COLD LATITUDE SAILING       There are three things (all related) that are immediately striking about high, or low, latitude sailing which define the occupation. The temperature, the light, the force of the wind. We spend our lives bathed in the spectacular light of the circumpolar regions and we go there in fear of the wind; being able to stand in some self-defined security, in awe of these natural displays is part of the reward of travel here. But it is the coldness of these places that make up a great part of the challenge.       We are always amazed, sailing through the tropics on our way to somewhere else, at how easy the sailing is. We get lazy, and there is usually a wake-up call somewhere in the high forties to get us back on track. That is not to say that feisty conditions are not encountered there, but when you can deal with a situation on deck in your underpants it just doesn't have the same gravity to it. Everything works better when it's warm; muscles, motors, batteries, lubricating oil, to name a few. We thought nothing of casting off the lines to cross the Atlantic from Newfoundland, for instance, without being particularly ready for it, knowing that in a few days the temperature would rise along with our ability to deal with problems as they cropped up. Not so in the Southern Ocean. We would never venture into these waters without satisfying ourselves that we were at the highest level of preparedness possible. Even with the best available equipment, low temperatures strictly limit the time that you have to deal effectively with emergency situations. For most cruising sailors it is enough to simply arrive at the destination, that is the challenge and the reward, but we most always have an ulterior motive for the visit. It is very hard to make a start on complex projects if you have expended all your energy just getting across the ocean, so most of our preparation involves taking as much pain out of the crossings as possible.       So how cold is cold and how do we combat it? Sailing is a relatively sedentary occupation and it is rare that physical activity will keep you warm as it does whilst climbing. In sailing terms, the coldest it is likely to get is about -5° C. (23° F.). Any colder than this and it is unlikely to be long before the sailing season is over! Any temperatures below about 10° C. (50° F.) are likely to cause some discomfort though, especially in the wet and humid environment of a sailboat. On a boat, nearly all problems are dealt with through manual dexterity, and it is the hands that are the most difficult to keep warm. If you cannot grip a lifeline, for instance, you'll not be able to save yourself even if your body core is still warm. Cold belongs to that most insidious set of dangers that could be termed background hazards which seem to selectively kill the most experienced of people simply because they become complacent or fatigued with dealing with them on a day to day basis. The mountaineer that loses a glove descending a mountain and freezes to death because he can't zip up his parka, the driver that doesn't fasten his seatbelt because he's just going round the block, the veteran sailor that dies on a motorway in Rio because he trips over his loose sandal: all examples of dropping ones guard to the background hazard. The effect is even more amplified when we have a large crew aboard. We are always accused of being anal about the smallest of details, such as always wearing a survival suit in the dinghy, but this stems from the fact that we just get used to looking for the little hazards that will eventually kill us if we subdue our awareness of them for the sake of popularity.       The main weapons against the cold are sleep, food, heating and organization. Long ago I remember spending a week exploring a cave in New Zealand. Whilst I was disorganized and cold most of the time and unable to accomplish much except shiver in my sleeping bag, one of my companions was exploring happily at the farthest reaches of the cave. His philosophy was, "No matter how far you go, always have some place nearby that at least feels like home, even if it's only the ability to make a cup of tea and have a snooze there." Even a small measure of comfort close at hand can allow one to push harder into the void. This lesson we took to heart on Northanger. Up on the mountain, we can look back to the boat and see that there is some measure of security there, even if it is only psychological. The heater is always going, the bunks are always dry and there's a mountain of food ready to be cooked; with the boat secure we can concentrate on the task at hand.       There is a cost to all this of course. On expedition, we are always busy, too busy to be able to sit still and "absorb the surroundings" which is part of the joy in being in these places. Over time though, by osmosis, one develops a working relationship with the environment which is infinitely more rewarding than just gazing at it and not knowing it. ...return to BACKGROUND index page