September 14, 2011
This story was written nearly two decades ago and since then, I've gotten a job on a yacht that summers in the Great Lakes. I find my current hurricane hole in Harbor Springs, Mich. For the past 11 years, we have not had to deal with a hurricane.
Communications have changed drastically since 1990. It’s much easier now to get hurricane tracking information with 24-hour cable TV weather available onboard. Near universal (at least in port) Internet access is a reality and, with it, weather information. Heck, even my radar scanner now doubles as a depth sounder, chart plotter and weather receiver. With the click of a button I get the updated tropical weather forecast.
I used to go out in the tender with my all-band and listen at 2330 Z for it to come in from NMN. Also note there was no GPS back then. We had some Loran down in the Caribbean but at times we still would do a sextant shot of a planet to help dial in our drift. Radar plotting was our main navigational device and Sat Nav was also used with a fix every half hour to four hours. My, how navigation has changed in those decades.
The basics of planning for a hurricane, however, have not changed and I hope that this article will help captains make decisions on preparing for a storm.
The best way to survive a storm is to not be in it. But if you are caught in one aboard your boat or if you decide to stay aboard for a storm, please be careful. The forces you’re dealing with are enormous and during the storm you will not be able to go on deck to adjust anything -- nor should you. For this reason, think long and hard about staying aboard. The aftermath of the storm is also gruesome.
The original article:
Boaters are manipulated by the weather. The wind and waves affect their movements and moods. The most dreaded storm is the hurricane. Until 1989, it had been some time since the Caribbean took a direct hit by a major storm. That year proved that this menace must be taken seriously.
In my 10 years running boats for a living, I had never spent a season on a large yacht in the Hurricane Zone. Some insurance companies prohibit you from roaming south of San Diego, Calif., or Cape Hatteras, N.C., prior to Nov. 15. I now know why this is true.
This is the story of the effects and lessons learned from Hurricane Hugo upon S/F Water Spirit, an 87-foot, 90-ton Feadship, of which my wife, Mary Ellen, and I are the captains.
During hurricane season, I monitor the high seas weather forecasts on SSB religiously, twice a day. September 1989 was a busy month from the start. On Sept. 2, there were five disturbances in the North Atlantic: two large tropical waves, tropical storms Felix and Babe and hurricane Gabriel.
Felix and Babe both threatened us at our home dock of Palmas Del Mar Marina in Humaco on Puerto Rico’s southeast coast, but then days away tracked well to the north. One of the tropical waves became a tropical depression and on Sept. 10 became Hugo. On Sept. 11, it was upgraded to Tropical Storm Hugo with winds of 40 knots.
In less than 24 hours, Hugo grew to 100 knots and was predicted to be 140 knots buy Sept. 12. On Sept. 13, Hugo had winds of 150 knots and was called a major hurricane. If you connected the dots of the predicted path, they led directly to the Eastern Caribbean right on top of Humaco. These monsters grow quickly and one must try to stay a week ahead of them.
Earlier that week, when Hugo was just a little depression off the Azores, I was talking to Morgan Sanger from the West End Slipway in Tortola about a haul out to paint the bottom. We chatted about the depression and he mentioned his large mooring, a 750-pound navy anchor with 100 feet of 2-inch stud-link chain, would be available in case of a storm.
Water Spirit’s ground tackle consists of a 180-pound Poole anchor and 300 feet of half-inch chain, a 60-H Danforth on 300 feet of 1¼-inch nylon and 25 feet of ⅝-inch chain, and a 66-pound Bruce anchor with similar rode as the Danforth. I seriously doubted that those anchors would hold me in a real blow. On a hunch, I decided to rent the mooring for the weekend, just in case. Something felt bad about this depression.
Life went on as usual that week, and Hugo kept tracking westerly. I discussed with Water Spirit’s owner the possibility of outrunning the storm to the Dominican Republic or south to Bonaire, but he had guests coming and said wait and see if it would be a threat. After all, the other two had turned north. Hugo was getting closer and closer.
By Friday, Sept. 15, Hugo still stormed ahead on its projected path for Puerto Rico. Should it continue on this course, I realized that in less than a few days it would hit the very spot where I listened to my Sony All Band receiver.
I was starting to lose sleep over this estimated landfall and was thinking of my strategy for the storm while I tossed and turned. I had knots in my stomach, about 150 of them. Do I run to another anchorage or hole-up here at Palmas Del Mar where the only protection between me and the sea was a breakwater and some condos?
I had an unpleasant feeling, Iike I had been gut punched thinking about this possibility.
Oddly, no one else in the marina seemed the least bit concerned. Even my chart with the circles and arrows moving right though the middle of Puerto Rico did little to convince them. I knew of some boats planning weekend fishing trips for Saturday morning. The island is blessed, said some. Aliens living in the mountains kept hurricanes away, said others. These people also put decals of Jesus on their car headlights to prevent accidents.
Our marina at Palmas has tiny cleats and small pilings in soft mud. I sensed that Water Spirit would not stay put. I could visualize her crashing into a condo. I needed to get where I could minimize windage and keep my bow to the wind and negotiate the storm surge of a predicted 12 feet. I had to anchor out.
The day passed and Hugo was getting stronger and closer. Hugo was coming to town. Maybe it would turn.
On that night of Sept. 15, we visited the home of John Doran, a commercial tug operator out of Yabucoa, and we listed six possibilities of where to hole up for a storm:
1. Bahia de Jobos, south coast of Puerto Rico: shallow with good holding, would minimize my own ground tackle, but it is on the side of the island that the storm was coming from and has a mile of fetch in which a sea to build.
2, San Juan Harbor: protected from the south, but deep and crowded with large commercial vessels.
3. Ensenada Honda, Culebra: good holding in the protected harbor on the island to the west, but historically very crowded, had mangroves in case I did not hold, but open to the south.
4. Hurricane Hole in St. John, USVI: already was crowded and open to the south
5. North Sound, Virgin Gorda: good holding and protected from the south and circled by land.
6. Soper's Hole, Tortola, BVI: deep and windy, but never a swell here and fewer boats as it’s deep, I had the large mooring here. This had been plan A from earlier in the week.
We had to leave.
On Sept. 16, the forecast was for Hugo to hit the south coast of Puerto Rico with 120-140 knots of wind and a 10-foot storm surge. This ruled out anchoring in Bahia Jobos as well as Culebra and Hurricane Hole, which are all open to the south. Virgin Gorda had no moorings. The decision was for Soper’s Hole. It had been my first choice and often in a multiple choice test, the first answer you arrive at is the most correct.
This storm would be a test of our seamanship. We had a great boat in great shape and we had a plan. Plan your run and run your plan.
It was a relief to take action, to cast off the lines and run for the mooring. En route to Sopers Hole, Mary Ellen and I observed dozens of vessels heading into Ensenada Honda, Culebra, from the Virgin Islands.
I wondered if perhaps we were doing the right thing as we were moving now more toward the storm’s predicted path. I felt like a knight on a chess board: over two and up one island to Tortola.
Upon arrival in Sopers Hole, we found 55 boats, mostly bareboat sailing charter boats of about 45 feet and most on moorings. Sopers Hole is surrounded by land on all sides. To the east is a low sand spit, but the whole hole is in the lee of the larger St. John. It was a sunny day with light winds. We dropped our anchor to the east and picked up the mooring.
I spent the rest of Saturday planning dives and all of Sunday diving my plan with the generous help of a friend, Nigel Studdart, the skipper of Vixen II.
To the shackle of the mooring chain, we attached three 1½-inch nylon rode. We then attached 200 feet of ½-inch chain from the boat to the mooring so we had two chains going to the boat. In addition we tied a Dacron halyard from the mooring anchor around a huge rock nearby.
Each of these lines was threaded through wire-reinforced exhaust hose to prevent chafing where they passed through a chock or the hawse pipe. The Bruce and Danforth we set at 180 degrees to the main anchor and mooring on 300 feet and were hand set in 75 feet of water.
In the middle of each line I attached 30 pounds of dive weights to keep the rode out of our propellers until the assumed wind shift.
Each of these anchor rodes terminated in a thimble to which three nylon rodes were attached. While attached by chains, we had plenty of nylon snubbers. Due to the depth we had to work quickly and methodically to get all this done without decompression from the dives. Luckily Water Spirit had tanks and a compressor.
By the time the dive gear was stowed, there was a beautiful sunset and the winds were gusting 40 to 50 knots. Suddenly, the sky turned overcast as the storm began. Gradually the winds and rain increased and visibility dropped to a few hundred yards, but no seas to deal with. Sopers Hole never seemed to ever get seas or swells and it stayed that way the whole storm.
We were riding well but I let out some chain on our main anchor so the mooring would start to take some of the strain. The classic schooner Vixen II was to port on her mooring and to my stern was Rob Roy, another wooden classic yawl. To starboard was Stardust, a classic Alden ketch, and Romance, a large brigantine with a Japanese crew. All were riding well.
We were the only power vessel in the anchorage. We all had plenty of swinging room. I decided to keep the tender in the water, thinking it would be useful in an emergency.
At sundown, the Hugo movie began on our 360-degree enclosed flybridge pilothouse screen. We had an air-conditioned front-row seat.
The next 12 hours are painful to recall and difficult to describe. It was not any fun. The rain and squalls continued to increase and visibility dropped to almost nothing. We were on alert for the drifting boats that might come down on us.
At 2100, Virgin Islands Search and Rescue (VISAR) began conducting an emergency net on channel 14 VHF. Boats checked in with their status alphabetically. Flying Cloud, one of the Windjammer fleet, reported winds of 100 knots in Great Harbor, Peter Island. Boats in Hurricane Hole, St. John, reported 90 knots. We saw more than 110. I was frightened, and it was a great psychological boost hearing others admit it as well.
Shortly after dark I had turned on Water Spirit’s quartz flood lights on the tuna tower and the big spot lights to keep an eye on the anchorage. I used the lights all night to scan the anchorage and to help the attended vessels see what was happening around them.
By 2300 hours many sailboats were heeling 90 degrees in the 100 mph winds, and several had broken loose and drifted away. The latest position of Hugo was over St. Croix and its forward speed was down to 8 knots. It was going to be a long night.
Just after the 2400 radio check on the VISAR net, the storm hit with a greater intensity and we could feel Water Spirit strain her anchors and shudder in the wind. We noticed we were getting closer and closer to Rob Roy.
We were dragging our anchor, the mooring and the large rock. This was hard to accept, but it was happening. There was nothing more I could do but start the main engines (8V331 TC82 MTU engines-1500 HP each) and idle ahead to take the strain off the ground tackle. It was only necessary to bump the throttles ahead to move the boat. I stayed at the helm for the next 12 hours.
Except for the lulls between the violent gusts, visibility was nil and the windshields were nearly solid white with spray. The wind ripped the sea from the surface and hurled it upward and, mixed with the rain, it was hard to tell if we were above or below the surface.
It was a horror movie. Bits of leaves, an occasional fish, were on the screen. I remember seeing a small black-and-white spotted moray eel on the glass for a second wiggling about, then a mantis shrimp.
Boats were breaking loose and dragging with regularity. The VHF was alive with Maydays and shouts for help. Things were blowing by: pieces of galvanized roofing, boards, leaves, branches, BBQ grills, and windsurfing boards. Once, an old man told me the trees were full of cattle after a storm in Sopers Hole in the 1920s, and now I believed him.
This fury lasted 11 hours. I was glued to the helm for a steady rhythm of “in gear-out of gear” with the pneumatic shifts going psssst, psssst, psssst. We kept in place using Vixen and Stardust as marks whenever the radar worked. At 75 knots, though, the radar open antenna stopped turning so that was not an option any longer.
Water and air were one solid mass now and, though the pilothouse had ½-inch safety glass, during most of the stronger gusts we ducked behind the helm fearing a stove in windshield and flying tin getting us. The Feadship quality was evident as the sounds of the storm were amazingly absent in the pilothouse with the doors closed.
The video sounder would pick up when we were over our anchor chains or other lines and we could use that to try to keep the props from getting fouled. At one point I tried to crawl forward to check out anchor lines, but it was impossible to make any progress in the stinging wind and rain. I had on a dive mask for this task but the fear of the flying tin was too great to try this. We held.
Inside the pilothouse we were snug and nearly silent. Each hour we would check the engine room (a good habit for all to do). On the trips down from the bridge to the aft deck we could see the true strength of the storm and realized we were stupid to remain aboard.
The wind, rain and debris continued to get worse and worse. We got out the ditch kit and put on life jackets, got out the flares and EPIRB and kept them close. Our tender was trailing astern riding smoothly, an 11-foot RIB with a 15 HP outboard.
In one enormous gust, the outrigger supports bent and the big outriggers were loose. Mary Ellen bravely went outside to secure them (and protect the varnish) while I kept the boat steady to give her a bit of lee. The next gust was even stronger and with a loud crunch, the tuna tower hard top was ripped off and we could see it fly over the transom. We lost a few VHF antennas as well.
I estimated the winds at still over 100 knots as the anemometer had blow off by now. I tried the HAM radio (I’m N4VHD) as the 23-foot whip was still up. On the marine net I raised a boater in England. He asked “How’s the weather?” I told him the wind was over 220 kilometers per hour. He was surprised. At least we still had communications.
A dreadful moment came when the 130-foot Brig Romance began to drift down on us, but she stopped about 10 feet away and never got close after that. Her windlass was ripped from the deck and then she fell back on the storm mooring, which was chain set to the marine railroad of West End Slipway. It was a relief to see her in the spotlight and come bow to the wind and hold.
Then suddenly, out of the gloom, a sleek mid-cockpit sloop came careening down on us with her main nearly all the way up. Dragging her anchor and mooring she was attempting to sail up wind. She slammed into the Stardust while turning broadside to the wind.
The mainsail blew out and began to shred. Stardust broke loose and drifted away in the gloom. Then the sloop came back toward us, but with the engines we were able to swing the stern away and use the thruster to only get a little nick. The sloop then broadsided the cherished classic yawl Rob Roy and bounced off and was soon gone as well.
The calls for help and Maydays continued on the VHF all night. People reported being washed up on land and feared for their lives. I could see our 11-foot tender behind the boat flying on its two painters, at times a few feet above the water and twisting up and down.
With dawn came some light and hope that things would get better. It continued to get worse. The wind increased and so did the rain. Finally we could see the outline of the hills around us. We heard on SSB that Hugo’s position was 60 miles to the west of us and it had started to move northward.
At 0600 an Irwin 65 Ketch called Mayday and said they had broken their mooring. They wanted to abandon ship, but I pleaded with them to remain calm and stay aboard. They came back on the radio and said they had collided with the dock. We put our spotlight on the pier. They crawled on hands and knees to the safety of a wooden shed in the boat yard. They had charter guests aboard, honeymooners. What a way to start a marriage. I wonder if they left the crew a tip?
At 0700, we felt the port engine hesitate and die and figured we must have snagged a line. We continued on one engine for the duration.
At 0900, the winds increased to their maximum. It was a routine now of ease ahead, fall back into position, check for anchor lines with the video sounder, then ease ahead or dodge the oncoming boats. I was beginning to tire of this by now.
At 1100, the storm seemed to subside a bit and, feeling we could ride on the anchors without the help of the motors, we went below and had hot showers and some coffee. We must have had the corner of the eye pass over us.
At 1130, I was able to raise WOM, Miami High Seas operator, and call some friends to call the owner and tell him we survived.
At 1200, the winds shifted and we were now on our two smaller anchors set to the east. The gusts that came were among the strongest of the entire storm and I was impressed that the two smaller anchors held us firmly.
By 1300, winds abated to a moderate 60 to 70 knots still out of the east and we felt the worse had passed. Of the 55 boats in the anchorage, only 17 remained floating. Two of the vessels blown to sea had crew aboard, we learned from VISAR.
Mary Ellen was a stellar crew and would take a turn at the helm when needed. She never showed any fear or concern when she would go outside to secure boat parts. I was also glad for such a good boat as Water Spirit. Not a drop of water leaked in the boat. Her chocks and cleats did not budge. The big flared bow would part the driven spray beautifully. She was built by Feadship to look like a Rybovich. She is a credit to her builders.
Finally, by 1800 on the 18th of September, the storm passed. We made it. We survived Hugo. I got on the radio and reported the missing vessels with people aboard to the Hurricane Ham Net.
Early the next day, I started diving for lost gear and to inspect the propellers and shafts for damage. Visibility was limited. I could see our main anchor and mooring was a tangled mess.
Both props had several lines on them from other boats. The starboard engine that had quit had an entire mainsail entangled in it. It took me more than two hours to cut this away.
By afternoon the water had 10-foot visibility. I tried to pull the stern anchors but they were stuck. We dropped back and were able to pull them with the windlass. I also dropped down to check for the hard top and was able to find it right away in 75 feet.
I buoyed the tower top and found a few nice large lobsters hiding under it and grabbed them for dinner. I floated the top to the surface with three buoyancy compensaters and began to sort out the mess on the tangled anchor and mooring chain at the bow. After a few hours I could not figure it out. Should I cut the mess away or wait for more visibility to see what was going on?
The radio bands buzzed with pleas for help. The Caribbean had been devastated from Guadeloupe to Puerto Rico. Reports from St. Croix were the worse. There were reports of civil unrest, looting and rioting. Shop keepers had to repel armed looters.
I was one of the few stations on the air and began to talk to the outside world via HAM radio and began to relay messages. This was in stark contrast to the calm and civility in the British Virgin Islands.
We could not get any information about Palmas Del Mar, so we stayed in Tortola where life was rapidly getting back to normal. Tales of looting from nearby St. Thomas were disheartening.
On the Ham bands came urgent need for help from Culebra. The VISAR group asked if Water Spirit could motor to Culebra to deliver food, medicine and water. I said I would be glad to do so but was tangled in the mooring. It was a twisted mess of lines, chains, sails, trees and who knew what.
The next thing I know a dive barge pulls up from the Blue Water Divers at Nanny Cay. Four commercial divers went in and and four hours later we were free, our anchors up and back on a mooring. Working alone I would have been days. Blue Water had hydraulic cutters, mixed gas and lots of guts to do this job. Water Spirit was ready to go to Culebra.
Jim Scott and the entire VISAR organization deserve a lot of praise for their work. The community spirit of Tortola was admirable as well. Everyone wanted to help out the next person. That night the owners of Pussers Restaurant brought more than 300 pounds of chicken and burgers for Culebra that we put in our freezers.
On Sept. 21, we cruised to Culebra. At 0500 VISAR brought antibiotics, insulin and other medical supplies to be taken to the U.S. Coast Guard in Culebra. We departed at first light and were apprehensive at what we would find in Culebra with the reports of looting in St. Croix. Civil unrest was even more horrible to us than the onslaught of nature we had just survived.
Several ham radio operators assured us that all was well in Culebra and they just desperately needed food and water. On the way to Culebra we noticed a bad squeak from starboard shaft and I assumed it was the shaft bearings. It was calm and I stopped the boat and snorkeled down to inspect. I could see bits of line wedged in the shaft bearing that I could not get out. We continued toward Culebra at reduced speeds.
We arrived at Ensenada Honda about noon and were met by two government officials in a launch who unloaded our supplies and told us to motor around to the ferry dock to pump fresh water.
Culebra was devastated. Of 200 boats anchored in the lagoon, only 10 survived on their anchors, about 40 sank and the rest were blown ashore. There was a huge pile of more than 100 boats, power and sail, piled four and five deep in the northeast corner of the “protected” anchorage. The surge had swept in from the south and huge waves had cleaned the harbor of the fleet.
Ashore, 75 percent of all homes were ruined with roofs blown off and walls torn down. At the town dock, Water Spirit was met by dozens of townsfolk and boaters with five-gallon containers that they filled with our hoses.
A tank trailer was delivered to the dock and we were instructed to fill this tank of about 900 gallons. We had a 2,000 gallon-per-day water maker and that was useful for this disaster.
I met with the head of Civil Defense and asked what his needs were so I could relay this to the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Bear. Many people wanted rides with us but I feared that with no customs I did not want to bring any immigration problems with us. We departed Culebra at 1500 hours and returned to Sopers Hole by 1900 and were able to clear into BVI customs.
The next day I dived with Nigel to retrieve his anchors and rode, and hopefully our outboard motor, which we had lost. Visibility was still limited and we agreed not to do a decompression dive. Fortunately, on the last minute of the last dive, we found the outboard. It was floated to the surface, flushed and running in all of 20 minutes. A happy ending to a happy ending.
I learned several lessons from Hugo:
1. In hurricane season, monitor the weather every day. Storms can approach quickly and the more warning you have, the better you can plan.
If you cruise or operate a vessel, it is worth having a receiver to tune into the ham radio nets and bands as these are valuable sources of information. You must be licensed to transmit on them though. The hurricane nets meet on the 20-meter band around 14325 frequency. If you’re not a ham, then try to meet one in your anchorage or marina.
2. Plan ahead. Ask the locals about hurricanes in the area. Old time fishermen are a great source of information. Choose your anchorage carefully. It’s best to put land between you and the direction the storm is coming. Once you decide to go, get there as early as possible as there is only so much room.
3. Invest in the best anchors you can. The hero anchors of Hugo were the Danforth High Tensile and the Bruce. I would also recommend carrying the largest Luke two-piece fisherman possible. Some types of anchors break under heavy loads. I saw quite a few broken and snapped plow anchors.
4. Use all the anchors you have. There is no such thing as too many. Dive and hand set your anchors and, if feasible, those of the boats around you. Don't worry about after the storm, as far as ground tackle goes.
5. If anchored in a large area with plenty of swinging room, set all your hooks in one direction, this prevents other boats from snagging your anchors should they drag past.
6. Never seek shelter near bareboat charter operations’ hurricane raft ups. They may not take proper precautions and consequently will be your major source of trouble in a storm.
The bareboats fleet’s preparations were marginal. I didn’t see one bareboat remove its roller furling. Hooks were just tossed over. I hope these companies learn their lessons from Hugo. My apologies to any that did take proper precautions. I did not see or hear of any.
7. Never join a raft up unless it’s mandatory. If rafted up with other boats, then use plenty of fenders. If short of large fenders, auto tires work well, but leave black marks. Better black marks than holed hulls.
8. Use plenty of chafing gear. The only chafing gear worth a darn is rubber exhaust hose with wire reinforcement. Plastic hose and cloth will not outlast a hurricane. The bottom of Sopers Hole was littered with plastic hose and broken line. I had several in my props.
It’s a good idea to terminate your anchor rode with a thimble and then attach chain to the boat to prevent chafing or, if that isn’t practical, then use more than one terminal line from the vessel to the rode.
9. Prepare your boat thoroughly. On sailboats, take down all sails, especially roller furling jibs. You should lower your boom to deck level as well as lash it. On powerboats, take down or tie down outriggers and de-rig outrigger line. Take down your flags as well. Unless you want to lose your barbecue and windsurfers, take them inside. Lower antennas and lash them to the sides of the vessel. Lash the radar fore and aft to prevent delamination of the scanner in case of an open array.
10. Carry a good pair of bolt cutters to free the boats that may drag down on you. A general rule is that if the boat is unattended then you can with all good manners cut it loose from your vessel.
Spurs or line cutters on the props are worth their weight in gold in a storm like this. Many power boats that sank or were blown ashore did so because they caught their own or another vessel’s lines or rodes in running gear.
11. Consider the aftermath of the storm when you choose a place to hole up. Will the population go out of control and rampage or will they help out?
If you are unfortunate enough to be in the Caribbean in hurricane season, then you are assumed dim-witted enough to remain aboard in a big blow. It’s my opinion that one must remain aboard to safeguard a large power vessel as it is necessary to power into winds and seas.
Powerboats have too much windage to remain anchored or moored in 100 knot-plus winds. As for sailboats with minimal power, there is not much you can do but tie up and hang on.
In short, a direct hit is a disaster and, as Hugo proved, there is no such thing as a hurricane hole, except maybe the Mediterranean Sea or the Inside Passage in Alaska. In Ensenada Honda, Culebra, considered one of the Caribbean’s most secure hurricane shelters, the statistics were appalling.
If you find yourself in the face of one of these monsters, either in the Caribbean or elsewhere, carefully evaluate your options. In light of the raw truth of their strength and potentially destructive power, running from the storm may not be such a bad idea.
The Point Whitehorn, an 85-foot Coast Guard Cutter, did this out of St. Thomas and then came in behind the storm. A hundred miles from the eye of Hugo, the Whitehorn reported a mere 60 knots and seas of 15 feet. It was flat calm that day in Grenada and Bonaire.
Someone once asked me “What’s the difference between a sea story and a fairy tale?”
A fairy tale begins “Once upon a time,” while a sea story begins ”I swear this is true.”
I swear this is true; happy sailors have motors. The bigger the motor; the happier the sailor.
My recommendation is to run. Run as fast as you can. Hurricanes make great sea story material, but one that happy sailors can live without.
About the Author
