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.