The tempest was already upon us with winds gusting to 37 knots – and it was only mid-morning. Experts, with their powerful computers and complex weather models, had forecast the storm to arrive much later. Rear Admiral Grace Hopper was right: "one accurate measurement is worth a thousand expert opinions." Choosing when to sail always requires weighing up the current conditions, the weather forecast, and accuracy of information. You also need both instinct and awareness of your limitations.
I scanned the horizon and saw something looming in the distance. It was about two hundred meters away, towering over its neighbors. I reassured myself that it was not big enough to be considered a rogue wave. Although it was not an ocean monster, it was still a brute of a wave.
It was day three of our circumnavigation of Kangaroo Island – Australia's third-largest and a mecca for nature and wildlife lovers, with almost a half set aside for parks. The draw for us, however, was the island's three hundred miles of pristine coastline, sheltered bays and coves, sandy beaches, and imposing cliffs. We had been working our way westward and upwind hugging the north coast since departing from Boxing Bay. The ancient red cliffs at the start of the voyage, home to Cambrian Era fossil deposits, had yielded to the wide sandy beach at Emu Bay, followed by Smith Bay and Dashwood Bay, home of a thriving dolphin colony. Past Cape Cassini, cliffs again dominated our portside view, punctuated by occasional coves, most only large enough to offer refuge for a vessel or two.
Today was another bumpy spray-soaked ride into the wind, unavoidable since our destination lay upwind. Our vessel, Arriba, a 38-foot sailing catamaran, was seaworthy and comfortable. Catamarans excel with the wind on their beams or abaft, not on their nose. Arriba was not enjoying going upwind, nor were the crew.
If things had gone to plan we would have been safely tucked into Scott's Cove before this storm hit us. The cove, while barely an indentation in the coastline, was at the base of near-vertical cliffs that completely blocked winds from the south and southwest.
Scott's Cove
Weather predictions are never completely reliable in this part of the world, where violent storms brew in the Southern Ocean and meteorological stations are scarce. Forecasts are more like guidelines than predictions; like a good stew, they need to be taken with a grain of salt with a great deal of local knowledge mixed in. The Bureau of Meteorology forecasts the wind speed reasonably accurately, but the predicted wind direction is frequently astray by as much as ninety degrees, and the times are seldom accurate to within a few hours. It was the difference between being cozy in our cove versus battling this brute, enjoying a peaceful brunch on calm water versus struggling to balance a single cup of coffee, or a jovial conversation versus strained silence.
Cathie, my sister and sole crew member, was inside the saloon and facing the stern, as she had no desire to see the approaching waves. Just observing them passing under and then behind us was enough to mute her, her normal vivacity temporarily on pause.
The gale-force winds that had swept in sooner than forecast were hammering us, reducing our forward progress to a crawl, under three knots. Just one more tack was all we needed and we could aim for shore and reach the safety of our destination. I could not even contemplate turning with the Brute still bearing down on us. Vessels flounder when seas slam them on their beams, broadside them and capsize in the extreme case. We would have to first confront the Brute before turning.
One hundred meters away now and I estimated the Brute was at least six meters tall. The average wave height was about four meters. Rogue waves have a height more than twice the significant wave height, so my earlier observation had been correct. Somehow, avoiding the stigma of the "rogue" label reassured me.
My ego nudged me, Quick, grab your camera and take a photo; you'll have serious bragging rights later, perhaps even National Geographic photo-worthy. Then I remembered a tragic story a friend had recently told me of a mother driving with her son. She had lent over to pick up her mobile phone which had slipped off the seat, and in that single moment of distractedness, hit an oncoming vehicle, killing herself and her son. Caution prevailed. I pushed away thoughts of photographic glory and instead focused on the helm. I held the wheel as if my life depended on it, and perhaps it did. There would only be memories, no photos.
Fifty meters away now and I could admire the Brute directly. Its surface was surprisingly smooth, flattened by the wind, more like a smooth hill than a craggy mountain. But hills don't move, threatening to swamp you; hills don't hiss at you and send spray into the air; hills don't demand that you pay attention to them.
There was very little breaking water on the Brute's crest. That was quite a relief, as breaking waves can send tons of water crashing onto decks causing irreparable damage and washing crew overboard. In deference, I was tethered to Arriba via a bright orange safety line and, as an added precaution, kept a Personal Location Beacon in my pocket. In theory, that would pinpoint my location to search and rescue teams. Rescue in these deteriorating conditions would require a helicopter: difficult now, impossible later. The cold water meant even a strong and fit person could probably only survive a few hours before succumbing to hypothermia. Port Lincoln, the nearest airport, was a long forty minutes away by helicopter.
I carefully steered Arriba up the wave face at 45 degrees, like a roller coaster slowly ascending a crest. Then, ever so briefly, we enjoyed the horizontal aspect of the Brute's summit. It was too soon for any elation, though, because no sooner had we reached the crest than we left it. Whoosh! We surfed down the other side like a trusty roller coaster racing downhill on rickety tracks. Of course, roller coasters do not require steering, nor do they shoot spray meters into the air. Steering a catamaran normally requires little more than the strength of two or three fingers, but I was gripping the wheel tightly with both hands as if holding the handlebars of a bike flying through the air. This is where catamarans excel, with their wide base providing exceptional directional stability. Surfing in a catamaran is exhilarating, more exciting than terrifying.
We had conquered the Brute. I turned to Cathie and remarked, "It was a pretty big one, at least six meters I reckon". Cathie managed a small smile, the tension in her face, washing away like the wave now passing behind us. "The seas are building; it's time to head to shore", I reassured her. Cathie gave a nod that shouted, "Hell yeah!"
Very soon I found a gap in the wave sets and shouted, "Prepare to come about." Then, a second later, I bellowed "Coming about" and I spun the wheel two times counter-clockwise as quickly as humanly possible. Arriba dutifully swung 100 degrees and now pointed to the coast, which we would reach in half an hour.
The Brute rolled on in the distance, oblivious to our tribulations. Eventually, it would reach the mainland. Perhaps a surfer would spot the Brute's approach and harness its power one last time. She would ride him like none other that day, till, at the last minute, she would break away by turning her board back toward the open sea. The Brute would continue unknowingly. Its end would come mere moments later in a violent collision against cliffs, its energy dissipating into a spectacular display of spray and foam.
