Yesterday morning the easterly trade winds arrived and blew the squally, variable weather away – yippee! Under a sky full of the little white fluffy clouds that are the sign of trade winds in the tropics, Rafiki blasted off downwind with a reef in the main out to starboard, and a three-quarter jib on the pole out to port. As the sun made its way across the sky, the 20 knot wind blowing us westward gradually added its own mix of waves to the southerly swell. By evening we were riding on an ocean of heaving water – large, but gently undulating blue, blue waves, not unkind – effortlessly lifting 7 tons of boat each time a wave passed underneath us. So different from that chaos of water we had a couple of days ago.
These waves come either from directly astern; the easterly wind waves, or from the port quarter; the southerly swell. Sometimes there’s a mix of the two wave trains, amplifying each other to make a larger peak or a deeper trough. A wave comes from behind. The stern lifts gently, we start to speed up as the boat slides down towards the bottom, the bow wave surges and gurgles, leaving a carpet of hissing bubbles rushing down each side of the boat. The wave passes ahead, we slow down as we slip down it’s back. A southerly wave comes along. The stern lifts again, but this time, pushed from the left hand side, it slides to the right as it lifts. We accelerate at an angle down the wave. The boat rolls over to starboard, tucking into the down-slope of the wave. The jib, out to port, is now almost side-on to the wind and ready to fall slack, but the autopilot has already anticipated this and the wheel automatically turns a few degrees to bring the stern around and the boat on course again. As the wave passes under us, the boat rolls back upright and slows down. There’s nothing to stop the roll so we keep going, over to the left, in the trough between the waves, ready for the next one.
When the waves are consistent, it’s a wonderful, rhythmic, peaceful yet powerful motion. 20 knots of breeze pushing hard from behind keeps the sails full, boat speed in the high sixes, and the steering responsive. A fast rushing charge down the front of the wave, a deceleration as the wave overtakes. The boat’s motion is significant; perhaps rolling 20 degrees to each side, non stop hour after hour, but it’s not violent or unpredictable. This is what tropical downwind sailing is about. The regular surge and hiss of water as each wave passes under us, making its way to the horizon … white clouds scudding across the sky above … Rafiki alone on the ocean, surrounded only by the white tips of the waves blown off by the wind.
Every now and then we get one of the mixed-up waves; a bit of east and a bit of south. The boat slides, skews and dips in a way that sets off a much stronger roll. Anything not stowed properly below falls with a crash. Usually it’s a carelessly placed mug or plate, sliding across the galley counter into the sink. At least it will be safe there. Lying on the cockpit seats, we dart out a hand or foot to steady ourselves until the boat sorts itself out. It’s almost always two rolls to each side, and then calm again. Sometimes the wind catches us at the bottom of the wave, pushing the boat further over and setting us surfing as the autopilot gets us back on track. What an incredible piece of kit- the autopilot learns from previous motion, a 9-axis gyroscope built into the computer detecting roll, pitch, yaw, rise, fall, turn, acceleration and deceleration, feeding all this into the drive unit to keep us going on an almost perfect straight course across the sea. It’s driven us pretty much all the way from Mexico.
Today, much the same. Roll left, roll right, chill out for a bit, bigger wave, bigger roll. And over again. Except today we don’t have the fluffy tropical clouds. The day started out with a clear sky which I thought meant another day of solid trade winds. A good 20 knot breeze pushed us through the morning to a passage record of 134 miles noon-to-noon, but now we have a succession of tall, billowing cumulonimbus clouds marching overhead, with variable winds. Clear blue skies are punctuated by periods of grey and a little drizzle under each beast. Every cloud that passes over kills the wind – but the waves and rolling keep going – and without wind to keep the sails full they slat and slam horribly with each roll. First the jib out to port, and then the main on starboard, going slack as the mast falls towards the water and then filling again with a slam as the boat comes upright. I feel for the poor things. And me. I just can’t rest when it’s like this. Thinking “there must be a way to improve things. Perhaps a couple of degrees course change? Or maybe sheet in or out a little?” … but often there’s nothing to do. It’s been a lot worse – and I’ve figured out that a reef in the main and a partially rolled genoa take a look of the slamming force away. When the wind fills in again after the rain, all is well again.
There’s a beautiful white tropic bird that seems to be chasing the back of the squalls. Maybe the fresh water brings some kind of food-creature to the surface? Each time the rain passes by, she comes around for another look at us. She’s pure white, apart from large black eyes, a long, slightly open curved red beak, two black paddle feet tucked underneath, and a long pencil-thin red tail. Quite a big bird. I’ve not seen this kind before. I whistle and try to attract her to the boat for some crumbs left over from crackers at lunch, but she’s more interested in diving for the fishing lines we have trailing behind. Luckily for her she misses, and flies onwards, somewhere… no land near here!
So the day goes on. Rolling, rolling, rolling. Tweaking the course a few degrees back and forth – each rain cloud alters the wind direction as it passes. My batten pocket fix a couple of days ago didn’t work. Next time the sail’s down I’ll spend more time on it. I’ve repaired two mainsail luff slides in the last couple of days; this slamming is rapidly bringing about the end of their careers. But we’re making good progress. 680 nautical miles to Niue. We’re passing over the top of the Cook Islands at the moment – Aitutaki is only 150 miles to the south – just over a day’s sail away. So tempting…. next time.
Road and Ocean 