Rowboat in a Hurricane (24 page)

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

MY PERIOD WASN’T
the only thing late. The day before, we’d spent several hours tapping numbers into our calculator. Our average daily distance since leaving—including
all
the days of contrary weather—had been fifty-two kilometres per day. At this pace it would take us
173
days to cross the Atlantic, more than two months longer than we’d anticipated. Originally, we had optimistically hoped to cross the Atlantic Ocean in
90
days, although we had packed enough food for
130
in case of major delays. With fishing and rationing, we could stretch this supply for another month.

“Our speed will pick up soon, once the remnants of Delta dissipate and the regular winds take hold,” Colin said. “If it wasn’t for all the storms screwing up the prevailing winds, we’d be more than halfway to Miami by now.”

“Thank God hurricane season is finally over,” I sighed.

“We should be able to do at least seventy kilometres a day in normal conditions. That would allow us to reach Miami in . . . ” Colin paused as he did the mental calculations. “About seventy days.”

I scribbled calculations in my journal, “That’s
146
days in total, which makes our arrival date February
14
. We’d be on land for Valentine’s Day—how romantic!”

“I think we should set a daily distance goal, just like we did when we were cycling,” Colin said.

“Seventy kilometres a day it is,” I agreed.

Having tangible milestones re-energized our drive—seventy kilometres a day, Miami by mid-February. It transformed the end of the journey from a nebulous goal looming far in the distance to one that inched closer at a measurable rate. The disappointment of storm after storm had created a depressing downward spiral of apathy and frustration. Now, the spark returned. The weather was reasonable, we had set our goals, and we felt ready to charge ahead.

“GUYS, YOU’RE NOT
going to believe this,” Dean said, the tension in his voice apparent through the satellite phone. “There’s another hurricane on the ocean—Hurricane Epsilon.”

“I know,” I said. “But don’t worry, it’s not supposed to come anywhere near us.”

Colin’s mother had told us about Epsilon two days before. It had formed on Colin’s birthday right about the time he was blowing out his candles, wishing for no more hurricanes. But it was on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean near Bermuda and was expected to head towards Europe.

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“Well, that’s the thing,” Dean said. “It started moving northeast, towards Europe, and they thought it would dissipate very quickly. But then yesterday it changed tack and stopped moving north. Since then it’s been travelling straight east, and the gap between it and you is closing quickly.”

“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.”