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Williwaw – a deluge of wind

by Mary Anne Hajer 2015

Hajer

The Zephyr in Kwatsi Bay BC (Photo from Mary Anne Hajer collection.)

Frank and I were in our late 50s when we decided to become sailors, and as complete novices, we faced steep learning curves in all aspects of boating. The steepest of all was in our understanding of wind – the forces that generate it and the effect its strength and direction have on the water and on our boat. We tried to educate ourselves through books and boating courses, but most of what we learned about wind came through experience, by far the best teacher. For example, we only learned that winds over 15 knots were beyond our comfort zone when we went out in what used to be called a ‘small craft warning’ and discovered how little we enjoyed being bounced around in a lumpy sea like a corn kernel in a hot air popcorn maker. We learned through less than cordial encounters with both the Squamish and the Qualicum winds to pay close attention when they were forecast and go out of our way to avoid them.

While most of our experiences with strong winds have been no more than uncomfortable, a few have been frightening, and one was downright terrifying. It happened in Kwatsi Bay, a cove buried deep in the Broughtons at the northern edge of the archipelago, a lovely, secluded spot, encircled by mountains that protect it from winds blowing up and down Tribune Channel to the south and Kingcome Inlet to the north. On a sunny day, the scenery is spectacular. Even in the heavy rain that was falling the afternoon we arrived, the bay had its charm.

Unfortunately, most of the cove is too deep for anchoring. Boaters usually stay at the small marina there, but by the time we arrived, it was full. Because the nearest alternative anchorage was several hours away and we were tired, we decided to follow the lead of a handful of other boats and find a place to drop the hook. Our guide book suggested a spot on the north side of the cove, and when Frank lowered the anchor there, he could feel it grab well. The boat was closer to the rocky shore than we liked, but as we were already on the edge of the narrow underwater shelf, we couldn’t move any further out. However, although the downpour didn’t show any signs of abating, there was no wind, and we felt confident that, nestled in the sheltering mountains as we were, there would be none in the night. We closed the hatch and we went to bed.

Hajer

Kwatsi Bay BC (Photo from Mary Anne Hajer collection.)

Then, later that same night, we first heard it – a moan in the rigging, soon followed by another, and then another, the sounds growing progressively louder. It was wind, and it increased quickly in volume and intensity. Within five minutes it was howling around our little boat, forcing her to dance wildly on the end of her rode. We struggled into our rain gear. Like other boating couples, we have worked out routines for raising and lowering the anchor. We use hand signals to communicate because the distance between us makes it hard to hear each other over the sound of the engine. But it was too dark for hand signals that night, and the cacophony created by the howling wind, thundering rain, splashing waves and roaring engine made it impossible for me to hear Frank’s shouted commands. We had to scream at each other over the bedlam, and even then missed most of what was said.

Finally Frank got the anchor up and we battled our way across the bay to where we hoped we would find shelter. We didn’t. To our surprise and incomprehension, there, too, the wind was blowing towards the shore. We tried to re–anchor, but, like in the previous spot, there was only a narrow strip of sea bottom with a suitable depth. Again and again we would think we were in a good position to drop the anchor, but before it could grab, the wind blew us too close to the shore. We had to get out of there, fast, but where could we go? A few boats were anchored at the very head of the bay, so we decided to see if there was room for us as well. We weren’t sure that location would be an improvement, because we had seen a large power boat leave from it while we were trying to re–anchor, and we assumed it was for the same reason we had moved – because the wind was blowing it towards a lee shore. But we were running out of options, so we decided to give it a try.

Again, inexplicably, the wind was blowing us towards land, and we were faced with the same difficulty as before – getting the anchor down before we were on the rocks. This time, with the aid of the searchlights from the other boats, Frank managed to secure the anchor after only a couple of tries. Feeling that we were as secure as we could hope to be at that time, we turned off the engine. To our surprise, as the sound of the motor faded and died, so did the wind. Peace descended on Kwatsi Bay once again.

What had happened? Where had the wind come from and why did it seem to be blowing from every direction at once? Through our experience in Kwatsi Bay, we learned the nature of katabatic winds. We had encountered williwaws, katabatic winds that form when cold, dense air descend from coastal mountain tops or plateaus to the sea, accelerated by the force of gravity. Like water over a waterfall, this air tumbled over the mountains all around us, from every direction, so no matter where we anchored, we were on a lee shore. When all the cold air had dropped, it was as if a tap had been turned off. No more wind.

Hajer

Frank and Mary Anne (the author) Hajer in Kwatsi Bay (Photo from Mary Anne Hajer collection.)

There is not much a boater can do to avoid them because they are unpredictable and after some reflection, we came to the conclusion that those boats that up–anchored were safest. It may have been a bumpy ride but at least there was little danger of them being blown onto the rocks. So that’s what we’ll do next time – although we sincerely hope there will never be a next time.


To quote from this article please cite:

Hajer, Mary Anne (2015) Williwaw – a deluge of wind. Nauticapedia.ca 2015. http://nauticapedia.ca/Articles/Williwaw.php

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