Windswept_ The Story of Wind and Weather - Marq de Villiers [75]
VI
Sometimes weather "customers," particularly those who are especially vulnerable to storm winds, need more hand-holding than national hurricane centers are able to provide. When you're out at sea in a small boat, you listen to the marine forecasts as often as you can. It can be wonderfully pleasurable sailing the open ocean in a small boat, but terrors lurk too, and yachts will scatter like chaff when they know a hurricane is coming. To supplement the official forecasts, a curious network of amateurs has emerged, people who provide direct and personal, and therefore doubly reassuring, links between weather forecasters and sailors. David Jones, a name nicely out of maritime legend, is one of them. He is a British accountant turned Caribbean weatherman who created the Caribbean Weather Network for yachters in 1993. Based on Tortola in the British Virgin Islands, he transmits on single sideband twice a day, at seven thirty A.M. and five thirty P.M. He gives the official forecasts for the Caribbean but adds his own gloss, his own interpretation of a U.S. Navy forecasting model available on the Internet. In short order, yachting folk came to believe he was generally a day or two ahead of the National Hurricane Center.35
There are several other individuals doing the same kind of duty:
Schooner Arcadia Schooner Arcadia, this is Southbound II Coastal. Do you copy?
The voice is that of Herb Hilgenberg. He is hunched over a transmitter in the basement room that is the studio for Southbound II Coastal, his private commercial radio station. To his right, a computer screen is filling with an image of the globe as an updated satellite weather photo is downloaded, pixel by pixel. Over to his left, another computer is twittering away, compiling the raw data, isobar by isobar, that Herb has been transmuting into yachtsmen's gold—accurate weather data.
He toggles a switch. The airwaves hiss and crackle.
Schooner Arcadia, do you copy, please?
His face, amiable in repose, is furrowed in concentration.
"They're out there in the blackness of the ocean, all alone," he'd said that morning, speaking of his listeners. "The ocean can be very large, when you're all alone and an easterly gale is blowing. It's reassuring for them to hear a familiar voice." We'd been sitting in his sunlit kitchen, staring outdoors past the two satellite dishes tucked away in an L in the house, sucking data from the satellites orbiting overhead. "I'm talking to