THE LAST BLUE WATER
We arrived in Opua several weeks ago. Our departure from
Preparation:
I had retained Mr. Bob McDavitt, who is employed as the Weather Ambassador of the New Zealand Meteorological Service, a government body charged with the responsibility of issuing weather forecasts for the public good, at the tax-payer’s expense. Bob became my personal weather router (for a fee) who, once I informed him of my intended ports of departure and arrival, my boat’s average daily speed, and ideal sailing conditions, he would identify periods of time which he thought might be stable enough for us to make the passage quickly with a minimum of discomfort and risk due to bad weather.
The value of a weather router is to view fresh forecasts daily and give advice on how to deal with what may be coming up. He also had a better sense than me of a long range forecast after his decades of watching weather in this stretch of ocean. Positioning your craft to take advantage of a future wind shift seemed essential. The photo entitled “Furuno” shows waypoints given by Bob McDavitt to best utilize predicted wind shifts. As it turned out though, by the time we got to some of the waypoints, we just traveled the shortest distance possible: the rhumbline.
I have never studied weather forecast charts with such interest before in my life. Indeed, every boat in the Tongan anchorage was headed south and all had on board an amateur meteorologist. Such terms as isobars, squash zones, cold fronts, troughs, ridges, South Pacific Convergence Zone, highs, lows, El Nino, La Nina, weatherfax, GRIB files and even the dreaded tropical cyclone (Southern Hemisphere hurricane) became common language each night at the Pangiamotu Bar. Many boats had retained various weather routers, some were relying on their own personal opinions, but all were interested in each other’s ideas.
The longer we waited to leave, the warmer the weather we encountered was likely to be (a plus to our heat softened constitutions), but the higher the chances that a cyclone would blow out of Vanuatu or Fiji to send yachts into a panic since there is no safe harbor nearby if such a storm chose to visit doom upon us. Cyclone Xavier with 125 knot winds actually did form near
I had refused leaving on two suggested weather windows before I saw weather patterns which I understood and felt comfortable taking. Boats impatient to get south had already left on Bob’s advice and all of them reported in to the daily radio nets that we were tuning in to. Several of our friends reported tough going: motoring or beating into head winds and steep, short seas as they crossed a cold front. Having experienced “enhanced trade winds” on passages from
It is common sailing wisdom during this passage to
I had been performing preventative maintenance for weeks prior to our setting out. Hull cleaning, changing zincs, rigging checks, installing storm sails for the first time since we left San Francisco, so that they would be ready to hoist if needed, tasks on engine and generator too numerous for me to even remember, checking for chafe and wear. A raft of other preventative measures filled my head daily.
From the Foreword of “The Practical Mariner’s Book of Knowledge” by John Vigor:
“Vigor’s Black Box Theory:
Aboard every boat, there’s an invisible black box. Every time a skipper takes the trouble to consult a chart, inspect the filters, or take any proper seamanlike precaution, he or she earns a point that goes into the black box. In times of stress, in heavy weather or other threatening circumstances where human skill and effort can accomplish no more, the points are cashed in as protection. . . Those skippers with no points in the box are the ones later described as unlucky.”
I hoped to be in the former category.
The Trip:
We had strong winds leaving
After our initial several days of boisterous sailing, the winds gradually moderated making for delightful sailing. Then the wind fell very light on about the 5th day, as anticipated. We then started our diesel, and began motoring over seas becoming smoother and glassier by the hour. It was shortly after getting our boat moving again, that I discovered to my mounting alarm that I could not get the autopilot to hold a compass course. I tried various operational tricks that had worked in the past but the boat simply wandered away from its programmed heading. After consulting onboard literature, I started taking apart component parts to search in vain for a loose wire. Hours of inspecting 4 different boxes yielded nothing amiss, so I decided to try installing my “spare” control box. After unpacking it, I noticed the suspicious note on top saying “
I knew that the previous owner had sailed that route back home to
After gratifying myself by turning the air blue with the last of a long string of expletives, I resigned myself to the unavoidable conclusion that Kelley and I would have to hand steer for the remaining 2 days and nights. The wind was not forecast to come up to sailing strength. During the day, hand steering is only a little tedious. During the increasingly colder and colder nights, however, I was not eagerly anticipating being attached to the steering wheel in the dark getting my warmth sapped through inactivity.
During my Transpac race to
Happily, hand steering wasn’t quite the chore I had feared. The off watch could get good rest due to the flat seas and the deep throaty drone of our big diesel. Claire helped out during the day. I switched tank after tank of diesel fuel as the Peugeot-Lehman gulped them and we methodically churned southward. Kelley had ordered some Selected Shorts readings from NPR and other books on tape relieved the boredom. We both wore every stitch of clothing that we had aboard. The photo “NZ here we come!” on the day before our landfall is Claire raising the New Zealand courtesy flag and the “Q” flag under it to signal customs that we are ready to enter the country and serve “practique”. Those little country courtesy flags of each country we have collected hold special significance for us and will be treasured mementos.
Reflections:
As far as finishing our trip:
And I have realized something about myself also. Sensei has been a good teacher, not only of the world, but for all of us, too. I discover that I am not quite as much a salty sea-dog as I had hoped to become after all those sea miles. I will not miss one part of my night watch in strong winds as Sensei surges forward to her next port, the feeling of dread that I may become removed from the boat. I would stand on the companionway ladder with my hands on the railings and look up into the cockpit. Inevitably, I would climb out into the cockpit to perform my watch duties. Safely clipped onto the boat in my harness and tucked under the dodger, I would stare out at the rush of water streaming past and realize that almost certain death would await me if I was wash over the side 8 feet away. I would not be found! My life jacket would self-inflate, my strobe would begin blinking automatically, and I would stare at the man overboard pole and life ring, neatly clipped to the backstay. I would of course blow feverishly on my whistle, but to no avail. The ocean is big. Bigger than anything I have ever seen. And empty.
I have long since intellectualized the fears I have at night about running into a submerged shipping container, dozing whale or a stray ship’s mooring buoy. It is just so unlikely to happen that it is an irrational fear. At times, the thought does lurk quietly below the surface of my logical mind, however. The reward of my
Some fellow cruisers had a few had frightening tales of weathering nasty storms. All bad weather encountered was due to not being able to get into port quickly enough.
A South African sailor in his steel boat had to helm his boat for 18 hours straight in storm conditions (sustained winds to 40 knots, gusts to 60). His third reefed main and tiny reefed staysail still created too much windage aloft and his boat was knocked down three times, putting his cabin port lights far under water, the ocean pouring into his cockpit. He was left clutching the wheel as his boat righted standing in water that was a foot deep waiting nervously for the cockpit drains to empty. The high winds flattened out the waves and filled the air with spume. At other times, the wind blew straight down, pressing his craft hard into the sea. A frightening time for his wife and 20 month old son!
Our friends in their ferro-cement ketch actually made it into the
The third boat, a Beneteau First 402 (lightweight racing design), encountered 48 knot winds on their last day of the passage. Broad reaching down the waves, a particularly large one broke on him and broached the boat so all cabin lights were submerged, and spun him like a top. “The mast didn’t touch the water, but pretty close.” He came up, head to wind, sails luffing after spinning 150 degrees. He endured this trial, hand steering at
We feel lucky to be with the majority who have no stories to tell. The final shot in LAST BLUE WATER photos is of the three Baja-Ha Ha captains of ’05 who made it to
Landfall at the quarantine dock at Opua to await customs inspection was one of the proudest moments of my life. We made our goal of 7 days to cover 1071 miles of lonely, blue water. Who knows what new adventures await the next crew of Sensei, and where she’ll sail in her future life.
Chris