SHIFT WORK

A watch schedule brings routine to QuickStar.  My night shift starts at 4am and this suits me fine; it’s the perfect time for some cockpit exercise before I settle into a few podcasts.  Night watches are a time of solitude.  Alone in the cockpit and alone on the ocean.  My world shrinks to the limited reach of our red night light and the instruments telling me what my senses cannot.  The blackness is so complete I can’t even see our white sails.  I survey them with a torch at the start of my shift so I know how they are set and then the lights are out.  Phosphorescence sometimes light our wake, but there is no visual reference for the seas around me.  I am tumbling forward over the ocean, being rocked irregularly, but the darkness is so complete my body cannot brace for what is coming.  I go with the flow, in its truest sense.

Some nights there are storms and the blackness is broken by flashes of lighting.  I am not usually fast enough to see where they have come from so I turn to our radar.  The sweep of the radar reveals moving patches of blue in several directions and my job is to dodge the storms.  For hundreds of miles around the only peak on the ocean is our mast, so we try to avoid turning it into a lightning rod.  Our course is a mess as we sacrifice the speed of a direct route for the safety of a lighting-free sea.  These nights are busy and the time passes quickly.

A few nights this passage I had clear skies.  If an empty ocean seems vast, it is nothing compared to the immense galaxies that lie beyond Earth’s skies.  Our passage takes us through a waning and new moon which give us pure, black nights.  There is no distinction between the sea and sky, I can’t tell where one stops and the other starts.  Seeing the night sky without the corrupting lights of a city is humbling.  Gazing up at stars whose light has travelled millions of years to reach me, I attempt to understand these distances which are so far from our physical reach.  It is beyond my comprehension too.  On the ocean, the Milky Way is not just a mass of stars, I can also see the backdrop of many smaller lights that we usually miss.  The galaxy is a white streak across the black night sky.  Its name makes sense to me out here.  I pull myself back to the red glow of the cockpit and check our course.

As my night watch draws to an end, the horizon once again reveals itself.  It hadn’t gone anywhere, it was just in hiding.  On clear mornings, the blazing orange glow of sunrise is like an emerging dome from the edge of the sea.  It revives the blues of the day world that were at rest overnight, as though the sea and the sky were using that peaceful time to restore their vibrancy for our pleasure the next day.

LIVING BY DEGREES

Degrees influence much of our world as we cross the ocean.  Our progress on a passage is measured by degrees.  Each watch, records are made of our location in degrees and minute.  These little measures of progress encourage us and lift spirits.  They provide proof that we are heading in the right direction when our surroundings are devoid of any visual reference points.  Distance provides a bit of supporting evidence for how we are tracking, but with no roads to follow, distance has more of a qualitative meaning on the sea.  Waypoints are plotted by their latitude and longitude, allowing us to track towards a series of numbers whose exactness renders place names obsolete.  We know we are heading west by the angle of the sun above the horizon.  At the same time each day the angle in the east decreases and the sun rises later, confirming our progress in the right direction; we are crossing time zones.

Life on board is filled with the changing angles of our boat; 15 degrees to port, 10 degrees to starboard.  On passage, we are rarely upright, making simple tasks a battle.  Our head is functionally small.  As the boat rocks the walls take on a life of their own and buffet us from one side to the other, while the toilet itself becomes a moving target.  We wedge ourselves in as best we can and do not linger.  The galley is also a treacherous place, even with the gimballed stove, scalding pots slide around unbidden.  I brace myself between the galley and the saloon, hoping I won’t land headfirst in a bubbling pot, or else I just sit on the floor and surround myself with ingredients.  Chaos can erupt simply by opening the cupboard where plates and glasses are stowed.  Even if we are heeling towards a cupboard, earlier bumps in the ocean’s surface have rearranged everything into a new world disorder; plates sit poised to spring out in a sudden clatter.  Simply walking from one end of the boat to the other can be treacherous as we grab to steady ourselves. Wearing socks and sliding around turns it into a game; I will find tomorrow the mystery bruises from this enterprise.  Lying in bed, the unpredictable movement makes it feel like gravity has gone rogue.  One minute I am being crushed into the bed, then I’m released and the mattress slips away from beneath me, all the while being pulled from side to side.  Gravity has abandoned its own rule of a constant force directed straight down.

Finally, we live by degrees Celsius.  Our progress through the latitudes is reflected by the rising temperatures of our environment.  The air is warming as we get closer to Lord Howe Island, allowing us to shed layers of clothing by day and by night.  We are leaving behind the chilly NZ water temperatures too.  After four days of northerly progress the water has increased by about 4 degrees.  I think now, as we change our course and head 230 degrees, it is a good time for a bucket wash off the back of the boat - the east Australian current is a beautiful 25 degrees.

THE PASSING OF TIME

Fuel is finite, water is precious (even with a desalinator) and electricity ebbs in and out of our batteries.  All these resources are key to a safe passage and our isolation makes them scarce.  However, there is something that we have in abundance, and that is time.  With Squid and Dolphin away from QuickStar and living it up at Rancho Relaxo, this passage affords me a lot more time.  We expect that we will be at sea for ten days, not including the two we hope to spend at Lord Howe Island. While there are bursts of activity when we are refuelling, changing sails or preparing meals, the voids in between are waiting to be filled.

I spend a lot of time gazing out towards the distant horizon, it’s amazing how much time can evaporate in this pastime.  The sea and sky are always changing and moving; after a while we start to read them like a book.  And of course, there is reading books.  The cockpit these days is littered with books and kindles.  There is no greater luxury in a rushed world than being able to take guilt free time out to read a book, simply because it makes us happy.  Every now and then a reference book appears in place of a Google search to answer questions that pop up. What is the name those long clouds we see on the horizon and what do they mean to us?  What type of whale is that swimming by?  We don’t have books to cover all topics and we find that sometimes the best questions to ask are the ones for which you have no answers, as they can take you to places you never thought to go.  We sit in the cockpit and revive the art of storytelling and conversation.  Having time to get to know the people around us is a gift.

I have been diagnosed by the Captain as having OCD, or obsessive crocheting disorder, as I wile away the hours making things.  This passage I have taken up cross stitch as my crafty amusement.  I think I am making a belt, but that may change.  At least with cross stich, the OCD title is still applicable.  There was a brief tangent to my usual craft today, when One Shot suggested we use sock puppets to crate crew briefing videos.  So, we now have two socks with pompom eyes preparing their informative performance that will illustrate the importance of not flushing the toilet while the desalinator is running.  It seems that a little bit of creativity is good for the soul.

By night, when I am sitting alone in darkness with only the warm glow of the red cockpit light, I can make an hour vanish in an exercise session, counting off push ups and sit ups until I reach my target number.  I then give myself over to star gazing and listening to podcasts.  By day I bake.  Yesterday it was bread for dinner and a chocolate cake for Running Man’s birthday.  Today it is muffins and muesli slice.  With relatively calm conditions for the first half of our passage the crew has been eating well, so there is pressure for supply to keep up with demand.  Baking yields tangible results that reading doesn’t, so it feels like time well spent, even if the output has only a transient existence on the boat.

Time is an endangered species when we are living a land life in the city.  I know this fate awaits my return, so I use the time to ponder the dilemma, something the Captain and I discuss often as we recall the competitive business that was an accepted part of our other life.  We talk about ways of cutting back, trimming the edges to remove the things we can do without that don’t bring us enough happiness.  We hoped that this year would give us the distance to allow us a different perspective on our lives, which it has, but just as important has been the allowance of time to think and put into words what we want.  A picture is emerging of where we want to be, so we are thankful for this time.

Oh, and this passage, I also pass time by writing.

SETTING FORTH

I went for a run (that opportunity won’t come again soon) and then took my gold coins to the marina shower block to treat myself before we set forth.  White walls, blue partitions and grey floor greet me with their plain, functional sensibility.  Taking a freshwater shower on passage is a luxury rarely afforded and when it happens, it is brief and clinical.  Water is such a precious resource and needs to be managed with reverence.  In the tropics, where water was scarce even for land dwellers, a salt water wash off the back of the boat was the norm.  In New Zealand, topping up water was easier (a good thing given the dramatically lower sea temperatures) so we could indulge a little.  But nothing like my indulgence today.  I am gleefully in possession of two $2 coins, and my excitement increases as is see the sign saying that we now get five minutes of hot water for each coin rather than the four minutes it used to be.  So, for five minutes I drift into a blissful world, singing My Favourite Things from The Sound of Music (I have the showers to myself).  After what seems to me to be a showering eternity, the water goes cold.  I look at the second $2 and wonder if I dare such levels of luxury.  I weigh it up against the certain discomfort that will come my way in varying levels during the passage and quickly slip it into the coin box.  I sing for another five minutes.

At Customs, there is no metal detector, no baggage scan, no crowds, we walk into the office and Gary is waiting to accept our departure cards and check our passports.  There is something so special about putting SV QuickStar down as my flight number or name of ship.  As a citizen of an isolated island, the only practical way to go to another country is on a commercial airline.  Making this mammoth journey under our own care over many days is a privilege, not a hardship.  QuickStar is our home and she can do amazing things, today is just another day for her.  It gives me a sense of independence and control in spite of our exposure to Nature’s whimsy.  I can’t lie, I feel good about myself at this point in time.  It’s healthy to reflect positively on our achievements, and this is one of them.

Once we clear out it is like drawing the go to jail card in Monopoly: Go directly from New Zealand, do not drop anchor, do not collect any supplies.  There is no turning back now.  The rain of the last few days has eased and there are signs of sun.  The forecast is for thunderstorms, but as we pull out of the Bay of Islands the sun emerges, our boat dries out, and brilliant colours emerge from the grey.  Blues and greens are all around us and we revel in the calm waters.  More wind would be ideal, but already the day is exceeding our expectations.  The sun lifts the spirits of all the crew as we make for open waters.  Past familiar sights we go, the Cavalli Islands, Whangaroa, and on up the coast.  A tuna snaps up our line and puts an end to any discussion there may have been about dinner.  We settle into the cockpit with tea to watch the sun set on our first day at sea.  We are really on our way now, hoping to round Cape Reinga at sunrise tomorrow, then the land will fade and we will be on our own.

WAITING

Clouds sent an email and he says leaving as scheduled is a risk.  We trust our forecaster so we will wait and see.  As a child I struggled with that phrase, “we’ll see”.  It always struck me as evasive and somewhat lazy.  How could my childhood world with so many rules not provide me with something a little more certain?  At that early time in my life when most things were beyond my control I didn’t yet understand that with the mastery of the world that adults develop also comes the revelation of just how much is beyond our control.  This year has taught Dolphin and Squid that often adults don’t have definite answers but there is no need to associate uncertainty with insecurity.

So, we fill in time.  Yesterday was a whirl of activity and today stands in stark contrast as we sail in relaxed conditions north.  We are heading for The Bay of Islands to cut half a day off our passage. Every little bit counts.  We use the time to settle the crew into the boat, talking them through such things as the rigging and navigation setup, how much toilet paper the loo can handle without blocking, what to do if the boat is sinking, where all the snack food is stored and which first aid box to grab if someone jams their hand in a winch.  It is a cacophony of information for them to digest.  Some of it slides down easily however the more weighty topics cause pause for thought as each one of us silently considers a situation in which we would have to call into action some of this knowledge.  Individual minds conjure their own scenario but we all arrive at the same end point – I’m sure nothing that bad will happen.

The day rolls on and as we enter the Bay of Islands for the evening we still await a certain departure date.  Another night in a beautiful anchorage is ahead of us.  After success last night with the spear gun (red moki for dinner) our crew member, One Shot, swims off in search of dinner.  I should be there in support on the SUP but get caught up chatting to other cruisers at anchor; there is always a neighbour ready to chat.  I paddle over as One Shot is returning to QuickStar with a writhing octopus on the end of the spear.  Thankfully we are in internet range to Google an answer to this dinner dilemma.  The answer is onions, red wine, tomato and balsamic vinegar.  The answer smells good.  We drift off to sleep that night wondering if tomorrow the forecast will change.

The next day dawns wet and misty.  Visibility is so appalling we have our radar on as we head to Opua for what we hope will be our last night in NZ.  I am ready for this state of meteorological limbo to end, not so much for the sake of leaving but to start the journey back to Squid and Dolphin.  The rate of checking our emails is higher than usual during the morning until we receive our daily update from Clouds.  His emails are direct and to the point, delivering a summary of the conditions in the Tasman and how they will evolve over the next week.  Clouds concludes that tomorrow we can leave.  And with that, the waiting is over.

A LINE IN THE SAND

At the end of today there is a line drawn in the sand.  Our departure window opens tomorrow and at that point we must have everything ready for QuickStar to sustain the crew over a roughly estimated period of time in conditions that are uncertain and capricious on a path that is ill defined.  With so many variables at play it is hard to plan for such a trip and we must be prepared for anything and everything.  This is not a state of being for people who are uncomfortable with uncertainty.  An ocean passage is not like a flight, with a set date, time and place for departure and arrival.  We could be leaving tomorrow from Marsden Cove, but the evolving front that is threatening the east Australian coast next week keeps shifting and changing, so perhaps we will be clearing out a few days later from Opua.  Some forecasting models tell us we will be fine, others show swirling red patterns warning of danger.  Even if all predictions align, they are still just predictions, a prophecy or divination if you like, written not in the stars but in the wind and the waves.

And so we prepare.  There is so much to do at the last minute, things on our list (oh, our endless lists!) that have a special home in the day before departure.  Fresh food to last the next two weeks; Gas, diesel and water to be topped up; Dinghy to be stowed and non-essential items packed away.  These things and more live in that single day just before the window opens.  We are lining up customs at multiple ports in two countries as we make provisions for all possible outcomes.  I am getting to know the officials at Lord Howe Island, which is a possible destination for a “technical stop” along the way.  The tourism manager answered some questions before referring me to the policeman (also her husband) and then onto the Border Force officer.  I now have a phone filled with contacts for people in a place I have yet to visit.

Our focus on jobs is a good thing today.  Yesterday we said farewell to Dolphin and Squid which left a hole in QuickStar and our hearts that no amount of business can fill.  There are already crew member filling their spaces on the boat and while their help for the passage will be a wonderful blessing the swift transition now stands as an emotional intrusion we couldn’t quite anticipate.  The Captain is head down in paperwork – there is so much more to do than fill in a simple departure card when sailing between countries – and I play to my strengths by keeping the crew moving through the list for the day. Tick, tick, tick.

At midday, right on schedule, we pull out of the marina, waving goodbye to our cruiser friends on the berth next to us who now have half a box of fireworks that we couldn’t bring back to Australia.  It’s good to be moving forward, rather than just the circular motion to and from QuickStar that has filled our days of preparation.  Motion provides us with some reward for all the work.  We catch the falling tide towards Whangarei Heads to tick the last box (diesel) and a sense of calm descends.  That line in the sand was drawn and now we move beyond as it fades in our wake.