Windhorse Sailing

Many thanks to all the people that sent me supportive emails all along. I can’t tell you how appreciative I am. I kept writing to let my family know where I was and what I was up to even if couldn’t talk to them on the phone. The purpose of the website was to assure them consistently that I was OK. It was a pleasant surprise to me to know that word spread and so many others enjoyed reading my logs. Thank you all.

I apologize for my negligence in not keeping up the site all these months. I have been home and in regular contact with my family, so they haven’t needed to check the website. As far as writing, I have been working on compiling my stories in a book format. (I don’t expect to publish, though anything is possible.)That has not been easy. I have had to answer some tough questions about why I did this trip and what I got out of it.

Why I did it requires a lot of soul searching; something I may not be very good at. I busy myself with doing something, plowing straight ahead. Stopping to question why isn’t natural to me. So I will need time to answer that. For now I will say I went big. I didn’t know what else to do. The industry I expected would provide me a lifelong career became besieged by regulation and automated competition. It was time to choose another direction. I decided to pull all the safety nets. I removed myself far from anything that could be thought of as a “comfort zone.” I started from scratch. It was a road less traveled strategy, and it has made all the difference.

What I got out of the experience is immeasurable. I learned that I have no limits. I learned that if I try I cannot fail. I sowed some wild oats. I learned to believe in myself. And I realized the girl I am going to marry. I and those around me will benefit from the experience for a lifetime. I am encouraged to keep exploring life. I am sure that rounding Cape Horn will not be the only interesting thing I have to talk about. Life is only going to get more exciting.

For the time being, plans for this site are up in the air. I may hand it over to a friend’s adventure, but I am advised to keep it for use as a blog, should I ever write a book. We’ll see. Check in now and again and feel free to offer any feedback.

Many thanks to all my family, my friends, everyone I met along the way. Special thanks to all who joined me on Shangri-La, Stevo and Francis, Gavin, Dr. Dirk, Gigi and Kelly, Dan and Joey. And very special thanks to Elvia, my fiancé, without whom this journey would have less meaning.

“Were you ever scared?” people often asked. “No.” I said. I was stressed a lot, but never scared. I always knew I had enough food to wait out a long stretch, weeks if necessary. I knew also that Shangri-La was sea worthy in the extreme. Her stability was apparent to anyone who boarded her. “No Mickey Mouse shit,” most would say.

Scared would imply that I felt unsafe. I never did. So, stressed is the word I use. Have I thought of everything? Will I be prepared? Those are the questions that stress you. And whenever I was meeting friends at a port the most stressful question was, “will I get there in time?”

Meeting Dan and Joey was very stressful. As I described in the last log, a powerful north wind delivered a beating to me and my sails. I was 3 days later than expected arriving in Florianopolis. My good friend Dan McGuire was there to help me regroup. Instead of moving north, we cleaned up the boat and repaired what we could of my sails and rigging until Joey arrived a few days later. These guys had families and demanding jobs. I wanted to show up in better time and more importantly I wanted to take them for a sail up the coast and deliver them on time to a port from which they could make there way to the airport in Sao Paulo and home.

As soon as I saw Dan I stopped worrying. Before he married a close family friend of mine, he had traveled extensively. In earlier days he had worked as a contractor for six months and traveled the globe when his feet got the itch. He knew how to do it. By the time I arrived in Florianopolis, he had discovered all the best places to go for food, surfing, and what we’ll call “people watching.”

Joey was a different story. I’ve known Joey for many years. I haven’t seen much of him lately, he has a wife and two kids and works long hours as a building contractor in the Poconoes of Pennsylvania. Business is booming. Because of this I was surprised when Dan told me he convinced Joey to make the trip to Brazil. I wondered if Joey had a passport. He didn’t. He had to go to Harrisburg to get one and then make a trip into Manhattan to get a travel visa at the Brazilian consulate. This guy was committed. And when he arrived, he made it clear he was committed to seeing what he called “Brazilian craziness.” I was happy to join him for that.

Altogether now, we set out to find some good food. That first night we asked Patrick, the 6’8”, Brazilian Tae Kwon Do champ, Security Guard for a recommendation. He took us to his favorite Churascaria and sat with us. Who was going to tell him otherwise? I think he thought we invited him. Regardless, we had fun.

The next day we provisioned the boat including plenty of beer and snacks. As we began stowing the goods, Dan was surprised at the amount of dry and canned goods already aboard. He had insisted on certain items from the market out of fear that we would not have enough food on our sail. I tried to convince him we had more than enough in the extreme, but in the end gave in to his request to put him at ease. As a captain I wanted a happy and secure crew. All Joey cared about was enough beer and cigarettes. That was five cases of Skol, the local Brew, and 3 cartons of Marlboro no filters from duty free. And it was just enough.

The night before we set out we met with a friend, Hans Keeling. A great guy, he was a classmate of my girlfriend Elvia in college. After practicing law in Rio for a few years, he has moved to Florianopolis with friends to start a surf charter business, nexussurf.com. He brought us to Lago Concesao, a part of Florianopolis where the craziness lives. (I highly recommend Hans’s company for anyone looking for a great surf vacation.)

The next day we went over our charts with the yacht club officer. He gave us many assurances that I questioned, but in the end steered us correctly. One such assurance was that my mast would clear under the Santa Catarina bridge with “plenty of room to spare.” So we filled out tanks with gas and water and pushed off. We had only been there a few short days and we had made many friends. Hans, Patrick, Luigi, Christian, and all the mechanics at the club were there to wave goodbye. Overall, I think we were good PR for the U.S. We cleared the bridge by what looked like an inch. Within a few hours, we had had many beers and dolphins crossing our bow guiding us out to sea.

The sea was calm and the wind calm, but steady. We made our way North East away from land and by nightfall were offshore. We could no longer see any lights from shore. I can’t remember what we had for dinner, but I do remember some doubts followed by complaints.

So here is how it went. I was unable to get a necessary part anywhere in Brazil to fix the main Genoa headsail. We had to rely on the much smaller Stay sail. It made for slow going. Not only was the larger sail good for speed, but it helped the boat point better. Physics doesn’t allow you to sail directly into the wind, so you tack back and forth across the wind. Pointing is your angle into the wind. If you can’t point, you can’t make much progress into the wind. To make matters worse the wind shifted direction slightly. It was a tease. If we tacked east the wind shifted forcing us east/southeast, so we tacked and headed north/northwest. Then the wind shifted back and forced us to tack again. I didn’t tell the guys, but in 24 hours we sailed 110 miles and made no net progress toward our destination. In sailing, it happens. And it sucks as bad as it sounds.

I couldn’t tell Dan. He was green with sea sickness. I finally did tell Joey. He smiled, cracked a beer and said, “This is cool.” I quit fighting the wind and altered course to Santos instead of Rio. The change of plan put them closer to Sao Paulo and their airport and perhaps gave us more time to hang out on land.

Like always, altered plans turned out better. Santos is the port city of Sao Paulo and the biggest port in South America. The yacht facilities were plentiful as were the cultural experiences. One priceless experience was sailing into a foreign port among so many tankers, all 1000 feet long and 10 stories high. Joey went to sleep. I manned the radio trying to contact the port captain. We could count 30 tankers lined up to enter the port channel. I directed Dan to take our place in line directly in front of “the Caribbean Treasure.” Its big blue bow towered above us as we hovered waiting for radio instruction. Very stressful. Dan yelled at me and Joey slept. I might have been a little scared, but mostly stressed.

The trip had taken three nights and four days. We sailed a bit, motored a bit, caught some great mahi mahi that I cooked well with no complaint, and swam in the ocean beyond sight of land. We didn’t make Rio, and the sailing wasn’t great, but we had a blast.

By early afternoon we were tucked safely into the Pier 26 marina, a place the boat would stay for the next 2 months.

The three of us checked into a decent hotel and grabbed some showers. While we had fun, it was clear these guys were land lubbers and proud of it. They went shopping for gifts to bring home and I made my way to about 10 municipal buildings trying to comply with the necessary regulations. Customs, health inspectors, federal police, port control, immigration, et al. Unlike my other South American experiences, these offices all had computers. However, much like my other South American experiences, they conducted every transaction on paper in triplicate. I first got my passport stamped by immigration who said I needed my boat checked in first, but stamped me anyway. Then I went to port control who stamped my boat papers without question both because I didn’t speak Portuguese and I wasn’t a tanker. I skipped the other formalities when I was not aloud entry to the customs building because I was wearing shorts. The officer prohibiting my entrance was wearing a dirty white t-shirt with an iron on badge. I repeat the largest port in South America. My boat and I had gained entrance to this beautiful country. I would play dumb to anything else.

Back with the guys we grabbed some food. The restaurant owner cooked our food personally and like others we had met sat invited himself to eat with us. His name was Vander and he volunteered as our host recommending bars, clubs, hotels and restaurants.

One of the recommendations was a club we checked out. I can’t remember the name of it or much that happened, but it was sharp. He gave us a name to ask for so we wouldn’t wait in line. We didn’t. Once inside we enjoyed four bands throughout the night. Joey was a dancing machine. He wore my African knit Rasta cap and said “ciao” to anyone who approached him. Before long girls were leading him to the dance floor and guys were cheering on “el Pirota,” the pirate. (No question we were gentleman pirates, ladies.) It was classic. It was basically the white man overbite shuffle, but Joey was brought it to a whole new level. It’s not Brazilian craziness, it’s just Brazilian.

A day later Dan and Joey made their way to the airport in Sao Paulo 40 minutes away. I would go back to the boat to haul her out and clean her bottom. It was late November and I planned to leave her there while I made a trip home for needed hardware and the holidays. I was still feeling the effects of that eight day solo before picking up Dan and Joey. I thought a trip up the coast would be fun. I envisioned it being a cruise with great weather and tranquil beaches. So far it wasn’t. The heat was becoming unbearable. While changing the oil I thought it prudent to have someone check on me. The heat in the engine compartment was so great that I felt I would pass out. Best to let someone know I was in there. For the next 1000 miles North the winds promised to be against me. After that I could expect the doldrums.

Part of me relished the challenge. Another part of me was done. The next month at home would bring many things to light. In my time at home I came to many conclusions about the future. There are things I need out of life and they are no longer to be found at sea. The cruising life with no schedule is not for me. I know which way the wind is blowing and to fight against it is a rough ride with little progress. There are many decisions left to make and they are stressful, but I am anything but scared.

Dan With The Biggest fish

F…ing Joey

Joey has a smaller fish

Dan with Hans and friends

I was frustrated at the outset. Sailing is never as simple as point A to point B. It should be the best part of the trip when you first set out. All your provisions are fresh and you’ve chosen an ideal weather window. However, I was held up an extra day in Montevideo getting my Brazilian visa. And yet another day making the short trip to Buenos Aires to pick up my new sail at North Sails. I was sailing solo, and without anyone to bounce things off I began to ruminate on all the “what ifs?” Because of my delays

I had missed two days of a low front creating strong winds from the South that could have carried me North 300 miles already. This low would soon blow through giving way to the regular trade wind from the North. North wind promised a rough, slow ride. It should be no problem, but I expected to be working hard. Also I would soon have friends waiting for me in Brazil. I had invited friends to meet me in Florianopolis, which was 540 miles North. I had six days to get there. Six days might not be enough. These friends were Dan McGuire and Joey Bender, two friends who had made a great effort taking time from their work and kids to come share in my adventure. We’re not related, but these guys are closer than cousins to me; they are family. I wanted to be there to meet their arrival.

I rushed to provision and get the boat stowed for departure. It was a chilly sunny day with white caps in the Bay. I was excited to see my friends in Brazil. At noon I motored south out of the harbor into the teeth of the wind for about 45 minutes then I set the sails, made the turn around the “Punta” and turned off the engine. According to my ship’s log at 1pm I was running with a 20-knot wind into a “rough” 10-foot chop. I had the main sail second reef and a full headsail. Underway with the wind vane steering me full speed ahead, I began to relax a little.

In the first 36 hours I made 220 miles north enjoying a strong southerly and a small counter current sweeping me North at 7 knots altogether. Along much of my route 200-400 miles offshore runs what is known as the Brazil current; a strong, two-knot current flowing south. Inside of that current closer to shore sometimes and in some places you get a counter current. My pilot guidebook for the area called for a counter current most of my route. Knowing this provided a boost psychologically more than anything else.

On my second night at sea the winds died down to an imperceptible five knots. It just wasn’t enough to move the Shangri-La. I hated to admit it, but the friendly winds were gone. I furled the headsail and took down the main during the night so I didn’t have to listen to them flapping from side to side as the boat pitched on the calm water. Along the coast a calm like this always means a wind reversal. In this case the low-pressure system had moved through and was about to give way to the much larger and regular high-pressure system. And in the case of the Brazilian coast this meant a N-NE trade wind. For the time being however, 12, maybe 24 hours I could expect to be becalmed. It was an opportunity to rest up for the battle soon to come. I turned on the radar as a beacon to the fishing ships and tankers that might happen along, threw in a CD and jumped in my sleeping bag to get a good night’s sleep.

This sucked. I was wide-awake. I was tired, but far too anxious to sleep. The weather was coming. There was only one answer - a drink. I opened a bottle of Johnny Walker Red given to me by the great Gavino. I had one, two, three, glasses and it didn’t seem to be helping me sleep. Eventually it did help, but only in getting me to sleep. Many hours later I awoke to a day so hot I almost turned the boat around. The hangover didn’t help either. The satellite phone was up on deck and there were little shards of plastic all around. It was like someone else had been on the boat the night before. Apparently I had sent out some e-mails and it would be a while before I figured out what the plastic was all about. A few days later, I discovered the shards of plastic where from the pour spout that I had tried to rip out of the Johnny Walker bottle with pliers, apparently so I could pour faster. Goal accomplished.

It was day three and now all I wanted to do was sleep, but the wind was starting to build. By noon in the blazing sun I could set full sail. All day and night the wind kept building finally topping out at about 35 knots, which is a very strong wind especially when you are heading into it. I hated the ride from here on out. There would be a lot of wear and tear on Shangri-La and me. My friend Howard loved to say “gentleman don’t beat into the wind.” How right he is. Gentleman wait till the season is right or they alter plans and head in another direction. I wouldn’t opt for that luxury. North was the way home and north was where my friends would soon be waiting for me and for my friends I would sail 300 miles in three days and only get 100 miles closer to Florianopolis.

Most mornings from this point I found I was watching the clock, waiting for the hour when I could call my girlfriend Elvia and share my misery. The sea was making a bitch out of me. I wasn’t going to die. I just didn’t want to be there. At this point I would have welcomed even hardship as a distraction to my longing for home. Careful what you wish for, on day four I encountered breaking waves; a sailor’s worst nightmare. Breaking waves are thankfully rare, but extremely powerful.

Due to wind or underlying current, in this case both, a wave can become so steep that it topples over. A 14-foot wave could have enough force to break Shangri-La in half. While the ones I encountered this day were no larger than 4 or 5 feet, they were not a welcome experience. Especially when one broke into my aging headwall and opened a 6-foot tear along a seam. I came off the wind a bit to relieve some pressure and as quick as I could I put in 5 cross-stitches with some thick wax thread used for whipping the ends of lines. As quick as I could was at least an hour. It wasn’t pretty, but it looked like it would hold. Then on day five I came on deck after some rare shuteye to find my dinghy missing. I had been trailing it behind as cruisers do because I was in a hurry to leave port. Later, while becalmed, I debated bringing it on deck, deflating it and stowing it properly, but I was too hung over. It was a big loss, and it’s stupid, but I felt relieved not to be worried about it anymore.

On day six the wind was still from the north, but not nearly as strong which made for a much smoother ride. Tacking back and forth was still a chore, but it wasn’t worth your life like it had been. I was moving along ok, but felt I could go faster with a little iron spinnaker. The sea had flattened out so I decided to boost my speed with the engine. I started her up. She purred like a kitten. The speed was good, but the heading might be better on the other tack. As I came across the wind the sails slacked and filled again with a healthy snap on the other side. The headwall, though, fell into the ocean. It slid down the forestay and into the ocean as if the great hand of Neptune had pulled it down. I was stunned for a second before I thought to kill the engine hoping the prop didn’t already chew up the sail. It did not. I ran forward to rehoist it. I couldn’t. The Halyard was fine. What broke was the top furler drum leaving the part connected to the halyard at the top of the mast until I could climb up 46 feet and get it. The other half of the part was torn aluminum lying on the deck. I think it was ripped in half by the force of the breaking wave that had earlier hit the sail. I was numb with exhaustion by the time I got my biggest sail out of the water and strapped to the deck. I shot Dan an e-mail that I would be behind schedule.

Without a headwall and the wind dying away the motor was all I had. The hardship here is that I don’t have an autopilot. The wind vane steers using the wind and there was none. I had to stand at the helm and steer for last 120 miles to Florianopolis. At five knots engine speed that is 24 hours. I was numb and determined to arrive the next day. I motored through the night, the day and into the next night. The sea had remained calm, but visibility was poor with torrential rain. I hadn’t left the helm for more than a few seconds in over 24 hours. Because of the rain it was like peeing in the shower. We all do it. At midnight, using the lighthouse and a flashlight held in my teeth to illuminate the handheld GPS I navigated my way through the south canal entrance. This is how you get to Florianopolis. The town lies between the small island of Santa Caterina and the mainland. As soon as I entered the canal the rain began to clear. My cruising guidebook advised a course through the shallow canal to the Yacht Club Santa Caterina 6 miles North. In an hour I would be at the yacht club dock.

That would have been so great. But the cruising guide also recommends local knowledge of the canal as shoals can shift making charts unreliable. Shangri-La gently came to a stop when she ran onto one such shoal. I could see the port lights so I revved the engine in reverse and eased my way off the shoal. Once free I back tracked a little and made my way to starboard before turning back toward the lights. Aground again. On VHF channel 16 no one answered my call, not the Yacht Club, not the Port Captain. I was on my own still. It was 2am so I decided to drop anchor, get some sleep and try again in daylight.

At 6am I poked my head out of the hatch and looked around. It was calm and clear. I called Dan at his hotel. So glad to hear his voice he said, “Stay put.” His plan was to get to the yacht club and catch a ride out to meet me and guide me in with some local help. I could finally relax. I had gone 4 days without shitting, 3 days without eating, and 2 without sleeping. I fried some eggs and stayed put. Then it started to rain and the visibility…disappeared. Dan could see me from the yacht club in the bay on a clear day, but with no visibility it could be like finding a needle in a haystack. I waited a few hours. No Dan. I called the number the cruising guide had for the yacht club. Wrong number. I called my girlfriend. She couldn’t find a listing for the yacht club. After a half hour I called Dan’s hotel again. He had yet to return. I called again, still, not there and still no answer on the VHF radio from anybody. Fucking Brazil!

I took matters upon myself. I pulled up anchor and started to motor south out of the canal on my way around to the north side where I could drop anchor by Dan ‘s hotel. My luck hadn’t changed. The wind was from the south now and I was fighting it again. It promised to be a 10-hour trip, but I would be there that night. I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t up to it, but Shangri-La did. The engine conked out. She had run out of gas. I turned down wind to see if I could get any closer to the port. No I ran softly aground again and this time had no engine to get myself free. Ridiculous.

I called Dan’s hotel a fifth time and spoke to Michael, a manager who spoke English. I apologized for not knowing Portuguese. He agreed that is probably why no one responded to my radio calls. I told him my situation and he said he would take care of me. An hour later the sun came out and the fire department arrived. Michael called the fire department. Two firemen in full issue rescue gear on a big red tug. I’d prepared a few words in Portuguese from my dictionary, but all I could do was laugh. André came aboard and we settled on Spanish for communication, but mostly we just laughed.

We devised a way to pull me off the shoal. With their dinghy André took a halyard and pulled the top of the mast over while the main boat pulled the bow forward. It took some work and some of my dignity, but we worked Shangri-La free. They towed me into the yacht club. When I arrived I was told that I could buy gas and get repairs, but I then had to be on my way because I needed to enter the country at Santos 200 miles north or Porto Allegre 250 miles south. Good thing I needed repairs. I was staying. I pretended not to understand anything else until André the fireman stepped in. Of course he knew a member of the club who spoke English, Luigi my new friend. It was settled. I could stay the week and I would receive full cooperation from the staff. What a great day it turned out to be.

A little while later I saw Dan and I broke down. All I had experienced and accomplished disappeared in the background and there was my friend. Everyone needs to test their metal, but at the end of the day your friends don’t care where you’ve been. They’re just glad to see you. “Let’s get you cleaned up and put some food in your belly. Boy, you look skinny. Where the hell you been?” The next day we were both at the airport to meet Joey’s plane.

I lived on Shangri La for a week in Punta Del Este. All the while as I was there, I was missing home and dreading the trip north. I knew what conditions to expect and, although I knew I could manage them, it would be an unavoidable “rough go.” From this point forward the prevailing winds and current would be from the north, most likely in my face. In hindsight this leg of my journey was a comedy of trials, but it was also the coups de grace. After this leg I would make some decisions that were as unavoidable as the trade winds. And like a bad story, the hardships to come were foreshadowed by the few logistics I needed to take care of before I set sail.

Shangri-La moored in Punta Del Este

My first task was to apply for a Brazilian visa. I had heard back in Namibia from a Scotsman that the Brazilians are a funny lot. I could expect to get a hard time as an American because the Brazilians feel they get a hard time from the US over entry visas. “It is the Brazilian sense of humor,” he said. Whatever I was told to expect by the Scotsman and others was reiterated in a book I began around this same time titled ”the Brazilians” by American Page. The author made it clear that the Brazilians live for the moment, but are always aware of their unrealized potential. For decades they have been promised from within and without, a vibrant economy that would become the best in the world based on their abundant labor force and unrivaled natural resources. However, recently they were ranked second, behind Africa’s Sierra Leone, for the largest gap between rich and poor. Their current leader, Lula (Da Silva), who promised to be a man of the people, has apparently sold out like so
many before him. This has further added to the collective chip on the Brazilian shoulder.

On Thursday I planned a day trip to Montevideo two hours away to get a visa at the Brazilian consulate. I ended up staying in Montevideo over night as the consul held up my visa. I was told to return the following day at noon for an appointment with the consul herself. The girl behind the counter assured me I would get it, but I would have to go through the motions. I thanked her and I hoped my smile would convey to her that I trusted her (and I therefore expected her to go to bat for this pleasant American). The joke was now on me.

I arrived Friday at noon and was made to wait until 1pm for the consul to return for lunch. My ally at least assured me that my visa was ready and waiting. When the consul arrived I greeted her with a smile and told her that I looked forward to visiting a country I had heard so many good things about. She sat me down and asked me a few harmless questions, but it was clear to me she just wanted to say something. That something was that 1 in 10 Americans has a criminal record and she considers it her duty to personally check any one she approves. I found it funny, because all the guidebooks had the courtesy to warn me of the high probability of being the victim of a crime in a Brazilian city. My smile was bullet proof. I took my visa and waved goodbye.

Over night I had received an email from North sails in Buenos Aires. The informed me that my new genoa was ready. It was weeks ahead of schedule. I had planned to have it shipped to me at a yacht club in Brazil. I was worried about getting it through customs in Brazil. Generally, things addressed to a “yacht in transit” are not taxed or held up. However, South America doesn’t play that game. They tax everything and hold it hostage till you pay. For example, the sail maker told me that if he sent it to me with a messenger in Punta Del Este, I would be charged another 400$US by customs. Well I wasn’t playing that game. I decided to pay 200$ to take the 3 hour ferry to BA and get my sail.

Since I would arrive after working hours, I had the sail maker deliver the sail to the bag check at the Hotel Hilton across from the ferry terminal. I arrived at 6pm, found a place to eat, picked up the sail and returned to Montevideo on the 8:30pm ferry. The sail is 44.25 square meters and weighs about 110lbs. It was like carrying a bale of wet hay. This trip was no fun. And it wasn’t over.

Buenos Aires from the high speed ferry

When I arrived in Montevideo, the customs agent wanted to see papers on the “merchandise.” I told him that it wasn’t merchandise. It was my sail that I had repaired in Buenos Aires. My bet was that at 11:30 at night this wasn’t worth the trouble, so I smiled and was patient with his questions. I lied that I had no papers. He didn’t know what to do so he held me until the entire ferry had disembarked. Then he called over a colleague or a boss, some big fat guy who was going to try and intimidate me into paying some kind of tax. So I went to plan B. I started yelling. Keep in mind these guys don’t speak English and my Spanish, while good now is limited. When you get angry, you just do it in your own language and let them assume the worst. I played it right. I gave them just enough trouble and they started looking at the clock. After which the proceeded to yell at each other until they finally told me to take my sail and go. I was home free.

By Sunday morning I was back at Shangri-La preparing to set sail. The visa and the sail were a good distraction from the bigger fish I had to fry—the sail north. The good news was that I would have good friends to meet me in Brazil. The not so good news was that even though at this time the wind was blowing 25 knots from the south, it was creating a 10-foot chop against the Brazil current coming from the north. That’s alot of waves over the bow. And the not good at all news was that this was the best I could expect.