Oct 11 , 2004--Weather Sources Over the Years

	Waiting for a weather window.

In the sixties we had no VHF or SSB. Weather was something outside the portholes. To leave on a voyage was more of a gamble than it is today. Pennants streaming in the breeze at harbour mouths told how strong expected winds might be. Otherwise, AM radio broadcasts reported the usual soothing gibberish--'mostly sunny', 'cloudy periods', 'occasional showers' or 'rain'. If we were particularly concerned we would go to a phone booth to call the weather office or hop on our Honda 90 Trailster motorcycle and visit the duty attendant to reassure ourselves as to the wisdom of our departure. To plan long passages, we referred to paper pilot charts showing wind roses of average recorded wind direction and intensity on the Beaufort scale, paths of hurricanes, percentage of calms, and direction and velocity of currents for the various months of the year. We sailed into bad weather more frequently in those days, but we were younger then and rough seas were endured, then forgotten.

In October '68, in Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight, we listened to shipping broadcasts on the regular newscasts while waiting for a lull to sail to the Canary Islands and back to our Virgin Island charter territory. We'll never forget the BBC voice intoning for days on end: "DOGGER, FISHER AND BIGHT: GALE FORCE 9. IRISH SEA: STORM FORCE 11." We don't remember what the forecasts were for our area, but it was not much less for many horrifying days. In the end we motored across a calm Bay of Biscay.

Not many months later, we installed our first transceiver in St. Thomas, an AM set, so our charter guests could phone their NY offices. Back in home territory (British Columbia) in the early 70s I became a licensed amateur radio operator, a ham, and VEOMCG was my reward, a call sign still valid. Thus equipped, off we set across the Pacific on the next facet of our travels under sail.

The first Maritime Mobile Nets were small, informal and great fun. About half the call signs were pirated calls. (HP9XRN was once a nurse, for instance.) In those days someone of our number would copy the Morse Code broadcasts, and use the info to draw up wx maps in order to share the info thus painstakingly and time-consumingly gleaned with fellow voyagers at sea. As the years passed, the MM nets became formal rosters of check-ins. Our favorite contacts are still with small groups of friends who gather to chat, and of course, exchange wx info.

On our way from Ponape to Saipan one year in the late 70s, we were fortunate to link up with a fellow ham radio operator on Guam--Jim Haynes, a USAF colonel. He warned us of the blossoming of a typhoon by the name of RITA. We heeded his suggestions to change course to avoid that monster, fleeing south as RITA, now a super typhoon, performed uncharacteristic course gyrations before wreaking her destruction on the Phillipines.

For years, Harry Mitchell KL7MZ kept a close ear on the weather and passed on his gleanings. He was dedicated, dependable and amazingly weather-wise, though we always used to say, "Never leave when WHALESONG does. You'll get clobbered!" There were--still are--other devoted amateur radio operators worldwide, providing a wonderful service to blue-water wanderers. John Anderson, VK9JA on Norfolk Island, was one of those who for decades turned up to guide his flock of yachts safely to their destinations. He can still be found on the ham bands even today, asking, in return, only for tales of migrating seabirds and other ocean wanderers.

Then came laptop computers and wx fax programs, which fascinated us. In '89 we loaded HFFAX and we are still using the same software, on Toshibas Number 4 and 5. We love having it, though our interpretations aren't necessarily accurate. What we think we see we don't necessarily get. I remember in the early days leaving with a 1045mb high pressure area showing on the edge of the wx fax map on our laptop screen. I don't think we've seen a high of that intensity since. It was a fast but ghastly trip. We had some breakages, mercifully mainly forgotten.

Nowadays yachts gather in hordes, sharing the latest pronouncements, which arrive several times a day from many different weather gurus. Since we have not yet acquired on-board email, much less onboard access to the Internet, we resort to VHH and SSB radio weather info, and either ham contacts or local scuttlebutt. One of the best ways to get such info for those of us not up-to-the-minute with GRIB files and personal routers is simply to put the VHF on scan and listen in to the chatter which is laced with the latest satellite-beamed wx info fresh off the screen. When the 'perfect weather window' arrives, boats leave in flocks, dozens at a go, heading for the same waypoint on the same precise GPS course.

We left Minerva Reef a few months back with just such a sizable flotilla of vessels heading for Opua in the B.O.I. New Zealand. The VHF chatter was a comforting accompaniment to our crossing. One overheard conversation went thus in precise, beautifully enunciated British accents: "So far, the weather we've experienced has been NOTHING at all like the forecast".

An interesting development amongst cruising sailors is their trust in and dependence on weather gurus. Although the predictions they buy are sometimes a bit unreliable, it doesn't diminish their faith. It is one thing to expect a reliable forecast for the next few days, but we hear skippers requesting 14-day weather forecasts. Sure, they can take a guess, but our observation is that weather forecasting is as much an art as a science. Jet pilots can be given weather forecasts for their long flights (12-14 hours). But at a six-knot average speed, we have to face the fact that by the end of our passage we'll have to take whatever is dished out by the gods. So we try to have some good days to start a voyage and hope for the best for the rest of the trip. We are not amongst the mega-yachts that average 200 to 300+ miles a day. They may be able to outrun or at least better dodge lousy weather systems.

We still think that crossing an ocean on a small yacht is a bit like a dog crossing a freeway. Take a run for it and hope you don't get clobbered.