Longer Than Expected

This morning the Captain suggested as a treat we go ashore to a nearby resort for coffee without the younger more mutinous crew members, but it seemed we had dragged anchor a little over night and were too close to our neighbour (when you don’t need to yell or use the VHF to communicate with the nearby yacht, you are too close) so we would quickly reset.  We forgot that nothing happens quickly on a boat.

Barely 5m of the 60m of chain out had returned to the anchor locker when our windlass came to a dramatic and violent stop as chain jammed against the guide that was designed to prevent such an outcome.  That coffee slipped a little further away.  A few tools were brought out and fairly soon the chain was free.  The coffee was again in sight.  Next our progress was measured in centimetres rather than meters as we snagged again.  Abandoning the job was not an option as we inched closer to our neighbour; we didn't discuss the coffee which slipped further away as the odds of getting to shore any time soon dipped sharply.  As I inspected the machine that was all that stood between the 12 tonnes of QuickStar floating at the whim of the ocean and our ability to secure her safely to the earth below, I commented to the Captain what a sensitive piece of equipment it is; he responded wryly that everything on the boat is sensitive.  We set our expectations on achieving, at best, a precarious solution to the problem.  Many tools and words of encouragement later our windlass was again moving and we carefully relocated, all the while whispering conciliatory words to this machine to keep going and treating her with the delicacy of a fractious newborn.

Miraculously, it was not yet midday (although a few hours had passed) and it was still possible to achieve a morning coffee, but the mood had shifted.  It wasn't only the fact that it had taken much longer than expected to re-anchor, but the delay had also meant that Aqua Dolphin and Humbolt Squid were now itching to go ashore too.  They hadn't found much pleasure in clearing the Lego strewn cockpit* of colourful bricks and returning them to the meticulously selected storage boxes that sort blocks by shape.  Although the end result is a beauty to behold, or so it seems to my need for order**.  So it is late morning when we four (rather than two) make it to the resort.  It takes some time for the staff to work out if decaf is available, and when the drinks finally arrive from the restaurant up the hill, we are told that they are instant coffee*** as the machine has broken.

We return to QuickStar just before lunch.  Our morning has evaporated as it so often can.  Like provisioning in Lautoka on food stamp day (it took us half an hour just to work out you need to pair up with someone lined up at the checkout to secure a trolley), or collecting the mail from the post office (who knew this can only be done between 8 and 9 in the morning or 2 and 4 in the afternoon?), everything takes a little or a lot longer than expected on a boat.  We are learning to reset our expectations and with as much grace as possible find goodness in whichever new direction we are pushed.  It was our choice to defy the usual pull of life in Sydney that kept us swept along in its current for many years.  It was an act of defiance to move against the flow, but now we find ourselves swept off in other directions beyond our control and we are learning to accept that.  The difference is that now our energy is more focussed on fulfilling basic needs – ensuring we have food, water and safe shelter.  We are working on maintaining our own well-being, not that of a corporate organisation.

The good news is, after lunch we had yet another amazing experience in nature.  Three days ago we caught a fish which sustained us for many meals, two days ago we swam with Mantarays, yesterday we were blessed with perfect sailing conditions, and now today we found ourselves in the eye of a storm of tropical fish at a nearby reef.  A few bits of bread were all it took to be engulfed in frenzy of thousands of fish swirling around us in mad storm of colour and movement.  As they darted around with a synchronicity that defied our understanding, we dove and swirled through the water with them, feeling an intense closeness to nature as we became part of this new world.  So if things take a little longer than expected and some mechanical repairs and instant coffee must be endured to experience such splendour and wonder in nature each day, then I’m ok with that.

*Dolphin and Squid up to day two of a one week ban on screens so we tolerate Lego everywhere.

**It should be noted that I believe Aqua Dolphin shares my love for systems.  It turns out that she religiously keeps her pencils in the same colour order that I used to at her age!  The Squid has total disdain for these protocols and as such, packing Lego in this way defies all logic and reason to him (I’m sure the Captain agrees).

***I can hear the gasp of horror reaching me against the trade winds from all the urban coffee snobs as they realise cruising the Pacific is more challenging than first thought now that instant coffee may be all that is on offer.

Bosun

Minerva Reef

Most of the time our world is small.  It closes in around us with manmade and natural barriers that limit its size.  The horizon reaches only as far as the nearest building or hill, while the sights and sounds around us bring our attention closer in.  On QuickStar, the world grows as we head further from shore.  When we reach open water the boundaries of the world are limited only by the curvature of the earth; there is nothing between us and the horizon – the world has no limits.  While the horizons expand as we head out to sea our lives contract to just the four of us.  For days on end we gaze out into the vast ocean but our lives are no larger than those aboard QuickStar.

For five days we sailed from New Zealand with no one and nothing sharing our vast blue seascape.  At night, when there is no moon, you can’t distinguish the sea from the horizon and the blackness is only broken by an infinite array of stars that suggest where the ocean meets the sky.  The Milky Way takes on a life of its own out here, flowing through the sky in the same rhythm we rise and fall on the swell.

Then something happens and our world starts to shrink again.  We are nearing the Minerva Reefs, an oasis in this watery desert that draws sailors to it with a magnetism few can resist.  After days of solitude, we start to hear radio chatter, then masts appear in the distance as yachts that have sailed in isolation for more than a thousand kilometres are seduced by Minerva’s promise of a place to be relieved of night watches and constant movement.  We navigate the narrow opening and the sea becomes calm.  The crew aboard QuickStar are joined by voices on the radio, welcoming new-comers and discussing life at Minerva.  The call goes out: “All ships, all ships, this is Domino, Domino.  Everyone at North Minerva is invited to sundowners aboard Domino this evening at 4:30. Bring drinks and snacks.”  So in an instant our vast world shrinks to the size of a cruising cat and our lives extend to the crews of 20 other boats.

But the true magic of Minerva lies in her natural beauty.  We are mesmerised by the clarity of the water.  As the anchor sinks 15m to the bottom I watch it all the way down.  We can’t wait to dive in and as soon as we do we are physically and mentally revived by her warm, comforting waters.  Fish too are drawn to Minerva.  As we snorkel around the inner reef our world fills with colours we have missed for many days with nature having given us nothing but blue.  The array of tropical fish and clams is spectacular, with reef sharks joining in the show.  We didn’t quite know what to expect from Minerva, but we are not disappointed and we feel privileged to be able to experience something so few people will ever see.

After two nights at anchor we head out into depths of up to 3,000m for the final leg to Fiji.  As quickly as we had been drawn into Minerva’s sanctuary, we are released to the Pacific which tosses us in 3m waves and 25knot winds, throwing us once more into isolation for the days ahead.  By the time we reach landfall we will have been at sea for eleven days.  Things have broken, seasickness has struck and the winds have seldom been favourable, but the 2,000km sailed was all worth it for our visit to Minerva.

Bosun

Departure Poem

Twas the night before leaving and on board QuickStar

The crew was all close but their minds were all far.

Resting their bodies, tucked warmly in bed,

Thoughts raced wildly through each of their heads.

Would the wind be our friend and the seas be so kind?

Would dolphins and whales be out there to find?

Would we get to Minerva and rest there a day?

Would we be safe and well as we sailed away?

But Nature delivers the Ocean at will,

She decides if it’s fierce or if it is still.

So no need to worry and fret on the sea;

The Ocean will be what the Ocean will be.

Bosun

Cyclone Winston Aid

Earlier this year, Cyclone Winston devastated parts of Fiji.  We have spoken with aid organisations, and they told us that the island communities are most in need of items for children.  Before we left many of our friends and classmates from 2R and 4U at school, generously donated school supplies.  A large bag was on board QuickStar as she crossed the Tasman and is ready to go to children in Fiji. 

One aid organisation about to leave from our Marina at the Bay of Islands for Fiji told us that the kids go crazy for soccer balls, so today we visited the Rebel sports store in the Auckland CBD and bought 10 footballs!  A special thanks to the store manager, Sam, who gave us a discount.  The Humbolt Squid spent the afternoon carefully deflating the balls so they can be stowed for the long passage to Fiji, where they will be pumped up and Aqua Dolphin will challenge the local kids to a game.

Thank you to everyone who has provided support as we try to help out in Fiji.

Skipjack and a pre emptive assault

There was much rejoicing as the line fizzed off the reel, for we had trolled the breadth of the Tasman without yet landing a fish. Scotty was taking his custom of an afternoon sleep in the cockpit, which was actually a cover to be close to the reel at all times, and had tried every combination of lure since Sydney. The Archer family had donated a fine selection of lures as a farewell gift, including one so big and iridescent that we suspected there was chocolate inside (there wasn't). In the end, it was the most humble of the selection that hooked a 3kg tuna just an hour out of destination Opua.

A flurry of nervous energy filled the cockpit. The skipper barked vital instructions that were promptly ignored, crew urgently moved around the cockpit table in opposite directions, and a mighty gaff hook was roused-out from the bowels of a locker and waved menacingly toward the fish. Scurrilous comments surfaced that perhaps it was actually a shoe on the line. It skipped along the top of the water like a shoe. Had we put on the shoe-attracting lure today by mistake?

We hove-to to reduce boat speed, and Hawkeye gaffed the fine tuna. He deftly cut off the makings of dinner. We hosed down the mess from the transom, and from Hawkeye, and the pervasive and triumphant odour of skipjack tuna filled the boat as we got underway.

We sat back and took satisfied photos of the beautiful approaches to the Bay of Islands, then gazed in our own worlds and thoughts as we sailed in at the end of the passage. Quickstar plied the flat water of the bay with what felt like an effortless grace. Sails where donned, engine started, and we motored up the river to Opua.

Customs gave unambiguous radio instruction to not go ashore to the pub, but rather remain onboard at the quarantine wharf until morning, whilst continuing to fly the yellow Q flag. We tied Quickstar up, shut down her engine, and she lay still for the first time since Sydney. I patted her side and said a quiet thanks. A passing yacht hailed and asked where we had come from, and shouted congratulations. Broad smiles all round. Scotty celebrated by spontaneously jumping into the brown waters of the river. I looked around at my new home in Opua for the next few weeks, before the family was to fly in from Australia.

Nobody could remember the Customs limits for bringing alcohol into NZ, so the crew made a pre emptive assault on the ship’s stores, matched by a dinner of fresh tuna two ways (sashimi, soy, wasabi, and pan fried, pepper-crumbed). Hawkeye settled into his home country as host DJ, and ran through an eclectic mix of Kiwi music that we were shocked to find out was not actually Australian. Crowded House? What?

For the first time nobody was on watch, and we sat down in the stable cabin to relax, eat and celebrate. Tasman crossing, tick.

The smell of land

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.

A good campaign

Hawkeye yelled from the helm "It's ripped, it's ripped!". I came up from the cabin into the bright sun and swell, and saw the headsail shredded after a week of close-hauled, hard sailing.

On the morning of our departure from Sydney, I'd deliberated on whether to bring a backup. I don't really like thinking what the rest of the journey would have been like if we left with no spare, and kick myself now for being so close to that misjudgement. A rookie mistake. Right now, all of a sudden, Quickstar desperately needed a working headsail to sail upwind and, well, to get to NZ. The giant 150% genoa was flapping and cracking with vicious whips to leeward, and sheets all ahoo. A very sober face landed on everyone aboard.

I was tired; the crew were all tired. We were well into the groove of the journey, and our appetite had dropped to one meal a day. Life dictated by a watch schedule is deliciously simple. But a week heeled over at 30 degrees, bouncing around, night watches and short grabs of sleep had moulded us into tight companions in lock-step with a common and simple goal. 

I was skeptical until I actually heard the sound of a waves hitting the hull abreast at 8 kts would be like someone slamming the outside with a baseball bat. Blue water washed across the foredeck, and found any hole in the hatch seals to leak into the forward cabin, soaking the Jimmy Cornell bibles below. And through a nuance of wave timing, Quickstar would sometimes shoot forward off the top of a steep wave at speed, and find no water on the other side.

She would hang in the air for a moment. We learnt to anticipate this by the surge upward, and had perhaps a second’s understanding between us, before the hull thumped down into the trough, water shooting out to the sides. This belly flop caused a tremendous thump and the rigging twanged tighter. When trying to rest below, the cabin timber creaked and groaned as the hull flexed slightly under load. I tried sleeping in the front cabin on one of those nights, and was launched off the bed into the air. I didn’t try sleeping there again. “Yachts are designed to take this sort of beating” we say to each other. I want to believe.

Right now, we had an immediate all-hands focus, and brought up the spare sail from below. Gilly delved into his magic cockpit bag (wondrous tools for every occasion) and pulled out some folding pliers for the shackles. We donned weather gear, lifejackets and harnesses. We clambered onto the foredeck amongst the noise with harnesses clipped into jacklines designed to arrest our fall if we slip overboard (but just don’t slip overboard). We pulled down the torn headsail, and bunched it into a sodden, molten mass on the deck where it was lashed securely with a stunning variety of creative and unsanctioned knots that seemed to be just right for the occasion.

The bow now dipped underwater in the waves without the sail to provide stability, and we worked quickly and carefully. The new sail was hauled up from below and dragged forward, shackles and knots redone with wet fingers in the wind. Mistakes made and corrected, and sheets pulled tight to fill the new sail with a whump. The backup sail was rust-stained, a bit mouldy, and beautiful.

Boat speed mounted and Quickstar surged forward again. I met Gilly’s eye as we clambering back to the cockpit. The soberness was gone, and replaced by wide-eyed excitement and satisfaction of us winning the moment. I went below and crashed onto the bed to mentally regroup.   As Scotty summed up the passage later: “It was a good campaign”.

Tasman Crossing

It's dark now. Not so dark that you can’t see the horizon, but dark enough to see flecks of phosphoresence in QuickStar’s wake. The rest of the crew are getting some rest, and its 3 more hours to go until I am off watch at midnight. QuickStar continues to run forward as she has now for 4 days straight. As we tend to her sails and protect her from the uncertainty of the night, it feels like we are bargaining with her every time we reef sails before dark; her urge to heel to leeward at full speed in opposition to the need of the crew to feel like there is now one less thing to go wrong in a blackness made ever more so by being 700km from land.

We haven't seen signs of humans since leaving Sydney 4 days ago. Our farewell from the harbour was wonderful, but as we headed out to sea, the adventure felt all of a sudden acutely real. This is the sharp end of the adventure - 10 days at sea in a notorious ocean. The insurance company has run the numbers; excess is doubled for any damage crossing the Tasman.

But we are well; and we woke yesterday to a tremendous calmness of the ocean. An almost glassy surface with large gentle swell, rolling through. We had run the engine for the previous 24h and were ready for a break. It started with seawater bucket-showers and de-lousing ordered by the skipper on the transom. Great success!

The winds arrived from the south yesterday afternoon and QuickStar settled into sailing work. The sounds of a yacht at sea are true, groans and clunks of rigging, semi regular pounding on the hull, as it comes off a wave and crashes into a trough. The occasional chink of stainless steel of a harness as a fellow crewmember makes a cup of tea before going on watch. The sounds are a language, and any change can bring people up from below to see what the cause is, and if help is required.

The air here is spinning up from the south between Australia and NZ and is crystal. This morning large wind-flecked rollers of swell rolled through in very bright sun. The swell is large but benign, we corkscrew over it and I'm certain it has no idea, nor cares, that we are here. Gilly likened the swells to playground bullies walking past uninterested, to go and inflict their damage somewhere else. A huge bird, we guess an albatross, joins us now and then, and circles in the eddies of our wake and the dips of the swell.

About 6 days till we arrive in NZ. Another couple of hours till sleep. Time to scan the horizon again.

Bye bye Captain Aubrey (Dad)

On Saturday (9th of April 2016) our journey began. Dad left the shore and set sail to NZ with 3 other crew members. I was so sad to see him go. So was my mum and brother. Dad probably was too but he wasn't showing it. I didn't want him to leave but I knew he had to. I remember the last glimpse of QuickStar and dad before they disappeared. After that our journey had really begun.  Every day I look on the website to see where he is. I can't wait to see him again in NZ. But now I know it is all real. There's no turning back now.

It's time

No longer can we say that our sailing sabbatical starts next year, or in a few months, or even a few weeks - it is here.  We have been told that this is the most stressful time of the whole journey and right now we are feeling every bit of that pressure as we sprint to the finish line of boat preparations, which is also the start line for the voyage.  On the positive side, yesterday we solved more problems than we discovered, which is encouraging at this late stage.

Several times each day couriers arrive with deliveries of last minute items and our Visa card has experienced its most punishing month on record.  I rejoice in modern technology that allows us to top up our credit card balance within seconds, which has saved us from a few instances of "card declined" as I pay for goods.  I now automatically do a balance check before any purchases.

While all focus is on the Tasman crossing that the Captain will undertake with his crew, at the back of my mind is the job I will be left with - to pack up the house and reduce our lives to a few bags of essential items.  Soon I will find out if my pragmatism can hold firm as I divide our lives into two piles: a small one of essential items and a much larger one of material trappings that we gather along the way to give us comfort.  While I like to think that I can let go, I expect there will be some feelings of loss.  I need to remind myself that the hole created by the material things left behind will be more than filled by fulfillment of undertaking something so overwhelming and the shared memories with my family.