Arriving Topless in Cartagena
 

by Rosemarie Alecio

It was the stuff of good sailing books, of circumstances and situations in which only other people find themselves and - although any cruiser could easily identify with it all (he or she has been "out there"), one hopes never to be there personally!

Alfred and I had been making our way west from Trinidad towards Cartagena. We had enjoyed many stops en route via Venezuela, its beautiful offshore islands and, further west, the Dutch "ABC" group - Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao. The passage from there to Cartagena is, by its nature, fraught with the usual tedious circumstances of downwind sailing, perhaps exacerbated by increasing wind strength as one progresses west. Although our British Admiralty information showed that the lightest weather (though not much lighter!) was before Christmas, the passage is popularly made later than this to accommodate a Panama Canal transit at a time more conducive to getting south in the Pacific before the cyclone season there.
Rumours abounded amongst the cruising fraternity for not only is Colombia in the midst of civil war (not to mention its notoriety for drugs-connected piracy) but the weather off its Caribbean coast is notorious for high winds and seas - 40 knots of wind and 10- to 12-foot seas being not uncommon.

It was now March and we were in Curaçao awaiting a good weather window, which, at best would be 20 to 25 knots of wind, with about eight-foot seas.
We had information about several reasonable, but not ideal, stops along the way, taken from an article in Caribbean Compass in 2001 ("Cruising the Coast of Colombia", by Lourae and Randy Kenoffel). This is not a coast for the choicest anchorages until the well-protected Cartagena; the suggested "resting places" would offer some protection from heavy seas but not high winds. Although we hoped to make the passage to Cartagena in one hop, we realized that the chance of heavy weather from which we would choose to shelter was very much a possibility.

For a while we had been alert to information from those sailing that area ahead of us and, although a good number of yachts had made the passage without more than some discomfort, many had experienced minor equipment problems. In addition, three we knew of had been rolled that season, resulting in damaged rigs. Yet another, on her maiden voyage from Florida to the west coast of the USA had been holed in heavy seas and sank, although her crew was rescued.
Having no time pressures, and preferring the most comfortable passage, we waited in Curaçao.

With a suitable break, we picked our way carefully out through the shoals of Spanish Water, exiting the narrow passage which took us safely through the reef and into the Caribbean Sea just before dark one evening. We had a gift of a weather window forecasting five-foot seas and 15 to 20 knots of wind. Our first night under a full moon and clear skies with 15 knots of wind on our starboard quarter was less than perfect only because of the absence of dolphins riding our bow wave. If these conditions held, we would make Cartagena on the fourth day.
Our 38-foot, gaff-rigged yacht Ironhorse has a 22-foot boom. Tacking downwind is a necessity, and with the notorious high winds and following seas increasing as anticipated, we had our share of "sleigh rides". Ironhorse had always risen to the occasion, all 17 tons of her being lifted, pushed, twisted and lowered with each successive wave. Each time one crashed over her, she shivered, shook herself off and continued on her way.
Our third day dawned with a hefty squall between us and the Colombian Santa Marta Mountains (at over 5,000 metres, supposedly the highest coastal range in the world). For several hours it gave us well over 30 knots with gusts of at least 40. With conditions worsening, and with the most challenging part - crossing the area off the mouth of the Rio Magdalena - ahead of us, we opted to tuck in to Guayraca Bay (11°19.27N, 74°06.46W; see Compass October 2002) - one of a group of five inlets along this mountainous coast just east of Cabo Ajua and the mouth of "that dreaded river" to quote those who had gone before!
Our wait here for improved weather was enhanced by beautiful scenery, including the sight of snow-caps in the tropics - although these same mountains gave us our first experience of katabatic winds as tons of cold air regularly fell onto the anchorage, day and night, straining the anchor chain and throwing us over quite alarmingly at those times!

We received a delightful welcome from the small fishing community ashore and accepted their invitation to an intriguing tour of ancient Indian burial sites that they were excavating, just beyond the beach.
The Rio Magdalena is THE River in Colombia, arising high in the Andes several thousand miles inland. As it crosses this vast country, it divides, each arm collecting from various tributaries to rejoin its now-reinforced other half as it approaches the Caribbean coast. Clear physical signs of the meeting of fresh and salt water far from the coast were reported - not only of increased seas, but also of muddy water and much flotsam to look out for, including trees and plants. (We recalled crossing the mouth of the Amazon from over a hundred miles out, and still observing the disconcerting hubble-bubble of the fresh water rising through the salt, and loads of debris, including whole trees!)

Whether the passage is made close in or way off shore, there are sufficient recorded uncomfortable passages across the mouth of the Magdalena to approach it with some consideration. A combination of several relevant geographical features lend themselves to unsettled conditions - not least of which is that coastal mountain range which extends some distance west. Cabo Agusta presents itself just east of the river mouth. The river pours out millions of tons of water and debris through a relatively narrow gap. The shallows of the whole coastline reach far out to sea. Finally, its location is well within the "cul de sac" of the Caribbean Basin with its proximity to the Gulf of Mexico.
If these gave us no cause to respect it, our Reed's Almanac did, in warning that at times, conditions make it impossible for commercial craft heading towards its huge port to approach and enter!
Several days later, with a forecast for six-foot seas and 20 knots of northeast wind, we left just before nightfall with two reefs in the main and a small jib. Conditions outside were noticeably less boisterous than when we had arrived.

We cleared the headlands and, in spite of our limited amount of sail, tore along at seven or eight knots (our hull speed) towards our waypoint way off the cape and river mouth. As usual, the wind was dead behind and we were kept busy with trying to avoid gybing - not always successfully - and dealing with the irritation of the jib flapping each time it was blanketed by the main.
After several hours, and with the wind increasing to 45 knots, we began our night watches with me turning in first for a well-earned rest.
Every sailor recognises his or her vessel's characteristic noises. Unfamiliar sounds and a constantly flapping jib took me smartly back to the cockpit to report something wrong, I knew not what. Winching in the jib sheet had no effect. The sounds continued, but were difficult to interpret with the noise of the increasing wind and seas which, even as well reefed as she was, set Ironhorse on her ear.
The moon was hidden within a night dark with rain clouds.
We peered out into the darkness in an attempt to see the jib. The main blocked our view, but what was alarmingly apparent was that the topmast had somehow fallen forward of the mainmast, the top with the navigation light (still working) now dangling bow-wards almost touching the foredeck. Ironhorse was rolling heavily in the big seas, waves regularly crashing over her stern as Alfred left the cockpit to go forward. I was relieved when he returned safely.
"We have a major problem - in fact more than one," he reported bluntly.
I froze, considering the worst.
"I can't make out why our topmast has become dislodged. The jib-furling gear is still up on the bracket, but is very slack. The foil has broken at one of the section joints. No wonder the jib wouldn't respond!"
He adjusted his safety line.
"I must find out what's happening to the jib gear," he said, and fitting his headlamp in place disappeared once more into the darkness.
Five minutes later he was back.
"Our jib is now down," he reported, "and the furling gear's broken. The fore section has landed in the bowsprit net; the rest is over the port side.
"The topmast has fallen over the starboard side and is in the water, and the spreader is swinging around the mainmast and the port shrouds. I'm concerned it might damage the mainsail. We'll have to lower the main to protect it - at least until we've had time to think.
"I've managed to drag the sheets on deck and tie them off," he continued. "I'll start the engine. We'll bring her to wind, then we'll get out and lower it."
As he went below to the engine, the autopilot alarm sounded, indicating we were off course.
"NOW what? Is that the Aries given up on us, too?" he cried. "Have to leave that 'til later. You handle the helm. I'll try to do the main on my own."
Raising and lowering our huge gaff main with two halyards to cope with is normally a two-person job, even in the best conditions. I prayed that I could hold Ironhorse steady so that the sail would not fill when it was being lowered and knock him off balance before he could gather it in and lash it up. I steered her into the weather, and held her as steady as my strength would allow. She rose and bucked, diving into the troughs as each successive wave smashed over her bows and raced along the side decks. The jib and furling gear, caught by the wind and waves, was repeatedly thrown upwards, and then smashed down again. I wondered if any of it could survive this pounding, but all I cared about was Alfred's safety. Secure in the cockpit, it took me all my concentration to hold her and maintain my balance.
How he managed to tame and lash that sail, I shall never know, but for the third time I breathed a sigh of relief as he returned.
Thankfully his sense of humour had not deserted him and he expressed amusement that the mast head light was still working, urging me to peer over the side deck to witness it too. How eerie it looked as it rose into the air before being overcome by the next wave which forced it into the foaming depths once more. I winced as it smashed repeatedly against the hull until minutes later the casing broke, extinguishing it for good.
Back in the cockpit we set about examining the autopilot problem. Without our "third crew" we would have to hand steer. The night was too dark to see our Aries in detail, and the rough water denied any useful view, even with our hand lamp. But we could not see the steering paddle and assumed that this too had been lost.

We stood there in those hostile conditions, battling to hand steer for the first time in years, trying to assess our situation.
We checked the radar for shipping. No radar signal! (We were to discover later that a huge chunk of the dome was missing, the topmast having hit it, we assumed, as it fell.)
Unbelievably, we were suddenly without not only our topmast and jib, but masthead light, VHF and SSB (due to damaged aerials), the Aries steering gear, and now our radar!
The clock in the doghouse glowed 0230 hours. Dawn was still four hours off, our destination 40 miles away.
I tried to reason that we should wait until daylight to try to sort it all out, but Alfred decided he would have to attempt something at once. Whilst both "problems" remained over the side, they were a continuing danger to us - particularly the jib, which had filled with water and was causing immense drag, putting us more off balance and slowing us down dramatically.
He considered that the topmast could probably be saved if he could haul it up inboard by its shrouds.
The crosstrees were no longer an immediate problem, having swung between the mainmast and port shrouds, finally becoming trapped in the standing rigging.
The unfurled jib would be more of a problem. Cutting it free would entail climbing out to the end of the bowsprit - hardly wise in these conditions. Lifting it inboard would require emptying it of water before that would be possible. He opted for the latter and fought his way to the foredeck against the wind and stinging rain.
The subsequent 30 minutes were the most fear-filled of my life.

Ironhorse has a relatively safe side deck with solid steel rails all around, but in these conditions and without her steadying mainsail, she was tossed and rolled, frequently being knocked further over by the large swell and waves that broke on her quarter, the water rushing over the gunwales. I worried that the force of this water would wash Alfred's feet from beneath him. By now, too, the sky was lit with huge flashes of lightning, the rumbles of thunder reverberating all around. How could it get worse?
Between holding on for dear life as the starboard beam rolled towards the waves, and hauling in the shrouds as it rolled skywards again, Alfred was finally able to lash the topmast onto the outside of the rails, literally being awash throughout the process by wave after wave. Working his way around to port, he began the process of emptying the sail. My heart stopped each time the port gunwales rolled into the water, the light on his head - my only clear indication of his whereabouts - dipping perilously close to the waves. Time after time he poured the water from the sail only to see it refill as Ironhorse rolled onto that side again, but somehow, he finally managed to summon sufficient strength to empty it section by section and raise it bit by bit, together with the attached broken roller-furling gear before it refilled, then lash it all to the rails. Never had I felt so close to widowhood. Never had I been so relieved to have him back in the safety of the cockpit.
Within minutes he was taking his turn at the helm, realising that, I, too, had been  struggling with a tough enough chore.
By now we were clearly crossing the river for, although the muddy colour of the water was impossible to define in the darkness the strong earthy smell was obvious. Within the hour, as if a switch had been flicked, the seas became relatively calm, the waves having become elongated and smooth - we guess, the result of the fresh water being thrust into the salt. Never has such a contrast been more appreciated, especially for hand steering. It did not last long, but was sufficient to give us a much-needed respite and the opportunity to change into dry clothes.
Alfred set up the emergency VHF antenna for the first time since its acquisition nine years earlier. Though we had no need to communicate, somehow it warmed us to receive an immediate response from the Baranquilla Pilots when we called for a radio check.

At dawn, the cause and extent of the damage became very clear. The weakness had been in the weld of a hefty stainless-steel band that had held the topmast and furling gear to the mainmast.
What devastation that five inches of failure had caused! Shroud wires, frayed sheets and halyards drooped from the lashings on the rails and between the rigging above. A huge fragment was missing from the radar dome.
But there was a silver lining to our cloud. The Aries had not lost the paddle, as we'd thought. Under the extreme conditions, the cogs of the mechanism had become dislodged. Within minutes, Alfred had persuaded them back into place and we had our "third crew" again!

The sun rose hot, the wind dropped noticeably, and with it the seas, making the rest of our passage to Cartagena manageable enough for us to do some serious sorting out of the decks, to the extent that few noticed our problems as we anchored in front of the Club Nautico in Cartagena.
Although Club Náutico is not set up with comprehensive yard facilities, Cartagena was one of the easier places for us to find what we needed for our DIY repair job. Exactly a week later we had organized the acquisition of new rigging wire, had several damaged pieces fashioned anew, and between us had fitted a new forestay and halyards. Our damaged jib was returned successfully repaired by the local sailmaker, and we were ready to sail again - albeit still "topless" until our next haul-out.

Author's note: It would be hard to find a better place than Cartagena to make a landfall after such an event. Our stay there was a blend of hard work and play. Each day after work, we enjoyed sightseeing in one of the most wonderful cities we have ever visited - and certainly unique in the Caribbean. Cartagena should be a "no-miss" on any cruiser's itinerary!