How does this sailing thing go again?

17/10/18 Grenada

The colour of one’s urine is always a good indication of one’s state of hydration and on the morning of my arrival in Grenada, mine was dark orange. I hastily downed 3 cups of water and 10 minutes later promptly regurgitated them, for no apparent reason, other than perhaps shock to the system or a delayed reaction to the calamitous overnight sail here. 

I certainly should have been seasick on that testing sail, but was pleasantly surprised, believing that the ginger root drink I had prepared had staved it off.

Being the first sail after months on the hardstand in Trinidad, things were bound to go wrong. I could list them:

1. Casting off the mooring, one of my thongs went overboard. (I was wearing them to keep the bandage on my sprained ankle dry).
2. Retrieving the deeply buried boathook from the cockpit locker (in semi panic as Shanti drifts back toward the boat behind), the hook catches on fridge wiring and pulls it out.
3. “Tilly”, the tiller pilot, notices the shiny new red ropes on “Min”, the wind pilot, and decides to retire. This is a critical piece of equipment, which is why I carry a spare.
4. Ripping into the sub-bunk black hole, (in semi panic as we become a “vessel not under command”), hauling out everything that’s so neatly stowed there, I unearth the large bubble-wrapped, unopened box, housing who? -  “Tilly 2?”
5. “Tilly 2” is a darker-skinned version of her forebear, and untested.  Now, I ask you, who in their right mind, doesn’t pre-test?
6. Recalcitrant, petulant, obstinate, or perhaps just comically whimsical, “Tilly 2” wants to steer Shanti round in circles. That’s OK, I have known such things to be necessary with new autopilots. It's called “swinging the compass”, so the inbuilt fluxgate compass can get its bearings. Just annoying right at this moment, with all the large steel vessels moored nearby.
7. After 3 more circles, I say, “enough already!  Let’s just get going”, but she won’t oblige. (Not her fault; I haven’t given the instructions more than a glazed glance, and later discover she needs an extension push rod). So I toss her back down below, grab a can of WD40, spray “Tilly 1”’s connection points and give her another chance.  This yields a last gasp of about half an hour before all function lights finally fade into autopilot oblivion.

The sea-state outside of the Bocas is lumpy in the breathless afternoon, so “Janis”, the trusty Yanmar “steel spinnaker” must pitch and roll us through this slop. “At least she’s working,” I think, followed quickly by, “Don’t tempt fate!”

The current is pushing strongly West, so we must push against it to avoid ending up in Venezuela. I try not to clench my jaw, my neck, or anything else, contemplating this precarious situation of no wind and a long-idle engine, whose every variance in pitch causes me alarm.

One of the 6 worst things of single-handing is enforced steering, with no autopilot. Being stuck at the helm is said by some to be the maritime version of wearing a ball and chain. There’s probably more of a psychological aspect to this than the physical restraint warrants, but I certainly felt uncomfortably fettered, being harnessed to the jerking tiller as each wave tried to yank it from my hand. Of course it’s possible to lash it momentarily or simply abandon it in order to dash below to check the course.

8.  It was on one of such frantic forays below that I discovered failure  #8: the usual icon of a little red boat on the electronic chart was conspicuously absent. I still had the iPad running Navionics, so all was not completely lost; but the computer has other important functions, such as showing the AIS positions of other vessels that might be on an imminent collision course. After jiggling the USB hub that brings information from 4 sources into the laptop, switching things off and on again, and so forth, I suddenly remembered the new barge board which had been unceremoniously shoved aboard just prior to launching.  Its impenetrable lumber thickness now sat lashed to the cabin-top handrails, practically directly above the GPS mouse below. “Voila!” I thought and scrambled up on deck to reposition it. But alas, brilliant as that deduction might have been, the little red ship icon continued to be AWOL.
9.  No problem, I thought. The hefty, first-response, emergency, field-service “Toughbook” computer that had crashed somewhere mid-Indian ocean had since been revived, so I fired that up. Yes! Ship’s position on chart registered; course and AIS lacking.  A bit more downstairs time required. Please stop rollering round in circles Shanti - and heading back from whence we came is not helpful.

10. And so we motored on, until eventually, just after a scarlet sunset, a mirage-like rainbow and a brief deluge, a thick curtain of darkness wrapped the world up and packed it away out of sight. The wind came and “Janis” was hushed - always a peaceful moment - except at this time, for “Blewy”, who was whirling like a turbo-charged demented dervish, making, or so I believed, mega-amps of wonderful power. However, on checking the digital readout on the charge controller, I discovered, zilch, zip, zero input. Why??

11.  Screaming like a banshee, or jet engine, or wind-generator, there went “Blewy”, making all that unconscionable commotion for no power production. The battery monitor showed 12.2 volts and draining.  Somehow her wires had let go.

12.  And then, as if becoming suddenly aware of her disgraceful performance, “Blewy” did an Isadora Duncan, wrapping the hobbling-string round her neck and thwacking to a strangled halt. Ah, peace at last.

Now it was “Min’s” turn to shine. It would have been preferable to test the rebuilt Fleming self-steering wind vane in daylight, and there was not even the sliverest sliver or a shimmering shaving of the outermost rim of a new moon to prick the clouds. Nonetheless, with the breeze building and veering north-east, for the first time, something untested seemed to be playing the game.

Tired as I was, the most I could trust leaving everything to its own devices at this stage was only 10 minutes.  There were interesting distractions. A pod of dolphins sheered up some sparkling luminescence in their wake and before long, the brilliant stella-nova-lights of the gas drilling pods lit the horizon. I aimed to sail between them, holding my Easting as much as possible, but an American service ship was directly in my path, moving at 2 knots to the East, and it seemed prudent to pass behind it.

            13. This was a big mistake, which I didn’t realize until later. At around 0500, my course over ground showed the full extent of the current, which had practically swept me beyond making any possible landfall on Grenada. At the same time, the ebb tide added a further 2 knots to the West, and the wind went to the Northeast.  All of which meant that even with “Janis” fully roused and roaring, the headway was scarcely 2-3 knots, punching into a short, sharp 2 metre chop and once again tied to the “wheel”.



The black line is the intended course; the yellow line is my actual track.

This circus ride went on for about another 9 hours, until finally the reef-bound pass into the anchorage at Hog Island was breasted. It’s been a long while since I felt such a tremendous sense of relief at reaching a safe harbour, reminding me of the struggle up the east coast of Australia and other coastal passages, where time and tide wait for no-one.

Hog Island and the encircling reefs make this a very secure hurricane hole, and definitely not a place to enter in the dark.  There are literally dozens of boats packed cheek to jowl, rather like the crowded “Bum’s Bay” at Southport, Queensland, only multiplied tenfold. More than 80% of the vessels on moorings here are unoccupied, some, like the one that gave me a scary nudge early one morning, are semi-abandoned wrecks.

As in Trinidad, there’s plenty to do here - local farmers’ markets, cheap meals at the Rum bar, arts and crafts markets, live music beach parties.  A funny sight was a group of cruisers cooling off with a circle of seats in waist-deep water.

Yesterday, a few of us arranged a private bus tour of the island, with a very informative local guide by the name of Cutty. This filled in some of the gaping gaps in my knowledge of Grenada, as well as taking in the spectacular scenery of the interior, that we yachties seldom see.

Feeling cool-ish for the first time in ages.

The highlights were the Annandale waterfalls, the Rivers rum distillery and the boutique Grenada organic chocolate factory. Not quite to the same scale as Bundaberg or the Cadbury’s factory but impressive in their hand-crafted quality.

Hand-wrapping 7,000 blocks of chocolate a day.

Sugar-free and bitter.

The Rivers Rum factory has 80 employees and is operating pretty much as it did 170 years ago, using the original paddle wheel from England,. This is turned by the powerful cascade of river water, which is fed by the mountains' 140" annual rainfall. Their big claim to fame is the natural fermentation process which guarantees no hangover. Hmmmm. Somehow I doubt that would be the case for me.

Vats of sugar cane juice being heated.

We had an excellent young Venezuelan guide, extolling the hangover free virtues of Rivers rum.  We had a few free shots, but I would need a little more  asbestos lining to my palate to tolerate the burn.

While I'm yet to acquire the taste for the local tipple, the tiny sip I had seemed smooth enough and I bought a couple of bottles of the 73% proof firewater for gifts.

 I’ll stick to the occasional spritzer - cool white wine with soda water.  

The greatest thrill after getting settled here was finding a resident yachtie who was able to re-gas my fridge in less than 5 minutes. Yay! The small pleasures of life.

Full praise also to my German friends, Wolfgang and Klaus, who resurrected “Blewy”, the wind-generator. As suspected, the cables had come adrift, so an easy fix. She’s humming away to my favourite amp-loading tune, keeping the fridge going day and night.  Fridge and power! What more could you ask for?

Happy hour with iced wine and freshly baked cheese and coconut oil scones on board Shanti.

Klaus sailing away to meet up with his girlfriend in Martinique

Splash

4/10/2018, Trinidad

Exactly one month after returning to Shanti, she was ready to “splash”, as they call it.

The jobs’ list spread itself into the available time, as per usual, with “Island time” and the rainy season contributing to delays. A typical tropical pattern saw generally sunny mornings, dense clouds building ominously behind the eastern hills toward midday, a torrential outburst followed by soaring humidity - with a possible repeat performance later in the day.

Temperatures in the mid to high 30’s with relative humidity around 90%, are more conducive to snoozing than working. Most of the liveaboards have hired an air-conditioning unit to make life “on the hard” more bearable. No such luxury on board Shanti, but a couple of excellent Caframo fans ran 24/7.

The first task after my arrival was to affix the new tricolour and anchor light fitting on top of the mast. German friends, Wolfgang and Klaus, took on this challenge.

Klaus, at 82 years old, nimble and strong as a 30 year old, was the perfect choice to go aloft. I've been told that the German language is not rich in expletives, but it seemed that Klaus used them all. We could sense his frustration as he called down for yet another "shraubenziher" or “schlappenwoofa” (or some such tool), which luckily Wolfgang was able to interpret.

Corrosion had solidified the old bolts, but in the end they gave way to German, not-so-gentle-persuasion. Klaus was rewarded for his efforts with a thorough drenching when the heavens opened up, leaving him hanging like a soggy bratwurst, while Wolfgang and I sheltered quietly in the cockpit. It was decided to resume the job the next day.

Meanwhile, in between downpours, local painter, Nigel Barker, was attempting to spray paint the sides and antifoul the bottom, assuring me it would all be done by Monday. Of course, he didn’t specify which Monday. 

A month later, I couldn’t be more pleased with the end result.  Shanti looks brand spanking new!!

There were other jobs I was waiting on anyway, which also had their own share of frustrations. Here in Chaguaramus, local workers invariably bite off far more than they can chew, promise deadlines they can’t keep, seldom turn up when they say they will and are quite arbitrary in their pricing. 

I didn’t think it was such a big ask - just a 5’ long stainless steel pipe with a small plate welded onto the base - yet it took weeks longer than planned. But in the end, after many gentle reminders and waving around that magic phrase, “booked to go in the water tomorrow”, I am happy to introduce the latest addition to crew: “Blewy”.

(You may recall this nautical tendency to name everything that has a slightly less inanimate function, such as wind pilot, “Min”, tiller pilot, “Tilly”, and now “Blewy”).

A second-hand ‘Silentwind’ wind generator, (painted blue), coupled with a new charge controller, which I bought from Portugal and had it shipped to me in France in only one day, now augments my power bank.

Close to schedule, Shanti splashed on Wednesday 3^rd October. Blewy sang her heart out as we motored down to the nearby anchorage of Scotland bay, putting in 0.155kw of power overnight, whatever that means – but it sounds impressive. Several times the automatic brake came on, to avoid cooking the batteries.  The sad thing is that after 4 months of disuse, the fridge appears to need re-gassing, so all that wonderfully abundant power was wasted.

I can’t say that Chaguaramus has been without its entertainment. A well-organised group of cruisers from all over the world seamlessly conspire to ensure there’s always plenty to do. At 0800 each day there’s the Cruisers’ Net on the VHF radio, with excellent weather reports and a wealth of other information, from “treasures of the bilge” to shopping trips and social events. There are a couple of “pot luck” dinners a week, Mexican train dominoes, “noodling” in the pool.

My favourite, of course, being the Friday night jam session, where I get a microphone stuck in front of my face and get to sing loudly to my heart’s content, while rows of Congos and Jimbos and Tambos and other drums keep the beat.

I would like to say that it was at one of those riotous events that I damaged my ankle, but no, there wasn’t even any dancing or alcohol involved. I simply slipped off the edge of a wobbly wooden step, rolled the ankle to the accompaniment of a loud cracking sound, and fell down, rather dramatically. It was the kindness of others that got me home and up the ladder, where I felt somewhat trapped for the next week, unable to do much more than RICE – (Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation) and French. Luckily I still had plenty of the magical homeopathic remedy Arnica on board, which really speeds up healing immensely.

The following Friday I was driven to the gig, which was held on board "El Zorro", a super yacht (power boat), with several tiers of decks and apartment-sized accommodation, all gleaming with mirror finish high gloss timberwork. Still not sure why the owner chose to let this rabble on board and take us all for a night cruise.

Here's a photo I took of the boat (ship) last night as it did its usual charter trip to Scotland bay, canned music blaring.

After launching, it seemed prudent to spend a few days alone in this bay, resting (sure), getting ship-shape, checking systems and rediscovering my sea legs. The continuing tasks of cleaning mould from decks and dinghy, etc. were made easier with a peaceful seascape and cooling breeze. I love being back out on the water again, enjoying that gentle motion of fluidity beneath. As friends have told me, “the land is dangerous”.  It's also great to be using my body again, rediscovering all the muscles that have been land-bound.

The time spent as a French student in Montpellier was a classic case of idle atrophy, just sitting on my backside for most of the day with arms hanging like limp noodles, or perhaps pushing a pen about in tiny, cramped wristmotions. Good to be winching and schlepping, twisting and turning, balancing and wriggling again. However do people survive desk jobs?

Tomorrow (Monday 8^th October) I clear out at Customs and Immigration, then an overnight sail to Grenada, where large numbers of cruisers are already beginning their northern jaunt up the Windward Isles, pending the end of hurricane season next month. This is a seasonally dictated digression for me, a chance to “smell the roses” of the Caribbean islands before turning south and heading toward the Panama Canal next year.

Divine chuckles

5/9/2018: Chaguaramus, Trinidad 

“Man plans and God laughs”. Things change and plans seem especially prone to those Divine chuckles, but fortunately, to date, most minor modifications have been peripheral to the grand design.

 

This year I had planned to spend the northern hurricane season elsewhere, while Shanti remained safely parked on the hardstand in Trinidad.  It started out according to plan, with me toting 7 months’ worth of my personal belongings into the sky. The final destination was, as per usual, NZ, for my father’s 101^st birthday on January 31.

 

However, after giving it all much reflection, as well as checking bank balances, I realized that flying south this year was totally impractical.  There were several reasons:

 

Long haul flights are awful - and costly - but more importantly, returning to Shanti in February would push out the timing for my onward journey.

 

The Panama Canal transit is best done around March/April and costs around $2 -3,000 (depending on the wait time in a nearby marina). I would like to spend a bit of time in the Caribbean, the Dutch Antilles and San Blas islands beforehand, an area I rushed through in the past.

 

Returning to Shanti in February, would scarcely leave time to sail directly to Panama (still 2 – 3,000 nautical miles away), not to mention the work that still needs to be done, painting, testing the repaired wind vane, etc. before setting sail. 

 

I had been hoping to catch up with my father in Koh Samui where he was spending his annual holiday, but apparently he too was getting homesick and headed back to NZ early.  It will be the first birthday of his that I have missed for a long time and I feel pretty bad about that, but sometimes practicalities prevail.

 

The number one priority is to complete the circumnavigation and I must take the weather opportunities for that. Most other cruisers are returning to their boats around mid September to resume sailing next month.  They would all be gone had I returned in February next year. Reports of increased piracy off the coast of Venezuela make it much safer to sail in company with others if possible.

 

So, much as I would love to see you all again, you will just have to hold me in your hearts instead of your arms.

 

Meantime, I have had a fantastic land interlude, visiting Washington, Berlin, Hamburg, Amsterdam, St Malo in Brittany, Jersey (UK) and last but not least, attending 4 weeks of intensive French language studies in Montpellier. It was a challenging yet affirming experience, and good to know that a couple of my old brain cells can still connect.

 

Language is a fascinating device that evolved from ancient Egyptian times and I find it absolutely mind-boggling to think how so many thousands of words can be formed from so few letters. Twisting one’s brain through the mental gymnastics of translation also has the positive effect of putting thought before speech, avoiding my usual foible of “open mouth put foot in it”.

For those of you who haven't been following my Facebook posts, here's some info:

 

Montpellier is a beautiful city in the south of France, were I was fortunate enough to stay with my daughter’s mother-in-law, Rosy, whose hospitality was “Magnifique!”

Our stilted “Franglais” conversation was a terrific aid to my language learning as we explored the old and the new sectors of the city. The modern day architects seem intent on outdoing one another, with buildings that are more like works of art than the usual Lego blocks.

 

 

French classes were from 0900 to midday each day, plus a few afternoon excursions, my favourite being to the remarkable Hotel de Ville, which featured ceiling art on each level of the building.

 

 

Montpellier is part of the pilgrim’s 1000 mile walk of the famous “Chemin de St Jacques de Compostela” (the Camino pilgrimage) and I spotted this old gent and donkey just around the corner from my school. 

 

There were further signs of the trail in the medieval village of St Guilhem le Desert, where Pierre’s father, Paul and his wife Cecile, took me.

 

 

So now it’s back to life on the hard, most probably for another month while jobs such as fitting the masthead lights, painting, etc. get done with less time pressure.  Shanti is pretty much as I left her, despite there having been major flooding and a 7.3 earthquake in the interim. It’s nothing short of a miracle that all this reclaimed land held together and boats stayed standing on their flimsy metal props while the earth shook violently.

 

Labour is relatively inexpensive here so it’s a good opportunity to give Shanti a present of a new coat of paint. Today just happens to be my birthday, so it’s also a fantastic birthday present to me.

 

 

 Happy Birthday Shanti.

Love and thanks to all who sent me such wonderful Birthday greetings.

Half way round

Trinidad, 24/5/2018

For the first few days after leaving Jacare, Brazil, I was unwell.  Not just the usual mal-de-mer, but something more, a localized pain around the navel. I dug out my ancient copy of the “Ship Captain’s Medical Guide”, which offered several possible diagnoses, from hernia to appendicitis, with the recommendation to radio for medical advice (?) and head to the nearest hospital (??). Luckily it passed of its own accord, but it brought home to me the additional risks of this lifestyle that I generally ignore.

Despite her ailing skipper, Shanti sped off jauntily, taking full advantage of the Equatorial Current, which flows NW at up to 4 knots, setting unheard of records of 165 nM a day. 

Then, on day 4, came the doldrums, this time for real. Getting through the doldrums with only 75 litres of diesel is a challenge, constantly working at changing sails to keep the boat moving, taking advantage of every subtle offering.  I only turn the key when sailing is absolutely impossible and sometimes not even then.

Day 5; 7^th May, crossed the equator! ) 00 deg.00’ It was as hot as you’d expect, so I didn’t bake a roast dinner, but did have cold libations, liquid offerings to Neptune, music and song. I cut the engine to actually sail, rather than motor across that invisible line. I think I’m supposed to pierce an ear or get my head flushed, but luckily there’s no-one else on board to inflict such barbaric traditions upon me.

On day 9, I tried flying the spinnaker again, but with no success. There was just not quite enough wind. Whilst wrangling it, the pole swung wildly and banged me hard on the head.  It took my breath away for a moment (to give thanks that I was not knocked out, or overboard).  The very next minute, it tried again.  Despite Arnica, I quickly sprouted two large duck eggs, about an inch apart -  all this before breakfast!

Day 10 was a perfect day, with wind gusting up to 30 knots in the rain squalls.

There are vast patches of yellowish Sargassum weed everywhere, which are fascinatingly beautiful.  I wonder where they all come from, perhaps the Amazon.  Some are the size of a football field and stretch for miles, in disparate clumps, joined by a narrow chain, like a giant string of pearls.  They almost have the appearance of dry land, or an erupting, newly born, sandy quay.  The colour is totally uniform, as is the structure, like upturned gorse bushes. When the rising sun catches these, they glint like spun gold.

At first, they were a worry, lest they foul the prop or get sucked into the water intake when parting a semi-solid path, motoring through them.

On day 11 one of the especially fierce rain squalls hit and had Shanti screaming along at a great rate of knots as the rain pelted the sea into a rolling roundness.  The second after the rain stopped, she gybed.  I went up to sort it out, but was unable to.  No matter what I did, gybing kept on happening.  It was as if either “Tilly” (tillerpilot) had gone nuts or we were in the eye of the squall, with circular winds veering and backing constantly.

After about 10 minutes of the main crashing left and right – (“Make up your mind!” I railed) - we were away again. Thankfully we had no more of that nonsense overnight. It was another opportunity for practising acceptance of what is.

Day 13: there could have been lots to complain about last night, were one so inclined. 

At 1530 we rounded the imaginary “turning mark” and began heading inshore, toward the Suriname River. It was not my original intention to go there, but others had sung its praises and I had a bit of time to spare.  It seemed an attractive prospect to break the 2000 mile passage after 1500.

I had been buddy boating with another single-hander on a Jeanneau 44 (“Hierbabuena” – I’ll leave those of you who know some Spanish to work out the name) since Jacare.

A rare moment of proximity during the first week of sailing together.

We had been keeping a good distance between the two boats, but at 0330 my AIS alarm (which was set for 0.5nM went off). I called Paul on the VHF radio and found out the furling line for his genoa had broken and he was way over-canvassed for the conditions.

We discussed this for a while and concluded it was necessary to drop the sail.  This was not going to be easy. It was a pitch black, moonless night. The shoal water waves were steep, sharp and confused. To top it off, it started to bucket down with rain. Then on top of that, his engine failed. On top of that, a pin was missing from his boom, so he had to go below and hunt for another before being able to raise the mainsail.

An hour later he called back on the radio to say he was utterly exhausted.  I told him to sleep for 2 hours while I kept a look out for fishing boats.  When he awoke, we discussed the engine failure.  The symptoms he described (going slow, then fast), sound like what is known as “hunting” for fuel, requiring changing the fuel filters and bleeding the lines. He is relatively new to boating, but was able to do this, which was just as well.  Even though sailing in company gives the illusion of safety, really, there is little practical, hands-on help possible, with wind and waves preventing close contact. Still, he appreciated my input via radio and I was glad to be on the giving, instead of receiving side for a change.

Meanwhile, Shanti had made up her mind that Suriname was not for her.

Trying to make way against the current, basically going round in circles.

The strong equatorial current dictated that NW was the only way for a little boat with little power to go, so we bade “Hierbabuena” farewell and headed back out to sea, alone again. It was only another 510 nM further on to Tobago, which, with the favourable current, should only take about 4 days.

Things never go quite the way you think, so best not to think.

The favourable current took a break and it soon became apparent that Tobago before dark on the fourth day was not likely. The sun setting behind the dark hills splayed golden shafts of light through the clouds. A sight to behold and time might have stood still; only it didn’t. Darkness closed in.

Then, with only 8 nM between me and a good night’s sleep (yes, I was projecting my mind to that future comfort) an ear-piercing alarm brought me instantly back to the present.

I had no idea what it was, other than a painfully deafening noise that could have been coming from within or without.  My mind raced for a few moments, touching briefly on all kinds of external madness, from warships to air-raid. Entering the cabin, the sound was amplified to a supersonic pitch, as if magnified by bouncing off the confining space. It was a demonic shriek, an undeniable call to panic. In panic mode, I turned things off, first the VHF radio (no difference), then Tilly (likewise).

In hindsight, it’s amazing how slow my mind was to recognise the source of this as coming from the engine. There are processes to go through before shutting down the engine and I could scarcely remember them, but within another minute, the ignition key was turned off and the dreadful noise ceased. The pounding of my heart took a bit longer.

Then came the need to calm down and consider the situation. No engine. A pitch black night, a lee shore close by, wind holding strong (which was reassuring), a very strung out and overtired skipper.

What to do? Radio the coast guard for a tow? I tried that, repeatedly, but got no response (I found out radio calls are seldom answered here).

One possibility was to keep on sailing north to Grenada. Another was to head south west to Trinidad. Either way, it was going to be another sleepless night.

I opted for Trinidad. If anything serious had happened to the engine I could be stranded for a long while getting it fixed and I already had a booking to haul out at the end of June in Trinidad. It would mean arriving a few weeks earlier than planned but at least I would be there.

The wind held steady through the night but at dawn it dropped to less than 5 knots. Looking at the charts of the approaches to Chaguaramus, it seemed as if it might be possible to sail in. (Later, I wondered how on earth I could ever have imagined that).

It became obvious that I needed to get that engine running again. It was raining, there was very little wind, though with the usual roll, just enough to slide tools, engine covers, me, from side to side while changing the sea-water pump impeller. The last time this was changed was by Alex and Ron at SYC on the day of my grand departure, and I hadn’t really watched how they did it. I remember they didn’t have the correct size gaskets, so re-used the old ones. For some strange reason the new ones are just a little too big, so my replacement leaked.  No matter, I was greatly relieved when there was no panic alarm after I restarted the engine.

Six hours later, I was doing 1.5 knots through the narrow channel (“Boca De Monos”), with tide against me and the odd 25 knot “bullets” right on the nose.  There was no way I could have sailed through there!

Shanti's track to Chaguaramus from Tobago

It is said that if you can keep your primary focus in the present moment, all else that is needed will be added to you. I have been witnessing this along the way.

In Cabedelo, I took the train into Jaoa Passoa to clear out of Brazil. After running a few other errands I returned to the station, only to find I had just missed the 1605 train. At peak hour, one might expect a train every 10 minutes or so, but no, the next train was not until 1730. Most people, it seems, use the buses, even though the train ticket is only about 10 cents.

I could have left and gone to find a bus, but decided to sit and wait, or rather, to sit and “be”, keeping an alert attention on the present. Before long I noticed the iridescent green-ness of the untrimmed railway siding and the way in which the gentle breeze was swaying the slender fronds in a delicate dip and rise, almost as if engaging in an unspoken communication. It was delightfully mesmerizing and the time passed unnoticed.

On the train, a mother with two young sons sat opposite me.  One of the boys of around 10 years old, gave me the most charming smile and later lifted himself up by both arms from the overhead rail, as if to do chin-ups. His brother joined in, though without knowing why. At my station, we waved goodbye. It was a lovely interaction.

Four days ago, arriving here at Chaguaramus, with the usual uncertainty as to where to go, a dark skinned man on a large catamaran (“El Gecco”) suddenly appeared, leapt into his dinghy and helped me tie to a mooring. Later he came and took me to meet his American wife, Darlene, where I learnt that he is a South African solo sailor, (Neal Petersen) who has raced twice round the globe. https://www.youtube.com/user/nealpetersen. He is also a highly prized keynote speaker at international events, inspiring massive audiences with his beleaguered history. Their catamaran was badly damaged in hurricane Irma, (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Irma) but was re built, in Neal’s words, "courtesy of IBM".  This couple instantly took me under their wing, sharing stories, information and warm hospitality.

So even though I am here in Trinidad a few weeks earlier than intended, I don’t think I will suffer by it. There are plenty of things to be done on Shanti, such as replacing the mast head lights, removing and repairing the Fleming wind vane, etc. etc.

Chaguaramus on a cloudy day.

Here are some of my neighbours:

This beautiful aluminium yacht was dismasted and damaged by hurricane Irma.It has  just been bought by a young couple with baby, who intend putting it into charter in Greenland.  Very enterprising!

A family with four young children and a dog live aboard this yacht.  They have just had their fifth newborn! No idea where they put them all...

This translucent fish is to be found swimming alongside Shanti all day long. Must be eating something tasty off the hull, which is vey grubby.

At the end of June, Shanti will be hauled out on the hardstand in one of the several boatyards here. Others I have met along the way (the two Germans, Wolfgang and Klaus) will arrive here in a few days, so there will be more company, more happy hours to share.

Being in the northern hemisphere is an opportunity to visit long absent family and friends. Also to attend summer school and hopefully get a bit more French under my hat to be able to communicate with my bi-lingual grandchildren in Melbourne.

So this slightly longer than usual blog post will be the last heard from Shanti for a few months. Wishing you all good things.

Shanti over and out.

Solitude and Soliloquy

Jacare, Cabedelo, Brazil, 26/4/2018

The evening before departing St Helena, a fellow cruiser from Namibia incited me to lunacy, climbing the 690 near vertical steps of Jacob’s Ladder. Given that it was to be the last serious exercise I’d get for the next 3 weeks, it wasn’t a bad thing.

Most other yachts had already left the moorings, so again, I was a tail runner, on my own. For the first time, I really felt this solitude, perhaps exacerbated by the lengthy calms and slow progress. This must be the “gentleman’s” Atlantic I had heard about.

The first week out, the wind teased me with fluctuations between 2 knots and 20 knots. On day 3, after the frustrations of chasing its every nuance, I overcame my apathy and dug out the spinnaker from under the V berth up in the bow. Wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do with it, as I had never even seen it, never mind flown it before.

It took a good 2 hours to unearth it, work it out and set it up, but boy, was it worth it! With 6 – 8 knots of wind from behind, boat speed got up between 3 – 4 knots. I realized it was going to be a long, slow passage. The 100 nM days I was used to were to be a thing of the past; I was lucky to see 70 or 80 at best.

A beautiful sight to behold.

The kite can only be used running “square” or with wind dead astern, and not at night, in case of wind increase, which did seem to happen a lot, so I was always glad to have doused it at dusk.

I am beginning to learn the subtle shifts in wind and wave directions with wind tending more E in the day and more SE at night. The waves are often larger than the wind would suggest, indicating stronger blows further away, or coming. There is always a garland of puffy white clouds around the rim of my world and often thick black storm cells which suck the wind out before belching it back violently. This is almost like the doldrums, though not usually found so far south of the equator.

 

0330, day 5, saw Shanti totally becalmed. I ran the engine for a few hours, with the thought of hoisting the kite at dawn. At 0830, there was not enough wind even for this. I was stalled. This had the potential of being a peaceful experience, were I able to accept it.

It was to become something of a recurring theme. Wind here; wind gone.  I thought the open sea was supposed to be constant and consistent Trade winds, for weeks on end. Again, not on my crossing.

I made the mistake of plotting waypoints on my course - lots of them! It was almost depressing to see the number of potential days inching or millimetering across the map. With no idea of what winds I might get, this really was the unanswerable question of how long is a piece of string? It could be 3 weeks; it could be a month (I didn’t like to even entertain the thought of more than that). It “should” be 18 days. Hah!

Back in Port Elizabeth, a Frenchman told of having to hand steer for 70 days after his autopilot failed. He “parked” each night to sleep, dropping all sails and leaving his boat to drift (and roll), not always in calm conditions like I was in.

Shanti rolled, so much so that I opted to set a tiny amount of sail, (to avoid that dreadful slatting), and try to hold my course, even if only making 1knot.

At 0350 I was woken by a male voice calling “Hey Twinkle, Twinkle! Sue!”  I leapt up expecting to see someone nearby who had obviously mistaken Shanti for another boat, but of course no-one was there. The wind had increased to 18 knots, so I happily put up more sail and began moving in earnest.

I have observed in many other cruisers this need to get there, and preferably asap. This is a common human trait that reflects an uneasy relationship with the present, an expectation that “there” will be better than “here”. There is a tendency to keep looking toward the future, a fantasy, which only exists in the mind, stealing the richness of what is here and now.

I started watching my mind more closely and found my thoughts are runaway trains, creating a weirdly entertaining, yet unreal world. It’s a bit like that line in the song: “everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you.”  What’s inside projects onto the outer screen.

Attitude is everything.  If I lament my slow progress, I can make it much harder on myself than if I turn my attention instead to the here and now – the sounds of water gurgling past the hull, the wind - the strength of which I can tell pretty accurately now by the pitch of its hum.

I know I WILL get there. When? is becoming less important.

The beginning of week 3 saw some steadier 10-12 knot winds.  With only the poled out headsail I was able to run pretty well downwind, gybing the pole only twice a day, morning and evening, a tricky enough manoeuvre on my own.

I find it is a very humbling experience, being out here alone on the sea. Some friends have expected me to feel proud of what I have achieved so far, but I don’t. Sure I have the sailing skills, or at least enough so far to keep me out of too much trouble.  Sure I have the tenacity and perseverance to push on through the testing times.  I am pig-headed and determined enough to refuse (so far) to quit.

But the enormity of the ocean, which has the power to squish me like an ant, prevents anything but gratitude to it for not having (yet) done so. The magnitude of the heavens, stars, planets and galaxies that enthral me at night, shrink me to less than a molecule of dust. I feel it is a great privilege to be able to be out here.

On two occasions, when there has been a gap in the ring of cloud, I have seen the elusive “green flash” at sunset.  What a thrill! (No picture of this unicorn sorry; way too fleeting.)

Similarly (but differently) exciting are the flying fish.  What on earth inspired these bizarrely  prehistoric creatures to take to the air – to leave their first medium, water, for another?  Perhaps some predator was sizing them up for breakfast, chasing them faster than they could run, and suddenly, they take to the sky, skimming above the waves, their gossamer wings beating madly, only barely keeping them aloft, their tail trailing like a rudder, then sploosh! a head-on crash into a wave, but farther from danger.  Crazy critters – they always make me laugh out loud!

Such a shame a few gasp their last on Shanti’s deck.  I wouldn’t have thought they could fly that high, but some have even made it into the boom bag or whacked me in the face at night. 

As the coast of Brazil and the end of this stage drew nearer, I was in no hurry to get there. I had broken through that sense of urgency and was happily enjoying “Groundhog day”. The flat disc of sea stretching all round, the curved dome of sky above, with only tiny Shanti, day after day in the same apparent spot, as if pinned to the exact centre, a visual solipsism. The relative position never changes, never gets further from one horizon or closer to the other.  Always the same, dead centre.

With not another living soul in sight for weeks on end, just me, encapsulated in this tiny space, like an interstellar life-support pod (only at times, buffeted more boisterously) I greatly appreciate this rare opportunity, away from distractions of people and things. It detangles brain cells, reassembles in a new and wondrous way the kaleidoscope of a lifetime of esoteric rabbit holes I have been down.

Two days out from Cabedelo, I looked up and noticed the mast head light fitting was dangling like a broken marionette on a wire. Either a big-footed booby bird had tried to dance on it, or the rigger back in Cape Town didn’t secure it well (I notice my first reaction is blame). 

Notice also flying the Brazilian courtesy flag and yellow Q (Quarantine) flag

The eventual fall from grace came the night before my approach to land (no navigation lights), but the good fortune within the misfortune was that it didn’t plop straight overboard (which by all accounts it should have) but hit the deck and was still there on arrival, albeit in many pieces.

Morning glimpse of Brazilian coast; skyscrapers look like overcrowded, jagged teeth.

Jacare Yacht Village is about 8 miles up a river. Its bushy banks and murky waters give the feel of going up the Amazon (not that I ever have) and it’s a surprise when at the turn of a bend there is a modern-ish marina, and not too far away, the bustle of a busy metropolis, Joao Pessoa (which is probably the jagged teeth seen from offshore).

Jacare marina just like Bundaberg Port, apart from colourful local craft in foreground.

Yesterday, the entire day was devoted to long walks and bus rides to do the usual check-in procedures of Immigration, Customs and Port Captain.  It would have helped had I spent more time learning a few more words of Spanish (here they speak Portuguese, which is similar, and very little English.)

The weather was kind to me for my arrival, calm and sunny; the day after, (yesterday) the skies opened up to dump a deluge of tropical rain with strong winds. I was lucky also that some fellow cruisers invited me to raft up against their boat until the marina office was able to allocate me a berth. The boats are packed in side by side, with no walkways in between, using laid lines from behind to hold them back from the dock. In other ways, it’s similar to Bundaberg, being in a fast flowing tidal river.

It feels very odd to be still, almost as if on concrete, (I don’t think I’m in the mud at low tide) after the constant motion of the past weeks.

I plan to stay here a week or two to get some much-needed sleep, R & R and consider the next leg, most likely up to Trinidad.


Happy Anzac day to those in that realm.

The South Atlantic

St Helena, Easter




Whoever said the Atlantic Ocean is a “gentleman’s ocean”, with steady 15 knot SE trade winds obviously went on a different day to me.

The first few days after leaving Cape Town involved several hours of motoring through the calm patches. There were also moments of the most beautiful sailing I’ve ever had on the open sea, with 8 knots on the beam, sunshine and very little swell. This turned out to be the calm before the storm.

Three days later I was in huge seas, up around 6 metres, wind 35 plus. It was a wild slalom ride, slewing off to left and right, gybing at the bottom of each wave as poor Tilly (tillerpilot) struggled to hold course, no matter how many degrees off I gave her.  Every few waves one would slam violently against the hull like hitting a brick wall. 

Torrents of water doused the entire boat, cascading through the middle hatch over me in my bunk.  The forward hatch might just as well not be there.  Everything was soaking wet.

Worst of all is the Sadler design feature/flaw of the “bathtub” stowage area under the cockpit floor which lets a bathtub full of sea into the boat at every slam dunk or broach.  The bilge pump can’t deal with it as water sloshes from side to side up the walls. The floorboards are awash and of course, everything is on the floor.

A side swipe from one of those Mach trucks bursts open locker hatches and all contents go flying.  Butternut pumpkin missiles are lethal.

Three times the wild ocean tried to claim the blue canvas lee cloths from the sides of the cockpit, as well as the newly side-mounted solar panel. On each occasion, I heard a thunderous wave approaching; nothing I could do but hang on tight and get soaked to the skin.

I felt at a very low ebb, having little sleep or food for three long days and nights.

Here is my “Perfect Recipe for Sleepless Night”:

“Add 35 knots to 5 m swell to choppy top layer. Mix on minimum drive power and equal parts of slalom slew.  Stir well, trying to keep upright. Watch for excess froth and bubble, followed by collapse, then sudden and violent alternation.”

This could also be called “Gybing the night away”.

Gybing bunks.

I don’t recall it being quite so harsh in the Indian Ocean, but then, bad memories fade as the sun comes out.

The1800 nautical miles from Cape Town to St Helena took 17 days. The wind continued to be fickle, ranging from 5 knots to 30 knots. The last 48 hours were the deadest calm, with not a breath of air to ruffle the sails.  It was fortunate that this total becalming happened at the end of the passage, and not the middle, so I could burn the rest of my small reserve of diesel to motor in.

There is nothing quite so surreal as the sight of a lump of rock rising out of an empty ocean in the pre-dawn light.

 

The positive side of this lull is that the mooring field at St Helena is relatively quiet.  I heard that a couple of weeks ago it had a 3 metre swell upsetting everyone. Then they “close” the harbour.

Going ashore is challenge enough in good weather, and impossible in rough. A robust little wooden ferry offers a commuter service for GBP2. The surge sometimes drowns the concrete landing, which has ropes to assist the leap ashore.

(Had a good pic of this, but internet is very limited here).

The town itself has a quaint, olde worlde charm, with beautifully preserved historical buildings clinging to its steep slopes. A British colony, with around 4,500 residents, everyone is super friendly and helpful. It is Easter now, and the whole island has gone camping. Some fellow cruisers and I are hiring a car to explore further afield.

The interior is a constantly changing landscape, from barren, windswept rock, to verdant fields and cool canopies of dense forest. We visited the blighted, narrow strip of airfield, ending abruptly at the edge of a sheer precipice, built on the most turbulent side of the island and subject to much criticism, but providing a necessary link with the world.

Also the house where Napoleon was exiled and tomb where his body once lay before being taken back to France. All in all, a fascinating bastion.

Happy Easter All from Shanti, St Helena.