Our intrepid weather router - an Australian meteorologist - gave us a green light via satphone to head straight for the top of NZ. This would set us up to round Cape Reinga in the right combination of wind and tide. Sailing is freedom, but a freedom in conversation with weather, equipment and time, and almost always a compromise, for we would make landfall in the dark.
We were in the closing phase of the passage, and the wind moved to the beam, so comfort was better, and were honking along through the late afternoon at up to 9 knots. A game of wind proof Othello broke out on the cockpit table and we sang badly to David Bowie.
As dusk approached, the first call of land brought everyone up on deck. We knew it was close. After 9 days at sea there were several eye-strained and dubious land-sightings from smudges on the horizon. Then Hawkeye spotted the Three Kings islands to port, unmistakable. We headed onward toward Cape Reinga, feeling that maybe, just maybe, we weren't where we were supposed to be. Reason said we should have seen the Cape by now. We had not. GPS says we are on track. Continue into the dusk and watch.
I hoisted two flags in anticipation - the NZ flag as a courtesy to our host country, and the yellow Q flag, which signals the yacht is from overseas and is Customs non grata. Scotty took the watch and I went below to rest, lying on the lounge in a steamy fug of all-weather gear, harness, lifejacket and sea boots. It’s huge comfort to be part of a willing and capable crew. We have got on so well for the journey and I lie peacefully. It’s dark an hour later when I come back to the cockpit. The lighthouse of Cape Reinga flashes ahead a fraction above the horizon. We check the charts and match the flash sequence. Confirmation. Landfall.
Lighthouses may seem faintly redundant; an artifact of historical navigation in an age of GPS and chartplotters. But they are anything but quaint to a boat at sea, and the visual confirmation is unmistakable and validating. They work when all onboard electronics have failed (for all electronics surrounded by sea vapour will fail at some stage). Cape Reinga flashed in the darkness and we knew we were on track. I took the watch and we loomed closer to land in a moonlit blueness, till the heavy bulk of the Cape was silhouetted in the dim light. Quickstar fell into the lee of the land and the first wafts reached us.
The smell of land was sweeter than the sight. After more than a week at sea, the verdant, dense smell of tree ferns, seaweed, spongy earth and wet rocks wafted across. The scent travelled 10km downwind and was more visceral than any sighting. In the dark we were connected to the shore by that earthy smell. We breathed deeply and smiled. Welcome to NZ.
Around midnight we picked up the bobbing navigation lights of a small, low craft close to land. This was the second vessel we had seen since Australia. I made the last daily call to Charleville Radio, 2500km away in Queensland, on the long range HF radio, and thanked them for their coverage across the Tasman. They emailed their log later:
“Victor November Zulu 2100: Lat 34 33.3S Long 172 03.3E Vessel reported that it will soon be in VHF range of New Zealand coastal services and advised this would be his last position report via this station. All well on board.”
All well on board indeed. We called Taupo Maritime radio, and a Kiwi accent welcomed us to NZ, and passed to Customs our estimate of just one more night at sea before reaching Opua, in the Bay of Islands.