Beware the false weather window

May 2005

By Tom Snyder

This is my harrowing story (with a happy ending) of a crossing that almost was. But first. . . a phrase – “window of opportunity” – has been migrating though our language for the past few decades. It became popular in the early days of the space program when scientists were calculating ideal launch times and re-entry patterns. Then the business community embraced the metaphor. This is understandable. Would you rather say, “We’re going after this brief window of opportunity,” or “We probably better do it soon.”

I’ve left the business world, but as a sailor, I still do windows. Windows of opportunity. In the cruising life, these windows are known as “weather windows.” It’s a new development as far as I can tell. Cruising with my family in the ’50s and ’60s, we did not have the advantage of weather windows. It went differently back then. Lying at anchor, my sisters and my mother and I would crouch down below pretending to play cards while my father stood on deck, facing the wind which inflated his foul weather gear to more than triple his normal size. (Very much like some fish.) Dad would look at the endless miles of threatening clouds and say, “We probably better do it soon.” That was our weather window.

But as I said, today we have the real “weather window,” and as a cautious and prudent mariner, I use these windows religiously. The philosophy is quite simple. Before setting sail, one should wait for a stretch of predicted appropriate weather that is long enough to allow a safe passage from point A to point B. Or vice versa. How big a weather window should one wait for? I say huge. Consider this: If you wait for a few days, the window could always get a little bigger. Often enormous, and that’s money in the bank.

Today, we have computer technology that allows us to see into the future, to virtually peer through the weather window. Computers are wonderful because they are easy to use, they always work perfectly, and they are never wrong. So now, before leaving one’s mooring, one can download what are known as GRIB files that draw a picture of the weather future right on the screen. GRIB files are very complex and hard to read, but they have the advantage of always appearing to predict bad weather. All those arrows and spikes just say “dangerous”, and this keeps us all erring on the side of caution. OR SO I THOUGHT!

So, my plan was to sail from Portland, Maine, to Boston. I’d tried to organize a horde of boats to do the journey with me, as there’s safety in numbers. The fact that no one would rally up with me should have been my first clue that I would try this passage alone.

I downloaded some GRIB files and analyzed them, which, as I mentioned before, is very hard work due to the many, many arrows. My judgment was that there was no weather window to be had. I always give myself seven to 10 days for the Portland – Boston run, and the biggest weather window I was seeing was only three to five days. So I did what good sailors do. Nothing. You wait for the window and that’s just plain good seamanship. How many times have you heard about a cruiser who insists on sticking to a schedule? The next thing you know, he’s dead.

Here’s a simple rhyme, a mnemonic device to help you remember when to stay put: “When the GRIB says no window, you should just stay put, yo.” And that’s just what I did. I got to know the island. Treated it like my home. (Which it actually is, but that’s not really the point, is it?) I talked with the colorful locals. Played with their children. Sorted out misunderstandings with the local police. That’s what you do when you don’t have a weather window. OR WHAT YOU SHOULD DO!

But like a million sailors before me, I got careless. I got the urge to go. I’m a man, flesh and blood, and the sea was calling. Foolishly I answered. I looked at those same GRIB files, but somehow this time I convinced myself that there was a window. I heard myself say, “I can slip between those two lows! I know I can! That’s a weather window!”

I was literally shouting, and I was about to enter what I call a False Weather Window, a term soon to become ubiquitous. I left anchor at 6 a.m. on a Sunday. The sea was glassy. I made good time, but guess what happened then? The damn weather window slammed shut. Bang. Weather windows don’t just shut. When they shut, they slam shut – like a conventional sash window that’s been open and then just suddenly slams shut. Open one minute, then just as suddenly shut. I was back on the mooring by 7 a.m. that very same Sunday. And I was beat up pretty good.

I have set down some deep roots on this pretty little island. The folks here treat me like one of their own. The children know me as Tom – the guy who never left.

Tom Snyder sails his Island Packet Blue Moon out of Peaks Island, Maine