The Indian, as we call it, is an ocean unto its own. Nobody ever considered calling it pacific. Sure, the Atlantic can kick up a bit, but that’s in winter.
On some level, it’s always winter in the Indian. It seems each time I’ve voyaged through this patch of roiled water, things have gotten weird. A number of times we’ve been sailing along with moderate but blustery conditions, a fixed wind speed, a steady barometer and a clear sky, and then all hell has broken loose. It is hard to say why conditions go from fresh to fearsome so quickly. Some say the bottom topography causes mysterious upwellings that dramatically affect the sea state. Others blame it on colliding ocean currents, with stray meanders of the Agulhas and East Equatorial clashing unseen beneath you. I am not a scientist. I cannot say. What I can tell you is that the Indian gets angry. It is as if the ocean itself becomes bulling and aggressive.