in the stern quarter. Fortunately, the Paragon slid free of the breakwater and before she sank the owner managed to run her aground on a sandy beach at the end of the channel. Crew and passengers all survived; the vessel was later salvaged and repaired.¹⁰

In the aftermath of the storm it was learned that 45 persons lost their lives—in addition to those who were passengers in boats—23 in the Newport area. This was sufficient for the storm to merit a listing in

the “Addendum” to the table of the “Thirty Deadliest Mainland United States Tropical Storms” that the National Hurricane Center maintains on its web site, which is reproduced later in this chapter as Table 3.

The strength of a hurricane is rated 1 to 5 on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale based on the hurricane’s intensity at the time of reporting. The scale is used to give an estimate of the potential property damage and flooding expected along the coast from a hurricane landfall. Wind speed is the determining factor in the scale, as storm surge values are highly dependent on the slope of the continental shelf in the landfall region.

For example, a Category One hurricane has winds at 64 to 82 knots (74 to 95 miles per hour), a storm surge generally 4 to 5 feet above normal, and a central pressure less than 980 millibars. No real damage to building structures is expected in a Category One hurricane; damage is primarily to unanchored mobile homes, shrubbery, and trees, with some damage to poorly constructed signs and some coastal road flooding and minor pier damage. Hurricanes Danny of 1997 and Gaston of 2004 were Category One hurricanes at peak intensity.

At the other end of the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale, a Category Five hurricane has winds greater than 135 knots (155 miles per hour), a storm surge generally greater than 18 feet above normal, and a central pressure less than 920 millibars. Complete roof failure on many residences and industrial buildings can be expected; some complete building failures with small utility buildings blown over or away; all shrubs, trees, and signs blown down; complete destruction of mobile homes; and severe and extensive window and door damage. Low-lying escape routes are cut by rising water three to five hours before arrival of the center of the hurricane. A Category Five causes major damage to lower floors of all structures located less than 15 feet above sea level and within 1,500 feet of the shoreline, and massive evacuation of residential areas on low ground within 5 to 10 miles of the shoreline may be required. Hurricane Mitch of 1998 was a Category Five hurricane at

peak intensity over the western Caribbean. Hurricane Andrew of 1992 was a Category Five hurricane at peak intensity and was one of the strongest tropical cyclones ever to hit Florida.

In the open ocean, the size of waves generated by a hurricane also depends on the force of the wind, the time that the wind has been blowing, and the condition of the sea (calm or stormy) prior to the arrival of the hurricane. However, hurricane-generated waves are different in one respect from ordinary wind waves—namely, the force producing the waves is moving in the same direction as the waves. For this reason the strength of hurricane-generated waves, especially in the long-period components, increases rapidly. Wind-generated waves do not always propagate in the direction of the wind.¹¹

Waves produced by a hurricane depend on several factors, including the sustained wind speed, the pressure in the eye, the forward velocity of the center of the hurricane, and the radius of maximum wind speed—that is, how large the hurricane is. It also depends on the sea state before the hurricane—whether it was flat and calm, or whether a previous storm had already created waves that the hurricane could augment. Wave heights are not uniform across a hurricane; those on the right-hand side (when the storm is moving away from the observer) will be larger than those on the left-hand side, because they receive an added boost from the forward motion of the storm. Waves will begin to build when the eye of the storm approaches to within 90 to 100 miles.

Once formed, hurricanes generally turn to the north in the northern hemisphere and to the south in the southern hemisphere. This is called recurving. The track of tropical cyclones is due to the influence of the deep-layer mean flow in the lower and upper atmosphere. In the North Atlantic, the storms move in response to the large-scale flow around the Azores-Bermuda High in the lower atmosphere and also respond to traveling upper-level disturbances. They initially move westward on the southern side of the high, tending away from the equator. On the western side of the high, a hurricane starts following a

northwesterly, then a northerly, track. Continuing to curve to the right, it eventually heads to the northeast. It is possible that at this point its speed will increase, which accounts for the usual path of hurricanes that originate in the Atlantic Ocean near the Cape Verde Islands, North Africa, and track into the Caribbean and the southern United States, as well as those that originate near southern Mexico and track into the Pacific Ocean toward Hawaii, moving around the Pacific High. In the southern hemisphere, after traveling west initially, hurricanes recurve to the southwest and then the southeast. There is no assurance that hurricanes will always follow these paths; there are many exceptions where they have plowed straight west or northwesterly, the Galveston storm in 1900 being an example. The direction of hurricanes is frequently altered by encountering high-altitude winds. Once they reach colder land or water, they lose water and energy and dissipate.

The life cycle of a hurricane as viewed from an endangered vessel at sea starts at the bridge, where the captain observes that the barometer has fallen several millibars in the last 20 hours. Weather reports indicate a tropical disturbance moving westward toward the vessel at 10 knots. Shipboard instruments show that the seawater temperature is 29 degrees Celsius (84 degrees Fahrenheit). The sudden drop in atmospheric pressure is significant; when combined with the sea temperature it indicates a tropical storm is possible. The captain contacts the National Hurricane Center by radio and receives the latest satellite photographs.¹²

The storm is now classified as a tropical depression. The satellite photos show the characteristic spiral pattern of clouds, extending out 100 nautical miles with a central pressure down to 990 millibars. Subsequent reports from the National Weather Service indicate maximum winds of 80 knots; the central pressure has dropped to 980 millibars.

The captain makes a sharp turn to the northeast, since his vessel is on the right side of the forward track of the storm. He observes that seas have built to 33 feet. He keeps the wind on his starboard bow and makes as much way as possible at 16 knots, hoping the storm does not

FIGURE 12 Wind-wave patterns from a hurricane.¹³

start recurving. His luck holds; the storm veers slightly to the southwest and he makes port the next day. (See Figure 12.)

By then the hurricane pressure has dropped to 940 millibars, hurricane force winds extend 50 nautical miles in all directions, and seas of up to 40 feet are reported. In two days, gales extend out 200 nautical miles and hurricane force winds out to 75 nautical miles. At this point, the storm has its widest impact; it is recurving north, reaching colder waters and cold air aloft; the winds slowly dissipate and after a few more days the storm dies.

Today, through the use of instrumented sea buoys, airplane flights into hurricanes, satellites, and improved modeling techniques, much more is known about hurricane-generated waves. Measurements typically use an elevation of 33 feet above sea level as a reference point. The data indicate that from this elevation up to, say, 300 feet, the wind speed increases gradually, leveling out at perhaps a 25 percent increase in value. From measurements on various hurricanes, it is known that wind gusts can be around 25 percent greater than the mean wind speed. Thus, at sustained hurricane wind speeds of 64 knots, gusts to 80 knots can be expected. The state of the sea can rise rapidly, even when the eye

of the hurricane is as far away as 80 nautical miles. Studies have also been made on correlating the significant wave height with hurricane-strength winds in the open sea. The results indicate that with the onset of hurricane-strength winds, the significant wave height will quickly grow to 26 feet with the potential of reaching 52 feet in a Category Five hurricane with winds of 135 knots. These values can be higher, depending on the sea state prior to the arrival of the hurricane.

There are few actual measured data on hurricane-generated waves in deep water where the sea conditions are violent and most vessels are occupied with remaining afloat and have no time for scientific observations. Now satellites and sensitive transducers on the ocean floor are beginning to provide more data. The available data indicate that hurricane-generated waves can reach extreme wave heights. When Hurricane Ivan approached the coast, it passed over an array of sensors placed on the ocean floor as part of a U.S. Navy research project. At one point waves up to 66 feet high were passing over the sensors every 10 seconds. Winds reached 108 knots. The largest detected wave was 91 feet high.¹⁴ As a hurricane approaches shore, the wave height increases dramatically in shallower water.

So, what are the deadliest hurricanes to have hit the United States? Table 3 lists those recorded during the 104 years from1900 to 2004.

Hurricane Katrina, which devastated the Gulf Coast region of the United States in August 2005, will be added to this list. It had a low of 902 millibars. The death toll had reached 1,250 and rising as this book was being prepared.

Much progress has been made in recent years in forecasting hurricane wind patterns. The basic model takes into consideration the forward velocity of the hurricane, the fact that the winds flow inward at some angle (typically around 25 degrees), the central pressure, and the radial distance of the maximum winds (the latter two items being measures of the intensity of the hurricane).¹⁵

These models yield results that are shown pictorially in Figure 12; the hurricane is moving west (toward the top of the page). This is a

northern hemisphere storm; winds are rotating counterclockwise (as viewed from above). The winds are highest on the right side of the figure. The waves produced by the storm are a complex combination of both swell and wind-generated seas. Due to the varying direction of the wind, the resulting wave patterns are highly irregular and difficult to model. Waves on the right-hand side of the storm propagate forward with the forward motion of the storm and reach greater heights than waves on the opposite side of the storm. This is because the left-side wind speed is less, the cyclonic winds being reduced by the forward motion of the storm. At the storm’s center, the winds are near zero.

A mental image of Figure 12 should be in the mind of every ship captain venturing into tropical waters during hurricane season. For the example cited above, the vessel is shown in the upper right-hand

corner of the illustration. A vessel on the upper left-hand side of the illustration would turn to the southwest to escape the storm.

Efforts have been made to make measurements during storms to gather data to validate weather forecasting mathematical models by comparing the model results to actual data. These types of analyses are called hindcasts since they represent an “after-the-fact” look at the storm. In other words, forecasters say, “Okay, we measured the wind, waves, and air pressure of a storm; let’s put the data in our model and see if the results compare with what actually happened. If not, then how do we improve the model?” As difficult and dangerous as it is to make measurements during major hurricanes, some data have been collected using instruments on offshore oil platforms, islands, and weather ships stationed in the oceans or by using buoys.

The sailing routes from South America to the Caribbean are littered with ancient wrecks of Spanish galleons—ships that sank under the force of giant waves caused by storms while bringing treasures from the New World back to Spain. Many of these vessels disappeared without a trace, leaving no survivors to tell the story. Now we know that given the type of sailing rig they employed, many were literally driven under the water when high winds and large waves arose suddenly before the crew was able to reduce sail. Today, thanks to radio communications and satellite phones, fewer maritime disasters go unreported.

In 1995, Hurricane Roxanne crossed into the Gulf of Mexico, where several hundred offshore oil field workers were on board a large barge that was anchored in place. When seas reaching 30-plus feet began impacting the barge, one by one the anchor cables failed and the barge was set adrift in mountainous seas. An oceangoing tug (normally used to position the huge barge) finally managed to pass a cable to the barge after repeated attempts so it could be taken under tow. The tug kept the barge headed into the violent seas so it would not broach. Before long, the cable parted and the barge continued to be battered by the sea. Massive pieces of equipment—some weighing many tons—broke loose and crashed across the deck like random battering rams. The barge took on water and began to break up, sinking lower and lower in the water. The tug and two other vessels that had risked all to come to its assistance were able to rescue more than 200 crew members

who went into the roiling waters as the barge sank. This was truly one of the most miraculous rescues ever made at sea.¹⁶

An important side effect of hurricanes is the rising sea level, called a storm surge, caused by the storm as it approaches shallower water. Although not normally a concern to vessels at sea, storm surge is a serious problem for harbors and coastal installations and can be dangerous to a vessel attempting to make port in a storm.

Storm surges arise as a result of the wind driving water toward the coast and piling it up due to interaction with the nearshore sea bottom and shoreline. Huge storm surges result when a hurricane approaches land with a concave bay and winds are flowing directly into it, especially when the underwater seabed rises rapidly just offshore. The Bay of Bengal has this scenario and is prone to huge storm surges from tropical cyclones that kill so many people.

The low-pressure area in the center of the hurricane adds to the surge height. If we consider that in the eye of the hurricane the pressure is, for example, 900 millibars (equivalent to 674 millimeters of mercury), and remember that mercury is 13.6 times as heavy as water, this pressure is equivalent to a column of water that is 9,166 millimeters, or 9.17 meters, high. Outside the storm, where the air pressure is higher, closer to 1,020 millibars (764 millimeters of mercury), the equivalent height of a column of water exerting the same pressure will be 10.39 meters. The difference between these two numbers (probably a worst case or very near so) is 4 feet (1.22 meters). The pressure effect is relatively minor when compared to the winds piling up water against the shore.

You can picture a hurricane conveying a large bulge of water in its low-pressure center, where the water level could be several feet higher than the surrounding ocean. The height is further increased by the force of the circular winds piling more water into the center of the hurricane. As the storm approaches shallow water near the shore, the storm-driven mass of water piles up even higher. Overall, the wind-driven effect is much more significant than the pressure effect. The

water can remain high until the hurricane winds eventually die down.¹⁷

Hurricanes with high flood waters caused by storm surge include Andrew (1992), Hugo (1989), and Camille (1969), which caused storm surges of 8 to 16.5 feet, and then most recently Katrina (August 29, 2005). This Category Four hurricane caused a storm surge of 26 feet, broke levees, and heavily damaged New Orleans and other Gulf Coast cities. When tropical storms or hurricanes impact low-lying coastal areas, casualties can be extremely high. In fact, it is estimated that 90 percent of the deaths from hurricanes are due to flooding damage and drowning.¹⁸

Nowhere is this effect more apparent than in the low-lying coastal areas along the Bay of Bengal. Tropical storms and hurricanes have caused a huge loss of life in this region during the past several centuries, for example:

• October 7, 1737, Bay of Bengal, cyclone combined with high tide of 40 feet—300,000 killed

• June 5-11, 1882, Bombay, India—100,000 die

• May 1833, Calcutta—50,000 killed

• October 5, 1844, Bay of Bengal, Calcutta—50,000 killed

• May 28, 1963, East Pakistan, water ran 2 miles inland and carried huge ocean liners 1 mile inland

In September 1900, another hurricane traversed the Gulf of Mexico and roared into the history books by wiping out the city of Galveston, Texas. The storm surge was responsible for much of the damage and most of the fatalities—estimated at 8,000. At its peak, sustained winds were 130 knots with gusts to 170 knots or higher. Waves as high as 40 feet crashed into the city, sweeping away entire houses and multistory buildings. Water 30 feet deep ran through the city streets. Under the tremendous force of the waves, piles of lumber and debris—even entire structures—were pushed inland like giant wrecking balls, destroying all in their path. One man reported narrowly avoiding being crushed by a grand piano hurled at him by a wave. An eyewitness survivor, Dr. Samuel Young, described how the waves en-

tered the second floor of his home, seven blocks from the oceanfront, at a level 30 feet above the street. Moments later the house shuddered and floated free. Dr. Young escaped by using a door as a raft; the rampaging waves carried him clear across the city, twirled him in a whirlpool, and finally wedged the door and him, bruised and bleeding, against a pile of debris.¹⁹

Today the prudent mariner has a variety of tools—including satellite weather photos and marine weather forecasts—that help avoid sailing into the hazards of storms and massive waves. However, for a vessel already at sea, the options are reduced to steering a course away from a storm or riding it out. To elude the effects of a distant storm, it is necessary to anticipate the likely track of the storm and, most importantly, to know how waves will propagate away from the storm. This is neither an easy nor a pleasant task.

National weather services use several models for predicting the track and intensity of hurricanes. Track forecasts are the latitude and longitude of the storm center, while intensity refers to the maximum sustained surface wind. Forecasts are typically issued for 12, 24, 36, 48, and 72 hours. Two main types of mathematical models are used: one type predicts the storm track; the second type is used to predict its intensity.²⁰

Of more interest for our purposes is the accuracy of such models. As might be expected, their accuracy is best in the short-term forecasts and deteriorates for the longer forecast periods. For estimating hurricane tracks, the errors are around 50 nautical miles at 12 hours (with a range of error from 40 to 60 nautical miles, depending on the model). At 24 hours, the average error is around 85 nautical miles, but can be as great as 200 nautical miles in the 72-hour forecast.

Regarding intensity, wind speed errors have recently averaged around 9 knots at 24 hours, 15 knots at 48 hours, and as much as 19 knots at 72 hours. For both intensity and tracks, there are slight differences in the accuracy of the models depending on whether the Atlantic, Pacific, or Indian Ocean is involved. The accuracy of forecasts has

improved over the last several decades, but there is still much to be learned about the inner workings of hurricanes.

How accurate are the predictive models in use today? Better than before, but definitely not infallible. Wind is the ultimate determinant of the size and direction of waves. While the ability to predict wind patterns has improved immensely with the advent of satellites, better mathematical models, and radar, it is still far from perfect. Local winds can vary widely from those predicted for large areas. Ultimately, it is the responsibility of the captain to use his experience and judgment to safeguard his vessel and crew.

When the wind speed is already 80 to 90 knots, an error of 10 to 20 percent is not terribly significant; it implies that the resulting waves will be merely terrifying rather than horrendous. However, an error in storm position of 100 to 200 nautical miles could make a huge difference in the strategy of a ship captain desperately trying to avoid an oncoming storm, as was the case of the captain of the Fantome.

In October 1998, Hurricane Mitch developed from a tropical storm into one of the largest (Category Five) hurricanes in recent times. Day after day, as the hurricane approached Central America, aircraft from the Weather Reconnaissance Squadron of the U.S. Air Force Reserve Command flew into the eye of the storm and collected data that were relayed to the National Hurricane Center in Florida. These data, plus radar and satellite data, were fed into the center’s sophisticated forecasting computers to predict the path of the hurricane and its eventual landfall. But modern weather forecasts are not infallible.

At this time, the sailing vessel Fantome—flagship of the Windjammer fleet, a cruise line that employed tall ships—was taking on 90-some passengers for a two-week cruise. Since the first predictions indicated that the hurricane was headed due west toward Fantome’s base in Honduras, Fantome sailed north to Belize City to discharge the passengers at a safe location and to secure the $20 million vessel. Once the passengers were off the vessel, the weather forecasts showed the hurricane turning north toward Belize and the Yucatan Peninsula. The

captain and owners of Fantome then made the decision to sail the boat south to escape the hurricane. The weather fax onboard Fantome was inoperative. Had the captain been able to see the satellite image of the storm bearing down on him, his decisions probably would have been different. As Fantome left Belize, the hurricane made an abrupt turn south, almost as if it intended to intercept Fantome. The ship turned east, seeking shelter in the lee of the Bay Islands, a group situated in the Gulf of Honduras. Perversely, the hurricane now turned west, aiming directly for Fantome, no longer with options for escape.²¹

Up until the moment that Fantome foundered and sank with the loss of all 31 crew members on board, the captain was in contact by satellite phone with Windjammer headquarters in Miami. The captain reported that the vessel was taking a terrible beating, rolling and slamming into mountainous seas, waves 30 to 35 feet high breaking over the stern, unable to turn the boat, barely able to keep driving it straight east into confused seas. At this point Fantome was around 19 nautical miles from the eye of the hurricane. Aircraft measured wind speeds in the same location at 115 knots, gusting to 150 knots. Such winds would have produced waves with a significant wave height of 46 feet and a maximum of perhaps 66 feet. The terrible irony of this tragic loss is that the hurricane seemed to anticipate Fantome’s every evasive move, altering its deadly course to intercept the ill-fated vessel. The loss proved one other point: The hurricane also outmaneuvered the best efforts of weather forecasters.

At the start of the 2004 hurricane season, the National Weather Service issued its outlook for the Atlantic-Caribbean region, stating that “above-average” activity was to be expected. In retrospect, this was an understatement of what actually happened, as 2004 turned out to be extraordinary in that four hurricanes hit the southeastern United States in quick succession.

First came Hurricane Alex on the South Carolina coast in July, followed by tropical storm Bonnie in August. As Bonnie moved toward Florida, tropical storm Charley arose and also began moving toward

Florida, where it soon reached hurricane strength. Charley was merely a preview of things to come.

Subsequently, during the months of August and September 2004, the Caribbean area, Florida, and the southeastern United States suffered from the impact of several more large hurricanes (Frances, Ivan, and Jeanne). Charley caused $14 billion in damage and killed 10 people. Indirectly, another 20 U.S. deaths were attributed to Charley, along with 5 people killed in the Caribbean. Not since Hurricane Andrew in August 1992 had such damage occurred, and never before had four major hurricanes struck in close succession. The hurricanes arrived one after the other, one to two weeks apart. Barely had residents begun to dig out from under the damage from one hurricane when they were besieged by another. In addition to experiencing winds from 78 to 130 knots, coastal areas were impacted by extreme waves and storm tides that destroyed waterfront installations, tossed boats ashore as if they were so many toys, and altered entire sections of beach and shoreline. Total damage was in excess of $40 billion. These four hurricanes were in the range of Category Two to Four when they hit the United States, although Ivan reached Category Five several times in the Caribbean. Ivan was responsible for 25 U.S. fatalities. The 2004 season was terrible, but 2005 was worse. Hurricane Katrina (Louisiana and Mississippi, August 29, 2005), Category Four, is now estimated to be the worst natural disaster in the history of the United States.

In addition to their impacts on the United States, the hurricanes caused widespread damage throughout the Caribbean. For example, Hurricane Ivan resulted in considerable destruction on Grenada, hitting the island with 100-knot winds and then moving on to become a Category Five hurricane. Ivan also damaged Trinidad, Tobago, Jamaica, and Grand Cayman, before recurving to hit Alabama and the Florida Panhandle.

In terms of size, longevity, and total destructive power, the hurricanes listed in Table 4 stand out as some of the worst experienced in recent times.

If hurricanes represent the worst case of storms causing large waves, how big can waves get? In all likelihood, those who could have answered this question perished in the storm. Based on the available measurements and data, a height of 90 feet certainly seems plausible.

Wave heights during storms are affected by the condition of the sea before the storm. Sometimes called sea severity, the sea condition influences how big the waves can become. For example, if winds have been blowing before the storm, waves will be larger than if the storm originated in calm seas. Ochi cites two cases in which winds of 12 to 27 knots had been blowing for up to 10 days prior to a storm. Waves were already 8 to 16 feet high. With the advent of the storm, they increased to 49 to 56 feet in a matter of 21 hours.²² Thus, in a fully developed sea, a smaller hurricane might produce larger waves than otherwise would be expected.

The National Weather Service anticipates that hurricane activity in the Atlantic-Caribbean area will continue to increase during the next several decades. Naturally, this prediction is of grave concern to mariners who out of necessity find themselves in these waters during the hurricane seasons.

There are others, however, who monitor the ocean’s great storms from afar and eagerly await the arrival of the resulting waves on distant shores. Rather than run from huge waves, they run after them, hoping to ride them on flimsy fiberglass surfboards.