Tag: Sailing

The sun is coming up behind us after a peaceful night. We’ve been gently reaching along between four and six knots with the wind on the port beam, sleeping well on our off-watches. It’s wonderful to have these calm conditions, even if it does mean we have to run the engine now and then to keep the speed up when the wind drops.

Since leaving Ile de Pins we’ve had two gales, with sustained winds over 35 knots for hours on end. Sometimes that’s OK, when the sea isn’t too rough, or when it’s blowing from behind us like it was from Tonga to Ile de Pins. That was ten days of “squash zone” winds – near gale strength, for over a week. Tiring, but when the boat is set up properly, there’s not much to do other than just run with it. The strong winds we’ve had since then have been coming from the south west – exactly where we want to be heading. So we’ve had a wiggly course with a big bend for each gale as we’ve changed direction to deal with the wind and waves better. First of all a front comes through, with gusts – sometimes over 50 knots – and rain. Then the wind backs (comes from a more anti-clockwise direction, so W rather than NW) and strengthens. We alter course so that we’re pointing as best we can towards our destination, shorten sail to just 3rd reefed main and storm jib, or sometimes when it’s consistently blowing over 40, just the main. Rafiki makes good speed up and over the waves, at about 45 degrees to the wind. Luckily we’ve never seen any dangerous breaking seas, although every now and then we’ve had hideous confused, lumpy conditions. Sometimes when we get too fast, or when the waves get choppy, the boat slams hard coming down off the back of a wave, or when a random wave comes from an unexpected angle. At first this is exhausting – the feeling that something has got to break sooner or later, but after a while I get used to it. The noise, the vibrations, poor boat. But she’s built well and I’m being careful not to push her too hard.

When the winds are up, I’m alert to every noise and movement even more than normal – the consequences of breakages or mistakes are more severe. Even though the wind hasn’t actually been very strong (a “gale” is technically only 35-40 knots), the sense of relief when the wind starts to drop off is really noticeable.

It’s a lot colder down here; we’re now at 29 degrees south and well outside the tropics. I’m wearing full UK-style sailing gear at night; fleece, big jacket, salopettes, woolly hat, boots. There’s a sleeping bag in the cockpit to keep the wind off and provide a cocoon of warmth, at least for a while while I’m sat still, reading, between the regular sail tweaks and routine checks. A double-size serving of coffee or tea in my sea-mug at the start of the watch kicks my metabolism into gear and keeps me warm.

It’s our 8th day at sea since we had a rest stop for a night in New Caledonia and we’re set up with our offshore routine now – I like taking the same watch each night, which is what we’ve been doing since about half way across – from Bora Bora I think. My day starts at 0300 when Eva wakes me for my stint in the cockpit. We always have someone on deck to deal with sail trim and watch out for ships. My watch technically lasts 4 hours till 0700, but nine times out of ten it runs well beyond 0800 while the others sleep on. I enjoy the time with the ship to myself. I send and receive emails at the end of the watch, getting an update on the weather forecast at the same time. When the others are up and we’ve handed over, I try and get on with something below decks. Read a magazine, sometimes watch a film, write in my journal. My ukulele skills are not improving very fast at all! Lately I’ve been going through my music collection, digging out gems I’ve not heard in a long time. When it’s blowing a hoolie, I generally don’t sleep much during the others’ watches, so I grab the odd half-hour or hour when I can during the day. Lunch time is always together, usually in the cockpit, and usually tuna salad with crackers. I don’t want to see another cracker or tuna salad for a long time… I rest for a while, and then I’m back on deck at 3pm for my next watch. Dave and Eva take the opportunity to go below – during the day they are on and off duty as one person. I read in the cockpit, watch the sea roll by … till 1630 which, Rafiki being a fine British vessel, is tea time. After a nice cuppa and biscuits or crisps, we have an hour or so before starting to think about dinner, always a hot meal. The weather hasn’t affected our culinary experience at all – coming into New Caledonia I was on watch dealing with a nasty bit of weather, boat heaving all over the place, rain lashing down, while Dave and Eva were down below preparing sushi rolls with the tuna we’d caught earlier in the day. Gale sushi! We’ve had lasagne, pear crumble, fresh bread … it’s just lunch that’s become a bit repetitive. After supper, I hand over the watch to Dave, and try to get some sleep. I find a cosy corner in the main cabin, positioned where I can just open one eye and see the instruments at the chart table. Combined with the noises and motion of the boat, the numbers blinking away in red lights tell me all I need to know as I doze through the night until 3am again.

So, on this calm morning, I’m sending one of our last position reports, less than 170 miles from the coast of Australia. It’s been a great 24 hour run so far – more than 120 miles. I can almost smell the eucalyptus trees. Getting quite excited now. The initial plan was to make landfall at Newcastle, just around the corner from Sydney. But now we’re making best speed possible towards Coff’s Harbour, 200 miles north, because there’s a deep and nasty looking low pressure system due to arrive off Sydney/Newcastle on Monday. We want to be safely tucked up in port by then. At the moment our e.t.a. is Saturday evening, and we have plenty of fuel to motor all the way if the wind drops. All being well, my next update will be from shore!

Two small black birds shoot up into the air from behind a wave, twisting around each other before disappearing again, temporarily hidden amongst the moving folds of the ocean’s surface. I look to see where they have gone but it’s impossible to find them. There’s so much movement out there, and the birds skim so close to the water you can only see them when they rise and are silhouetted against the sky.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a sparkle. Silver shapes skitter away on the surface, desperately trying to get away from us as we invade their wave. The flying fish are back! I’ve been surprised at how few we’ve seen over the last couple of months. There were loads on the first crossing from Mexico, along with dolphin and whales … but then almost no sea life on the open ocean until just a few days ago. This morning a small pod of dolphin came to say hello just after dawn, too.

The bigger flying fish seem solitary, powerful, confident, professional flyers, sometimes flying so far that they are too small to see before they disappear under the surface. The smaller ones scatter in panicked shoals as we approach, their immature wings and obvious lack of skill getting them over only one or two waves at best. Does a shoal of flying fish become a flock as soon as it takes to the air? For the impressive amount of time they manage to stay airborne, in the transition zone of moving wind and water, they seem as capable as any sea bird. Navigating the rise and fall of the waves just millimetres off the surface, fish or bird – the big school of the sea has taught them the same flying lessons. Except where the bird ends its dance along the surface with a swoop into the air, as though it had just been catapulted into the sky, the fish just disappears into the face of the wave with a little explosive splash. Sometimes there are so many, it looks like a machine gun being fired into the sea. When the sea is rough, their blue and silver bodies are lost from view over a blue and silver ocean, only the re-entry detonations showing that they were ever there at all.

They are amazing creatures, with huge see-through, spiny pectoral fins that act as wings, and a large lower rear fin which works as an engine to get them going. Flick flick flick, back and forth underneath them drawing lines in the sea for a few yards as they build up speed. The line stops and then swoooosh, they are in the air.

Fish becomes bird.

Sometimes, the flight ends too soon, at a distance the fish decides is not yet far enough away for comfort. Still skimming above the surface, his tail connects with the sea and flick-flick-flick, he’s off again. Sometimes he’ll make a sudden change of direction as soon as his engine touches down, his silver and blue body darting off across the waves for another fifty yards, going completely the opposite way. Amazing.

In the early hours of this morning I was lost in thought, mind wandering with the stars, enjoying the first peaceful night watch for a week. Then WHUMP! Something collided with the spray hood just behind my head. Then quiet again. Just the sound of the wind and the waves. I cautiously poked my head around the corner and a huge glistening flying fish lay stunned on the side deck, motionless. He was a monster – perhaps 30cm long, wedged between the diesel cans and a porthole. I dashed below for a camera and tried to snap a photo, just as the would-be kamikaze pilot came to his senses and started flapping about. His back was an incredible, almost iridescent blue, unlike the dark navy blue ones I sometimes find dead on the decks in the mornings. Do they change colour when they die, like mahi mahi, or perhaps there are different species? I opened out his wings to take a good look, amazed by the perfection of each spine and curve. The thick bullet shaped body was pure muscle, evolved over millions of years for explosive speed.

I was tempted to keep him for breakfast, but as he started to flap around more frantically, his mouth open gasping for water, I decided he was better off back in the sea.

It’s now the fourth day at sea since leaving Tonga, we’re heading towards the southern tip of New Caledonia, about four hundred miles into the 1100 mile passage. Apart from a short spell at the start where the wind was a bit lighter, and from astern, we’ve had three reefs in the main all the time. Until today, rain squalls were pulsing through almost non-stop, with gusty wind and no sight of the sun.

The second morning I thought dawn was never going to come. I had my coffee, munched breakfast, dealt with the squalls, and still it was dark. Low, wet, heavy clouds continued to empty themselves all around us – raining large noisy drops as it only can in the tropics. Throughout the day we had similar conditions. Rain, cloud, lots of wind.

Then last night was a bit of a mission. I took the evening watch as I was already in the cockpit in full wet weather gear, soaked through. We were approaching the Lau ridge; an area of shallow water south of Fiji, with a few reefs and “unmarked shoals”. I really wanted to get through this area before dark, and before any significant waves built up. Shallow water and big waves are not a great combination. Fortunately we had a lot of wind astern for the last couple of hours of daylight, so we powered along at 7 knots trying to get as far as we could before darkness fell. The depth sounder kept showing random shallow numbers which gave me an uneasy feeling. It has always done that from time to time, probably picking up some change in water temperature, or an upwelling of some sort. But in the dark, charging along at 7 knots, with shoal areas and an active volcanic area directly underneath, it was unsettling. By 10pm we were through. Over the ridge and into deeper water. Wind picked up, and I spent the rest of my watch juggling the genoa in and out as the squalls came through, trying to stay dry under the spray hood. I took over the watch again at 7am to the joyous sight of blue sky ahead. The cloud front moving over us to the east made a dramatic sight; a stark contrast between the dark menacing storm of the night and a promise of clear weather ahead.

Today, it’s a clear blue sky but still a howling wind. The waves are starting to build. The wind is coming from the south west at about 30 knots, pretty much exactly where we want to be going. We’re gently cruising along at about 3 knots, heading due west, climbing over each wave and falling into the trough beyond. Because we’re not moving too fast, mostly we just slide down the back of the waves. Every now and then, one’s a bit steeper and we slam into it with a crash, water spraying everywhere. It’s more comfortable than it sounds, especially now that we’ve furled the genoa and put the storm jib up instead. Apart from the crunch and slam when we hit a wave. Boat holding up well though.

Let’s see what tonight brings.

Not much action on the blog for the past couple of weeks – I’ve not been in the mood for writing. It’s been a strange period; coming to the last part of the crossing. All the island groups are now behind us so in some ways the exploration seems over, yet there are still over two thousand sea miles to go before we get to Australia. Ahead of us is a lot of time at sea, heading south, out of the tropics, into windier and colder weather. Mid winter’s day today down here in the southern hemisphere! At 18 degrees south it’s still pretty nice though. For now…

Rose is settling back into our place in Bristol, and I’m out in the boonies on the other side of the world missing her like crazy. There are so many things at home that I want to get back to, yet I don’t relish the thought of returning to crazybusyfrantic Europe. Very mixed feelings. But, sitting on the beach yesterday in the sun, carving bowls from coconuts, soaking up our last day in Tonga, I felt my mood lift. We’d filled the boat with fuel, water and food, and completed customs and immigration paperwork. We’d left Neiafu harbour and anchored in a bay around the corner; taken the physical and mental first steps towards Australia. Rafiki was ready, I was ready. The high winds we’ve been having for the last week are due to ease off over the next few days. Time to go.

So this morning we had our last swim, pulled up the anchor, and set out to sea. Clouds whooshed overhead, washing the boats at anchor in Port Maurelle with a light cool drizzle. Bright sunshine came out between the clouds, throwing vivid rainbows over the bay and lighting up the green hills surrounding us. I’ll take it as a good omen for the passage ahead 🙂

If we get decent weather I’ll catch up with writing about Niue and Tonga over the next few days.