Rowboat in a Hurricane

by Julie Angus

  “Good God,” I groaned into the handset. “Please tell me I’m having a bad dream.”

  Colin was looking at me with concern while he rowed.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” Dean continued. “They predict it’s going to weaken. By the time it reaches you, it’ll be a light breeze.”

  “Thanks, Dean,” I said, grateful for his optimism.

  I hung up the phone and relayed the details to Colin.

  “Even if it dissipates, it’s going to bring contrary winds and currents, and there’s no way we’ll be able to keep up our seventy kilometres a day in those conditions,” Colin said glumly.

  Epsilon had developed in the unstable systems left in Delta’s wake. It had formed almost three thousand kilometres to our west and was predicted to quickly lose power. Instead, it meandered aimlessly, its track forming a loop, until it strengthened into a hurricane on December 2.

  Although hurricane season had officially ended on November 30, Epsilon defied the statistics and even the generally accepted physics of how a hurricane is formed. Conditions for the creation of Epsilon were unfavourable—temperatures were low and wind shear was high. Sea surface temperatures were thought to be only 21 to 24 degrees Celsius, significantly lower than the minimum of 26.5 degrees Celsius required to form a hurricane. Our first hurricane, Vince, had also formed in cool waters, which made us wonder again if something was different about the ocean this year, other than our presence. Were the temperatures actually warmer than hurricane experts thought, or were hurricanes somehow becoming more adept at forming in unfavourable conditions? Epsilon even had the added challenge of extreme vertical wind shear—rapid changes in wind speeds with increasing elevation—which should have negated the rotational forces and made it impossible to become a tropical storm, let alone a hurricane.

  After its formation, Hurricane Center forecasters were confident Epsilon would immediately weaken. The day it formed, the advisory stated, “Epsilon should begin to steadily weaken within the next twelve to eighteen hours.” Six hours later: “Epsilon has likely reached its peak intensity . . . and steady weakening should begin within the next twelve to eighteen hours . . . so the 2005 Atlantic hurricane season can finally end.”

  But the day after Epsilon reached hurricane status, it showed no sign of weakening and, unfortunately for us, it changed its course. Instead of travelling northeast into the waters of the North Atlantic, where even cooler waters and heightened wind shear awaited, it turned east and headed straight for us. “It appears that Epsilon is running away from the approaching hostile environment,” the Center stated. As Epsilon travelled towards us, it gained strength, its wind speeds reaching 142 kilometres an hour. It perplexed the hurricane forecasters, who stated, “Epsilon has continued to strengthen against all odds.”

  Five days after forming and two days after becoming a hurricane, the exasperation of Hurricane Center forecaster Dr. Lixion Avila was apparent even in the Center’s technical updates: “There are no clear reasons, and I am not going to make one up, to explain the recent strengthening of Epsilon.” Still, they continued to predict Epsilon would rapidly weaken.

  When Dean delivered the news to us, Hurricane Epsilon was in its third day as a full-fledged hurricane, with no signs of slowing. Approximately 1,300 kilometres to our northwest, it was moving eastward at 18 kilometres per hour. Now the storm was predicted to curve to the south, which could put it on a collision course with us.

  Dean continued to keep us updated on the hurricane’s coordinates, and we plotted its track on our chart. We struggled to figure out the best course of action. We had limited options, but we still had some control over our location. The waters were still calm enough for rowing, and we guessed that we had another twenty-four to forty-eight hours of self-propulsion, potentially moving ourselves a hundred kilometres from our present location. If we knew where the hurricane was going, this distance could make a big difference. But the problem was that we could just as easily row into the path of the hurricane as away from it. Where we placed ourselves could mean the difference between life and death, and we struggled to make sense of the forecasts and relevant data.

  “I think we should row southward. Look at these storm tracks,” Colin said, pointing to a chart with a compilation of hurricane tracks in our Atlantic Crossing Guide. “There are fewer late-season storms that track down into lower latitudes.”

  I looked at the squiggle of lines that crowded the chart. “Hmm, I see what you mean,” I said, not entirely convinced.

  We were already lower than Miami, and the further south we travelled, the harder it would be to regain the latitude.

  “I agree that it wouldn’t hurt to reduce our westward progress—maybe we should row southwest instead of due west,” I suggested.

  Colin agreed that this might help, so we rowed southwest for the rest of the day. Given that a hurricane churned a thousand kilometres away, it was surprising how tranquil the ocean was. Conditions were no longer as calm as they had been just a few days before, but the winds were moderate and the waves were less than two metres. Only an immense, slow-moving swell that raised and lowered our vessel hinted that something was awry. We had a hard time fathoming that northwest of us moved a storm producing two hundred times more energy than the total electrical generating capacity of the world (between 5 and 20×10 13 watts).

  Hurricane Epsilon had been travelling almost due east, and if it continued on this course, it would pass to the north of us. But on December 5, when it was directly eight hundred kilometres to the north, it slowed to a standstill. When it did start moving again, it was at a ninety-degree angle to its previous line of travel, and headed directly towards us.

  I couldn’t believe it. When we had first heard of Epsilon I had been dismissive. It was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, predicted to die within hours, and supposed to head towards Europe. Now the hurricane was continuing to build strength. It was just a few hundred kilometres away and was moving directly towards us at twenty kilometres an hour. This storm was much more powerful than Hurricane Vince, and it would likely be on top of us in forty-eight hours.

  “I didn’t tell you my birthday wish because I didn’t want to jinx it,” Colin said as he rowed.

  “And what was it?” I said, barely listening as I nailed the interior hatches shut with a small hammer.

  “I wished we would have no more hurricanes.”

  “Yeah, I kind of suspected that was it,” I said. “If I were superstitious, I would say that birthday wishes on the ocean are bad luck. It’s a good thing you didn’t wish good health for all your friends and family.”

  “It’s like flat tires,” Colin said.

  “What’s like flat tires?” I asked.

  “The hurricanes,” Colin replied, as if it was blatantly obvious. “No one gets as many flats cycling as I do. In Siberia I’d get two or three a day. I’ve probably averaged at least one a day throughout this expedition. But on the ocean I can’t get flats, so the bad luck has to manifest itself in another way.”

  “Hurricanes,” I said. “Of course, why didn’t I see the connection? You’re a homing beacon for hurricanes and flat tires.”

  “You have to admit, it’s a pretty incredible coincidence,” Colin continued. “The worst hurricane season in history, chock-a-block with anomalous hurricanes that all head directly towards us. I mean, Epsilon has had to work hard to persist this long and to get so close to us.”

  I wondered if I should phone the Hurricane Center and tell them they could stop worrying about predicting hurricanes, because we had it all figured out.

  A better-placed phone call would be to my parents. I pulled the satellite phone out of its waterproof case and dialled my mom at her Hamilton apartment.

  “Julie, I was waiting for you to call. Are you okay?” she said.

  “Yes, Mom, everything is going well,” I said.

  She didn’t know about Epsilon, and since it was highly unlikely she would find out, I didn’t tell her.

/>   “On Sunday I went to church and the pastor said he read about you in the paper,” my mom said. “He said you saw a big turtle.”

  Colin had been writing a series in the Globe and Mail. I had told my mom about the friendly turtle two weeks before, but I was pleased to revisit the tale and talk of happier times.

  “That’s right, Mom. It was a big turtle that swam up to us, and we were able to pet him.”

  “Eek!” she said. “You should be careful, it could bite you.”

  “No, Mom, it was a friendly turtle.”

  And so the conversation went. My mom continually worried about me, but her concern was generally off the mark. When I told her we’d had a glass of wine to celebrate Colin’s birthday, she became concerned.

  “You shouldn’t drink wine. Most boat accidents happen when people drink.”

  My mother’s concerns were extensive. Our eating dried dorado spawned concerns over a fish-borne strain of salmonella. She worried we would catch a cold, not eat enough, get our feet wet . . . it was limitless. Nonetheless, I would rather that she fretted about imaginary dangers than the real tempest tearing up the sea only seven hundred kilometres away.

  My web-savvy dad, on the other hand, would already know about Epsilon. He’d undoubtedly be monitoring conditions on the Atlantic. After bidding goodbye to my mother, I reached him at his Toronto home.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “No, Dad, I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, his deep voice agitated. “Another hurricane is going to hit you.”

  “No, Dad, we’ll be all right,” I said, trying to reassure him.

  “You’ve got to get out of there. You’re in a part of the ocean that has the greatest room for storms to build—you’ve passed the point of no return. You have to get to land!”

  Get to land? Would that be Africa, 3,000 kilometres to our east, or North America, 3,500 kilometres west?

  “We can’t go to land. We’re stuck here in the middle of the ocean in a little rowboat,” I said, feeling my cheeks flushing. “There are no other ships in this region; we haven’t seen any for days. All we can do is ready ourselves for the hurricane. We’ve already battened down the hatches, made the life raft easily accessible, and placed all our emergency equipment at hand. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. It’s just a hurricane, and we’ve got a very seaworthy rowboat.”

  I suddenly realized my last sentence sounded ridiculous and probably didn’t reassure my father. Nonetheless, I could do little to offer him comfort. I did my best to explain we were well-prepared and experienced in handling heavy weather. We’d made it through two big storms already—Hurricane Vince and Tropical Storm Delta—and we could make it through one more.

  But my father countered my attempts to remain positive by explaining why we wouldn’t make it. Our boat was too slow, he said, and even if we did make it through the storm, if we kept up this pace we wouldn’t reach Miami until the spring.

  After I hung up, I felt even worse than before. I knew he was worried and that I had caused him a lot of grief, but I couldn’t help wishing he had have offered a few words of support.

  As Epsilon surged towards us, Colin and I spent much of our time reflecting on our lives. In my journal, I wrote: We contemplate our own mortality as the hurricane north of us decides its course. As the skies darken, and mountainous swells slide down from the north, I wish I were anywhere in the world but here. I fear death, and that terror now permeates every cell in my body. This voyage reinforces the philosophy that life itself is a journey—a journey without a known destination. Even though it is not length that makes it good or memorable, I hope we won’t reach our final destination in a few days.

  We continued rowing southwest. The waves had started to crash over the deck, drenching me as I tried to keep the oars steady. Dorado rode the cresting waves as they followed us, seemingly content in the turbulent waters. An enormous school of flying fish took to the air. Dozens of glimmering bodies with fins spread like wings soared above the waves, travelling incredible distances and speeds to escape the predators that chased them below. I found it somehow comforting that for the fish, life went on as normal.

  By nightfall, we’d travelled an astonishing fifty-six kilometres. This was excellent speed, considering Epsilon was closing in on us and the weather was degrading quickly. At 9:00 PM, Colin clambered into the cabin. It was my turn to row.

  “Maybe we should stop rowing,” I said.

  Colin stared at the wrinkled chart spread across the bed. I’d just marked our latest position and the coordinates of the hurricane that Dean had relayed an hour earlier. The storm was now 550 kilometres away.

  “The Hurricane Center is now forecasting that the storm is going to start travelling southwest. If it does that, we’re going to be rowing straight into its course,” I said.

  Colin shrugged. “They’ve been wrong about every aspect of this storm. What’s to say that it’s not going to continue coming straight towards us? At least we’ll be moving out of its way then.”

  We discussed the possibilities for more than an hour before finally deciding the most prudent choice would be to stop rowing. We hoped the latest weather prediction was correct. It would be a stressful night, but we could do nothing more than sit and wait. We lowered the drogue, secured all loose on-deck items, and locked ourselves in the cabin. This routine, unfortunately, was beginning to feel normal.

  “It’s going to be a rough night,” Colin said.

  “Sleep tight. I love you,” I said.

  “I love you, too.”

  I rolled over onto my side. Just another night in the rowboat.

  The breaking waves that smashed into Ondine woke me up several times throughout the night, but surprisingly, I got a few hours of sleep. At 6:00 AM my alarm summoned me back to the oars. I clambered out of bed and began putting on my rain gear.

  “What are you doing?” Colin asked.

  “Getting ready for rowing,” I replied.

  “We’re not rowing. Don’t you remember? There’s a big hurricane coming our way and we’ve elected not to row in the hope that this will somehow save our lives,” Colin said.

  Reality came crashing back into perspective. In my groggy, exhausted state I had blanked the hurricane from my mind and stumbled ahead with the morning routine. The momentary relief of having to climb out into the gale to row was quickly overshadowed by the pending hurricane.

  “There should be an updated report on the hurricane,” Colin said, glancing at his watch.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the number we now knew by memory. I listened carefully to his words, praying for some hint of positive change. Colin suddenly smiled. “Excellent,” he said, jotting down some coordinates before turning off the phone.

  “Good news,” Colin said. “We made the right decision in not rowing. The hurricane has indeed veered to the southwest and is no longer aimed directly for us. At its current direction of heading it should be four to five hundred kilometres to our west. Right now it’s only five hundred kilometres away, so things shouldn’t get much rougher.”

  I looked through the Plexiglas hatch out to the grey, windy world. Waves towered around us, their peaks tumbling to create whirlpools of froth. The deck was awash with spray, and waves frequently surged right over it. Nonetheless, our vessel could easily handle these conditions. We had been spared once again.

  From the cabin, we continued to monitor Epsilon’s progress. It continued moving in a northwest path, and we almost laughed when Dean read us the written reports on the National Hurricane Center’s website: “The end is in sight. It really, really is,” followed six hours later by “The end is in sight . . . yes . . . but not quite yet. I thought I was going to find a weakening system and instead I found that Epsilon is still a hurricane.” Finally, on December 8, Hurricane Epsilon weakened enough to lose its hurricane title. It had the distinction of being the twenty-seventh storm of the season, one of only five hurric
anes to form in the month of December, and the longest hurricane this month had ever seen. No one could have asked for a more unique birthday present.

  Although Epsilon had weakened, the waves were still too big for us to comfortably row, and the currents were not in our favour. We took solace in knowing that the ocean would soon return to a more benign state, and we did our best to power through the waves. We returned to a reduced rowing schedule, rowing only during daylight hours and harnessing ourselves to the boat whenever we were on deck. Finally, two days after Epsilon ceased being a hurricane, the waves stopped crashing over our deck, and we resumed rowing during the night. After more than a week of tumultuous weather, we were finally rowing eighteen hours a day again.

  Now, more than ever, we felt that we’d had our fair share of bad weather and that good times lay ahead. Whether that was misplaced optimism I didn’t know, but it sure helped keep our spirits up.

  12

  A BLUE CHRISTMAS

  “WHAT ARE THE symptoms of scurvy?” Colin asked.

  He was massaging his wrist, which had been bothering him for the last few days.

  “I think your teeth start falling out, you bleed profusely, and then you die,” I said flatly. “I’ve never heard of sore wrists being attributed to scurvy.”

  “My gums are feeling a little tender,” Colin said, squirming. “How much vitamin C do you need to prevent scurvy?”

  I shrugged. Until now I hadn’t even considered scurvy as a potential concern. It’s not one of those things you think of when planning a first aid kit. We had medication for diarrhea, allergic reactions, and nausea, but somehow, scurvy had slipped under the radar.

  “I’ve read a few stories about sea journeys from the 1500s,” Colin continued. “Scurvy decimated their boats—it was the biggest killer. ‘Plague,’ they used to call it.”

  I was listening intently. “How long were they out at sea for?”