Foul weather friends

Without risk there is no adventure. In the dark places of a passage-makers mind there are scenarios that few like to ponder. Problems that might suddenly make a yacht unseaworthy and a long way from help. On passage from Noumea to New Zealand, we came face to face with one of these problems. It felt like a sea monster had clambered up the transom, slithered into the saloon and said "Right. I'm your worst nightmare, and I'm here to stay" - then started happily punching holes through the hull.

And so it was: 400m from Noumea, beating into 20kts when a loud bang came from the bow. Pandemonium reigned on the foredeck. I had literally no idea what had happened, only that something was very wrong. But then pieces of situational awareness filtered through: the furling drum was leaping around and hammering the foredeck, enraged by a full headsail flogging heavily. Our forestay chainplate had parted. Our mast was in imminent danger of crashing to the deck.

All hands rushed on deck with their life jackets, and we immediately bore off downwind in hope of saving the mast. We discussed priorities: number one was to get all spare halyards to the bow as a jury rigged forestay. And tame that slapping furling drum. Over the next hour, one crew member crocodile-wrestled the furler to fix a stabilising line so another could fix halyards to the bow drum tight. We dragged the headsail to deck. The mast was raked back at an unnatural angle, but gloriously, it was upright.

The immediate problem addressed, we brainstormed mid-term scenarios on a scrap paper to get some clarity of how to get to shelter. While considering whether to head on 400nm to NZ under jury-rig, the only credible option was to motor to shelter at Norfolk Island before attempting repairs. We contacted RCC Australia to let them know the situation and our plans, with 6-hourly check ins. Norfolk was 80nm to the east and Quickstar limped into Sydney Bay early on Saturday morning in bleary-eyed sunshine.

We drank Norfolk’s verdant shore. It was wonderful to see, but I knew there were no all weather anchorages, no harbour and no yacht facilities. I had a rumbling thought of being stranded for weeks before getting seaworthy again all the while keeping an eye for major weather systems coming through. 

We notified Australian Border Force on the way of arrival under duress and they were very helpful, and put us in touch with Kevin from KC Engineering. Within 3 hours of dropping anchor, Kevin had organised the broken chain plate to be taken ashore by local boat. And incredibly, within 8h of anchoring, and on a Saturday, Kevin had completed fabrication of the new chainplate in 316 and organised for it to be delivered by local fishing boat at 6am the next morning. On Sunday morning Dean came onboard to help as re-attach the forestay. Within 10 minutes Dean had showed us what we needed to do, from his extensive boatbuilding and yacht experience, and by a contrivance of winches, furrowed brows and gently persuasive language, we reattached the forestay with whoops of joy from everyone aboard. Scotty proclaimed it one of the best days of his life.

We were gobsmacked by the willing help of the Norfolk Islanders, and could not have got this much done berthed in a major Sydney marina on the weekend, let alone at anchor on an isolated island.

Shore landing can be tricky at Norfolk - local boats are craned in and out of the water - but we managed to get ashore in Little Ripper where and customs and biosecurity met us.

Counting our lucky stars for the change in fortune and with beaming smiles, we had the chance to tour the beautiful island for the afternoon and have a solid meal and coffee. Onward. Quickstar departed peacefully into the inky, moonless night, with a swift and calm run to Opua, New Zealand, 4 days later.
 

FACING IT

My slumber lately has been less peaceful than in previous months as I find my subconscious self trapped in situations beyond my control and wake exhausted from the effort of trying to overcome strong forces that cannot be subdued with reason.  The first night I dreamed of sharks pursuing me along a sea wall as I tried to keep a small child out of harm’s way; I was only partially successful.  The following night I was in a dinghy being towed in such a way that I was repeatedly tipped into the water, leaving me to defend myself from the attacking crocodile with an aluminium and plastic oar.  Dolphin and Squid took bets on what viscous sea creature would menace me the third night and their choices made me thankful their imaginations don’t inhabit my sleeping mind.

I know myself so I know what these dreams mean.  There is a dark cloud hovering on my horizon and it is the fear of the Tasman crossing.  I am not worried for our safety as I have absolute confidence we will arrive in Australia unharmed.  Our plan is to go where the winds and seas push us most comfortably.  The east Australian coast is vast and can accommodate such an open-ended plan.  As long as there is some westerly progress being made each day we will be heading in the right direction.  My dark cloud is sea sickness and it particularly bothers me for this passage as it is notoriously tough (there is a reason why insurance companies double your excess in these waters) and so long that weather predictions for the end of the journey become more guess and less science.  For me, the wind can blow as it will and I am ok with that, but when the seas rage in confusion I am awash in a fog that will not lift.  The Squid revels in the telling of my most horrid passage from Fiji to Vanuatu; just ask him, he will be happy to tell you how unwell I was then.

To escape fear, you have to go through it, not around it.  Its ok to be scared.  Being scared means that you’re about to do something really brave.  I have to ask myself what do I fear more?  Being sick and useless for part of the passage or not doing the passage at all?  I could avoid the journey and fly across the Tasman, but then I would stay as I am, and that is not what this year has been about.  I want to be more than I was, and I must accept that this transformation will cause a little discomfort along the way.  The reluctance we have at taking a shot at something in life lives in the fact that there are no guaranteed outcomes, and this has the power to paralyse us.  I have no idea what state the seas will be in for our trip, but that uncertainty should not stop me from finding out first hand.  These shadows will always be there in our lives, that’s part of our humanity.  We need to learn to dance through the darkness so we can come out into the light.

So, I remind myself of what I say to my brave little Dolphin each time we are preparing to leave our anchorage and stray from the coast.  She also suffers from sea sickness and the dread of any venture offshore leaves her desolate.  I remind her that we have planned well and each bit of information gathered tells us this is a good time to go.  We have every reason to believe we will be fine, so being torn apart by the fear of what may never eventuate only diminishes the wonder of the good things we will find along the way.

I should be thinking about what I most love during long passages.  I love the vast expanse of sea and sky that surrounds me with no interruption.  It is endless and immense, bestowing upon me such a feeling of freedom.  I love the sky at night and gazing into the unimaginable distances from which the light of millions of stars shines down upon me during night watches.  The Milky Way seems so mighty in the dark sky that melts into the horizon but is then swallowed gently by the sunrise.  I love the deep blue of several kilometres of water below our boat.  The colour is like nothing that we see on land or near the coast and on calm days I watch the rays of sunlight descending into its depths and disappear.  I love the beauty of covering long distances without seeing another boat.  The isolation brings a sense of peace.  I love the joy of travelling so far on the power of the wind.  We can move through Nature without hurting her.  As I consider all these things my excitement for the passage builds and I can’t imagine any other path back to Australia than on QuickStar.

Land is the secure ground of home, the sea is like life, the outside, the unknown.  Stephen Gardine

ELEMENTAL

The feet I see when I look down are not the same feet that were there a year ago.  Those feet lived a cloistered life, kept sheltered from the world within shoes and socks.  They were mismatched with their adjoining limbs, a pale and delicate distant relative of the feet I now have.  They have been replaced by a pair of brown feet, rich as Manuka honey and washed clean by the ocean every day. They now transition seamlessly to my ankles and legs, like they are part of the one, not an attachment.  They appear much more capable, and indeed they are.  The soles of my new feet have been rubbed smooth over many months of barefoot wandering.  From the yellow sands of Fiji, to the black volcanic beaches of Vanuatu, the white powder of New Caledonian atolls and the pebbly coarseness of the New Zealand coast, each step with Nature has left its mark.  As they feel different to touch so too does a touch feel different.  Exposure has worn them down yet created a protective barrier against the land beneath me.  Possibly, I could take up fire walking.

At the other end of my body Nature has also left her mark.  My hair has recovered the golden hues of childhood, dispelling those myths that our hair loses its richness of colour as we age, rather we let our time spent outside slip away from us.  On passages, Dolphin curls up in my arms and rests her head on my shoulder, letting my hair mingle with hers.  No longer is there need to ponder where the colour in her hair comes from as the shades of sunset live equally in both of us.  The patches of grey are still with me; I have not gone so far as Dorian Gray in my journey back in time, but the blond from sun time hides them well.  It has been ten months since my hair was cut, so my style has by default become windswept and salt slicked; there is no fighting the strong gusts that whip the ocean into a frenzy and send sea spray over me.

I have been physically changed by the elements, so it prompts me to question if my reacquaintance with Nature has changed me in other ways.  I am made up of all that flows to me from thousands of sources, and with the built world receding from my range of influence, Nature has been allowed to get the upper hand.  She is a powerful force, one which I can’t influence, and she has shaped the rhythm of each day for me.  I hope I have taken from this experience a little more patience, the ability to relinquish some control and the flexibility to adapt more willingly to a new path I hadn’t planned on travelling.  When you stop fighting the omnipotence of Nature and surrender to her higher power there comes a sense of peace and your energy is working with, rather than against her.

I love my new feet and hair and how they have been transformed by the elements just as the land around me has.  I feel closer to the bare coastline that is moulded by the relentless assault of water, wind and sun; we are both bleached, shaped and washed clean by the same forces, we have a bit of common ground.  For thousands of years Nature has driven the imagination, language, song, dance and story of humans, so it makes sense that we don’t lose touch.

You didn’t come into this world.  You came out of it, like a wave from the ocean.  You are not a stranger here.  Alan Watt

MY YEAR WITHOUT PANTS

Wearing pants has been optional for the QuickStar crew this past year, and more often than not we have opted out.  Our endless summer has aided the pursuit of this state of undress and the limitation of fresh water for regular washing has justified it.  Humbolt Squid, as the youngest crew member, has revelled more than most in his state of pantlessness, swinging freely from halyards in his undies; there are many more important things on which to spend one’s time each day than getting fully dressed.  The absence of pants is just part of the heightened level of freedom that Squid and Dolphin have been blessed with this year, allowing them the uncommon privilege of a less structured childhood experience.

Childhood affords us many freedoms as we glide through life blissfully unmindful of anything that exists outside our pivotal point of reference - our own self.  It is a time when we are unhindered by the constraints of responsibility and societal expectations, but with no knowledge that these things exist we can’t yet fully appreciate the joyous freedom that is temporarily ours.  Childhood is a unique time of unencumbered exploration, where a future adult’s views of the world and their place in it are formed.  Ideally a child would be set loose to determine their own path and make mistakes along the way, but that doesn’t always happen these days.  Children are scheduled with military precision into an array of suitably supervised activities with predetermined outcomes.  Their goals are decided for them and how they will be achieved is carefully laid out.  Skills are acquired, but not organically, so some of the truest experience of learning is lost.

While we have been away, there have been no swimming, drama, music or dance lessons, weekly soccer training or taekwondo is a distant memory and not a single scheduled weekend sporting activity has been present in our lives.  Yet our children have danced barefoot with old cultures, learned the beat of traditional songs, swum hard to keep up with giant manta rays and tumbled through schools of tropical fish.  They have carried soccer balls to remote villages and taken off their shoes to run and play with the local children.  They have rowed the dinghy ashore on their own, armed with a bottle of water, a VHF radio and independence, their only instructions being to play.  They now say with confidence and calmness, “I’m taking the SUP out for a paddle”, knowing they are free to explore the bay where we have anchored.  These are not one off instances, but form the general ebb and flow of their lives.  They have been free to wander, making mistakes along the way and seeing how their actions have consequences.  They have achieved much, and feel good about themselves despite the absence of plastic trophies.

Rowdy Hill sums up this type of childhood existence.  The water children of a Northland sailing village have created their own secret village in the hills.  Roles are defined; Dolphin is the carver, using the multi-tool she proudly bought with her pocket money, and Squid is the shop assistant trading in a currency of silver ferns.  They have come up with four simple rules governing the village, attached to a tree on display for all to see.  They are born from their experience of what creates a harmonious society and the need for some shared values to be agreed in order for Rowdy Hill to function: 1 Bring your own materials to build your own structure; 2 Don’t damage or change other’s structures; 3 Don’t cut down any living trees; 4 Take your rubbish away with you.  The children are left to their own devices, designing the village, gathering the materials needed and working together to achieve the goals they have set themselves.  Dolphin sighed deeply at the end of a day of construction, acknowledging how hard it was to get design consensus; she was not complaining, just noting the life lesson she had learned.  Squid returned enraged another day, barely able to express his anger at a live tree being cut down for one of the shelters.  These experiences found their way into the Rowdy Hill Constitution.  Left to learn in freedom and without adult guidance, these children have done well, they have done very well.

I’m not sure where my children will sit amongst the graded order of numeracy skills and swimming levels when we return to Sydney.  Perhaps I have failed dismally at imparting problem solving algorithms learned by rote to get them through maths tests, and although their underwater swimming is strong, it might not fit with the requirements of the Marlin swim class.  But I think they have gained the skills needed to help themselves find a means to fill in the gaps that are important to them.  Their year without pants has upskilled them in ways a classroom could not and I hope that in years to come they will look back affectionately on this time of freedom and learning.

TONGARIRO

It’s dark outside and the crew is reluctant to stir but goes about preparing for the day with a sense of quiet purpose.  I’m worried that several nights in the comfort of a land house has softened us: unlimited water, beds that don’t move, space for solitude and, most spectacularly, a dishwasher, have combined to rinse out our salty souls.  We haven’t abandoned QuickStar just yet, we are merely taking a holiday away from her to make another small dream come true; I want to hike the arduous 20km Tongariro Alpine Crossing with my family.  The physical journey itself is a challenging prospect, not the least because of the age of our younger trampers, however the greatest obstacle to overcome today is to not keep moving for some future goal but to appreciate each step that takes us to here.  Time to breathe in deeply and put one foot in front of the other.

“Look at the mountain!  Look at the sky!” exclaim Squid and Dolphin, shaking us out of our silent preparations.  As light melts over the horizon the day is dressed in the beauty of morning and Nature is doing all she can to encourage us out into her embrace.  We drive through a veil of mist and the mountain is gone.  We emerge from it like a swimmer breaking the surface and the world reappears clean and crisp.  Who wouldn’t want to cross Tongariro on a day like this?

The initial hike in is quite flat and we feel good about what lies ahead as the first few kilometres recede and Mt Doom looms large ahead with the volcanic moonscape surrounding us.  It’s easy to distract ourselves with talk of other worlds and take in the things close to us: Few plants can grow here; This rock is shaped like a heart; Touch the soft and furry leaf; Look at the steam venting; Feel the chill in the wind from the south; See the snow on the distant mountain.  These things we notice along the way.  The land has a story to tell us, we just need to be present and pay attention to what it is saying.  So, on we go, we have a long way still, but no hurry, just one step after the next, with a steady stream of talk from Squid about Minecraft to keep us entertained.

We start to climb and it is steep, these devilish stairs make it hard not to focus on the top.  We try to let each step count, to be important rather than merely a means to an end.  The key to our success is quickly emerging – food and conversation.  If we keep these things flowing we seem to stay rooted in the present.  The sides of the mountain are important, without them there would be no top.  With relief, we crest the rim of the Red Crater and take in the view of another land laid out in front of us.  We are not far in distance from the world we know, just separated by effort and will to do something special.

Now we head down.  The descent starts with the treachery of a screed covered slope.  One step forward.  Slip another.  Try to stay upright.  Shoes filling with the mountain.  We have no choice but to focus on each foothold otherwise we will find ourselves at the bottom much faster than we would like.  The Emerald Lakes appear and there is no need to check the map to confirm that’s where we are.  It is easy to see why this place is sacred as we gaze upon the milky green-blue depths with steam venting all around.  The gods show their love in the warmth of the water and their anger in the fiery mountains that have been stripped bare.  We respect the gods and don’t touch the water.

It is the half way point.  We can’t see where we started but the end is taunting us below.  The final descent is a torment of switchbacks, there to ease us down the mountain while they add a few thousand more paces to our journey.  Still we talk and notice the changes.  There are now plants and they steadily rise in height as the oxygen increases until we are surrounded by a canopy of green with rushing streams along the way.  The forest separates us from sight of the end point and there is no way to measure our progress over the last three kilometres.  Almost there, just keep going.

Within minutes of our return to the car, the physical journey of the day becomes a thing of the past, but it’s all still there in our souls. The craters, the lakes, the sky, the company and the conversations, they will grow brighter, sweeter and more beautiful in the days to come. 

SLOW CHRISTMAS

It’s one week until Christmas and I just rolled out of the hammock where I was reading a book while sipping a cup of tea.  The breeze is light and the sunshine is warm and comforting.  Today has been declared (by the Dolphin and Squid) an official day of relaxation on board QuickStar and I am doing my best to oblige.  This is the first time in recent memory I have been one week out from Christmas and swinging indulgently in the wind rather than battling head on into a strengthening gale force of deadlines.  There is usually an urgency that demands order and completeness be achieved by December 25, or else… Or else what?  Most likely my world will not crumble and cave in around me if I let a few things slip.  Nor will there be a flow on effect through the universe, dragging those around me into a black hole of hopelessness.  In fact, I expect January is a perfectly fine month in which to tick things off the to do list and close out various projects.

Slow Christmas comes to us with many months of learning to live more deeply as the beauty in detail has time to burst into life in front of us.  We have been practising spending longer doing less.  That 7km walk last week in search of a coffee is what has replaced a dash in the car to` a café where we have ordered ahead on Hey You for quick coffee collection.  Rather than a rushed snap shot as we passed through our last anchorage, the Captain took the time to sketch the steeply rising cliffs around us.  When a passage of 40nm is all you can do in a day, there is no option but to take it easy and relax into the journey.

I have fallen out of the habit of busyness and am finding contentment in taking longer to do less.  Along the way, I have discovered that I am still valuable.  My happiness is not related to the number of actions achieved each day, but the grace with which I make my way through the day.  Much better to stop with the Squid and examine in detail the action of ants on a bush track than trample them as we rush by on the way to our way to the next pit stop.

Going Rogue, Just Like the Famous Five

It was a mysterious island, lonely and beautiful. All the children stood and gazed at it, loving it and longing to go to it. It looked so secret - almost magic.
“Well,” said Jack at last. “What do you think? Shall we run away, and live on the secret island?”
“Yes!” whispered all the children. “Let’s!”

Enid Blyton, The Secret Island

I have consumed a lot of Enid Blyton in my life and in recent times, reading her stories to Squid and Dolphin, I have marvelled at the earnest seriousness with which her young seekers of justice follow clues in their search for truth.  It wasn’t something I was aware of as a child, absorbed in these tales of adventure, in fact I was swept along with them, imagining myself inside the story, sure of how I would act in these situations.  So, when we found ourselves entwined in a sleuthing adventure with a mystery to solve, it was strange to find us more akin to Julian, Dick, George, Anne and Timmy the Dog rather than Jason Bourne, as I would have hoped.  It goes something like this…

The QuickStar crew along with the brave adventurer Cap’n Scrumpy (a pirate of 273 years, so he tries to convince the children), were anchored in the exotic idyll of an uninhabited lagoon in the northern Loyalty Islands.  I had explored the crystal blue waters of Ouvea earlier that fateful morning and found them teeming with fish, including sharks of a size and colour that did not resemble the small reef dwelling variety with which we were familiar.  I’d like to say that I fearlessly continued to paddle the lagoon, but I was a little spooked by the shark that had decided to pursue me on my SUP so I headed back to the boat.  At this point I slipped into Famous Five mode, telling the shark with a stern voice of righteousness to ‘Go away and leave me alone!’  I possibly spoke these words with a British accent, but I can’t be sure.

Laughing in the face of danger, later that day we headed back to the lagoon for some snorkelling.  Crew QuickStar jumped into the water leaving Cap’n Scrumpy on lookout duties, with the agreement he would start his outboard if danger was spotted.  Not the greatest plan considering he has only one eye and his outboard is somewhat unreliable, but at least it was a plan.  Having survived the snorkelling expedition, we continued to the beach for some land time.  On our way, we passed over the top of a 3.5m shark and felt thankful we hadn’t seen it while below the surface. Dinghies beached, we looked around for a while, returning to our tenders only to find an iPad stolen from one and an iPhone gone from the other.  And so, the adventure began.

The lagoon was deserted except for two spear fishermen who had gone ashore a few hundred meters away; the list of suspects was short.  Add this to the footprints leading away from our dinghies in their direction, we had our first clue – smashing!  Quickly our plan materialised: Scrumpy would take the Squid and Dolphin back to the boats to secure them while Aubrey and I went in search of the thieves.  Running high on emotion (we were failing early one to channel the spirit of Jason Bourne) we sped as fast as our 5hp engine would take us and found our way to a lean-to camp.  Our rather noisy arrival had alerted the thieves who fled, leaving the fish still cooking on the fire.  Disappointed at not being subtler in our approach, we searched for clues.

Joined by Scrumpy and the kids, we looked for identification, took photos and scoured the surrounding area.  Scrumpy, who admits that he is given to reacting without thinking things through, seized the thieves stash of whacky tobaccy and emptied it onto the smouldering fire.  As a thick, sweet smelling haze filled the clearing, we decided it was time to clear out the children and head back to our boats.  We needed to work out our next move.

A reward!  Brilliant!  Reaching into the depths of his memory to recall a few words schoolboy French learned during the ‘80’s, Aubrey sent text messages with offers of Pacific francs for the safe return of the iPhone.  Or possibly he insulted them frightfully, likening their mother to a rabid squirrel, we can’t be sure.  Our options were to head for a village to report the incident or have another crack at getting the devices back.  Clearly, I had read more sleuthing stories than Aubrey or Scrumpy, and managed to convince them to come ashore again. 

Leaving the kids on board to manage any distress calls we may issue via VHF, we approached with stealth, beaching the dinghy away from the camp and creeping through the bush.  Thankfully, we had all watched enough Hollywood special forces movies to ensure the hand signals for stop, crouch and advance were understood as we crunched through the undergrowth in terry towelling hats.  Just short of the camp, we regrouped and asked each other what the plan was – clearly, we had forgotten to come up with one.

It was decided to understate the extent of our force so we just sent in Aubrey.  ‘You’ve got to be prepared to defend yourself! Do you have a weapon?’ was the helpful input from Scrumpy.  I tried balancing this with ‘Make sure you smile.  Practice your smile before you go in. Show me!’  Armed with these words and a few 10,000CPF notes, off went Aubrey to negotiate with the happily stoned Kanaks (we had failed to find their reserve stash – probably a good thing).  Aubrey, having almost no French beyond croissant, and the thieves, having no English, meant not a great deal of progress was made and soon Aubrey emerged with one machete carrying teenager.  I managed to introduce myself and get his name, then while he was staring into the middle distance in a cannabis induced state of calm I snapped a photo of him.  We left the lagoon with no phone but more evidence.

It was time to enlist the assistance of the authorities so we sailed off the next morning.  First stop was the village of the local chief.  Unfortunately, he had died last year and his wife was in Noumea shopping, however the thieves were easily identified from the photo and turned out to be known trouble makers.  We then sailed to the next village to file a report with the gendarmes, waiting until after they finished their lunch break.  Inside their compound, Squid and Dolphin played with the police goat and Scrumpy dozed in the afternoon sun while Aubrey and I completed an official report with the help of Google translate.

While we acted more like Enid Blyton characters than highly trained intelligence operatives, the story did not have a Famous Five ending; the iPhone and the iPad are gone forever.  We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that we had a marvellous adventure and there was nothing further left to do but settle in for some refreshing lemonade and scrumptious chocolate cake.

Six months in (a leaky boat)

This time last year we were dreaming of something beyond most people’s comprehension, and indeed at the time beyond ours.  We were planning to act upon an idea that would cause great upheaval to our lives and jolt our children into a different way of being and thinking.  Was it wisdom or insanity to sail off with two children in tow?  We are six months into our journey and now might be a good time to look back.  Generally, I don’t like to spend time in the realm of retrospect.  It can be a place of judgement and disappointment, whereas the future holds boundless possibilities.  As an 18-year-old backpacker my mantra was to never regret anything I had done, only that which I had failed to do.  Those words were protection against all the mistakes I was making as I ventured out into the world on my own for the first time.  I was moving forward, filling my life with new experiences, but at the same time I left in my wake a trail of mishaps and misfortunes, which I decided to glance back on with the satisfaction of what I had learned rather than the regret of what I had been through.  I prefer to see my glass as half full.

There are many truths in this world and not all have the solidity of science to hold them up as unshakeable.  On the contrary, most truths stand on unstable ground and are merely a matter of perspective.  So with our lives being lived on rolling seas tethered to the earth by a swinging chain, our perspective has changed a little.

Some changing truths are simple to accept and these include:

·       Living with your family in an uncomplicated, confined space does not send your crazy, in fact it can be liberating.

·       A fridge is a domestic bonus not a necessity, as proven by ten weeks without one in the tropics.

·       The world doesn’t fall apart without internet.  Thank you Vanuatu for your appalling mobile data infrastructure allowing us to focus on where we were at the time.

·       There are probably 101 ways to cook cassava, but I will probably just stick with two.

·       Kids are actually happy to have a shower, but maybe that was only when it had been a few weeks since the previous fresh water immersion for Squid and Aqua.

·       One pair of shoes is all you need in the tropics.  But if you don’t count thongs/jandals/flip flops as shoes then you don’t need any.

·       A weather report can be complete without any mention of sun, cloud or rain, as long as wind is covered we have all that is needed.

·       Everything takes longer than expected on a boat.

·       Boats leak.  All of them.

Some changing truths are harder to come to terms with than others.  Accepting them may mean we might not have lived up to our own expectations, failed in some way or have just been walking along the wrong path for a while.  Some of these truths I am coming to terms with are:

·       Being a mother and a teacher isn’t always the beautiful, enriching experience I thought it would be.  It is a hard combination of hats to wear and I haven’t always pulled it off.

·       Similarly, being a wife and a crew member isn’t something I have always handled with grace.  The Captain did comment once that the joy of having non-family crew on board was that they don’t question instructions; I guess some habits are hard to break.

·       One size does not fit all for education and good outcomes cannot always be easily measured by a standardised test.  My children do not fit conventional moulds in every way and those differences should be celebrated, not feared.

·       I am an inexperienced amateur in this world of ocean sailing and all my city learning means nothing our here when things go wrong.  The best I can do is hold myself together in tough situations and work through it. Thanks to Albus Dumbledore for letting me know this is ok when he said “It is our choices that show what we truly are far more than our abilities.”

·       Money can be a hindrance to two parties getting what they need.  My experiences in trading were some of the most mutually satisfying interactions with island villagers.

·       Security does not come from what I have but what I can do.

But the biggest truth to face up to is did we do the right thing.  Can I look into my heart and say with absolute honesty that this change in lifestyles has been a positive experience and worthwhile for not just me but the whole family?  Launching into the unknown, there is a fine line we tread with success and failure sitting on either side.  Now, with four countries and many sea miles behind us, I know we have landed on the right side of that line.

Awaken you spirit to adventure; hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk.  Soon you will be home in a new rhythm, for your soul senses the world that awaits you.  John O’Donohue.

Goodbye

I’m feeling a little anxious, somewhat agitated at times and every now and then I get teary.  It is October and the prevailing weather conditions will soon be changing.  The trade winds that we bank on to spend half the year safely in the South Pacific Islands will start to become erratic and unreliable.  This shift brings and end to the cruising season.  Talk has moved from favourite anchorages and places visited to weather windows and clearance requirements.  There is a mass exodus, almost exclusively west and south, as boats seek shelter for the cyclone season.

Goodbyes now carry a heavier weight.  For the past six months pulling up anchor and waving farewell to nearby yachts has been easy.  We have known with reasonable certainty that saying “See you soon” will hold true, and that somewhere, without planning, we will happily bump into these cruisers again.  Friends made in Fiji over a shared experience of swimming with Manta Rays sail back into our lives two countries later.  While our plans are all different and remain uncertainly written in the sand, there is a flow and rhythm to the pattern of cruising boats as they move west during the season.  Nature is gently pushing us in the one direction; our paths are sure to cross again so goodbye is not weighted down by finality.

There is now a permanence to saying goodbye, so it is harder.  A few days ago we waved farewell to two boats of dear friends.  These are friendships forged through good times and disappointments, through disasters and wondrous adventures.  They are people we have relied upon and who have turned to us in times of need.  Through cruising, we have all acted upon a shared dream that not many others have or understand, and from this grows bonds that quickly tie us together and will not easily be broken.  One boat departed with my home made fruitcake and some of our antibiotics, the other left us with their favourite boat game.  They are small offerings but filled with meaning to show an understanding of who we all are and the connection between us.  The poignancy of these gifts make the goodbyes even harder – they know who we are and we see who they are too.

We understand well that nothing stays the same; we have let go of a lot this year, but many of the gaps have been filled with beautiful friendships that we will always hold close to our heats.  So farewell to our friends heading to Australia.  To these people go the more difficult goodbyes – we aren’t sure if our paths will cross again.  To the boats sailing south to New Zealand, we prefer to say with hope that we will see you on the other side.  To all, fair winds and following seas.

Remote

Remote conjures images of isolated locations, kept separate from us by hundreds of miles and an arduous journey.  The geographical definition for remoteness is shifting for me as I become more used travel that is a many-day experience and our comfort (or more often discomfort) is out of our control.  A day of beating into the wind, slamming through steep seas, having gained only a little ground and left feeling seasick and exhausted, is my new reference point for a journey.

A dot in the Pacific might be a long way from anywhere, but it is what we find at each dot that now defines remoteness.  There is a level of connectedness that we have become used to in cities; through technology and industrialisation, we are never far from a reliable supply of whatever service, product or piece of information we need.  However, when this ease of connection is taken away – no internet, no motorised transport in or out, unreliable and limited supply chains – then a new definition of remote takes over.

On the small (we could walk around it in an hour) island of Uliveo, less than a day of sailing from Port Vila, this sense of remoteness was what we found.  There is no internet or phone coverage and they travel to other islands in outrigger canoes.  At the shop (which was opened on our request) my purchase of 2 bottles of oil depleted a quarter of the stock and we had ten times more tinned fish on the boat than they had on the shelves.  One entrepreneurial resident of Uliveo built two holiday bungalows on the water, with just a phone number and email address as a point of contact.  But the only tourists to the island come by yacht, and there is no website for prospective travellers, so the bungalows are likely to remain empty.  The entrepreneur died recently just after completion of the villas; word on the island is that people became jealous and black magic was involved with his demise.  Uliveo is remote.

I am now quite comfortable spending extended periods in communication black spots; I have forgotten what my ring tone sounds like and that makes me smile.  When we are remote, I love the simplicity of limited choices; the people in the canoes ask what food I would like and I respond quite truthfully that I am happy with whatever is available.  We signed the guest book at Uliveo and found we were just one of a few yachts stopping there each year.  On returning to Vila, we have “good” internet, large supermarkets and an international airport all near our anchorage.  We are no longer remote and that sense of calm I felt on Uliveo slips away a little.  Tomorrow we set sail for New Caledonia and I am looking forward to seeing nothing but ocean in all directions.